The Run Around cm-8

by Brian Freemantle

  The bed was unmade and there were clothes scattered on the floor, the sink was stacked with dirt-rimmed cups and glasses and plates and the dustbins and waste baskets were full. It took nine hours of uninterrupted searching and they were exhausted when they finished, despite which Donnelly insisted on a check of everything that had been disturbed, to ensure it had been undetectably replaced.

  ‘I can’t get over the books on the shelves!’ said Ball, as they drove away. ‘Goethe and Pushkin were in the original. And the Robert Frost were first editions! All that and then at least a year’s supply of Playboy!’

  ‘He’s a surprise a minute,’ agreed Donnelly.

  ‘You really think he’ll spot the entry scratch?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What about the rest of the search?’

  ‘There’s no way we’ll ever know, is there?’

  ‘I guess I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Forget it,’ dismissed Donnelly.

  ‘Where the hell did you learn so much!’ demanded the younger man, admiringly.

  ‘Charlie Muffin taught me,’ said Donnelly.

  It was a full meeting of the committee, with Mikhail Lvov there as well as Berenkov and the KGB chairman.

  ‘A copy-book collection?’ demanded Lvov. The confident head of the assassination division regarded Zenin’s uninterrupted visit to the Bern embassy as a complete vindication of his insistence that the Run Around operation should be continued and was making absolutely sure that others more important in the Kremlin came to the same conclusion.

  ‘There was never any doubt about Zenin’s professionalism,’ said Berenkov. ‘The man is brilliant.’

  ‘Sufficiently brilliant to defeat two of the special groups of Watchers whom you sent to guard the embassy!’ said Lvov.

  Kalenin and Berenkov viewed differently the open challenge. Berenkov hadn’t until that moment imagined the other man to be the clearly emerging internal threat that he was. Kalenin decided to sit back and let the dispute take its course: he was quite sure about his own ability to survive. He hoped Berenkov was up to it.

  ‘Brilliant,’ conceded Berenkov, cautiously. The better fighter was always careful at the beginning of a contest to study the footwork of his opponent.

  ‘On one side if not the other,’ said Lvov. ‘Little point, really, in bothering to send them at all. Certainly no purpose whatsoever in retaining them there, now that Zenin has made the pick-up.’

  ‘What are your views upon bringing them back, Comrade Berenkov?’ asked the KGB chairman, formally.

  ‘I think they should be kept there for a while longer,’ said Berenkov. He was curious at Lvov’s response.

  ‘But for what purpose!’ demanded the assassination chief. ‘They can take no active or useful part, any more. Not that they took an active or useful part before.’

  A tendency for over-confidence, gauged Berenkov. He said: ‘Let’s just consider it insurance.’

  ‘Against what!’ demanded Lvov.

  ‘What one always insures against,’ replied Berenkov, ‘the unexpected disaster.’

  ‘There is going to be no unexpected disaster,’ said Lvov.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Kalenin.

  ‘Not in Switzerland at least,’ said Lvov, exceeding himself.

  Neither Kalenin nor Berenkov responded, each busy with their own thoughts.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  With his habitual and trained caution, Vasili Zenin arrived in Geneva early and by train, as the first rehearsal for what would be necessary later. During its final approaches to Geneva, through the outskirts of the city, the Russian gazed from the carriage windows to the streets outside and occasionally below, watching the rush hour traffic and confirming his earlier impression of the uselessness of a car for his escape. The dossier of complaint against the Soviet embassy in general and Yuri Ivanovich Lyudin in particular was going to be very extensive.

  From the Cornavin terminal, Zenin walked in the direction against the clogged traffic along the one-way Rue des Terreaux du Temple and on the side furthest from the cafe he had specified in the unsigned note to Sulafeh Nabulsi. It was just opening, black-aproned waiters re-arranging stacked chairs around freshly washed pavement tables: three were pulling from its sprung housing the striped canvas canopy to form a protective roof over the outside area. It had started a bright day, despite being autumn, and Zenin hoped the weather would hold so they could later sit at a kerbside table: it would be easier to run, if he had to run, from somewhere already out in the open rather than from inside the more easily sealed cafe interior.

  In the Rue Bautte there was a much smaller place, more a bar and tabac than a cafe, already open for early morning workers. On the pavement there were three minute tables, each bordered by plastic-ribbed chairs, but Zenin went inside, wanting concealment now. He ordered coffee and from a bench directly against the fronting window looked across at the designated meeting place, studying everything with proper professional alertness. If the note to the woman had been intercepted or found — or if she were not the committed zealot she was supposed to be but some sort of bait — then that afternoon he would be walking into a trap, a trap at this moment being primed and set.

  He watched the waiters individually, intent upon establishing that each moved about the cafe and the tables with accustomed familiarity, with none showing an awkwardness to hint at hurriedly drafted-in counterintelligence officers. Satisfied all the waiters were genuine, Zenin extended the examination, looking for any buildup of loitering groups of Watchers. Or maintenance tents or vans in which they might have been hidden. When he failed to locate any he sought out parked but enclosed vehicles which could have disguised mobile communication centres from which his encirclement could have been co-ordinated once he got to the cafe. Again there was nothing.

  Finally reassured, Zenin left the bar but did not rejoin the Rue des Terreaux du Temple, unwilling to risk association a second time with a street upon which he was later to return for a third. Instead he left the area along the Rue de Mandement, picking up a tramcar at the first available stop to take him to the quais, instinctively checking for pursuit and finding none.

  With time to spare before the woman’s stipulated departure from the hotel, Zenin strolled along the Bergues, enjoying the unexpected sunshine and lunched overlooking the island in the middle of the river. None of the training, no matter how realistic, could properly have prepared him for an actual assignment and almost illogically now he was involved in one Zenin was experiencing a sensation of anti-climax. The problem, he recognized, was that the training had been too intense, every hour of every day at Kuchino and Balashikha forced to a degree of tension calculated to take him to within a millimetre of his limit. But the reality — this reality — of the situation was nothing like that. Of course there was no relaxation: what he’d done by arriving in Geneva today as early as he had and by carrying out the checks that he had was unnecessary assurance to himself that he was leaving nothing to chance or trusting anything to be as he imagined — rather than knew — it to be. But the reality still lacked the … the what? Frenzy was the word that came at once to his mind, momentarily confusing him, but then he accepted it. Frenzied was a fitting description of the training: sabotage instruction at nine, unarmed killing at ten, draining physical exercise at eleven, thirty-minute meal-break (but not a moment longer) at twelve. And everything resuming precisely at twelve-thirty, murder by untraceable poisons, communication security at fourteen hundred, and … Zenin did not bother to recall the next session. What he could remember was the physically exhausting, sagging effect of it, of crawling every night into bed sapped of all strength and all adrenalin. This reality was not like that. There had been moments of tension but not many and nothing like the training stress. This had been like … no, holiday was not the right word, not like frenzy had so perfectly fitted into his mind, but it was the only description that presented itself. Between the limited highs of the tension there had been too many and too long
extended troughs of inactivity. How easy was it, he wondered, to become complacent? Not to check someone else’s preparation which was supposed to be impeccable or improvise for personal protection upon the rigid patterns choreographed by Moscow? Easy for some, Zenin decided: for most. But never for him. He determined never — ever — to be lulled into dangerous relaxation. He would create his own tensions, his own adrenalin-pumping strains, maintaining the constant nerve-stretched expectation that something was always about to go wrong, if not this minute then the next minute, always suspicious, always distrustful. And most importantly always safe.

  With that determination in mind Zenin pushed himself up from his table, the bill carefully checked and the required fifteen per cent added to the precise centime, and retraced his steps back down the quai to cross the Pont de l’Ile on foot before catching another pursuit-checking tram not to but near the Rue Barthelemy-Menn. From the drop-off point, once more on foot, he zigzagged through the streets and roads at times directly away from his destination, finally reaching it by narrowing his perambulations in gradually tightening circles.

  Zenin was in place but completely concealed in the Avenue de la Croisette thirty minutes before the time he had given Sulafeh Nabulsi to leave her hotel, early again for the same reason he had been early in the Rue des Terreaux du Temple, one professional searching for another professional hint of surveillance. And as before found nothing. The day had built up to be surprisingly warm, somnolent almost, and the streets were practically deserted under the weight of the sun: insects, confused, actually milled about the tree against which he waited, so that he had to swish them away with his hand. Zenin realized, abruptly, that the affect of any strong sunlight in his eyes had been something for which no allowance had been made during the Balashikha training, because the Bern embassy insistence had been that there would be none, at this time of the year. Something further to check when he installed the rifle in the corner apartment off the Colombettes road.

  Immediately she left the hotel, exactly at the time given, Zenin recognized Sulafeh Nabulsi, from the many photographs he had memorized. The temptation was to study her physically but he refused it, security uppermost in his mind. He let her stride past the junction near which he stood, concentrating for any indication of pursuit upon the hotel exit from which she emerged. There was none, so he transferred his attention to the street itself, for a car pick-up, but again no vehicle moved. Zenin eased on to the Rue Barthelemy-Menn, picking her up about two hundred yards ahead. Almost at the moment he isolated her, she jerked suddenly sideways and to the left into the Boulevard de la Cluse, so by cutting left himself into the Rue de Peupliers and hurrying he was already on the Rue de l’Aubepine when she came out on to it, continuously glancing behind her. The check for pursuit was pitifully amateurish but at least she was making an effort, Zenin recognized. The woman hurried northwards towards the lake and the Russian frowned, unable to believe she intended trying to cover the entire distance on foot because he knew she would never be able to make the cafe on the Rue des Terreaux du Temple in the time he had set out. She was still darting backward glances and he realized she was seeking something more than surveillance so when she hailed the taxi he was on the look-out too, managing to stop one almost at once. Sure of her destination but not wishing to make any ridiculous ‘follow that taxi’ demand upon his driver Zenin asked for the Quai du Seujet, at its connection with the Coulouvreniere bridge. He still had the woman’s vehicle in sight when it stopped short of the bridge. Zenin let his own taxi continue over and then waited and within minutes she appeared, hurrying over the foot crossing.

  He let her get ahead and fell into step but on the far side of the road and a long way behind, so that any surveillance would visibly intrude between them and show up to him. And at last allowed himself the indulgence of some physical impression. The black, shoulder-touching hair bobbed as she hurried and on her frequent, backward-checking half turns, which she made without pause, he was aware of her breasts bouncing with her movement. She wore a khaki-coloured dress, belted, so that it was difficult to know whether it actually was a dress or a matching skirt and top and carried a large handbag, more a briefcase, supported from her shoulder by a strap. Always, as she walked, she kept her hand securely over it. Fuller figured than he had imagined from the photographs, Zenin decided: most certainly heavier busted. And not as tall, although that was a reflection at which he was surprised because he knew her height precisely from the already provided description.

  She slowed when she reached the Rue des Terreaux du Temple, obviously seeking out the cafe, and then picked up pace when she identified it. When she reached it she hesitated again, looking around as if she were expecting a greeting from among the people who thronged the outside area. When nothing came she went forward and Zenin smiled, pleased, when she chose one of the few vacant outside tables. It was far back, close to the cafe, and well positioned to see anyone approaching. Which Zenin did not attempt. Instead he continued on to the corner of the Rue Bautte from which he had watched earlier that day, to ensure no surveillance had been established in the intervening period. While he watched he saw Sulafeh Nabulsi take a cosmetic compact from the large case and spend a long time examining her face and putting into place the hair that had become disarranged during her evasive approach from the Rue Barthelemy-Menn.

  Zenin allowed ten minutes, alert now not so much upon her but upon anyone or any group getting into position around her: she had almost completed the mineral water she had ordered and was actually looking nervously about her before the Russian moved.

  He crossed the street and threaded his way through the outer tables, smiling as he approached her table.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, still testing. He spoke English.

  ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe it’s me.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Why so hostile?’

  ‘If you don’t go away I shall call a waiter. Or the management.’

  ‘We can talk, can’t we?’

  There was a waiter three tables away and Sulafeh looked towards the man and made as if to raise her hand in a summons.

  ‘Why be so difficult?’ said Zenin, pleased at her reaction. ‘Why give me the run around?’

  She dropped her hand at the code phrase. At first she stared at him quite without expression and then, slowly, she smiled. She gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the table and said: ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  Zenin did, smiling back at her. Close up she was very attractive, almost beautiful. The olive skin of her face was perfect and unblemished and despite the compact she wore little make-up, only a suggestion of lip colouring. There was nothing at all around her eyes which were deep brown, open in apparent innocence and which were studying him with the interest matching that with which he was looking at her. He let his own eyes drop, briefly, to her body, particularly those full rounded breasts and she knew what he was doing and wasn’t offended. The nearby waiter came up and Zenin remembered to order mineral water although he could have explained alcohol away by telling her he was a Christian Palestinian. Sulafeh accepted another drink and when the waiter left looked at him expectantly. He said: ‘Would you have called someone to throw me out?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, at once. ‘I’ve every reason to be here: we can’t risk anyone getting in the way, can we?’

  Zenin nodded, believing her. ‘Very good,’ he said.

  She swallowed, dipping her head at the praise. She said: ‘I’m being very careful.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she demanded at once.

  ‘I followed you here, all the way from your hotel.’ He jerked his head to the Rue Bautte. ‘And then watched for a while, from over there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To make sure you were alone,’ said Zenin. ‘I’m being careful, too.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to expect,’ said Sulafeh. ‘Now, I mean.’

  ‘And?�
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  ‘I still don’t know.’ She was immediately drawn to him, but was unsure if that were because of his obvious attractiveness or because of what she knew him to be.

  ‘I’m not sure either,’ said Zenin, which was a lie but he was content to let her make what she wanted from the ambiguity.

  She looked directly at him for several moments and Zenin held her eyes and a heaviness grew between them. To break the mood, Sulafeh patted the briefcase-type bag she had trapped between her leg and the chair leg and said: ‘I’ve got everything here.’

  ‘What’s everything?’

  ‘Complete plan of the conference area, with all the rooms and chambers marked and identified. The most up-to-date schedule of the sessions-’

  ‘Which could be changed, of course?’ Zenin interrupted.

  ‘I believe they frequently are,’ she agreed.

  ‘How much warning do you get, as interpreter?’

  ‘Overnight.’

  ‘So we’ll need to meet every day.’

  She did not reply at once, looking directly at him again. Then she said: ‘Yes, we’ll have to meet every day.’

  Zenin smiled at her and she smiled back. He said: ‘Will that be difficult for you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Beneath the atmosphere growing between them Zenin was instantly aware of her doubt. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s not a problem with the conference arrangements,’ she qualified. ‘Until the sessions start there’s very little for me to do.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘A man called Dajani, the other interpreter. He’s becoming a nuisance.’

  ‘Sexually?’ insisted Zenin, openly.

  Sulafeh nodded. ‘He’s made a play from the beginning. Hung around the conference area and the hotel …’ She shuddered. ‘He’s repulsive,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t kill him,’ said Zenin, reflectively, ‘it would draw attention and we obviously can’t risk that.’

  Although she knew what he was — or believed she knew what he was — the casualness with which he spoke of killing astonished her. At once there was a further, wonderful sensation: the eroticism of it erupted through her and she felt the sexual wetness between her legs. ‘No,’ she accepted, her voice uneven, ‘you can’t kill him.’