“You won’t believe what happened!” Monsford greeted, exultantly.
“Then I won’t try to guess,” said the woman, who considered the man’s too-quickly-stirred excitability to be immature, like the haste of his lovemaking.
“On our way to the meeting, Smith actually asked me to set up Charlie’s assassination if there were a risk of his being seized by the Russians!”
“Did he actually use the word assassination?”
“Of course not!” said Monsford, irritated at the question. “It was the usual maypole dance of double-speak but it was protective assassination, pure and simple.”
“What about the internal inquiry that’s inevitable after Charlie’s killed? Smith will deny it was ever his suggestion.”
“Not when you corroborate what I’m telling you.”
By her not corroborating it, Monsford’s removal from the MI6 directorship would be automatic, leaving her his logical successor, calculated Rebecca. “Your last uncertainty has been resolved, hasn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” agreed Monsford. “What did you think of my establishing Camese as the code designation for what everyone believes to be Natalia’s extraction?”
Puerile, like most of your classical allusions, thought Rebecca. She said: “Very clever.”
“More than clever. Brilliant,” insisted Monsford. “Janus is going to be the code for Radtsic’s extraction. Everyone looking and thinking in the wrong direction!”
“Brilliant,” agreed Rebecca, dutifully. Asshole, she thought.
* * *
“Have you had Andrei’s letter?” asked Elana.
“It arrived today.”
“What’s the problem?”
“There isn’t one. I’d set up a contact system with the embassy that he was finding restrictive, so I’ve scaled it down. Which I was going to have to do anyway.”
“When are you going to tell him what’s happening?”
“When everything’s finalized by the British.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“Very soon.”
* * *
“You’re going to be briefed on a special, combined operation,” announced Monsford. “I’m appointing you supervisor of the MI6 contingent.”
“Thank you, sir,” accepted Stephen Briddle. He was an intense, quick-talking man nervous of his first personal encounter with the Director.
“You’ll learn all about the combined assignment at the general briefing. This conversation is strictly between the two of us and must remain that way, no one else. I’ve chosen you because of your special clearance, which might be called upon. I’m sure you won’t let me or the service down.”
“I won’t, sir,” assured Briddle, giving no indication of his immediate unease at the reference to special clearance.
“This meeting is precautionary. I might not need to issue the order so I won’t give you any further details but I will dispatch a weapon ahead of your arrival in Moscow in the diplomatic bag.”
“I understand.”
“Your sole understanding at this point is that this meeting, this conversation, is totally classified.”
“I do understand that.”
“You are going to have a long and assured career in this service.”
“Thank you, sir.”
11
Charlie Muffin disliked shared assignments that made him reliant upon others whose professional ability he didn’t know and therefore couldn’t trust, his unease increased by the inclusion of MI6 as well as by his belated recognition at how quickly his personal involvement had been agreed to. Charlie’s well-honed sensitivity to potential betrayal extended beyond the smell of a rat to being aware of them scuttling underfoot, which was the instinctive impression settling upon him.
His general discomfort began with his 8:00 A.M. arrival not at his Thames House workplace, which he’d expected, but across the river at MI6’s tree- and shrub-festooned edifice, the smoked-glass car sweeping too fast through last-minute-opening steel doors into a basement garage from an unsuspected entrance a block and a half from the actual building. Charlie dismissed the security checks as far more perfunctory than they would have been at Thames House, unquestioningly following the two reimposed escorts who’d steadfastly refused conversation during the journey from Buckinghamshire. A matching electronic warning he guessed to have opened the garage doors had obviously alerted the two men waiting for him as the elevator doors opened.
“At last a face I recognize,” greeted Charlie.
John Passmore was respected within the counterintelligence agency for dropping the civilian entitlement of colonel after his transfer appointment from the SAS, although he continued to wear the regimental tie, which didn’t coordinate with the suit he was wearing today. He was a reserved, taciturn man who responded to Charlie with a curt, unsmiling nod and an immediate introduction to James Straughan.
“Why am I here, not across the river?” demanded Charlie, at once.
“Your own building will be under far tighter Russian surveillance than usual,” said Straughan, leading the way into a directly opposite, anonymously bare office. “And Thames House doesn’t have the separated entry facilities that we do.”
Bollocks, thought Charlie. “You should charge for the helter-skelter approach; sell candy floss to attract the customers.”
“Your proposal for getting Natalia and the girl out has been gone through in some detail,” picked up Passmore, the intended briskness slightly marred by an almost-suppressed stutter. “The instructions are to give you your head but personally I think your chances of success are extremely limited.”
“It’s difficult for them to be otherwise, knowing as little as we do so far,” defended Charlie. “It has to be governed by on-the-spot decisions according to the circumstances as they arise.”
“Which operations are invariably insufficiently prepared, inadequately planned, and blow up in your face,” argued the ex-soldier, feeling out with his remaining hand to the empty left sleeve of his jacket.
“It’s been sanctioned?” pressed Charlie.
“With reservations beyond the obvious,” confirmed Straughan.
“Which are?” queried Charlie, apprehensively.
“Shortly you’ll meet your backup group,” disclosed Straughan. “They’re not being told of your personal relationship to Natalia or that Sasha is your child.”
“It’s the weakest aspect of what you’ll be trying to do,” criticized Passmore, before Charlie could respond. “You’re team leader and because of who Natalia and Sasha are, you’ll take more risks than you should. They’ll know and distrust that if they’re told.”
“Is everything going to be independently monitored, above and beyond the people I’m about to meet?” asked Charlie, presciently. There could be gains, having so many distracting people milling about.
Passmore looked to the other operational director and Straughan momentarily hesitated. “No. But there’s another reservation. There’s to be no maverick bullshit from you. We accept there’s a lot that’s got to be worked out when you get there. But you don’t initiate anything without approval. And we want your acknowledgment, right now, that you understand what I’m saying. If we get the slightest suspicion you’re trying to perform as a one-man band, we abort everything and you’ll lose a wife and child.”
The bullshit was Straughan’s, for the benefit of the inevitable protective recording, Charlie knew. “I’m not going to do anything to put Natalia and Sasha at more risk than they already are. And I’ve already given the undertaking about diplomatic embarrassment.”
“Don’t, for a moment, forget it,” threatened the MI6 division chief, ending the encounter. “People are waiting for us.”
Waiting or scuttling underfoot to trip him? wondered Charlie.
* * *
The briefing room was four doors away on the same level, the six men already assembled at name-carded lecture desks in front of a slightly raised stage on the wall behind whi
ch were displayed the enlarged photographs of Natalia and Sasha. At the far end of the room were visible camera-projection facilities from which everything would be filmed.
After Straughan’s domination of their introductory meeting, Charlie was mildly curious at Passmore’s supervising the team briefing. This was an unusually linked combination between their two services because of the importance of what had to be achieved, opened the MI5 operations director, the stutter, strangely, no longer pronounced. Each of them had been provided with a individual pack that included the maximum available information upon Natalia Fedova and her background within the FSB. Those packs were to be familiarized until their departure for their Moscow flight that afternoon but would be retrieved before they left the building. Duplicate packs were already waiting for them at the British embassy, in the residential compound of which they were all to be accommodated. The duplicate packs—particularly the photographs of Natalia and the child—were never to be taken outside the embassy. Also awaiting their collection at the embassy were Russian mobile telephones through which they would liaise with their team supervisor, Charlie Muffin. That liaison had always to be through their cell phones: they should never initiate contact by calling his cell phone, the number of which would be in their Moscow documentation, from an embassy or outside landline. Charlie would not be accommodated at the embassy but would work from hotels, between which he would move, at his decision and choosing. It was, obviously, an extraction mission, the method, timing, and manner of which could not be decided until contact had been made with Natalia Fedova. Until the moment of extraction, their function was entirely one of support, at which announcement Passmore hesitated again, identifying those among the group responsible for finance, which was to be provided internally from embassy funds, and logistics. Those logistics were to be obtained through outside, Russian sources, paid for in cash and not traceable in any way to the embassy or to Britain. Each of the Moscow packs was nominated by name and contained Russian driving licenses in their Russian cover names, together with false Russian passports and other necessary identity documents. Each had been allocated an individual code designation signaling the mission’s cancellation, together with specific escape routes to be unquestioningly followed. Upon that alert they were immediately and separately to get out of the country. Under no circumstances whatsoever were they to risk identification or association among themselves and their team supervisor by attempting to contact Charlie Muffin: there had to be no evidential electronic—or any other—link whatsoever.
Throughout Passmore’s presentation Charlie’s attention was divided, dissecting the man’s every word and phrase while at the same time comparing his initial reaction as much as was visually possible against those before him. Patrick Wilkinson was the only one of the group Charlie recognized, from a brief encounter at the British embassy in Washington, D.C., which had been Wilkinson’s first MI5 overseas posting. The man showed no recognition, although throughout most of Passmore’s address he was looking directly at Charlie, as were most of the others. Charlie decided they were trying to assess him from his visible responses, as he was trying to assess them. They were uniformly bland featured, an essential attention-avoiding requirement, and dressed accordingly. There were occasional frowns, one or two nose blowings, a few seat rearrangements, but no nods of acceptance or head-shaking disapproval, nor expression of surprise or uncertainty. Throughout, no one had taken a single reminder note.
“You’ll have questions, in which your team leader will participate,” Passmore concluded, overly formal.
At once a balding man identified by his name card as Neil Preston, another MI5 man, said: “Is this woman an embedded asset?”
Both operational directors deferred to Charlie, who hurriedly replied: “She had the potential to have been.”
“I don’t understand that answer,” protested Preston. “She either is or she isn’t.”
“It’s a perfectly understandable answer,” refused Charlie. “She occupies a position within the FSB and before that the KGB that could provide invaluable intelligence.”
A man named by his place setting as Stephen Briddle, who’d been picked out by Passmore as the operational bag man, said: “Does that mean it’s uncertain whether she’ll provide it?”
“The uncertainty is getting them both out, which it is imperative we do,” insisted Charlie, content to use the moment. “Natalia Fedova’s cooperation depends entirely upon the safety and protection of the child.”
“You’ve indicated that I’m the finance officer,” said Briddle, addressing Passmore. “It might be in my briefing pack but if it isn’t, is there a budget within which I have to work?”
There were isolated sniggers among the other five at the bureaucratic demand, which increased when Passmore replied: “None. But we expect receipts,”
“Are these two detained in any way?” asked Robert Denning, a tall but stooped man whose card identified him as an MI6 officer.
“There’s no indication of that,” avoided Charlie. “It is something to be established when we get to Moscow.”
“Does any field instruction need London confirmation?” demanded Peter Warren, disclosing his MI6 allegiance by directing the question to Straughan.
“No,” replied Straughan, without hesitation. “Charlie has full operational authority. There’ll need to be liaison with us here, which I don’t think is covered in your Moscow packs, so I’ll make you, Peter, responsible for that, particularly relaying anything that Charlie wants sent, okay?”
“I’m finding this difficult to follow,” Preston continued to protest. “Has she approached us, to defect?”
“There are sufficient indications,” said Charlie, acknowledging the importance of separate back-channel arrangements with his known fellow officers.
“Who’s her Control in Moscow, through whom these indications have come?” asked Wilkinson, coming into the discussion.
Again the other two men on the stage looked to Charlie, who hesitated, anxious to get the answer right. “There isn’t one, not in Moscow. That’s what I am going there to become. I’ve had some prior contact.”
“Sufficient to justify an operation of this size at this early stage?” frowned Preston.
They were professionals, Charlie judged hopefully. But then so was he. Or supposed to be. “There isn’t time for lengthy ground planning, only what I can set up. Which is why there is to be the separation between us. Until the actual moment of extraction, I’m the only one at risk.”
“What about that extraction?” questioned Wilkinson, whom Passmore had designated a logistics officer, along with Denning. “There’s surely been advanced planning put into that?”
Straughan indicated the enlarged photographs behind him. “Already at the embassy there are Polish and English passports carrying those pictures. You and Denning have to pay locally for all transport, obviously including airline tickets. This is an in-and-out job, which is why we’re manning it as we are.”
“Mother and daughter,” itemized Jeremy Beckindale, who completed the MI6 secondment. “What about the father?”
“There isn’t one,” replied Charlie, prepared before the question concluded.
“What’s the likelihood of either personal or protective resistance?” persisted the most obviously doubtful Preston.
“None,” insisted Charlie, as quickly as before. “They’re not being kidnapped. No extraction will be contemplated if there’s the slightest possibility of violent opposition.”
“What guarantee is there of that being avoided?”
“Me,” said Charlie, shortly. “Nothing and no one moves until I press the button.”
The room became silent. Passmore said: “All through?”
Preston said: “I’d like a much better idea of what we’re getting involved in.”
So would I, thought Charlie.
* * *
“We saw it all on the television relay,” pre-empted Monsford, as Straughan entered the Director’s o
ffice suite.
“I thought it went well,” offered Harry Jacobson, tentatively. As with Stephen Briddle earlier, it was Jacobson’s first personal encounter with Monsford, which was unsettling in itself, and he now believed he’d made a bad mistake. The London recall, to witness the televised briefing and reinforce the physical identification of Charlie Muffin by flying back to Moscow on the same plane, had been waiting when Jacobson returned to the embassy after the failed meeting with Radtsic and on impulse Jacobson hadn’t told the Director or Straughan of the Russian’s nonappearance. Now it was too late and there was no guarantee Radtsic would keep the automatically prearranged catch-up meeting to be activated on his return.
“The majority of the others feel like Preston,” balanced Straughan.
“I’d be disappointed if our people didn’t. But they’re not going to be involved, so their uncertainties don’t matter.” Monsford shrugged. He once more hadn’t switched on his personal recording apparatus.
“What about Charlie himself?” queried Jacobson. “Hasn’t he wanted more?”
“His sole interest is getting there,” dismissed Straughan.
“I’ve read his file,” said Jacobson, tapping his dossier. “He’s unpredictable.”
“Not this time,” insisted Monsford. “His reasoning is knocked to hell by his one, single priority: getting to Moscow.”
“Why don’t we tell Radtsic the protective diversion that’ll doubly guarantee his extraction?” unexpectedly suggested Straughan.
“Is that a good idea?” wondered Monsford, with his customary reluctance to respond to an idea without first getting the opinions of everyone else.
“It might calm Radtsic down,” said Jacobson, uncomfortably. “I’m surprised every time he turns up for a meeting.”
With no knowledge of the Director’s earlier encounter with Stephen Briddle, the operations director wondered what Jacobson’s personal feelings must be, sitting as Jacobson was sitting, discussing an assassination, a murder, that he had to commit. Straughan had always hoped never to be personally associated with a sanctioned killing, particularly one predicated upon such tenuous reasoning as this. He wished he had the courage officially to object, for which there was provision in the statutory regulations. “Natalia’s under surveillance by the FSB. If we told Radtsic, he could guarantee Natalia—and therefore Charlie—being precisely where we want them to be for the distraction operation.”
Red Star Burning Page 11