“With which I’m more than happy to accept,” Monsford hurried in. “I’m no longer willing to risk either my officers or my service on such an irresponsible operative. I would even suggest the extraction of Charlie Muffin and his family is abandoned and all our officers withdrawn before anything else goes wrong.”
“We talked…” began Smith but Palmer talked over him.
“Are you telling us the confounded man’s still refusing specific instructions?”
“No!” denied Smith emphatically, unsure how far he could manipulate Monsford with Jane Ambersom’s limited information. “There are indications that he’s discovered a situation making it unsafe—maybe even physically dangerous—for him to be associated with the MI6 secondment.”
“I demand an explanation of that remark!” exploded Monsford, exaggerating the outrage, the fragile confidence wavering.
“Which I’m as anxious to give as you are to hear,” said Smith, enjoying the quick reversal. “But as we’re discussing your operatives I was hoping you might have some input.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” blustered the MI6 Director.
“In which case there’ll need to be the most rigorous inquiry, which I assure all of you it will get,” undertook Smith. “Perhaps we could get some early indication the three seconded, no-longer-acceptable MI6 officers will be recalled.”
“Or perhaps they should remain to prevent further disasters,” argued Monsford, panicked half thoughts refusing properly to cohere.
“You’ve changed your mind remarkably quickly,” challenged Smith, hoping the two government grandees were assessing Monsford as he was. “You began hardly able to wait to disassociate your service from mine: now you’re demanding they remain.”
“That was before your accusations started!” Monsford threw back, awkwardly.
Turning that awkwardness back upon the other man, Smith said: “What accusations! I haven’t accused anyone of anything. I merely speculated in the widest possible manner on a reason for Charlie’s curious message. And I would, in passing, strongly argue against abandoning Charlie’s mission. I believed we’d accepted Charlie will try to get his wife and child out, with or without our support.”
“Precisely the potential danger I’m warning against and why my men must stay,” blurted Monsford, to the frowned confusion of both Bland and Palmer.
Bland said: “This is spiraling into absurdity. We’ll adjourn but by tomorrow I want this sorted out, to be discussed and resolved constructively. I opened this session warning of lost government confidence. Little of what I’ve heard today has changed the sentiment. I think…” The man stopped at a summoning buzz from outside the room.
Palmer pressed the door-release button and accepted the message slip from a Foreign Office messenger. Looking up, Palmer said: “It’s just been announced in Moscow that one of the two heart-attack victims from the tourist group has died.”
* * *
After its productive start, Charlie’s day went downhill. He’d spent a frustrating forenoon failing to reach Natalia and too much of the early afternoon unable to reconnect with David Halliday to learn of a reaction to his approaching Patrick Wilkinson.
Long before the clumsy Russian entry into his Vauxhall flat, Charlie acknowledged the onion-skin overlap of espionage and burglary, the cardinal credo of both being always to establish a guaranteed exit before contemplating an entry, which required the utmost preparation for the following day’s Metro merry-go-round with Wilkinson, which he hoped would be as successful as his London evasion of his original safe-house guardians. Smolenskaya was the station closest to the Moskva-bordering British embassy and the logical place for Wilkinson to set off. To guard against his expectation of Wilkinson’s not being alone, Charlie spent a full thirty minutes refamiliarizing himself with the station layout and hideaway surveillance spots. He twice rode his chosen route and following that refamiliarization disembarked at each of the linked intersections to memorize their individual geography. At four randomly chosen stops Charlie interrupted his protective survey to return to ground level for still unsuccessful telephone attempts. It took Charlie three hours to complete his personal mapping and isolate the best-suited stations. Charlie finished at Smolenskaya with the last of the continuous tests he’d risked during the journey testing the recharged British-adapted Russian mobile that was to feature heavily the following day, knowing the replacement Russian pay-as-you-go devices wouldn’t operate at the depths of the Moscow underground system. He moved as deeply into the station as possible, impressed as he had been every previous time that the phone’s indicator showed a full battery. As soon as he’d proved its effectiveness Charlie once more removed the battery to defeat the suspected tracker application.
It was past six before Natalia eventually answered and from the obvious terseness Charlie knew at once she was not alone. He named the time and restaurant, in the university district, quickly enough for her to dismiss the call as misdialed as she disconnected. Charlie tried from the same kiosk and twice more from others during his next reconnaissance before accepting that Halliday’s refusal was deliberate, which was irritating although predictable. Charlie wondered how difficult it would be to restore their situation. It depended, he supposed, on London’s response to his reappearance and insisted separation from MI6. To get an indication of that he’d have to wait until he met Wilkinson: if he managed to meet Wilkinson, came the realistic qualification.
There had been, as always, a professional practicality in Charlie’s booking dinner that night at the Wild Egret. It had been a favorite of both at the beginning of their marriage, conveniently close to their prerevolutionary-mansion apartment, the nostalgia of which he hoped she’d appreciate as much as she had his earlier choice. He enjoyed the nostalgic significance, too, but equally important was its nearness to the multientranced warren of Kurskaya Metro station, from which he planned to leave the Wilkinson carousel. He studied that as intently as he had Smolenskaya, going in and out of all three entrances, marking every concealment and vantage point and back once more aboveground rediscovered the tributary streets to the treble-lane highways and connecting ring road. Gratefully approaching the end of his professional preparations, Charlie sought out a half-remembered landmark that he found closer to the Wild Egret than he’d recalled, slipping easily into the alcove’s completely dark interior. It had once contained a horse-watering trough, now removed but still with a wide ledge remaining for Charlie to perch on to relieve the foot-burning discomfort after so much walking, refusing even to contemplate how much worse it would be the following day. Charlie picked out Natalia when she was still more than a hundred meters away, approaching from the direction of the Kurskaya station, and was at once caught by the caution she was showing, discreetly checking her trail twice before reaching a cross-street intersection where she hesitated longer to ensure she was not under parallel road surveillance. He couldn’t detect any either but waited a full five minutes to make absolutely sure Natalia was alone before he left the alcove to follow.
She was being seated as he entered. She smiled up as he joined her and said: “So you were checking I didn’t have unwanted company?”
“The alcove where the trough used to be: you were very good.”
“I was trying to impress you.”
“You knew I’d be watching?”
“As I expected you’d choose this restaurant.”
“Let’s hope it lives up to the memories.”
They took their time ordering, Charlie insisting upon celebration beluga.
“Was my call a problem?” asked Charlie.
Natalia shook her head. “We’d finished but I was still in the building, with people around. I had it on mute, so no one heard it.”
“You dumped the phone?”
“After removing the SIM card and the battery,” said Natalia, smiling at the insistence. “And I didn’t dispose of them in the same bins.”
Charlie smiled back at t
he gentle rebuke. “So how was your first day?”
Natalia sipped her wine, considering her reply. “Not what I expected: not that I knew exactly what to expect. There are six of us. I’m the only woman. I don’t know any of the others: three have been drafted in from St. Petersburg. There’s no chairperson. We each work on a document batch.” She paused. “Does your service operate by naming, with time, date, and location of each encounter, every potentially useful outside contact?”
Did she want a matching contribution with what she was disclosing or was it just a point of comparison? Charlie waited for them to be served before saying: “It’s universal, isn’t it?”
Natalia nodded. “That’s how we have to work. When we come to any outside name with whom Radtsic’s ever had unsupervised contact, particularly British, we’ve got to flag it as well as verbally announcing it around the table for further recognition if the name appears in someone else’s separated document batch.”
“How thick is each individual batch?”
“About a third of a meter.”
“Have you a better idea of how many other groups there are, apart from yours?”
“Approximately a dozen, as far as I can establish. But there’s an equal number, starting tomorrow, to refine the initial results. The lunchtime rumor was that at that stage the flagged names will transfer to computer analysis and comparison.”
“Is that all you have to flag up, Western—particularly British—identities?”
Natalia shook her head. “Repetitive destinations and locations, again concentrated on the West. Vacation spots, stuff like that.”
“The checking and cross-checking will take months,” estimated Charlie.
“I know.”
“How much cross-referencing did your particular group assemble today?”
“Twelve at the end of the day.”
Natalia was talking on the turned spy’s psychological profile, Charlie recognized: once the initial dyke breaches, the tidal wave of disclosures follows. “The analysis won’t take months. It’ll take years, even computerized.”
“How long it’ll take isn’t the point,” said Natalia. “It’s the documentation itself.”
“What about it?” Charlie frowned.
“It’s all duplicated, no originals, although from its font and typeface it was created on a typewriter, not a computer.”
“Just your duplicates or everybody’s?” queried Charlie.
“Everybody’s. Do you understand my point?”
“Elana and Andrei Radtsic were detained less than forty-eight hours ago,” calculated Charlie. “Allowing a generous twelve for the connection to be established between Paris and Moscow, that gives thirty-six hours for the Kremlin to discover Radtsic had gone. What’s your estimate of Radtsic’s combined KGB and FSB service?”
“Nearly thirty years,” responded Natalia, at once.
“We’ve no way of knowing if everything has been duplicated,” cautioned Charlie.
“All the other examining groups are handling copies,” said Natalia.
“Then you’re right,” finally agreed Charlie. “It’s impossible for them to have photocopied a thirty-year archive in just thirty-six hours,”
“So what’s going on?” asked Natalia.
“I don’t know,” replied Charlie. “It’s not our problem. When’s Sasha back?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Thursday,” identified Charlie. “Are you working weekends?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll have everything before then. We’ll go for Sunday.”
After several moments, Natalia said: “How?”
“The safest way. I haven’t yet chosen which.”
“Sasha will know it’s not a holiday: that it’s still term time.”
“Don’t say anything to her until Saturday. And only then that it’s a surprise and that the school has agreed. And don’t let her see any of her friends, after you’ve told her.”
“You’ll be with us, won’t you? I won’t be going alone?”
Charlie was unsettled by her complete reliance. “That’s the idea, isn’t it: that at last we’ll all be together?”
“I hope so: hope so very much.”
Charlie wished there weren’t so much uncertainty in her voice. “This is probably the last full time we’ll have together.”
Natalia checked her watch. “I could come back to the hotel for two hours.”
“I’d hoped you could.”
“I want you with me when we go, Charlie: I want to know you’re somewhere close,” she suddenly blurted. “I don’t want it to be just Sasha and me.”
“From Sunday you’re never going to be by yourselves, not ever again.”
It was just after nine when they left the restaurant. In London it was still only six thirty and everyone was still working.
* * *
“There’s got to have been a leak.” Monsford was striding up and down in front of the panoramic river view, more angry than nervous. From beside the man’s desk, Rebecca Street had already indicated the sound apparatus was inactive.
“How can there have been a leak?” demanded James Straughan. “Jacobson and Charlie have never met and Jacobson categorically denies he said anything to Halliday, who wasn’t ever involved until the last minute, upon your orders, which were also that Halliday worked blind.”
“It’s not difficult to work out,” calmed Rebecca. “We’re misleading ourselves. Charlie Muffin can’t have had any reason for getting off the Amsterdam plane, apart from distrusting his own shadow. Now he’s got a reason, after the publicity over the seizure of Elana and Andrei. Charlie’s a consummate professional who’s learned and practiced ten times more than anyone ever learns at training school. He’ll have worked out that we’re involved with the two Russian nationals in France at the same time as we’re supposed to be part of the extraction of his wife and child.”
“Elana and Andrei haven’t been identified and there’s been no publicity that Radtsic’s already here!” rejected Monsford, slumping back into his chair.
“People like Charlie Muffin, who trusts no one, can multiply two plus two into the national debt!” argued Rebecca. “What little is publicly known is more than enough to spook Charlie Muffin from coming within a million miles of any of our people.”
Monsford shook his head in refusal, turning to Straughan. “What’s Briddle say?”
“Just that MI5 have retreated into their rezidentura, slamming the door behind them.”
“I beat Aubrey Smith into a frazzle in the beginning but he recovered almost completely with the fucking cooperation refusal,” said Monsford, in a rare admission.
“What do we do about our three in Moscow?” asked Straughan.
“They stay!” insisted the MI6 Director, at once. “Now Muffin’s crawled from beneath the stone he’s been under, I want to be his shadow: every time he farts, I want to hear it. I’m not having the Radtsic coup taken away from me by Charlie Muffin.”
“I’ve nominally appointed Briddle our field supervisor,” said Straughan. “Do you have any specific instructions?”
Monsford hesitated, head bent. It certainly wasn’t better to face slings and arrows, he decided: the only way was to take up arms against the sea of trouble. Looking up, he said: “Tell him to call me at ten prompt tomorrow, his time. I’ll take the call personally.”
* * *
“It sounds as if you won?” suggested Jane Ambersom.
“We won’t have won until Monsford’s removed, which I’m determined to make happen before I’m fired,” said Aubrey Smith.
“Do you think it was a serious threat?” queried John Passmore.
“Totally serious,” confirmed the MI5 Director-General. “And if I go I’ll go down in flame, which means it’s imperative you get whatever Straughan has.”
“He’s not taking my calls either on his landline or his cell phone,” said Jane.
“Keep trying,” said Smith.
> “Are the MI6 backup being withdrawn?” asked Passmore. “Wilkinson doesn’t think it’s going to be easy operating separately out of the same building.”
“I want to speak to Charlie direct,” demanded Smith. “Have Wilkinson tell him that. Tell him also to warn Charlie to watch his back. Talking to Jane, Straughan didn’t rule out physical violence.”
“It’s unthinkable that Monsford would contemplate anything physical against a British intelligence officer,” insisted Passmore.
“No, it’s not,” said Jane, even more insistently. “That’s exactly what he’ll be thinking if it means saving himself.”
28
Charlie worked on the assumption that Patrick Wilkinson, either knowingly or otherwise, would not be alone on the circle line, which he’d most likely join from the station closest to the British embassy. It was also possible they’d imagine he’d get on at Smolenskaya, too, and assemble an ambush there long before his ten A.M. departure, using Wilkinson as their on-time bait. Their obvious concentration would be around the entrance, to avoid which he started his approach from Kurskaya at the height of Moscow’s eight o’clock rush hour, sandwiching himself into the second-to-last carriage, which he’d established from his previous day’s footslogging disgorged its passengers into the instant concealment of a vaulted support column and an angled wall. From its cover he allowed himself a protective sweep for a recognizable face, with the train still at the platform for instant escape, before edging himself back into the human flow that took him to his already chosen observation spot, a set of metal service stairs leading up to a mezzanine range of Control offices twenty meters beyond the towering escalator banks to the circle line’s snack, media, and tobacco kiosks. The overshadowing darkness of the service stairwell gave Charlie unbroken observation of arriving and disembarking commuters as well as an uninterrupted view of the other most likely hideaways from which others trained in his craft would wait in readiness for him to appear. And if they chose his hideaway to be theirs, he had a second girdered stairwell farther along the concourse beneath which he could merge unseen. There was even a conveniently low horizontal stress bar separating two of the upright girders against which he propped himself to take his full weight off his troublesome feet.
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