‘I think we should stop pissing into the wind,’ said Elliott. ‘We get him, we keep him. We squeeze him by the balls, his heart and mind will follow.’
‘I heard the same philosophy in Vietnam, too,’ said Fredericks. ‘But maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ve got to make him tell us where she is.’
‘I want to do it!’ demanded Elliott, predictably.
‘Don’t move, until I give the word,’ insisted Fredericks.
In the Shinbashi apartment in Tokyo, Yuri Kozlov stared in frightened disbelief at the telephone upon which he had finally – at last – spoken to the jabbering Olga Balan, trying to comprehend everything she had said. Before he could, it rang again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘It’s me this time, Yuri. Not Irena.’
Charlie knew the initial seconds were vital, the time he hooked Kozlov into completing the missing parts or lost him, from one wrong word, a misplaced nuance even.
Before Kozlov could respond, Charlie said: ‘She told me how you kept in contact: told me a lot, in fact.’
In the apartment with its view of the park, the receiver was slimed in Kozlov’s hand, so that he had to use both hands to hold it. He strained to clear his mind of the conversation with Olga – ‘I killed someone … can’t do it … I just can’t’ – to concentrate on the Englishman, to pick his way through the words like a lost man in a minefield. Told him a lot, the Englishman said; she must have done, to have given away the telephone number. The Russian strained further, to clear his voice of the surprised reaction literally soaking through him and said: ‘How is she?’
Good response, judged Charlie: didn’t seem concerned and the seemingly innocuous question put the onus on him to disclose more. Charlie said: ‘Very well, considering.’ First tighten the line, then loosen it.
‘Considering what?’ If she’d told him a lot, where was it? Kozlov felt the vaguest flicker of recovery at the clutch-at-straw thought that the other man didn’t know as much as he had indicated.
‘All that’s happened,’ said Charlie. The man was still doing well: let the line stay loose for the moment.
‘What has happened? She’s all right, isn’t she!’ The confidence was growing, the apparent concern well pitched.
Run too fast and that hook is going to embed itself, asshole, thought Charlie. He said: ‘You don’t know what happened?’
‘No! Tell me!’ The concern remained perfect and alone in the apartment Kozlov took one hand from the receiver, no longer needing the extra support.
‘But she’s all right.’ Almost time, thought Charlie.
‘Tell me what happened! Let me speak to her!’
‘Irena didn’t know that Olga Balan was in London with you: came as a hell of a shock.’
Kozlov swayed, bringing the hand up again to prevent the telephone falling, eyes closed, trying to think how she could have known: then he remembered the Englishman’s apparent knowledge during the Tokyo car ride. He said: ‘There is a file?’
‘Extensive,’ said Charlie. Time to wind in, he thought. He said ‘Lot of names. I told you we knew about McFairlane. Then there is a trade union official named Harry Albert and an editor called Bill Paul and Valeri Solomatin, who used to write for him …’ Charlie allowed the pause. ‘There’s even an American senator, William Bales. Officially that’s blamed on the Baader Meinhoff group, did you know that?’ To continue the fishing analogy, Charlie realized what he’d just done to the man was to throw a grenade in the water sufficient to stun a whole shoal. And he hadn’t finished, yet. ‘And now, of course, we’ve added Olga’s name.’
‘She wasn’t involved in any of that!’ blurted the Russian, instinctively defensive but worse – far worse – unthinking.
‘Just this?’ risked Charlie: the moment he could win or fail.
‘That’s all,’ said Kozlov.
Won! thought Charlie, triumphantly. He moved quickly, not wanting the other man to realize the admission. He said: ‘You can’t speak to Irena: she’s not here any more. But then, you didn’t really want to, did you?
‘What do you want?’ demanded Kozlov, professional to professional, accepting that the other man was – temporarily at least but only temporarily – in control. Temporarily again, Kozlov was unable to separate what Irena could have told the man from what the British appeared to have discovered from their own investigations. Whatever it was, Charlie Muffin still had a lot; too much.
‘Several things,’ said Charlie. It was almost too soon but he felt a burn of contentment at finally understanding – completely – what the hell had been going on. He still had to win, though.
‘Like what?’
‘There’s more to talk about first,’ refused Charlie. It would be a mistake for him to get too complacent, too soon. He had to keep Kozlov constantly off balance, constantly acknowledging who was leading and who was following, horse before cart, carrot before stick.
‘What else to talk about?’ There was obvious apprehension in Kozlov’s voice.
‘How about Boris Filiatov? Let’s talk about him.’
‘Filiatov!’ said Kozlov. He felt as if his mind were enveloped by a fog too thick to penetrate. He so desperately wanted to anticipate the Englishman, but every time he thought he saw a way the direction changed.
‘It’s unfortunate, about Filiatov.’
‘You’re talking riddles,’ Kozlov openly complained.
‘That’s what Filiatov is going to imagine: riddles,’ said Charlie. ‘He isn’t going to understand his arrest or what he is accused of, and because he won’t be able to understand any of it – because he hasn’t done anything, has he? – his interrogation will be a disaster: a disaster for him, that is. Because Dzerzhinsky Square will know it’s true.’
‘What!’ shouted the befuddled Kozlov, exasperated.
‘That he’s an enemy of the State: someone to be punished.’
The awareness – at least Kozlov thought it was awareness – came at last. And desperately Kozlov tried to fight back, conscious of how much he had lost in the exchanges so far. ‘You’re too confident!’ he said, half-confident himself. ‘So you’ve got a double – a source – who’s proven himself to Moscow: but by telling me, I know he’s controlled by London.’
‘So fucking what!’ Charlie now felt able openly to jeer – obviously to jeer – determined utterly to subjugate Kozlov into knowing just how powerless he was to do anything, anything at all, to control his own future. Charlie got no satisfaction from the bullying, just the mental image of Harry Lu, dead against the wall of an equally dead church. He said: ‘How are you going to tell Moscow you know, Yuri? Going to mention my name, Charlie Muffin? Let them know our connection. That wouldn’t make you very popular: they know that name. Believe me, they know that name.’ Charlie stopped short of telling the other man why, knowing that before they brought Yuri in for the scopolamine-induced questioning and the electrodes to the testes if the truth drug didn’t work and a straight pummelling kick in the bollocks if he still stuck out, they would offer the man forgiveness and rehabilitation, by blowing him away. Deciding-like the survivor he was-on the need for insurance, Charlie added: ‘You know what that would do? That would convince them you’re an enemy of the State, just like Boris Filiatov. Poor bastard!’
‘Go on,’ said Kozlov, dully, beaten again.
‘He’s a hell of a source, the man we’ve got,’ said Charlie, intentionally patronizing. ‘And he’s not a double. He’s your man and Moscow believes everything he tells them. If he said Gorbachev was a paid-up member of the British Conservative Party, your people would investigate it …’ Charlie hoped he wasn’t going over the top. He took up: ‘You understand what I’m saying, Yuri?’
‘Tell me,’ said the Russian.
‘That’s it,’ said Charlie, unable to imagine a better response from the other man. After the grenade came the bomb, not atomic but devastating enough: he hoped. Charlie said: ‘That’s all I’m telling you. We’re tradesmen, you and I: we’ve
done our apprenticeship in a very special craft, so we can recognize other people’s work, like tradesmen can. So I recognize – know – how you’re thinking now. You’re still trying to work out how I learned about Olga when Irena didn’t know and how I discovered it was Olga who killed the wrong person … I know you didn’t have any alternative, but you shouldn’t have entrusted something like that to anyone but an expert, no matter what the Soviet training covers, incidently … just as I know that within an hour of this conversation ending, you’ll be evolving some way of recovering. Of surviving. Like I would do, if I were in your position. Which is why I’m not setting out all the demands, not yet. Because I don’t want to give you the opportunity of anticipating and beating me …’ Charlie stopped, needing the breath. ‘Given you a lot to think about though, haven’t I, Yuri? And there’s one last thing, the most important thing to remember: I can do what I promise. To you …’ The pause this time was for a different reason. ‘Or to Olga.’
There must be something?’
‘Of course there’s something,’ agreed Charlie. ‘We’re going to meet, you and I.’
‘Meet!’
‘Of course,’ said Charlie, patronizing still. ‘I’ve got the address. Shinbashi, isn’t it?’
‘You know it is,’ said Kozlov. He felt entangled, like someone in the straight-jackets of the mental hospitals in which the KGB put the Soviet dissidents, treating them as mad to make them mad.
‘Wait for me there.’
‘You’re in Tokyo?’
‘No.’
‘When should I wait then?’
‘Just wait, every night, until I come. Irena told me how it works.’ Kozlov had to be demeaned, in everything. Angry he would think less clearly, and Charlie didn’t want the tricky bastard coming up with anything he hadn’t anticipated. ‘And Yuri …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t, whatever you do, think of something as stupid as killing me when I get there,’ warned Charlie, always a believer in insurance. ‘That would automatically activate the source: watch what happens to Filiatov, won’t you?’
‘Irena’s out?’
‘Absolutely safe,’ exaggerated Charlie, who knew that at the moment the woman would only be in Canton. ‘Let’s face it, Yuri. You’re fucked, without so much as a kiss. You, of all people!’
‘No disciplinary action whatsoever!’ Harkness made no attempt to keep the outrage from his voice.
‘How can there be any disciplinary action?’ pointed out the Director, reasonably. ‘We sent the man to effect the defection of a KGB operative and that’s exactly what he’s done.’ Wilson paused and said: ‘Maybe he’ll succeed in doing even more.’
‘He broke every regulation that exists!’
Wilson, who was anxious to get to the Chelsea Flower Show where he had a floribunda on exhibition, sighed and decided it was time to bring the matter to a head. He said: ‘Do you really think street operations can work to a strict set of rules?’
‘They are laid down,’ insisted Harkness.
‘By my predecessors,’ qualified the Director.
‘A long and respected line of predecessors, all of whom considered them necessary,’ said Harkness, in unaccustomed sustained opposition.
As irritating as Harkness was, the Director believed the man made a genuinely worthwhile contribution to the department, like being there to run it when he went to flower shows, and he had no intention of shifting him sideways. Gently Wilson said: ‘I think I’ll make a new rule, to go with all the others of my respected predecessors.’
Harkness looked at him in hopeful curiosity. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘Whatever works, works,’ said Wilson.
‘I don’t even believe that’s original,’ dismissed Harkness, in continued, determined argument.
‘Whatever works, works,’ repeated Wilson. ‘I like it. Let’s add it to the list, wherever the hell that is. I don’t care whether it’s original or not.’
Geographically positioned where it is – on a clear day literally within sight of Wakkanai on Japan’s northernmost province of Hokkaido, and literally again within flying minutes from the Chinese mainland – Sakhalin is one of the Soviet Union’s most strategic islands, a top secret concentration of listening posts and monitoring stations and rocket installations and front line defence units. One of the biggest concentrations of all is the KGB Rezidentura, and again because of its geographical positioning it was from here that the arrest group came to seize Boris Filiatov. There was no attempt at finesse or subterfuge. A group of five men arrived, unannounced, and while two held Filiatov – physically – in his office, the remainder seized all his files for transportation to Moscow, rather than bothering to remain at the embassy to make any sort of investigation there.
‘Come back,’ Kozlov said, when Olga made her now pointless telephone call, subdued but more controlled this time.
‘You’ve found a way out!’ asked the woman, the hope obvious.
‘Just come back,’ said Kozlov.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
There was a room booked at the Mandarin in Charlie’s name – by coincidence on the same floor as the one Irena so briefly occupied – but the CIA group found Charlie sitting in the ground-floor lobby lounge, opposite the bar: there was a reserved tag on the table and six chairs arranged in a half moon around a small circular table. Charlie sat with his back to the wall.
When Fredericks led the other three CIA men into the huge room Charlie indicated the prepared seats and said: ‘I wasn’t sure if you would all be coming …’ He looked pointedly beyond them, to the reception area, and added: ‘Why not bring the others in?’
Fredericks remained standing, with Levine, Elliott and Yamada grouped tightly behind him. The American said: ‘You surely don’t think we’re going to talk business here, out in the open!’
‘We did in Tokyo,’ reminded Charlie. He looked past the supervisor, to the fixed-face men. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘I feel more comfortable out in the open.’
‘Somewhere private,’ insisted Fredericks.
‘You want Kozlov?’ demanded Charlie.
Fredericks stared hurriedly around and the other men did the same.
Charlie indicated the adjoining, empty table that also carried a reserved tag and said: ‘I booked that one too, so we’re not going to be overheard. And if we were, it wouldn’t mean much anyway. You want Kozlov, get your ass in a chair.’ It was ridiculous to think of friendship: any sort of professional compatibility even. So why bother?
Hesitantly, aware of losing face in front of the others, Fredericks sat in the space directly facing Charlie, who looked at the others, waiting. At a head jerk from Fredericks, they sat too.
Charlie nodded to Yamada and said: ‘See you still keep those shoes polished.’
The Japanese American looked at Charlie’s footwear but didn’t say anything.
‘You got a hell of a nerve!’ said Fredericks.
‘I’ve also got Irena Kozlov and I know you haven’t got him,’ said Charlie. ‘And I know why, too.’ He spoke studying the entire group, instinctively gauging the opposition. The two men alongside the one who followed him on the Underground had been those in the car, when he’d made contact with Irena. Levine and Elliott, he remembered, from her identification.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Fredericks.
‘Ground rules first,’ said Charlie. ‘Out at the airport you’ve got an army group and you plan to intercept and snatch Irena, right?’
‘They were an escort group for Kozlov,’ said Fredericks.
‘That’s bullshit and you know it,’ rejected Charlie. ‘But it doesn’t matter …’ He looked at his watch. It was an overly theatrical gesture but the conversation had purpose: it was important for them to believe him and this was a way. Charlie went on: ‘Irena Kozlov landed at London’s Heathrow airport thirty minutes ago …’ He smiled up. ‘Hardly likely I’d make any sort of meeting with you until she was safe, was it? It was a Pakistani Airways flight,
out of Beijing. She travelled as Rose Adams. Our Resident in Tokyo, Richard Cartright, accompanied her. You can confirm the names off the flight manifest, to know I’m telling the truth …’ Charlie allowed another pause and said: ‘Why don’t you?’
There was a hesitation from Fredericks, who nodded. Takeo Yamada was the one who got up and hurried out to the telephone bank.
‘So your guys at the airport – and all of you, at the moment – are wasting your time, OK?’ continued Charlie.
‘Are we?’ It was Elliott who spoke, ignoring Fredericks’ instruction only to follow him and by so doing confirmed Charlie’s earlier impression of meanness.
Charlie was apprehensive of the man but knew it would be disastrous – maybe quite literally – to let the nervousness show. He said: ‘Elliott, isn’t it? Picked you up in minutes, that day you followed me to the airport. Irena identified you, too. Actually told me your name …’ He watched satisfied as the flush spread across Elliott’s face and wondered which was the greater, fury or embarrassment. ‘We’re talking about ground rules, aren’t we?’ Charlie picked up. ‘So let’s agree on a very important one. Let’s not fuck around with any “bang, bang, you’re dead” routines, because at the moment all you’ve got – every one of you – is a lot of finished careers, and I’m the only one who can make it otherwise.’
Charlie was probing when he threw in the suggestion of physical violence, and from the darted looks that passed between the three men he guessed that was exactly what they had been planning. He supposed – like he supposed when he thought about it before – that it was only to be expected, after the business with their Director, but the virtual confirmation still gouged a hollow place in his stomach. He’d been wise to set up the meeting and not try to get past their airport armada. More important than ever not to give any indication of nervousness.
‘How make it otherwise?’ asked Fredericks.
By not arguing the point, Fredericks was agreeing that their careers were in the balance, Charlie recognized; and believing he was responsible was a further reason to cause him some pain. Once more Charlie refused a direct answer. Instead he said: ‘Kozlov never intended to defect. It was a trick.’
See Charlie Run Page 27