“Did you get into Jacobson’s safe?”
“I couldn’t take the risk. He was around all afternoon. Except that he wasn’t.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“He spent almost two hours in the communications room. I couldn’t risk going into his office, not knowing when he’d come back. When he did he time-locked the door and left early.”
“What are you reading into that?”
“Something’s about to happen. It’s being finalized. Or already has been finalized.”
Too sweeping an assessment? wondered Charlie. “In an ongoing situation or assignment, officers have to log their whereabouts or provide a contact procedure.”
“Any contact with Jacobson has to be patched through London.”
A better indicator of something imminent, judged Charlie. “How often has he done that, before today?”
“Today’s the first time. And just after he left there was an internal call from the embassy travel officer. They wouldn’t tell me what it was about: leave a message even.”
More leaves swirled by differently blowing winds to go with those already disturbed by my meeting with Natalia, thought Charlie. “Is that all?”
“You’re being judged shit of this or any other year.”
“By who else, apart from you?”
“The team that was sent in.”
“Actually naming me?”
“All they need to name is the Rossiya. They’re sitting around in the embassy bar, complaining their being here is a waste of time now.”
“Are they being recalled?” urgently demanded Charlie.
“I haven’t heard about a recall but I’m being kept on the outside. I can’t ask.”
It was difficult to gauge the furor in London from newspapers and TV here, but cancellation of Natalia’s extraction had to be a danger. Losing the manpower wasn’t his concern: losing Natalia and Sasha’s exit passports were. And he guessed the documentation would be sent back in the diplomatic bag if the extraction team was recalled. “It’s important I know if the order comes from London.”
“You haven’t told me why you didn’t call at six, as we arranged? In fact, you haven’t told me anything: so far it’s a one-way street, everything from me, nothing from you in return.”
“So far,” echoed Charlie, knowing he had to limit his response fractionally short of an outright threat, an explanation easily ready. “You know how so far extends? It extends to just short of eight hours, from the time we met. Within minutes of that meeting, both of us watching the Rossiya, I told you to stop feeling sorry for yourself, which I’m telling you again now. We’re both outside whatever the hell’s going on, which I also told you. Neither of us is going to survive, which I’m determined to do with or without you, sharing out who tells whom what, like children counting chocolate buttons to ensure they’ve all got the same. I’m the one the FSB is looking for, the fall guy, remember? And I did remember: thought back to how we met and how quickly we had to get out, so quickly I didn’t check for CCTV cameras that might have picked us up together as we ran. That’s why I was late calling tonight. I went back to check the possibility of you being at the same risk as me by such a photograph. Which you weren’t, so that precious ass and that precious pension of yours isn’t on any line. There aren’t any cameras that could have caught us.” Which Charlie had known from scouring the area when he’d first discovered the hotel wasn’t under FSB surveillance.
“I’m sorry. And thank you.”
“You going back to the embassy?”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“There’ll be no point in a ten o’clock call tomorrow. I’ll postpone it until later.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
So will I, thought Charlie: his problem was not knowing what he was waiting for.
* * *
Jane Ambersom was in that delicious after-sex suspension between scream-aloud exhilaration, which she’d had, and velvet-soft contentment, wanting to drift that way forever, which she couldn’t but intended recapturing as often and as long as she could.
“You okay?”
“Perfect,” she mumbled into Barry Elliott’s shoulder, looping one leg wetly over both of his. “Everything’s wonderful. I don’t want it ever to end.”
“Neither do I.”
That had been a ridiculous thing to say: why had she let herself be lulled like that! “Let’s not talk about it.”
Elliott loosened the arm he’d had around her, holding her to him. “I didn’t start it.”
Stop! She had to stop this. “There might be something else to talk about.”
“What?” he asked, no longer softly, moving farther away.
“Something big.”
“How big?”
“Major.”
“As big as Lvov?”
“It could be bigger.”
“You’ll keep me ahead of the curve, won’t you?”
“You know I will,” she promised, smiling into his shoulder as he pulled her back.
* * *
The discreet restaurant, close to the Pont d’Italie, was a rendezvous for illicit assignations. Its cubicle-recessed, candlelit tables did not fully compete with the wall-mirrored, chaise-longue-provided salon particulaire of the Belle Epoch but some had entrance curtains to pull across for assured privacy. Jonathan Miller hadn’t chosen a curtained alcove for the introductory meeting with Elana and Andrei Radtsic but he had made the reservation in person, under the pseudonym Bissette, to ensure it suited their nonsexual seclusion. He and Abrahams arrived an hour early, although separately, and did not enter until both were independently satisfied there was no hostile surveillance. As an additional precaution a third MI6 officer, Paul Painter, remained in Albert Abrahams’s car to maintain protective, alarm-raising observation throughout their meal.
As they were shown to their banquette, Miller said: “From how he greeted us the maître ’d’s frightened we’re part of a gay gathering.”
“He’d probably prefer that to knowing who we really are and why we’re here.”
“If Elana and Andrei show up,” qualified Miller.
They didn’t. Elana arrived precisely on time but alone and as both men rose to meet her, Miller said: “I wish I hadn’t said that.”
The station chief ordered Chablis for Elana and as the waiter left said: “Why isn’t Andrei with you?”
“He’s coming later,” said Elana. She was the epitome of Parisian chic in a fitted black suit that heightened the blondness of her tightly coiled chignon.
“Is there a problem?” asked Abrahams.
“He said he has a late class and would join us when it finished.”
“So there is a problem?” said Abrahams, instinctively checking his watch, which read 7:35.
Elana sipped her wine, not looking directly at either man. “He doesn’t want to do it. Neither do I.”
“But you’re here, to meet us?” said Miller.
“We don’t have a choice, do we?”
“Is that what Andrei thinks?” pressed Abrahams.
“It’s what I’ve tried to convince him. I’m not sure that I have.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve accepted I have to run, leave everything.”
“Andrei can’t stay,” insisted Miller, shaking his head against the waiter’s approach for their order.
“I know.”
“You can’t have more time to persuade him. Maxim Mikhailovich’s flight has been booked,” urged Miller. “Everything is arranged to a schedule.”
“I know that, too. That’s why I’m here.”
“Will you come with us without Andrei?”
“I don’t want to face that choice.”
“Is it the girl, Yvette?” suggested Abrahams.
Elana shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, although they seem very close. She’s very pretty. I like her.”
“If he doesn’t come tonight we’ll have to meet tomorrow,” sai
d Abrahams.
“I really don’t think you’ll have more success than me trying to persuade him,” cautioned Elana.
“We’ll guarantee him a place at another university in England, reading the same subject,” promised Miller.
“Pretending to be someone he isn’t: reborn at the age of twenty,” said Elana, nodding to more wine.
“It’s preferable to the alternative,” risked Abrahams.
“Is it?” she demanded, pointedly.
They ordered at eight o’clock, Elana dismissively asking for a plain omelet, both men choosing steak just as disinterestedly. At Elana’s hinting look at the diminishing bottle, Miller reluctantly ordered a second Chablis. Andrei arrived as their food was served, refusing to eat but gulping the offered wine. Elana and the two MI6 officers only bothered with token gestures of eating.
“We can understand your uncertainty,” said Miller.
“No, you can’t,” rejected Andrei, sharply.
“We didn’t create this situation,” tried Abrahams. “We’re offering your only way out of it.”
“It’s not the only way out!” refused Andrei, loudly, helping himself to more wine.
“The only safe way out,” accepted Abrahams.
“Is your relationship with Yvette the problem?” risked Miller.
Andrei’s head came up demandingly. “All of it’s a problem.”
“Yvette being one of them?” pressed Miller.
“Of course.”
“All the preparations to get you out are made now,” said Miller. “It’s possible, when you’re settled, that we could bring Yvette for a reunion. There’s no reason why she couldn’t come to England, is there?”
“Could you do that?” seized Andrei, the hostility lessening.
“I could suggest it, when things settle.”
“What are the preparations for our leaving?” intruded Elana.
“It’s to be within the next thirty-six hours,” generalized Miller. “We’ll meet tomorrow, for me to give you specific pickup arrangements: I’ll call tomorrow to say where. It’s really very simple. You’ll be driven directly to an airfield where a private plane will be waiting. You will be flown to London and reunited with Maxim Mikhailovich that same evening.”
“Airfield or airport?” asked Andrei.
“That hasn’t been decided yet,” lied Miller. “It won’t, obviously, be Charles de Gaulle. There’s a lot of facilities available all along the northern coast of France.”
“Did you mean what you said, about Yvette?” asked Andrei.
“Of course.”
“This is the only way for you all to stay together,” insisted Abrahams.
“I need more time,” demanded Andrei.
“You can’t have more time,” refused Abrahams. “It’s got to be now.”
“We’ll be waiting for your call,” said Elana.
The two men remained at their table after the Russians left, each waiting for the other to open the conversation. It was Abrahams who did. “The steak’s too cold now.”
“We’ll order more,” decided Miller. “And get Paul in from the car.”
“What do you think?”
“We could have a problem. That’s why I kept all the planning so vague.”
“Do you think Elana would leave without him?”
“I don’t know.” Miller shrugged.
“London will never agree to the kid being reunited with his girlfriend!”
“Of course they won’t,” agreed Miller. “But if it gets the awkward sod to England, it won’t matter, will it? He’ll be in the bag.”
As he joined them Painter said: “How’d it go?”
“Christ knows,” said Abrahams. “Let’s order some more food. And some decent red wine.”
21
Rebecca Street was already in Monsford’s office when Straughan entered. Neither looked at the other. As he leaned sideways to start his recording system Monsford said: “I want to hear everything’s ready: that nothing can go wrong.”
The operations director waited until Monsford straightened, nodding to the unseen switch. “Everything working as it should?”
“Perfectly,” frowned Monsford.
“Let’s hope Radtsic’s extraction does the same.”
Monsford sighed. “I’m due at the Foreign Office at eleven. Diplomatically everything’s going to hell. So let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“Are we included in the meeting?” interrupted the woman.
Monsford shook his head. “Restricted to directors and government liaison: their decision. I’ll fill you in later.”
Straughan set out the operation chronologically, with Maxim Radtsic’s 6:30 A.M. departure from his Moscow apartment to the FSB’s Lubyanka headquarters, at which he’d remain for fifteen minutes, with an additional five allowed as failsafe, to establish his arrival. He’d assured Jacobson his leaving so quickly afterward would not be logged: according to Lubyanka procedure, he would be registered as being on the premises although absent from his desk: there’d be a staff voice mail that he was in unspecified conference. As a precaution against an unexpected summons, Radtsic would keep his pager with him. From Lubyanka he would be followed separately throughout the briefly broken journey by Jacobson and one of the three in-flight escorts. The other two would be waiting at Sheremetyevo airport to ensure Radtsic’s unimpeded arrival and passage through all the embarkation formalities. Radtsic’s arrival at Sheremetyevo would be the signal for the private plane’s departure from Northolt and for the Paris rezidentura to pick up Radtsic’s wife and son for Orly, where the landing and departure were factored for one hour, which again included a failsafe for unexpected delay. Straughan expected the linkup and takeoff to take no longer than thirty minutes. By that time Radtsic would be airborne and beyond interception, with just three hours’ flying time from Heathrow. There, transport and cleared-in-advance arrival would already be in place. An hour earlier the plane carrying Elana and Andrei would have landed at Northolt, from where they would be taken to the prepared safe house in Hertfordshire to await Radtsic.
Straughan rose as he finished talking, glancing imperceptibly although blankly at Rebecca, to put in front of Monsford the thin file from which he’d recited the details. “Everything’s there, annotated against the timings.”
“Nine thirty tomorrow morning,” Monsford at once challenged. “Why not today: I told you I wanted it all over as quickly as possible.”
“And I made it clear we needed seat availability,” reminded Straughan. “Nine thirty tomorrow was the first direct flight with four seats available.”
“Is Radtsic all right about that?”
“Jacobson’s concerned at Radtsic’s demeanor,” warned Straughan. “Jacobson says he’s arrogant: walks around expecting doors to be opened for him and people to stand aside. I had all three independent escorts at the ballet last night, when Radtsic was given his escape itinerary: two of them told me this morning they hadn’t needed Jacobson as their marker. Radtsic looks so much like Stalin, which gets him too many second looks when his arrogance isn’t on display.”
“Have Jacobson tell the stupid bugger to behave!”
“Jacobson says he already has but doesn’t think Radtsic will do as he’s told.…” Straughan paused. “It doesn’t stop there. Radtsic announced he wanted to talk to Elana in Paris to tell her it was all set.”
“Jesus!” exploded Monsford. “It can’t fuck up over stupidity like this!”
“It won’t,” promised Straughan. “I’m just setting it all out, including the unpredictables.”
“Is Jacobson seeing Radtsic again?”
“He’s got to hand over the cover passport and tickets today.”
“Tell him he’s got to spell out to Radtsic the risk to which he’s putting himself; putting everyone, his wife and son most of all.”
“There’s something else,” continued Straughan. “I’ve made it very clear to Jacobson that Charlie Muffin’s assassination, as a dive
rsion, is aborted: that everything’s canceled. We’ve got three of our people in Muffin’s support team with nothing to support after what happened yesterday at the Rossiya. I want to utilize at least one of them to be embassy liaison between Radtsic’s escorts and me, here in London. I need to know that Radtsic passed safely through Sheremetyevo to activate in their right order all the other stages of the extraction.”
“No!” irritably refused Monsford. “Why have you waited until now to bring this up! You knew we’d need a pivot for the schedule to work.”
“We intended using Charlie Muffin’s killing as a diversion for Radtsic’s extraction: Muffin was never going to leave Moscow and neither were his wife and child,” said Straughan. “We always had three of our own people available to be reassigned. My understanding of yesterday’s meeting and the disaster Muffin’s caused is that Natalia and Sasha’s extraction is never going to happen.”
“Yesterday’s meeting didn’t cancel the Muffin extraction. Nothing’s canceled until that bloody man’s been brought in and the danger he’s created closed down,” corrected the Director, tightly. “I can’t, unilaterally, transfer any of our people, who might very well be needed in that closing down. And we couldn’t anyway risk such a reassignment leaking out ahead of our getting Radtsic safely here. It would disclose that all the time we were running a parallel operation, using one to guarantee the success of the other.”
Straughan hesitated. “It’s essential we have four on Radtsic’s extraction. If I can’t have one of our three, I’ll have to take Jacobson off, to be my embassy link man.” He paused again. “Or we could bring in David Halliday. I know you ordered against his involvement but all he’s got to do is take Jacobson’s call from Sheremetyevo and relay it to me here: just two phone calls. Halliday’s briefing could be strictly limited, virtually telling him nothing except to pass Jacobson’s call to me in London.”
Now it was Monsford who hesitated, longer than the operations director. “Okay, we use Halliday. But limit the briefing as you’ve suggested. No name.”
“There’s another unpredictable,” announced Straughan.
“What else!” demanded Monsford.
Red Star Burning: A Thriller (Charlie Muffin Thrillers) Page 22