Charlie’s replaced contact emerged from the passage connecting to the parking and rental-car return, moving surely but unhurriedly, and slowed at the main entrance when Charlie stepped out for the second identification, pushing a previously withdrawn luggage trolley back into its line. Flood understood at once, offering Charlie the release coin to avoid the procedure with those already locked and said: “Briddle and the others can’t be found.”
“You think they’ve picked you up?”
“Possibly. At least one car stayed all the way from Pecatnikov.”
“You take over,” Charlie ordered, taking the man with him as they entered the terminal. “You give London the arrival details, make sure Natalia and Sasha get there. If there’s a challenge, I’ll distract.”
“London’s orders—”
“Get Natalia and Sasha out!” stopped Charlie, splitting away from the other man. How could it be blown! There’d been no link to the embassy: no way the extraction could be compromised. Natalia had physically to see him to know nothing was wrong. The terminal was far more crowded than it had been earlier, making it difficult to isolate anyone. Earlier! echoed in his mind, like a warning bell. He had a boarding pass, a ticket record, in his pocket identifying the flight they’d be on. Charlie transferred the boarding pass from his jacket to his trouser pocket, keeping his hand on it. He had to get rid of it at the first hint of trouble.
Charlie saw her. Natalia was at the edge although not positively part of the line of people straggled into the departure area. Imperceptibly her face relaxed as she saw Charlie. She turned at once, properly joining the line to move forward. Charlie couldn’t see Flood. The red boarding message was flashing on the departures board.
He’d fall back to the Cyprus flight, Charlie decided, discarding the Finnair boarding pass in a rubbish bin on his way to the MEA desk, this time ignoring the automatic boarding machine, knowing Flood and the other escorts would realize what he was doing as he got into the MEA check-in line, his back to the main hall.
David Halliday saw Charlie as he entered after parking the rental car. He saw Briddle, too, and then Denning and Beckindale by a wall. Briddle was walking strangely, both arms across himself as if he was in pain. Halliday continued on, his concentration upon the oddly hunched Stephan Briddle. And because of that concentration glimpsed the gun. It was the briefest sight, an open-and-closed gap in Briddle’s jacket from the contorted way the man was holding himself, but Halliday knew it was a gun, a Makarov, and then he saw it more properly as Briddle took it from beneath his jacket and without any conscious thought Halliday yelled: “Charlie!”
Who didn’t hear. Briddle did, though, jerking toward the sound, still bringing the gun out, and Halliday shouted again and this time Charlie did hear, turning back into the hall to see Briddle and Halliday, one in front of the other.
The shot sounded very loud, a reverberating echo, and very quickly there was another and the screaming began and people ran and Charlie ran, too, blindly, pushing against other running people crashing into him. There seemed a lot of shooting now, echo after echo, and in the first seconds Charlie thought the numbness was somebody running into him harder than before but then there was more numbness and he knew he was falling although he didn’t want to fall, he wanted to keep running. It didn’t hurt when he hit the ground, but he knew it should have done. Charlie’s last, conscious thought was that the lights had been turned off, which he couldn’t understand.
33
Charlie’s first awareness was of sound, not voices, and he hoped his eyes hadn’t flickered: weren’t flickering, now he was consciously keeping them closed. There was some pain, probably where he’d fallen, but not a lot: mostly he still felt numbed and didn’t know why. Didn’t understand much at all, although he could remember what had happened: Briddle with a gun in his hand, Halliday behind, arms outstretched as he ran forward, the shots—a lot of shots, impossible to count because of the echoing reverberations, falling—falling, although he hadn’t wanted to fall, not able to save himself because he was so numb. He could distinguish voices now; Russian, but he couldn’t properly determine the words. It was as if they were talking softly, whispering even: couldn’t understand why they were doing that, either. He tried to tense his body but not visibly move, to discover if he was restrained, but the numbness wouldn’t let him. Please don’t let me be paralyzed. Why should he be paralyzed?
“Why don’t you open your eyes?” came a voice, loud now, which strangely Charlie believed he recognized.
Charlie did but couldn’t focus: several people, some in uniforms, a small room, a bed. He was in a hospital. His vision cleared, intermittently. Mikhail Guzov, the FSB colonel he’d outwitted and beaten to expose the Lvov plot, was at the end of the bed, smiling down at him.
“We’re going to be together for a long time, you and I,” said Guzov. “Let’s start properly, shall we? How shall I call you? Malcolm Stoat, as you were listed on the Amsterdam plane? David Merryweather, as you were booked on the Finnair and MEA flights? Or Charlie Muffin?”
“Why don’t…” started Charlie but stopped, his voice cracking. He cleared it. “Why don’t you take your pick?”
“Charlie, I think. That’s what the two we’ve got in custody call you.”
Sasha didn’t know his name, snatched Charlie. Natalia and Sasha had got away! It had to be Briddle and Halliday. “Charlie’s fine.”
“You’re right, you are fine,” agreed the Russian. “The bullet, a bullet from your own side we think, went straight through your lower shoulder, didn’t even hit a bone. You were knocked unconscious from the impact shock: that’s still affecting you now, according to the doctors. But they say you’ll be up and about in a week, able to tell me all I want to know.”
Now wasn’t the moment to argue: finding out about Natalia and Sasha was the only thing that mattered. “What about the others?”
“Not so fine. The two colleagues coming for you, Briddle and Halliday according to the identification they were carrying, are both dead. So’s a Russian militia officer: another one’s badly wounded. So is an Arab who was in the line behind you.”
Who were the two colleagues who’d been arrested? “I’m surprised those you’ve got are talking so readily. What did you do to them?”
“Nothing.” Guzov smiled. “It’s amazing how fear affects some people. What about you, Charlie. Are you going to tell me so readily all I want to know?”
“I don’t know anything there is to tell you.”
“I do, Charlie. I’ve got a very long list.”
* * *
“What happened? The truth: you must tell me the truth, not lie.”
“There was an incident, a mistake. Caused by our own people,” said Aubrey Smith.
“What sort of incident?” persisted Natalia.
The Director-General hesitated.
“The truth,” she demanded.
“Some shooting.”
“Was Charlie shot?”
“Yes.”
Now it was Natalia who hesitated, lips tightly together. “Is he dead?”
“We don’t think so.”
“I know a lot about Stepan Lvov. It’s not right, what you think you know. You’ll make mistakes; are already making mistakes.”
“We want you to tell us about that, Natalia: to tell us all you know.”
Natalia shook her head. “Get Charlie out. I’ll tell you nothing until you get Charlie out. Then you’ll get everything. Save everything. But Charlie’s got to be saved first.”
ALSO BY BRIAN FREEMANTLE
Red Star Rising
Triple Cross
Kings of Many Castles
Watchmen
Dead Men Living
Bomb Grade
Charlie’s Apprentice
Comrade Charlie
The Run Around
See Charlie Run
The Blind Run
Madrigal for Charlie Muffin
Charlie Muffin’s Uncle Sam
The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin
Here Comes Charlie M
Charlie M
About the Author
BRIAN FREEMANTLE is the author of more than thirty books, which have sold more than ten million copies worldwide. These include fourteen previous novels in the Charlie Muffin series, most recently Red Star Rising. He has been foreign editor and chief foreign correspondent for the London Daily Mail and foreign correspondent for the London Daily Sketch, among others. He lives in England.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
RED STAR BURNING. Copyright © 2012 by Brian Freemantle. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Cover photographs: Red Square, Russia, by Foto Xavier Varela/Getty Images; running man by Ray Bishop/Arcangel-images
ISBN 978-1-250-00636-3 (hardcover)
e-ISBN 9781250013064
First Edition: June 2012
Red Star Burning: A Thriller (Charlie Muffin Thrillers) Page 37