Red Star Falling: A Thriller

by Brian Freemantle

  There was a further hesitation from Jacobson. ‘My orders were to keep Radtsic’s extraction quite separate from those MI6 officers involved in Muffin’s operation.’

  The man’s reply opened several pathways, and Jane chose the most personally important. ‘Orders from whom?’

  This time Jacobson completed the look towards Monsford, answering the question without needing to speak, which he did anyway. ‘The Director.’

  Jane hoped there hadn’t been sufficient rehearsal. ‘You had a resident officer, David Halliday, permanently on station with you.’

  ‘He was also precluded.’ The answer was less assured.

  ‘Upon whose orders?’ She scarcely needed the bullet-point prompts, Jane decided.

  ‘The Director.’

  ‘Was Radtsic’s extraction controlled entirely by the Director?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  The man was apprehensive of an unanticipated question, Jane knew, that thought at once replaced by another at Rebecca’s shift on the opposite side of the table. ‘With whom else did you deal directly?’

  ‘The operations director, James Straughan.’

  There was another stir around the room. ‘With whom did you deal the most, the Director or James Straughan?’

  Jacobson appeared to consider the question and again Jane decided the rehearsal had been inadequate. ‘I would estimate more with Straughan than with the Director.’

  ‘Were some of the exchanges shared or were they always one-to-one?’

  ‘As far as I am aware, they were always one-to-one.’

  ‘Again, as far as you are aware, were the conversations between yourself, the Director, and James Straughan always recorded?’

  ‘It’s standard practice for them to be recorded.’

  ‘Were you aware of any exchange, with either man, being unrecorded?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you have been aware?’

  ‘Not unless I was told: it’s always done from London.’

  ‘So there’s a full voice record of everything that passed between yourself, the Director, and the operations director, James Straughan?’

  ‘I told you the recording systems are operated from London. I was in Moscow. I cannot say whether everything was recorded or not.’

  On his secondary sheet Passmore marked a series of exclamation marks. Time for another question she didn’t imagine had been rehearsed, decided Jane. ‘How many one-to-one, presumably recorded, discussions did you have with your deputy director, Rebecca Street?’

  Jacobson moved to speak but seemingly changed his mind, briefly looking down at the table before saying, ‘I don’t recall any direct discussion between us.’

  ‘Not thirty minutes ago you suggested there had been!’ challenged Jane.

  ‘I didn’t mean to convey that impression.’

  ‘So any exchanges that might have involved the deputy director, Rebecca Street, were shared either with the Director or James Straughan?’

  ‘They would have been, yes.’

  ‘And as it is standard practice, they would have been recorded, providing a positive log of every occasion in which Rebecca Street was involved, along with the subjects of whatever those conversations were?’

  ‘Yes.’ The admission strained from the man.

  ‘From your exchanges with either the Director or James Straughan, did you get the impression that Rebecca Street was being excluded, as people in Moscow were excluded?’

  ‘No, I did not get any such impression.’

  ‘But let’s stay with impressions,’ encouraged Jane, disregarding her prompt list entirely, totally confident of where she was going and how to get there. ‘What were your impressions of the operations director throughout all your dealings with him?’

  Jacobson stared across the table, appearing nonplussed. ‘I’m not sure I got any particular impression!’

  ‘Let me help you,’ intentionally patronized Jane. ‘Was it your impression that he was competent?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jacobson, uncertainly.

  ‘Was there ever an instruction or a remark from which you got the impression that James Straughan was trying to obstruct or misdirect you?’

  ‘No.’ The man frowned, still uncertain.

  ‘Did the operations director ever appear stressed, out of control?’

  The frown deepened. ‘No, never.’

  ‘To whom did you first speak about Maxim Mikhailovich’s approach to defect?’

  ‘The Director,’ replied Jacobson, at once.

  ‘How soon afterwards did Straughan become involved?’

  ‘Virtually immediately: the same day, I think. The official recordings will be dated and timed.’

  ‘And how soon was that after Radtsic’s approach at the French embassy?’

  ‘The following day. I’m sure it was the following day.’

  ‘You have told us Radtsic did not identify himself at the French embassy that evening. How were you able the following day to name him, both to your Director and James Straughan?’

  ‘At the French embassy I gave him one of the reserved contact numbers at our rezidentura. He called the following day, to arrange a meeting. At that meeting he told me his name.’

  The moment, decided Jane. ‘Was that when you talked of a diversion?’

  ‘It was…’ started Jacobson, then stopped. ‘I don’t recall mentioning a diversion to Maxim Mikhailovich.’

  ‘He appears to recall it very easily.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Nor what the diversion was going to be?’ tried Jane.

  ‘It was never mentioned.’

  ‘Did the word assassination come into it?’

  ‘This has already been exhaustively covered and denied!’ intervened Monsford, flushed.

  ‘Do you have any evidence to support this line of questioning?’ Bland asked Jane.

  ‘Not at this stage, but I would like to register the request to recall this witness after evidence still to be produced by this side,’ conceded Jane.

  ‘The request is registered but for now move on to other points,’ ordered the chairman.

  ‘Did you recognize the name Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic?’ resumed Jane.

  ‘Of course. He’s named as the FSB’s executive deputy on our watch list.’

  ‘The additional function of protective surveillance by a fellow officer at this first open meeting would have been to photograph the man,’ said Jane, baiting her trap.

  ‘There is a photograph on our watch list.’

  Jane was aware of Monsford’s discomforted fidgeting. She said, ‘I know the watch list, from my time at Vauxhall Cross. And I know the photograph. It was snatched, from a distance, at a Presidium meeting sixteen years ago.’

  ‘It was sufficient for initial confirmation of his identity.’

  Turning directly to the joint chairmen, Jane said, ‘I would ask that this photograph is subsequently produced to give this committee the opportunity to decide upon its clarity for positive identification.’

  ‘Let’s have it, shall we?’ Palmer said to Monsford.

  ‘What reason did Radtsic give for wanting to flee Russia with his family?’ demanded Jane.

  ‘Radtsic is still being debriefed,’ intruded Monsford, hurriedly.

  A second opportunity she hadn’t imagined, seized Jane. ‘It’s our understanding that Radtsic is refusing any co-operation until he is reunited with his son, who in turn has refused to follow his father here. Which surely creates an impasse for you. But that’s another entirely separate matter. I am not asking about any debriefing. I’m asking what reason Maxim Radtsic gave for defecting, which is quite different.’

  ‘Radtsic’s been given an ultimatum in the light of the hostile penetration of my service,’ persisted Monsford, flushed again by a confrontation he knew he was losing.

  ‘Which again does not affect my question,’ insisted Jane, in turn,

  ‘I’d like to hear the reason,’ once more supported Geoffrey Palmer. />
  Monsford, defeated, jerked his head as if in permission to Jacobson, who said, ‘He told me he was about to be purged, although he had no personal involvement in the Stepan Lvov affair.’

  ‘Learning much more about that could be key in getting a lot of our people—certainly those innocently caught up—out of Russia,’ unexpectedly declared Sir Archibald Bland.

  ‘Which I assure you we will learn, very quickly,’ said Monsford, anxious to recover.

  Next to Jane, Passmore hurriedly wrote disclose, followed by more exclamation marks, on his secondary prompt sheet.

  Jane said, ‘An assurance I can also give. In the days immediately prior to her extraction, Natalia Fedova, who was successfully brought to this country despite the events at Vnukovo Airport, had open access to the personnel files of Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic.’

  * * *

  ‘You sure this Fedova woman isn’t the witness Ambersom thinks will cause us the most difficulty?’ demanded Monsford.

  Us, picked out Rebecca, recognizing the familiar responsibility shuffle as quickly as she’d earlier established that the man hadn’t activated his recording system. ‘Of course I’m not sure. I understood it was one of their people who witnessed the shooting but she could have been trying to put us off track.’ Rebecca didn’t think the MI5 deputy had been attempting anything of the sort but she was enjoying unsettling Monsford.

  ‘It was a personal attack upon me: a positive decision by Aubrey Smith to nominate her as Jacobson’s questioner. Bastards, both of them! And Palmer, too. He was definitely against me.’

  She had to make contact with the woman to thank her for the particular questioning that took her out of the direct firing line, acknowledged Rebecca. ‘It didn’t go well, did it?’

  ‘Jacobson fucked up. He definitely isn’t getting Paris after today’s performance.’

  So that was the promised reward, accepted Rebecca: the original assassination order had to have been given to Jacobson. ‘Do you want me to tell Timpson that all the voice recordings between Jacobson and here have to be handed over to the enquiry?’

  ‘No!’ said Monsford, at once. ‘I want you to concentrate on Radtsic. I’m appointing you his interrogator. I want everything he knows about Lvov and the penetration here. I’ll notify Timpson: I’ve given notice that I’m calling him tomorrow. I’m expecting him to be good.’

  At that moment Monsford had no way of knowing just how good.

  * * *

  ‘Sounds like you won,’ congratulated Barry Elliott.

  ‘Aubrey Smith seemed to think so: told me afterwards there was no need for either him or Passmore to have taken over the questioning.’ She was in the kitchen, preparing the spaghetti sauce.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to tell you in so much detail.’

  ‘I’m glad you trust me enough to do so.’

  ‘You know why I did?’

  ‘Why?’

  Everything at a snail’s pace, she warned herself. ‘You kept your word, about Radtsic’s defection. Neither your people nor the CIA could have held back if there’d been the slightest hint.’

  ‘I’ve got a dilemma about the way things are going between us. If they knew, Washington would accuse me of losing professional objectivity.’ That night he’d made closet space for some clothes with which Jane arrived.

  ‘I don’t think there’s going to be a conflict,’ said Jane, coming into the room to accept the offered wine.

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Jane. She hoped she didn’t have to make the choice between professional and personal, either. Despite the perfection of it all—being in a personal relationship that until now she’d only ever dreamt of, never imagining it ever happening—she was unsure what that choice would be. She had to be very careful not to appear too eager and spoil everything, certainly not until she was positive that Barry’s professional dependence had become personal.

  10

  Gerald Monsford stage-managed his entrance into the enquiry chamber to the maximum effect, arriving last and remaining standing to direct attendants where to place additional chairs and a minuscule table for the two support staff—one the matronly, grey-haired woman—whom Matthew Timpson insisted upon accompanying him: it would have been physically difficult to accommodate all three if Rebecca Street had that day been part of the MI6 group.

  ‘Looks like another virtuoso performance,’ remarked John Passmore, dryly.

  ‘Where’s Rebecca?’ wondered Jane Ambersom, rhetorically, at the double-act entry of Sir Archibald Bland and Geoffrey Palmer.

  Monsford didn’t hurry recounting Timpson’s official function or the unit’s highest security clearance, pleased at the obvious, heads-together M15 curiosity from across the table. Beside Monsford, as he spoke, Timpson prepared himself with bank-manager efficiency, meticulously placing a jotting ledger in the very centre of his blotter, two capped fountain pens alongside, and poured water in readiness. Rehearsed, the woman aide, unasked, handed forward two loose-leaf folders when Timpson half turned.

  ‘The discoveries to date of the internal investigation into MI6 will be presented in the preferred chronological order, upon which my witness has already been briefed,’ assured Monsford.

  The note Aubrey Smith passed to Passmore read, too confident.

  The discovery of the eavesdropping bug on the Director’s recording system had been remarkably quick, on their second day at Vauxhall Cross, commenced Timpson. Technically, the illegal device was known as a tie-line and ran parallel to the legitimate system supervised by James Straughan. The assumption had to be that the bugging had been in place from the time of the official system’s installation, which covered a period of three and a half months and involved the detailed examination of forty-three hundred registered calls to be assessed for potential security damage. Some had been with Downing Street, at least six directly with the prime minister.

  The tie-line had been operated from James Straughan’s private office, adjacent to the permanent Watch Room. The office was always locked in Straughan’s absence by a combination code, randomly chosen and changed daily, which would not function without secondary eye-retina recognition: it had taken an entire afternoon to override the security and gain access to the man’s office. All inward and outward traffic on the tie-line would have been digitally preserved.

  The receiving chip in the apparatus at the time of its discovery had been blank. The assumption had therefore to be that Straughan transferred each recording at the end of each day onto an electronic thumb or memory stick. Despite the most extensive, technically assisted search of Straughan’s office, safe, personal locker and closet, and the man’s Berkhamsted home, no digital thumbs had been located. The man had no safe deposit facilities at his bank. Nothing had been stored in the vaults of either the man’s solicitor or his accountant. No documentation or indication had been found in any search so far to lead the investigators to a hiding place for what Straughan had copied. Searches were, of course, continuing. The Berkhamsted house was in the process of demolition, literally brick by brick, and all pipe work opened. The garden and the basement were being excavated to a depth of two feet.

  ‘Were there fingerprints upon the listening apparatus and wiring?’ asked Monsford.

  ‘A substantial amount,’ confirmed Timpson. ‘All were those of James Straughan. From the most recent it was possible forensically to lift perspiration residue and in a total of six places in the office human hair was recovered. From the hair and perspiration, DNA was established. The DNA and the fingerprints were those of James Straughan.’

  ‘Were there fingerprints or DNA traces of anyone other than James Straughan?’ pressed Monsford.

  ‘None whatsoever,’ replied Timpson.

  ‘So the reasonable, circumstantial evidence is that no-one other than James Straughan had any access to, or use of, the illegal listening apparatus.’

  ‘Not to the apparatus itself. It would have been a
simple computer process to replicate any recording made.’

  ‘Were such computers available to Straughan?’

  Timpson frowned at the question. ‘Every computer in the Watch Room, as well as that in Straughan’s office, has the capability.’

  ‘Is there any technical way to establish if copies were made on any of the computers?’

  ‘Not if it were a simple duplicating process. We are examining the hard drive of every computer conveniently available to Straughan,’ assured Timpson. ‘So far we have found nothing.’

  Monsford stopped, shuffling for affect through his own, so-far-unused briefcase papers, coming up empty-handed. After a further pause, he said, ‘You have made an additional, extremely important discovery?’

  Timpson turned to the attentive woman already waiting to pass him a further loose-leaf file. Turning back into the room, Timpson said, ‘Following upon the finding of the eavesdropping installation, our investigation has quite obviously been concentrated upon James Straughan. A particular focus has been upon the records of his own known electronic and verbal communications traffic. On November twelfth last year a telephone call was logged from MI6’s Vauxhall headquarters to Rome. By “logged” I mean a written record, not a verbatim transcript of a conversation. The automatic telephone register timed the call as lasting fourteen minutes—’

  ‘A written log would have recorded the recipient’s identity and the subject discussion,’ abruptly interrupted Jane, at once regretting the interjection from the smirk of satisfaction that instantly registered on Monsford’s face.

  ‘We’re coming to that in good time,’ he patronized, nodding to Timpson to continue.

  ‘The recipient of Straughan’s call is listed on the log as Vasili Okulov, although that is obviously an operational name,’ disclosed the investigator, opening the new folder. ‘The call was to a private, unlisted number, which we have on our files. Publicly, Okulov is regarded as a vehement opponent of the current Russian regime, particularly critical of Vladimir Putin. Okulov was involved in a hit-and-run accident last year he claimed to have been a Russian assassination attempt. All of which, according to an MI6 investigation, was a cover for his true function, which is to locate through his anti-Russian reputation genuine Russian opponents to be identified to the FSB. He’s considered an active double through whom MI6 have dealt in the past to leak misinformation to the FSB. Our contact with him is always by phone, through a Berlin cut-out connection: Okulov believes the MI6 approaches are through an anti-Russian organization—’