‘I didn’t want to risk going that far.’
‘It’s healed very cleanly,’ intruded the unseen surgeon, from behind him. ‘And there’s obviously no pain?’
‘No.’
‘What about the numbness you were always complaining about?’
‘Gone now, fortunately.’
‘Any other problems with it?’
‘None,’ lied Charlie.
‘There’s no need for a further dressing,’ announced the physician, coming into view but talking to Guzov. ‘Or for me to see him again.’
‘There!’ said Guzov. ‘A complete recovery. They were as bad at shooting as they were at being intelligence officers.’
‘I’m glad about that,’ said Charlie, struggling back into his smock and sitting back expectantly, not bothering with the outer belt, which was also too big.
‘A day off today,’ announced Guzov, standing. ‘Today was making sure you’ve fully recovered.’
Maybe it wasn’t so essential to make too many more outside expeditions, thought Charlie; no more than one or two at the most. He didn’t think Guzov had been exaggerating how spetsnaz troops might relieve their boredom.
* * *
In the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Washington’s Pennsylvania Avenue, the CIA’s Larry Stern waited impatiently until his FBI counterpart finished reading that morning’s transcript of Irena Novikov’s interrogation before declaring, ‘Bingo!’
‘We haven’t got the Full House yet,’ warned the more guarded Mort Bering.
‘We’ll get it!’ said Stern.
‘If this is the beginning, we just haven’t got a can of worms, we’ve got a whole fucking truck load,’ persisted the cautious FBI deputy.
‘But I’m squeaky clean, Mort: untouched by any of the fallout from the fuck-up all those other guys allowed themselves to be suckered into. Just like you, safely untouched and protected. All we’ve got to ensure is that we stay that way.’
‘That’s all we’ve got to do,’ agreed Bering.
11
‘How did it go?’ They didn’t eat out as much since Jane had virtually moved in, and Barry Elliott was particularly glad they weren’t that night, after the Washington exchanges throughout the afternoon.
Jane sipped her wine reflectively. ‘Not good. We could only challenge the total illogicality of Straughan leaving provable records of his dealing with an FSB double, and Monsford threw that right back at us, demanding a reasonable alternative for what his evidence showed, which we didn’t have. Straughan did provably make a call to a known FSB operative—it doesn’t matter that he’s a double—and within days Charlie’s flat was burgled by the FSB.’
Elliott spread his hands out towards her. ‘You must have some argument against Straughan going bad!’
‘We can’t find one,’ admitted Jane, reluctantly. ‘You in a hurry to eat? Your T-bones are too big for one person: I thought we’d split one between us.’
‘No hurry,’ dismissed Elliott, quickly. Which there wasn’t: he wanted to get around to things gradually, as part of the normal end-of-the-day conversation, hoping she’d fully recognize what—but more important, why—he’d done. ‘What’s tomorrow’s schedule?’
‘Wilkinson, the only one of the original support group to meet Charlie face-to-face. And Flood, who was briefly with him and actually witnessed the shooting.’
‘Neither is going to be able to knock Monsford’s story of an MI6 penetration, are they?’ That was important to implant in her mind for later.
Jane nodded in agreement. ‘But we can show up all the inconsistencies of the attack on Charlie. But from our near-total failure today, tomorrow might not be worth a row of beans either. Monsford can just shrug his great fat shoulders again and say he can’t explain anything with Briddle and Halliday dead.’
‘Have you thought yet that Monsford could be right about the penetration: that Straughan wasn’t ever your friend, just trying to con you about Monsford working to wreck everything?’ asked Elliott, hopefully starting to move the conversation in the direction he wanted.
‘He wasn’t conning me!’ refused Jane, the defensive belligerence immediate.
‘Just setting out the chessboard,’ quickly retreated the American. ‘It seems from where I’m sitting that Monsford is a long way ahead and that you’re an even longer way behind.’
Jane poured more wine, saying nothing.
This wasn’t going the way he wanted, Elliott recognized. ‘What about Rebecca being your way in?’
‘Got an inconsistency there, too,’ offered Jane. ‘She wasn’t at today’s hearing.’
His second chance, hoped Elliott. ‘Any reason given?’
Jane hunched her shoulders, lapsing into silence again. Then she said, ‘I’ll start dinner.’
‘You haven’t asked about my day,’ stopped Elliott.
Jane smiled up, apologetically. ‘Sorry. How was your day?’
‘Irena’s dynamited the logjam, quite literally.’
Jane came anxiously forward in her chair. ‘With something to help us with Charlie?’
‘Not yet,’ said the American, to Jane’s visible disappointment. ‘But I’m setting up a deal that keeps you right inside the loop.…’ He hesitated. ‘And I’ve put myself on the line doing it.’
‘How?’
‘It’s a CIA bag, so logically the co-operation should be with Monsford and MI6. But I’ve argued Irena was your case first: that Charlie broke her and that the Bureau, me, maintained the liaison with you because the CIA wanted to distance itself from more fallout.’
‘And?’ pressed Jane, hoping she was correctly following what he was saying.
‘The Agency wants everything, and I mean everything, that happened between Charlie and Irena. Their psychological profilers, those guys, want a comparison from which to judge her now. She’s started off claiming that through Lvov in the very beginning the FSB manipulated America in both Iraq wars.’
Jane snorted a laugh. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’
‘That’s what I said when Washington first told me. Irena challenged her interrogator to check CIA and State Department intelligence in 1990 against 2003. There’s a fit, a good enough fit to make it believable. The CIA certainly believe it.’
‘Jesus!’
‘I said that, too. Here’s the deal I want to set up: you give me everything and I’ll get you back as much as I can persuade them to give me in return. The better—the fuller—your stuff, the more I can negotiate to get back.’
‘Cutting out Monsford?’
‘I’ve warned my guys about the MI6 penetration: said involving MI6 could blow it all away. After what happened with Lvov in the beginning, nobody’s going to risk another CIA earthquake. The aftershocks haven’t subsided yet.’
‘It’s not going to help us with Charlie, is it?’ said Jane, reflective again.
‘No,’ admitted Elliott, at once. ‘But it’ll sure as hell help you and me. Which is what I’m trying to do, help us.’
She wasn’t as excited, as grateful, as he’d expected, decided Elliott, disappointed.
* * *
He’d destroy her, Gerald Monsford determined: destroy her far more effectively, more completely, than he’d destroyed Jane Ambersom, because that bitch hadn’t directly challenged him like this one with yesterday’s filmed performance from Hertfordshire, which most of the people in the enquiry would have seen by now or at least heard about from those who had. The retribution had to be what Shakespeare had Othello call a ‘capable and wide revenge.’ And he was sure as hell going to achieve that. He was going to ensure that Rebecca Street was helplessly entwined in the tangling labyrinth he was creating, eventually to be exposed as James Straughan would be exposed, the joint architects of all that had gone wrong. Which Monsford knew he could do, as painstakingly as he was enmeshing everyone else, layered strand of culpability after layered strand of culpability. But this wasn’t the time: not even the moment to think any further about it. This was the day MI
5 was introducing its initial witnesses, people who’d actually been there, seen what happened, and he couldn’t risk the slightest distraction.
It was enough, then, that Rebecca be alongside him, after Jacobson’s overnight advice that Radtsic was refusing to see anyone, talk to anyone, until he and Elena had sufficiently considered Rebecca’s proposal. Having her with him—supported as well by some of the comments she’d made in Hertfordshire—was enough to imply that Radtsic’s suggestion might even have come from him and that her function had been merely to relay it.
The entry of the co-chairmen and the opening formality had by now become so ritualized that those participating came close to ignoring it, rearranging themselves and their belongings and whispering asides. There were no huddled exchanges between the MI5 group, though. Unlike the preceding day, provision had been made in advance for Patrick Wilkinson and Ian Flood. The five entered together and took their seats without any conversation. Jane Ambersom stared intently but blank faced across at Rebecca, who returned the look just as expressionlessly. Rebecca’s impression was that the opposing group looked confidently well rehearsed.
Beside her, Monsford came forward over his prepared notepad, his concentration absolute.
Patrick Wilkinson, a vaguely distracted, clearly nervous man, identified himself as the field supervisor of the MI5 support team for an extraction of which Charlie Muffin was overall Control. Initially there had been some confusion among the group at Charlie’s apparent disappearance in Amsterdam. Wilkinson had expected the central, co-ordinated supervision to be from MI5’s Thames House headquarters after Charlie’s disappearance but realized by the second day that the three MI6 officers were communicating independently with London. The two groups were physically thrown together within the embassy but the socializing was limited, even awkward. The three MI6 officers spent most of their day within their closed-off rezidentura: with nothing to do but await orders, Wilkinson and his two colleagues had spent a lot of time in the embassy gymnasium and indoor swimming pool. The MI6 men had never joined them. Wilkinson said that on the third day he’d openly challenged Stephan Briddle about the separate contact with London, concerned that two command structures could lead to confusion and endanger the extraction.
‘Briddle replied that his orders to deal direct with London came personally from the Director,’ declared Wilkinson; and Aubrey Smith, who was leading the testimony, paused, looking expectantly across the table for an intervention, but Monsford made no attempt to speak.
‘What was your reaction to that?’ resumed Smith.
‘I said I’d talk to London about it. My thought, to prevent confusion, was that control might be concentrated through MI6. Briddle told me not to bother. Which is what I was told when I spoke to my own operational director. I was told that there were concerns about the joint operation and that I was appointed field supervisor of my two MI5 colleagues and we, too, were to work separately. That order was reiterated after the Russian arrest of the tourist group Charlie had used.’
‘What was the response of the MI6 officers to that arrest and the awareness that Charlie Muffin was in Moscow?’
‘They virtually put us under observation, which was initially ridiculous, restricted as we all were to the embassy. Neil Preston, one of my colleagues now under Russian arrest, lost his temper and asked what the hell was going on. Robert Denning, one of the MI6 officers also now under arrest, replied that they didn’t know: that they were getting orders, without explanation, from day to day. Stephan Briddle overheard and there was an argument between them.’
‘What about the two resident MI6 officers?’ switched Smith.
They scarcely ever saw Harry Jacobson, the head of station, insisted Wilkinson. The man actually appeared to have distanced himself from his own people. There was not a single occasion during their time in Moscow when Jacobson had mixed socially. In contrast, David Halliday, the other resident, had tried very hard to mix but was ostracized by his MI6 colleagues, which Wilkinson and the other two MI5 men didn’t understand. Halliday had eaten with them twice in the embassy canteen, wanting to know about Charlie, whom he’d known from Charlie’s earlier posting. Halliday had called Charlie the most unpredictable but best intelligence officer he’d ever known.
‘What did Halliday say about his relationship with his own people?’ asked Aubrey Smith.
‘That his face didn’t fit and that he feared he was on his way out. And that it wasn’t fair,’ replied Wilkinson, at once.
The stiffening expectation across the table was almost too fleeting for Rebecca to isolate before Smith added, ‘Was that all Halliday said?’
‘No,’ replied Wilkinson. ‘He told us he thought he was being set up to be a fall guy, like Charlie.’
‘He thought he was being set up, just like Charlie?’ echoed Aubrey Smith.
‘Those were his exact words.’
Monsford scribbled furiously.
* * *
The ladies’ toilets were the most obvious contact place apart from the refreshment annexe but Rebecca hesitated for Jane’s confirmation from the direction she took leaving the enquiry room. By the time Rebecca entered, it seemed most of the other attending women were ahead of her in the Victorian-era mausoleum of floor-to-ceiling white tiles and echoing, constantly throbbing pipe work. Both Jane and Rebecca initially ignored each other. Both let others beat them to cubicles to clear the sprawling room. Between them they reduced the remaining occupancy to three, in addition to themselves, when they finally emerged from stalls neither had needed anyway, managing adjoining washbasins and mirrors. Their original interest gone, the three remaining women ignored them, engrossed in their own conversation.
Talking directly into her own reflection, Rebecca said, ‘I tried to reach you last night, to thank you for what you tried to do questioning Jacobson.’
‘I was staying with friends,’ comfortably avoided Jane, rearranging already arranged hair. ‘I wondered where you were yesterday until I caught up with the safe-house transmission.’
The three other women trailed out. Still using her reflection, Rebecca smiled at them. Only one smiled back.
Jane said, ‘You thought any more about our coffee-break chat?’
‘A lot.’
‘And?’
‘I’m still thinking.’
‘What Monsford’s trying is bullshit: it’ll be exposed as such.’
Rebecca didn’t respond.
Deciding the risk was justified, Jane said, ‘I met Jamie the week before it happened,’ and admired the other woman’s tight-faced control.
Rebecca finally said, ‘He was very frightened at the end.’
‘Aren’t you?’ When Rebecca again didn’t respond, Jane said, ‘With Jamie gone, you need support from the sort of people you most certainly haven’t got where you are now.’
Rebecca finally turned directly to the other woman. ‘What is it for you, personal or professional?’
Jane considered the question. ‘Mostly personal at the beginning, I suppose, when the opportunity was suddenly there. I don’t think it is anymore. It’s gone way beyond that now: now it’s very much professional. Monsford’s the danger to himself—and to you—but not any longer to me. You sure you can win all by yourself?’
‘I didn’t have the slightest doubt before Jamie died.’
‘You don’t have Jamie anymore. You’re by yourself.’
Rebecca shook her head, a gesture of uncertainty.
Time for further risk, Jane determined. ‘Do you have it, Rebecca? Have what Jamie made.’
‘I didn’t know—don’t know—about Rome,’ unexpectedly declared Rebecca.
Jane was too surprised immediately to respond. ‘You surely don’t believe … can’t believe…!’
‘How do you explain it?’
‘I don’t explain it. But don’t forget Vasili Okulov is a known double MI6 used a lot in the past.’
‘The log entry unquestionably referring to Charlie Muffin was in Straughan’s han
dwriting,’ persisted Rebecca.
‘However incontestable the supposed proof, it’s just not possible for Jamie to have gone over: to have betrayed anyone or anything,’ rejected Jane, loudly.
‘I need to be surer,’ protested Rebecca, her uncertainties seeping through.
‘Maybe it’s in what Jamie set up before he died,’ chanced Jane.
‘It’s…’ started Rebecca, the denial half formed, but stopped.
‘What, Rebecca?’ demanded Jane, guessing the nearness of finally learning just what Straughan had achieved.
‘I need to be sure,’ repeated Rebecca, lamely.
‘Whenever are we one-hundred-percent, no-doubt-whatsoever-sure about what we do?’ pressed Jane, maintaining the pressure. ‘You’ve got a simple choice. The way it’s turned out for me, I actually beat the bastard. That’s all you’ve got to be sure about: where it’s safer—survivable—for you to be.’
The reassembly summons sounded distantly through the heavy Victorian door.
‘My mobile’s there,’ said Jane, offering her card. ‘I don’t want any more missed calls. But I do want calls: the quicker and the sooner the better.’
* * *
The resonance of Wilkinson’s session-closing remark still hung sufficiently in the enquiry room for Aubrey Smith to refocus it simply by a third repetition. ‘David Halliday, one of the two MI6 resident officers in Moscow, told you he believed he was being set up to be a fall guy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘For what?’
‘He didn’t know. His answer, when I very directly asked him, was a fall guy for everything that was going on but from which he was being kept out. Charlie said practically the same when we finally met.’
Aubrey Smith allowed the second echo to reverberate throughout the room. ‘When, precisely again, was that?’
‘When he made his first call to the embassy Charlie told me at once that nothing he said, no arrangements we made, were to be shared with MI6,’ recounted Wilkinson. ‘On the second call, he said he believed MI6 were working on something different from what we thought to be the operation we were there for, something that was being kept from us: that his involvement with any of us was going to be limited to an absolute minimum.’
Red Star Falling: A Thriller Page 15