Red Star Falling: A Thriller

by Brian Freemantle

  No-one spoke, looking blank faced at Natalia in expectation of more. When it didn’t come, Aubrey Smith said, ‘Explain that.’

  ‘He’s an impostor: a look-alike, but not Radtsic,’ insisted Natalia, her voice strengthening from her own initial disbelief.

  ‘How can you know that?’ demanded Jane.

  ‘There’s no mark on his face.’ To emphasize the statement, she directed the laser at the freeze-frame to show a clean-shaven, clear-skinned profile.

  ‘It would help a lot if you told us in more detail what you’re talking about, ma’am,’ said Goody.

  Natalia straightened, finally composing herself. ‘The joke—although it’s not a joke, not to him—in the Lubyanka is that Radtsic looks like Stalin but has Gorbachev’s father. Like Gorbachev, Radtsic’s got a facial birthmark. Everyone’s seen Gorbachev’s, extending back from his forehead although it used to be airbrushed out of all his official photographs before he came to power. Radtsic’s a very vain man and sensitive about his disfigurement, which stretches down the right side of his face and covers part of his right ear. He wears his hair long, to cover as much of the mark as he can, and the official portrait in the Lubyanka is taken half profile, from his left, so that even the airbrushing is completely hidden. That’s the only photograph I’ve ever seen of the man and that’s not publicly issued.’ She turned back to the frozen TV screen, again directing the light beam, and unnecessarily said, ‘You can see there’s no birthmark: no blemish of any kind.’

  The absence of any mark was quite obvious but Jane got up and went closer to the screen as Natalia had, earlier. Turning back to the others but including Natalia, she said, ‘That’s what all the speculation was about in the artists’ drawings when Radtsic’s defection was first announced.’

  ‘I’ve twice been in the presence of the real Maxim Radtsic, although at a considerable distance: seen the disfigurement,’ disclosed Natalia. ‘It’s more purple than the red of a strawberry mark. It’s impossible to miss.’

  ‘Are you suggesting it’s a huge disinformation trick!’ demanded Smith.

  ‘I’m telling you that the defector claiming to be Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic, and whom I understand to be disclosing a lot of KGB and FSB secrets, definitely isn’t the executive director of the Sluzhba, which he’s supposed to be. The rest is for you to analyze.’

  ‘Disinformation fits with the hand signals: explains them, even though we don’t understand what they mean,’ offered Goody.

  ‘If Radtsic’s a fake, what about Irena Novikov?’ questioned Ethel Jackson. ‘If it weren’t for her and what she told Charlie, we would never have known what the Lvov business was all about. She can’t be part of a disinformation scheme.’

  ‘You’re right but only up to a point,’ qualified Jane, returning from her closer TV examination, but not bothering to sit again. ‘What we know—or think we know—of the Lvov operation came only from Irena. There’s not a shred of independent corroboration.’

  ‘We surely can’t have been wrong about everything, not from the very beginning,’ protested Goody.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Smith. ‘Everything we’ve been working on has come from single, uncorroborated sources: until a few days ago we spent the majority of our time distracted by a mentally disturbed Gerald Monsford, whose supposed coup was netting Radtsic, a man whom we accepted, upon Monsford’s say-so, to be Radtsic. But whom we now know isn’t.’

  The attention suddenly concentrated upon Natalia was inadvertent but Natalia showed no uncertainty now. ‘And my telling you that you haven’t got the genuine Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic is uncorroborated too, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you’d been part of whatever we’re looking at here, you wouldn’t have identified the hand signals or denounced the Radtsic look-alike,’ said Smith.

  ‘I want to study those hand signals before I talk to Irena again,’ said Goody, reflectively. ‘And I want that talk to be today.’

  ‘And we need to alert London: Rebecca, too,’ said Smith, talking to Jane. ‘It’s essential they all know immediately.’

  As they left, Goody went to Natalia, huddling close to the third CCTV replay as she itemized the hand and finger movements of both Russians. Ethel Jackson went to where the coffee was still laid out, pouring for the two MI5 technicians. Smith and Jane returned before she could pour for herself.

  Smith said, ‘Our Radtsic look-alike has come up with what Bland’s calling a major development. Rebecca’s already on her way to London for an assessment meeting to which Jane and I have been summoned.’

  ‘We’ve ordered the security to be doubled at their safe houses,’ added Jane. ‘We can’t imagine that our Radtsic could have found out where he’s living and it’s even more unlikely he could have discovered where Irena is, but we don’t want to lose either to a Russian move until we know what they’re really supposed to be doing.’

  ‘What about this safe house?’ asked Natalia, her alarm immediate.

  ‘It’ll be doubled within an hour,’ promised Smith, checking his watch and including Ethel in the reply. ‘Mostly men. You remain security supervisor.’

  * * *

  Charlie was surprised the entrapment ritual hadn’t been staged earlier. Entering into the performance, he made no attempt to disguise or hide his selection from Mikhail Guzov’s photographic montage supposedly from British embassies throughout the world. The betrayal was, though, still instinctively difficult and he kept his choice to an absolute minimum, mentally apologizing to the innocents whose pictures he identified as MI5 intelligence agents hopefully to save six of the eight he did recognize, isolating only the remaining two because the Russians probably knew the identities anyway and he wanted Guzov to imagine he was still mentally giving way and to a degree co-operating. The objective, after all, was not to discover undiscovered British intelligence officers but set him up as a collaborator.

  There was no artificial lateness today. Guzov strode purposefully in promptly at eleven, the time he’d initially established for their interrogation sessions in the psychiatric institute, grimaced his smile, and settled into the opposite rough-wood chair ‘You’ve completed your assignment?’

  Assignment was for the benefit of the film and audio recording, Charlie knew, an exaggerated choice even for an entrapment. ‘I warned you I wouldn’t be able to do it: that in our service we’re all kept separate from one another, which I’d always assumed to be your protective system, too.’

  ‘But there were some you recognized, weren’t there?’

  The question confirmed Charlie’s belief that some if not all of those he’d known were already identified by the Russians. ‘I’ve done the best I can.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re still being sensible, helping us like this.’

  ‘You’ve told me that before.’

  ‘And want to tell you again. It all contributes to how you’ll be treated in the future.’

  ‘That’s the uncertainty, the future,’ said Charlie, stirring himself for the uncertainty they’d expect.

  ‘Yours is fairly predictable, if you continue as you’re doing so far.’

  A better response than he’d expected, acknowledged Charlie. ‘They won’t believe it, you know.’

  This time Guzov hesitated. ‘You’d be surprised what people believe.’

  ‘I mean the people who know. No matter how well you edit all this and however or wherever you show it, my people will know I haven’t come across to you.’

  ‘But it’s the people in the “however and wherever” that’s important to consider, isn’t it, Charlie? That’s what you’ll never know.’

  A few days earlier that remark would have tilted him further into a depression, accepted Charlie. Now it didn’t, but it would be a mistake to let Guzov know he’d climbed out of the hole into which the man hopefully believed he was slipping.

  * * *

  ‘You’re late!’ accused Irena Novikov, before Joe Goody had taken his seat opposite her.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I
was delayed.’ Goody very carefully placed his hands on the intervening table, the forefinger of his right hand over the back of his left, the other fingers cupped out of sight.

  ‘Were you on the helicopter?’

  Goody had requested the landing place, wanting the woman to see the arrival. ‘I won’t lie that I enjoyed it but it’s such a convenient way of travelling over such long distances in no time at all. You must have moved around a lot that way, though, in Egypt with Stepan Lvov. That’s right, isn’t it, ma’am: you were in Egypt with Stepan Lvov when your big idea began?’

  ‘When’s my embassy meeting?’ the woman demanded, ignoring everything Goody had said.

  He was sure she’d isolated his hand positioning, which he changed, locking his left thumb between his clenched fist. ‘I already warned you that’s not going to be straightforward, not after what happened with Maxim Ivanovich. Now it’s going to be even more uncertain.’

  Irena’s lower lip was trapped between her teeth. Appearing to realize it, she tried to cover the instinctive nervousness by openly laughing. ‘It’s Maxim Mikhailovich.’

  ‘Of course it is, ma’am,’ apologized Goody, intertwining his forefingers, conscious of her eyes flickering down to the table upon which they rested. ‘You learned your lines and acted out your part very well for your great production, didn’t you? Irena Yakulova Novikov isn’t your real name, either, is it? It’s obviously your operational identity.’ He cupped his hands together again, leaving the thumbs protruding, and brought her attention up to him by raising the clenched fists to support his chin. ‘Don’t answer verbally. Hand sign it.’

  She laughed again but just failed to stop the quaver at the end. ‘You’re not making sense … talking like an idiot … more like an idiot than usual!’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Goody, at the first burst of approaching noise. ‘Here come the cavalry,’ and walked over to the window as another helicopter fluttered into view, located the same landing spot as the first, and roared into touchdown. Over his shoulder Goody said, ‘They’re called Jolly Green Giants because of all the material and men they can carry. Which is important getting reinforcements in place here.’ Goody remained at the window, watching the helicopter disembark the increased protection squad.

  ‘You didn’t tell me when I’m meeting the embassy delegation,’ tried Irena, a drowning person clinging to the last supporting straw.

  Still looking out the window, his back to her, Goody said, ‘They’ll be in place very shortly, ma’am. There’s no way your people could have located your whereabouts but we’re not going to risk a rescue attempt, although I personally don’t believe they’d risk something as blatant as that, do you, ma’am?’

  Irena didn’t reply, her lips familiarly clamped shut.

  ‘And we don’t want you slipping away, ma’am. You’ll be accompanied upon any outside exercise period within the grounds from now on,’ continued Goody, coming back to where the woman sat. ‘And you’ll be fitted with a tracking device: it’s like an ankle chain although much more substantial. They’re quite comfortable. You’ll hardly notice you’re wearing it after a while.’

  Only someone as professional as Goody would have noticed the physical indication, the slight shoulder sag, the even slighter coming forward of her body. ‘We won’t bother with any more of these meaningless debriefings, ma’am. There’s really no purpose, is there? I’m intellectually intrigued by the sign language, though: look forward to learning it. So simple yet so clever. You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t copy it: introduce it into our tradecraft. Not actually copy it, I don’t mean. Use it as a template to devise a similar communication system of our own. There’s lots of potential variations if you think about it, don’t you agree, ma’am?’

  ‘Shut up!’ suddenly flared Irena. ‘And stop addressing me as ma’am!’

  Goody finally sat down again. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you, offend you, in any way. I don’t think of us as enemies: we’re professionals on opposing sides and I actually admire you for what you’ve done: what you do. I couldn’t do that, not go across to the other side and maintain a pretence as you’ve done.’

  ‘I’m a Russian national, with the right to consular access. Which I demand.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on to those making the decisions but there’s a lot for them to take into account now, after what Radtsic—or whatever his real name is—has indicated.’

  ‘What’s he said?’ It was a blurted demand, her voice fading at the very end in regret at the outburst.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that. But you mustn’t condemn him. His strain has been enormous and—’

  ‘No more enormous than mine! I almost saved the operation!’

  ‘I wasn’t making a comparison between you and … and Radtsic,’ said Goody, as if the false name was difficult for him now. ‘And I wouldn’t make the comparison. As I’ve already told you, I admired you. I’d never be brave enough to go out into the field.’

  The woman regarded him steadily for several moments. ‘What’s he said about me?’

  Goody shook his head in refusal again. ‘What I can tell you is that Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic … is not a colleague upon whom you can rely for loyalty. But as I don’t believe I’m brave enough to do what you and Radtsic—’

  ‘Demin,’ burst in Irena. ‘The bastard’s name is Yuri Georgevich Demin and I argued against his inclusion from the very beginning!’

  ‘I give you my word that I’ll do all I can to prevent everything being laid at your door,’ promised Goody.

  He managed to reach Aubrey Smith on a secure line from the West Sussex safe house just before the Director-General went into the Foreign Office meeting.

  * * *

  On a day of surprises the further unexpected was the inclusion of Mort Bering and Barry Elliott in the hurriedly assembled group. Both Americans were already in the room when Aubrey Smith and Jane entered. Elliott was prepared but Jane wasn’t and Smith admired her totally unruffled composure, easily reciprocating Elliott’s smiled nod, suspecting as he watched the exchange that Rebecca Street, also already there, was the more disconcerted of the two women. Rebecca sat apart from the two newcomers, her blotter already assembled with jotter and pens as it always had been when she accompanied Monsford. There was a large-screen television positioned conveniently for everyone to see, to the woman’s left a security-cleared technician in readiness.

  Sir Archibald Bland opened the session without any explanation of the FBI presence, called the preceding twelve hours bewildering, and with a nod to Rebecca said the established chronological presentation would be maintained.

  Rebecca began hesitantly, unsettled not just by the Americans but by Bland’s apparent urgency. She’d requested the meeting because of the international implications of disclosures promised earlier that morning by Maxim Radtsic. There was a filmed record but in summary Radtsic was promising to detail the exacerbating FSB intrusion into 2008’s near-total global financial collapse, an operation from which Moscow had profited by billions and which had established Russia’s future intended intelligence target to be the destabilization of world economies.

  ‘I’d like now…’ she tried to continue, turning to the waiting technician, but Aubrey Smith said, ‘I think I should intervene here. There’s no point in watching any more film or listening to anything more of what Maxim Radtsic wants to tell us. He’s a planted impostor, a phoney, like his name and everything he’s ever told us.’

  It took almost three hours for Jane to play and replay the Belmarsh CCTV ahead of that morning’s film of Natalia Fedova identifying the hand-signal cryptograph. Jane studiously avoided directing her attention towards Elliott, although she savoured the thought of his upon her, but early in the presentation became aware of Rebecca’s stone-faced concentration at being so cursorily dismissed by Aubrey Smith.

  ‘So what’s it say, this code!’ demanded Rebecca, the moment the transmission finished.

  ‘We don’t kn
ow, not yet,’ admitted Aubrey Smith, taking over from Jane. ‘But GCHQ are confident enough that it is a code. They’ve had less than twenty-four hours to decipher it.’

  ‘So it’s not positively confirmed to be one, not yet?’ persisted Rebecca.

  ‘Not by GCHQ,’ conceded Smith, recognizing the woman’s irritation. Allowing the condescension, he went on, ‘But we definitely know it is a code. Irena Novikov’s interrogator, Joe Goody, copied some of the movements and bluffed her after watching what you’ve just seen: conned her into thinking Radtsic had somehow been caught out or made a mistake and broken down. Radtsic’s real name, according to Irena, is Yuri Georgevich Demin.’

  Rebecca eased back into her seat, totally rebuffed. Jane was surprised at Smith’s ruthlessness, another newly emerged trait she wished he hadn’t chosen that moment to demonstrate.

  Mort Bering said, ‘You guys have done damned well in the time you’ve had. I’d like to bring some of our cryptologists in on the decoding.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ accepted Smith, without consulting either co-chairman.

  ‘Yes, of course. There’s no objection at this late stage to it becoming a joint operation,’ hurriedly agreed Palmer. ‘But what’s your interpretation of it all?’

  Smith only just held back the sigh. ‘I don’t have an interpretation. I know the people we knew as Maxim Radtsic and Irena Novikov are not the genuine defectors we took them to be and I know that Radtsic communicated with other Russians. That’s as far as I’ve got.’

  ‘What about the other gal, Natalia?’ insisted Bering. ‘What’s her part in all this?’

  ‘She hasn’t got one, not in the deception,’ came in Jane, defensively. ‘It was Natalia who told us it wasn’t the real Radtsic, not Irena. And it was Natalia who spotted the hand code: it’s FSB tradecraft, apparently.’

  ‘I think, at last, that we might be ahead in this mess,’ said Bland, briskly. ‘How do you propose we take it forward?’

  ‘By letting Joe Goody loose on Radtsic—I suggest we stay with the name we’re familiar with, for the sake of easy understanding—knowing now that the man’s a phoney,’ said Smith.