Brian Freemantle - The Run Around

‘You’re under pressure to repay creditors?’

‘No,’ said Charlie. The bookmaker’s demand for?300 hardly ranked with the National Debt, after all.

‘So why do you need the money?’

‘Few improvements around the flat,’ ad-libbed Charlie, prepared from the encounter with the bank manager. ‘Thought I might get a little car for the week-ends.’

‘For which your salary is insufficient?’

‘I’ve been passed over by the last two promotional boards,’ reminded Charlie. And he’d bet a pound to a pinch of the smelly brown stuff that Harkness had been in there blocking his upgrading.

‘You realize that the security requirements — my having become involved because of this letter — are that I make a thorough investigation into your financial affairs, don’t you?’ said the Deputy Director.

Charlie wondered which would upset Harkness more, the membership fees to the three after-hours drinking clubs or the subscription to the Fantail Club, where there was a lot of fanny and tail and all of it uncovered for appreciative selection. Straight-faced, he said: ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Well it does.’

‘I don’t suppose I have any say in it, your having become involved?’

‘None at all,’ said Harkness. ‘The procedure now is regulated.’

Like the right sort of bowel movement, thought Charlie: the bastard was enjoying himself. He said: ‘Regulations also say I must have complete access to your report, don’t they?’

Harkness blinked, appearing surprised at Charlie’s knowledge of always disdained rules, unaware that Charlie could quote every one that was likely personally to affect or benefit him. The deputy said: ‘Of course.’

‘I’m very happy for you to make whatever enquiries you consider necessary,’ said Charlie, because he had to. He accepted positive vetting as a necessity of the job but was uncomfortable at this prissy little sod opening cupboard doors looking for threadbare skeletons. Harkness was more likely to encounter threadbare suits, but that wasn’t the point.

‘I will also require a full account, in much more detail than you’ve so far provided, of why you require this overdraft facility,’ said Harkness.

‘For which there is a special form?’ anticipated Charlie.

‘It’s A/23/W98,’ confirmed Harkness.

‘Thanks,’ said Charlie.

‘And there’s still the expenses situation, with which this could be connected,’ said Harkness.

No stone left unturned, thought Charlie. He said: ‘I’ll try to complete the form this afternoon.’

‘I will need it for the Review Committee and — ’ began Harkness when the red internal telephone rang, the man’s direct link to the Director.

‘Where the hell’s Muffin!’ demanded Wilson.

‘With me,’ said Harkness.

‘Something’s come up,’ announced Wilson. ‘Get him here.’

When Harkness relayed the order, Charlie said: ‘Do you want me to go right away or should I fill in the form first?’

‘Get out!’ yelled Harkness, finally losing control.

Not bad, decided Charlie, making his way to the upper floor.

Berenkov drafted a total of twelve Russians to form the protective screen around the Bern embassy. Six came in, all separately, by air and the rest entered Switzerland, again separately, by road and rail. Four were seconded within the legation itself but the remainder were split into two-man cells, each to monitor and watch independently.

None of the groups were told the reason for their surveillance, of course, and one ironically established itself only two streets away from the Wyttenbackstrasse, where Zenin had a room at the back, away from the street, in the Marthahaus.

It took him a day to locate and to rent in the name of Henry Smale a lock-up garage in which to hide the rented Peugeot. During that search — and afterwards-he went to great lengths to avoid the Soviet embassy, only wanting to be linked with it once and then briefly. With time to spare he explored the old part of town, Spitalgasse and Marktgasse and Kramgasse and Gerechtigkeitsgasse, actually considering — and then rejecting — the idea of an early trip to the Bernese Oberland. More important to make the reconnaissance back in Geneva, from which he was intentionally distancing himself. The Oberland could wait until later, when there was a real reason. He had wondered how he’d feel as it got closer, pleased at the moment there was no nervousness. If there were a sensation at all it was one of anticipation, eager anticipation.

Charlie chose a Mercedes again, just for the hell of it, disappointed the build-up of early rush-hour traffic on the M4 made it difficult to drive as fast as he had on his way down to Sussex. And then there had been less need for speed than there was now.

Charlie was too old and too wise to become excited ahead of time but according to the Director the sightings at London airport were practically positive. And not just one. Two. Trying to balance the hope, Charlie wondered how two different people were able to be anywhere near positive, on the basis of such an indistinct photograph. Whatever, he thought; don’t knock it, check it. The first indicator looked promising, at least: it was Terminal Two from which, with the exception of British Airways, all flights from Heathrow departed for Europe.

He sought out a parking spot near a protective pillar and used the elevated walkway to get into the building, knowing from past experience that the security offices were at the far end, beyond the banks. On Sir Alistair Wilson’s instructions, the two men were waiting for Charlie in a private, inner room, where the only lighting came from a neon strip: it was a box joined to other boxes all around and Charlie wondered why modern office planners were so stuck on the beehive style of architecture. William Cockson, the Special Branch inspector, was a grey-haired, grey-suited, anonymous sort of man, cautious in movement and manner. Edward Oliver, the immigration official, was much younger, hardly more than twenty-five: he wore a tweed jacket and rigidly pressed trousers and was blinking a lot, as if he were nervous at having committed himself to an opinion.

‘This seems to be important, from the reaction,’ said Cockson, at once.

‘Maybe,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe not.’ The identification was vital so it was important not to influence either man into responding as they imagined he wanted them to.

‘I was supposed to be off duty an hour ago,’ said the policeman, someone sadly accustomed to having his private life constantly disrupted.

From his briefcase Charlie took a bigger enlargement of the Primrose Hill picture than that which had been made available for the port and airport surveillance and said: ‘Look at this again. Take as long as you like. Do you think this was the man?’

It was the more experienced Special Branch officer who looked up first, nodding. ‘I think so,’ he said.

Oliver raised his head soon afterwards. He said: ‘I’m pretty sure.’

Not as positive as the Director had promised, thought Charlie. He said: ‘When?’

‘The thirteenth,’ said Cockson, positively.

The day of the pick-up realized Charlie. Worriedly, he said: ‘What time?’

‘In the evening,’ said the young immigration man.

Johnson had timed the whole episode in Primrose Hill as ending by two in the afternoon, remembered Charlie, relieved: more than long enough to get here. Nodding to the enlargement on the desk between them Charlie said: ‘It’s not a good picture.’

‘No,’ agreed Oliver.

‘And the departure lounge was crowded?’

‘It always is,’ said the younger man, with growing confidence.

‘So how come you think you recognize him, in a crowded departure lounge from a bad photograph?’