Brian Freemantle: The Run Around

‘Isn’t it a governing principle in intelligence that gambles should be reduced to a minimum?’ reminded Berenkov.

‘Doesn’t that depend on the stakes?’ said Lvov, balancing question for question.

‘And they’re high,’ agreed Kalenin.

‘They would be higher if it ended in a disaster we didn’t intend,’ warned Berenkov.

‘How long would it take to prepare for another opportunity?’ Kalenin asked the head of the assassination department.

‘There’s no way of knowing when another such public opportunity will arise,’ pointed out Lvov. ‘Months, certainly. And there would be no guarantee that the woman would be involved again, if we aborted this time. Without her — or someone like her — it would be impossible.’

‘They’re ready?’

‘Both of them,’ assured Lvov. ‘He’s an outstanding operative.’

Kalenin shook his head at Berenkov and said: ‘I don’t see we have any real alternative.’

‘There is,’ disputed Berenkov, stubbornly. ‘The very real alternative is to cancel and wait for another occasion, irrespective of how long it takes or how difficult it might be to manipulate.’

‘It’s not a choice I think I have,’ said Kalenin.

‘I don’t believe Novikov saw any more than the three messages we’ve positively traced to him,’ said Lvov, recognizing the argument was tilting in his favour. ‘And by themselves they’re meaningless: no one would be able to make any sense from them.’

‘I know of some who might,’ said Berenkov, whose British capture had been supervised by Charlie Muffin.

‘We go,’ decided Kalenin. ‘I acknowledge the dangers and I don’t like them and I’d personally enjoy interrogating the runaway bastard in Lubyanka until he screamed for the mercy I wouldn’t give him, to learn exactly how much he’s taken with him. But I think on this occasion we’ve got to take the gamble.’

Lvov allowed himself a smile of victory in the direction of Berenkov, who remained expressionless. Berenkov said: ‘Let’s hope, then, that it’s a gamble that pays off.’

The instruction centre for KGB assassins is known as Balashikha. It is located fifteen miles east of Moscow’s peripheral motorway, just off Gofkovskoye Shosse, and it was here in his isolated but luxury dacha that the waiting Vasili Nikolaevich Zenin received the telephone call from the head of the department, within minutes of Lvov leaving the meeting in Dzerzhinsky Square.

‘Approval has been given,’ announced Lvov.

‘When do I start?’

‘At once.’

Five thousand miles away, in the Libyan capital of Tripoli, Sulafeh Nabulsi left the headquarters offices of the Palestinian Liberation Organization precisely at noon, which she did every day and headed directly towards the port area, which she also did every day, her regulated actions governed by an obedience to orders found only in absolute fanatics. At the post office close to the corner of Revolution Avenue she made her daily check at the poste restante counter, feeling a jump of excitement when the letter for which she had been waiting so anxiously for so long was handed to her. It was postmarked London and consisted only of three lines, on paper headed with the name and address of a genuine English mail order company. The catalogue about which she had enquired was being despatched immediately, it promised. Sulafeh smiled, feeling her excitement grow. She’d known and lived among soldiers all her life but had never encountered anyone like this, someone trained so specifically to kill. What did an assassin look like? she wondered.

‘Names!’ demanded Harkness.

‘The Red Parrot, the Spinning Wheel and the Eat Hearty,’ said Charlie, uncomfortably. He was taking a chance, hoping they’d support the lie even though he ate at all three quite a lot and they knew him.

‘Why don’t they print their names on their receipts!’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s what they gave me when I asked for a copy.’

‘You know what I think these expenses are?’

‘What?’

‘Fraud. Criminal fraud.’

‘I genuinely spent the money,’ insisted Charlie. He supposed he should have guessed that Harkness wouldn’t let the matter drop, despite the Director lifting his suspension. Vindictive bugger. What would Harkness do when the bank manager’s letter arrived?

‘You think you’ve got away with it again, don’t you?’

‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘You understand it well enough,’ insisted the Deputy Director. ‘You haven’t got away with anything: you’ve been assigned because the Director thinks you have some special ability for a case like this. Which I, incidentally, do not. But I am going to continue the enquiry into these expenses.’

‘But while I’m on assignment I will be able to draw money, won’t I?’

Harkness’s face flared, in his anger. He said: ‘I want every penny properly accounted for, with receipts and bills that are verifiable.’

‘I always try,’ said Charlie. He’d have to warn the restaurants that the sneaky little sod was likely to come sniffing around.

Charlie Muffin had A5 security clearance, which is the highest, and the Director’s memorandum to all relevant departments within an hour of their meeting accorded the same classification to the Novikov investigation, designating it an operation of absolute priority. It also named Charlie as the agent in charge of that investigation, which allowed Charlie a moment of satisfaction as well as complete control. Hope to Christ there are a lot more such moments, he thought: and quick. He didn’t mind looking for needles in haystacks but he liked at least to know where the bloody haystack was.

The debriefing so far conducted with the Russian comprised a verbatim transcript of the automatic recordings, presented question and answer. But only Novikov was identified in the file, security precluding the naming of the interrogator even on a document with such restricted circulation. Charlie wondered in passing who the poor sod was: debriefings could take months — were required to take months, to drain the maximum possible from a defector — so there wasn’t a chance in hell of making any money on expenses because Harkness and his abacus squad knew where you were and what you were doing every minute of the day and night.

From the raw debriefing material Charlie compiled his own notes, concentrating only on his specific line of enquiry, aware that others would dissect every additional scrap of information the Russian disclosed. Vladimir Andreevich Novikov claimed to have been born in Riga, to a father killed in the siege of Stalingrad during the Patriotic War and a mother who fell victim to the influenza epidemic that swept Latvia in 1964. He had graduated in 1970 from Riga University with a combined first-class honours degree in electronics and mathematics, which Charlie accepted made almost automatic the approach from the KGB, for the position he was later to occupy. According to Novikov the invitation actually came before the end of his course, his ability already identified by the KGB spotters installed within the university to isolate potential recruits. He had worked for three years in the cipher department at the provincial KGB headquarters, apparently improving upon two internal communication codes and because of such ability was appointed deputy head over five people who were his superiors. His transfer to KGB headquarters in Moscow came in 1980. By which time, according to the question-and-answer sheets, Novikov was already coming to accept that Latvia was not the autonomous republic of the USSR it was always proclaimed — and supposed — to be but a despised Russian colony, although he was sure he always successfully concealed any hint of resentment during the frequent security interviews. In Moscow he married a Latvian girl, from Klaipeda, who was more forcefully nationalistic than he was. She had contact with dissident Latvian groups both in Riga and Moscow and he had become frightened any investigation by the KGB’s Second Chief Directorate — responsible for the country’s internal control — would inevitably discover her links, which would have meant his automatic dismissal and possibly her imprisonment. She had been killed before either could happen. It was a hit and run accident, near the Moskva Bridge, and although he had been a member of the KGB, with supposed influence, the driver had never been arrested and Novikov was convinced the civilian militia hadn’t bothered with a proper investigation because she had been a Latvian, someone who didn’t matter.