Brian Freemantle - The Run Around

Finally reassured, Zenin left the bar but did not rejoin the Rue des Terreaux du Temple, unwilling to risk association a second time with a street upon which he was later to return for a third. Instead he left the area along the Rue de Mandement, picking up a tramcar at the first available stop to take him to the quais , instinctively checking for pursuit and finding none.

With time to spare before the woman’s stipulated departure from the hotel, Zenin strolled along the Bergues, enjoying the unexpected sunshine and lunched overlooking the island in the middle of the river. None of the training, no matter how realistic, could properly have prepared him for an actual assignment and almost illogically now he was involved in one Zenin was experiencing a sensation of anti-climax. The problem, he recognized, was that the training had been too intense, every hour of every day at Kuchino and Balashikha forced to a degree of tension calculated to take him to within a millimetre of his limit. But the reality — this reality — of the situation was nothing like that. Of course there was no relaxation: what he’d done by arriving in Geneva today as early as he had and by carrying out the checks that he had was unnecessary assurance to himself that he was leaving nothing to chance or trusting anything to be as he imagined — rather than knew — it to be. But the reality still lacked the … the what? Frenzy was the word that came at once to his mind, momentarily confusing him, but then he accepted it. Frenzied was a fitting description of the training: sabotage instruction at nine, unarmed killing at ten, draining physical exercise at eleven, thirty-minute meal-break (but not a moment longer) at twelve. And everything resuming precisely at twelve-thirty, murder by untraceable poisons, communication security at fourteen hundred, and … Zenin did not bother to recall the next session. What he could remember was the physically exhausting, sagging effect of it, of crawling every night into bed sapped of all strength and all adrenalin. This reality was not like that. There had been moments of tension but not many and nothing like the training stress. This had been like … no, holiday was not the right word, not like frenzy had so perfectly fitted into his mind, but it was the only description that presented itself. Between the limited highs of the tension there had been too many and too long extended troughs of inactivity. How easy was it, he wondered, to become complacent? Not to check someone else’s preparation which was supposed to be impeccable or improvise for personal protection upon the rigid patterns choreographed by Moscow? Easy for some, Zenin decided: for most. But never for him. He determined never — ever — to be lulled into dangerous relaxation. He would create his own tensions, his own adrenalin-pumping strains, maintaining the constant nerve-stretched expectation that something was always about to go wrong, if not this minute then the next minute, always suspicious, always distrustful. And most importantly always safe.

With that determination in mind Zenin pushed himself up from his table, the bill carefully checked and the required fifteen per cent added to the precise centime, and retraced his steps back down the quai to cross the Pont de l’Ile on foot before catching another pursuit-checking tram not to but near the Rue Barthelemy-Menn. From the drop-off point, once more on foot, he zigzagged through the streets and roads at times directly away from his destination, finally reaching it by narrowing his perambulations in gradually tightening circles.

Zenin was in place but completely concealed in the Avenue de la Croisette thirty minutes before the time he had given Sulafeh Nabulsi to leave her hotel, early again for the same reason he had been early in the Rue des Terreaux du Temple, one professional searching for another professional hint of surveillance. And as before found nothing. The day had built up to be surprisingly warm, somnolent almost, and the streets were practically deserted under the weight of the sun: insects, confused, actually milled about the tree against which he waited, so that he had to swish them away with his hand. Zenin realized, abruptly, that the affect of any strong sunlight in his eyes had been something for which no allowance had been made during the Balashikha training, because the Bern embassy insistence had been that there would be none, at this time of the year. Something further to check when he installed the rifle in the corner apartment off the Colombettes road.

Immediately she left the hotel, exactly at the time given, Zenin recognized Sulafeh Nabulsi, from the many photographs he had memorized. The temptation was to study her physically but he refused it, security uppermost in his mind. He let her stride past the junction near which he stood, concentrating for any indication of pursuit upon the hotel exit from which she emerged. There was none, so he transferred his attention to the street itself, for a car pick-up, but again no vehicle moved. Zenin eased on to the Rue Barthelemy-Menn, picking her up about two hundred yards ahead. Almost at the moment he isolated her, she jerked suddenly sideways and to the left into the Boulevard de la Cluse, so by cutting left himself into the Rue de Peupliers and hurrying he was already on the Rue de l’Aubepine when she came out on to it, continuously glancing behind her. The check for pursuit was pitifully amateurish but at least she was making an effort, Zenin recognized. The woman hurried northwards towards the lake and the Russian frowned, unable to believe she intended trying to cover the entire distance on foot because he knew she would never be able to make the cafe on the Rue des Terreaux du Temple in the time he had set out. She was still darting backward glances and he realized she was seeking something more than surveillance so when she hailed the taxi he was on the look-out too, managing to stop one almost at once. Sure of her destination but not wishing to make any ridiculous ‘follow that taxi’ demand upon his driver Zenin asked for the Quai du Seujet, at its connection with the Coulouvreniere bridge. He still had the woman’s vehicle in sight when it stopped short of the bridge. Zenin let his own taxi continue over and then waited and within minutes she appeared, hurrying over the foot crossing.

He let her get ahead and fell into step but on the far side of the road and a long way behind, so that any surveillance would visibly intrude between them and show up to him. And at last allowed himself the indulgence of some physical impression. The black, shoulder-touching hair bobbed as she hurried and on her frequent, backward-checking half turns, which she made without pause, he was aware of her breasts bouncing with her movement. She wore a khaki-coloured dress, belted, so that it was difficult to know whether it actually was a dress or a matching skirt and top and carried a large handbag, more a briefcase, supported from her shoulder by a strap. Always, as she walked, she kept her hand securely over it. Fuller figured than he had imagined from the photographs, Zenin decided: most certainly heavier busted. And not as tall, although that was a reflection at which he was surprised because he knew her height precisely from the already provided description.

She slowed when she reached the Rue des Terreaux du Temple, obviously seeking out the cafe, and then picked up pace when she identified it. When she reached it she hesitated again, looking around as if she were expecting a greeting from among the people who thronged the outside area. When nothing came she went forward and Zenin smiled, pleased, when she chose one of the few vacant outside tables. It was far back, close to the cafe, and well positioned to see anyone approaching. Which Zenin did not attempt. Instead he continued on to the corner of the Rue Bautte from which he had watched earlier that day, to ensure no surveillance had been established in the intervening period. While he watched he saw Sulafeh Nabulsi take a cosmetic compact from the large case and spend a long time examining her face and putting into place the hair that had become disarranged during her evasive approach from the Rue Barthelemy-Menn.