Brian Freemantle: The Run Around

One of the guards, who knew Charlie from other debriefings at other safe houses, nodded to his bank manager’s outfit of the previous day and said: ‘Dressed up for this one, then?’

‘I like to make an effort,’ said Charlie.

He continued slowly up the winding drive, locating some of the electronic checks and cameras and sensors but knowing there were others he missed. The drive was lined either side by thick rhododendron and Charlie regretted they were not in bloom; it would have been quite a sight.

The driveway opened on to a huge gravelled forecourt, with a grassed centrepiece in the middle of which was a fountain with nymphs spitting water at each other. The house was a square, Georgian structure, the front almost completely covered with creeper and ivy. Charlie parked to one side and as he walked towards the carved oak door he wondered what the reaction of the British taxpayer would be to knowing how much they shelled out each year, maintaining places like this. Charlie had carried out defector interviews in at least six, all in different parts of the country but all equally grand and expensive. The need for the Establishment always to be well established, he decided, particularly if some other unsuspecting bloke is picking up the bill. Shit, thought Charlie, reminded too late: he’d forgotten to get a receipt for the pub lunch.

The door opened before he reached it but Hubert Witherspoon did not come forward to meet him.

‘There you are!’ greeted Charlie. ‘I was worried about you: thought you’d done a header wearing your best trainers.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Witherspoon. He was a tall, languid man who had trouble with a flick of hair that strayed permanently over his left eye. He wore an immaculate grey suit, hard-collared shirt and a school tie. Stowe, Charlie recognized.

‘Nothing,’ dismissed Charlie. ‘So you’ve been debriefing?’

‘Took over a month ago. And very successfully,’ insisted the man. ‘I asked who was coming down today but London didn’t reply.’

‘Perhaps they wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘Are you to take over now?’

‘Nope,’ said Charlie. ‘Just the assassination.’

‘London has got all there is on that,’ said Witherspoon, in further insistence. ‘There’s nothing more.’

‘That came out at one of your sessions?’

‘I said it was a successful debrief, didn’t I?’

‘What did you do about it?’

‘Told London immediately, of course.’

‘That all?’

‘What else would you expert me to do?’

Not behave like a prat, thought Charlie. It wasn’t worth an argument; be unfair in fact. Instead of replying, Charlie said: ‘Tell me about Novikov.’

‘Everything points to his being genuine,’ said Witherspoon. ‘Handled a lot of important stuff, right up to Kremlin level. And he’s got a damned good recall, so he’s going to be a very productive gold-mine for a long time. Hates Russia, for the reasons set out in the report, so he’s anxious to co-operate. There’s already been a request for access, from the CIA.’

‘I bet there has,’ said Charlie.

‘How long do you think you’ll be?’ asked Witherspoon.

‘How the hell should I know?’ said Charlie. ‘As long as it takes.’

‘Thought I might cut away for a round of golf,’ said Witherspoon. ‘There’s a jolly good course the other side of Pulborough.’

‘You don’t want to sit in?’ asked Charlie, surprised the man entrusted with the overall debrief didn’t want a comparison with Novikov’s replies, against those to another questioner. Charlie would have jumped at the opportunity, in reversed circumstances.

‘I told you, I’ve already covered the assassination,’ said Witherspoon.

‘So you did.’

‘Unless you’d like my assistance, of course.’

‘I’ll manage,’ assured Charlie. Some people were beyond help, he thought.

Vladimir Novikov was waiting in what Charlie supposed was called the drawing room. It was very large and at the side of the house, with huge windows and French doors leading out on to a paved verandah beyond which was a view of lawns and long-ago planted trees whose branches now drooped to the ground, as if they were tired from holding them out for such a long time. An intricately patterned carpet protected most of the wood-tiled floor and the furnishings, two long couches, with six easy chairs, were all chintz-covered. There were flowers on two tables and an expansive arrangement in a fireplace the mantelpiece of which was higher than Charlie’s head. The Russian seemed to fit easily into such surroundings. He was tall, easily more than six feet, and heavy as well, bull-chested and thick around the waist. His size was accentuated by the thick black beard he wore in the style of the Russia he was supposed to despise, flowing to cover his neck and tufted where it had never been trimmed. The suit was clean but appeared worn, shiny at the elbows, the lapels curling inwards from constant wear. His suit had bent like that, until he’d had it cleaned for the bank meeting, recalled Charlie. He guessed it would collapse again, in a few days. It usually did.

The Russian stood, as Charlie moved further into the room, but from the stance Charlie decided it was more a gesture of politeness than nervousness.

‘Mr Witherspoon said I would be seeing someone else today,’ said Novikov.

The man’s voice matched his frame, deep and resonant, but that was not Charlie’s immediate thought. Witherspoon was a bloody fool, disclosing his real identity. Charlie said: ‘Just one or two points. Finer detail, really.’

‘I will do everything I can to help,’ said the Russian.

‘So I have been told,’ said Charlie, gesturing the man back on to the couch he’d been occupying when he entered. For himself he chose one of the easy chairs, slightly to one side.

‘What is it particularly interests you?’ asked Novikov.

Dance around a bit first, thought Charlie. He said: ‘You were making plans to defect, in Moscow?’

‘Yes?’

‘How?’

‘I was leaving that to my control at the British embassy: the military attache, George Gale. Waiting for him to tell me what to do.’

Charlie wondered if that were the man’s real name, as well. Silly buggers might as well hand out visiting cards, with spying listed as their occupation. He said: ‘Why?’

‘I believed I was under suspicion.’

‘Why?’ repeated Charlie. He decided his initial impression was correct. There was no nervousness about the man, which there usually was with defectors, caused by natural uncertainty. Novikov appeared actually confident and relaxed.

‘You know I was security cleared to the highest level?’ said the man.

‘Yes.’

‘In the last few weeks I was only allocated low level material, the sort of stuff ordinary clerks could handle. I was not an ordinary clerk.’

And I bet you never let anyone forget it, thought Charlie. He said: ‘But it was only suspicion? You had no actual proof?’

‘If there had been any actual proof I would have been arrested, wouldn’t I?’

‘I suppose so,’ agreed Charlie, content for the man to patronize and imagine he was in the commanding role. The sessions with Witherspoon would have been something to witness. He said: ‘So what happened?’

‘One day I was unwell: went home early. I found someone in my apartment. He went out a rear window as I opened the door and it was dismissed by the KGB militia as an attempted burglary but I knew it was not.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Precisely because attempted burglaries at the homes of senior KGB cipher clerks are never dismissed,’ said Novikov.

It was a convincing point, accepted Charlie. He said: ‘What do you think it was?’