Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

‘You were lucky, Charlie: bloody lucky,’ he said, to his own flop-haired, loose-tied reflection. He hoped he stayed that way.

‘I don’t believe it!’ exploded Levine, when Fredericks finished the account to the assembled CIA team. ‘What the hell does he think he’s doing, running the operation!’

It hadn’t been posed as that sort of question, but Fredericks paused before responding and then said: ‘Yes. I guess that’s exactly what he thinks. Or wants to do.’

‘Tell him to go kiss ass,’ said Elliott. ‘This thing is going to fuck up and it’s going to fuck up over Charlie Muffin.’

‘I’d have argued the same way as he did, in the same circumstances,’ said Yamada, more reasonably. ‘I wouldn’t take second string in a British set-up, not without trying to make some sort of independent assessment.’

‘From the sloppy way he behaved when he arrived today, I’m surprised he thought of it,’ said Levine.

‘Sloppy is a good word,’ said Fish, who had been the airport surveillance. ‘I’ve seen bag women on 42nd Street in better shape than he’s in.’

‘Think he meant it, about pulling out?’ asked Dale. ‘We’d be in bad shape if he did. Don’t forget what Kozlov said.’

Fredericks looked irritably at the man, not needing any reminder. ‘I think he meant it,’ he said. ‘What I don’t know is if he’s got the authority. Which is why I’m checking. Be great, to slap the cocky bastard into line.’

Harkness handed the Director the enquiry that had come from Langley and said: ‘That’s directly contrary to what you insisted. There had to be communication between us, before he considered an abort. He hasn’t even been in contact with our embassy. I’ve checked.’

‘I know what I said,’ smiled Wilson. That morning he’d brought some Anne Cocker floribunda from the garden in Hampshire. He took one of the roses from the vase on his desk, sniffing it reflectively. ‘Charlie’s only been in Tokyo a matter of hours,’ he said. ‘That’s not enough time for anyone to decide whether to abort or nor. He’s bargaining.’

‘He should have made contact,’ insisted Harkness.

‘Maybe the circumstances didn’t allow it,’ said Wilson.

‘Shall I advise Langley he hasn’t got the authority?’

‘Good God, no!’ said Wilson, hurriedly. ‘Tell them he has.’

‘But that’s …’

‘Backing our man in the field,’ finished Wilson.

‘There are some other things I’d like to discuss with you,’ said Harkness, starting to open Charlie’s accounts file he’d brought with him to the Director’s office.

‘Later,’ said Wilson. ‘Not now.’

The deputy director decided he had been right in alerting Cartright.

Not having to pay for his own laundry was a perk of foreign travel. Charlie included for pressing the more creased of his two suits — the one that had been a give-away bargain in the January sales with the green check in the trousers only slightly different from that in the jacket — and gave himself odds of 6–4 that Harkness would knock it off his expenses. Charlie was still pissed off, getting caught out the previous evening. Only temporary, he thought, a private promise to himself.

He left unhurriedly, increasing his pace immediately outside, going at once to the lifts serving the shopping area. He managed to get himself into the corner with his back to the wall, enabling him to see everyone who entered after him. Three Asian men, a Caucasian couple and a man by himself, Charlie noted. The single man disembarked on the first floor and two more Japanese got in after another couple talking animatedly in what Charlie thought to be German, but wasn’t sure. The new arrivals filled the elevator, so the grouping stayed until it reached the ground floor. Charlie made as if to emerge, behind everyone else, but then mimed the pocket-patting charade of someone who had forgotten something and stepped back into the lift, to return to the hotel level. One of the Asians who had travelled down with him just managed to get back in with the freshly entering group. Gotcha! thought Charlie. Back at the hotel level, he went directly to the long, open-lounge bordering corridor, towards the main exit, stopping abruptly to feign interest in the antique shop at the end. His pursuer was trapped in the middle of the walkway. The man still made the effort, halting like Charlie at one of the arcade shops. You’re dead, cowboy, thought Charlie. He went further on towards the main area, wondering if there was any more surveillance.

As the taxi went towards the Ginza, Charlie decided Tokyo was a city full up with people and tight-together houses. It was the uncertain time, sticky with rainy-season heat. Although it was dry at the moment, everyone carried condom-sheathed umbrellas that by an ingenuity of engineering bloomed into the real thing at the first shower.

Charlie sat with his money ready, isolating the Akasaka Mitsuke Underground station as the car went beneath the elevated roadway and glad of the clog of traffic. He waited until the cab was practically alongside before stopping the driver, gesturing with supposed impatience at the traffic delay and thrusting notes into the man’s hand. The impression of a full-up city was greater in the subway, and as well as the people noise there was the crickets-in-the-bushes clatter of the passenger counters at the barriers. He chose a train already at the platform, not trying to check for pursuit until he was actually on board. As the doors closed, Charlie thought that if he had?I for every time he’d used tube trains to lose a tail he could afford his own personal chiropodist. Charlie knew it would be difficult for him to spot his follower in a crowded situation of many Japanese, which was why he’d taken particular care. The man in the lift had been wearing a grey suit, muted tie, white shirt, with neither hat, topcoat nor spectacles. The mistake had been the shoes — a subject frequently on Charlie’s mind — black and polished so highly they could have been made of some plastic material. Four men nearby matched the description, except for their footwear. Charlie moved slightly and found his man at the far end of the carriage. By studying the colour coding chart, Charlie worked out that he was on the Yurakucho line; when the train hissed into Aoyama-Itchome station he realized he was going the wrong way, with too many intermediary stops. Charlie did not immediately disembark at Omatesando, wanting as many people as possible to clear ahead of him. He slipped through the closing doors as the warning bell sounded, hurrying towards the sign for the Hanazomon line, but at the last moment switching to Toei Shinjuku. He was lucky with a waiting train again and ran on. He was sweating and his ribs hurt, from having to hurry. He looked around the carriage, intent upon the feet. There was one man again at the end of the carriage who qualified, but he got off at Akasaka and Charlie reckoned it was looking good. He made another delayed departure at Hibaya, caught the first train and got off at the next stop, at Ginza. He ran up the stairs, breath groaning from him, and plunged at once into the man-wide labyrinth of paths and alleys behind the main streets, stopping frequently now, openly seeking the pursuit. There wasn’t any, but Charlie still wasn’t satisfied. He kept twisting and turning, managing to reach the larger Miyukidori Street entirely by back alleys. He remained drawn back, until he saw an unoccupied, cruising taxi, emerging to hail it at the moment of passing.

Charlie gave the location of the British embassy and sat back gratefully, wet-bodied and panting, against the upholstery. Maybe he was getting too old for all this Action Man stuff; then again, perhaps he should exercise with something heavier than a whisky glass in his hand. He saw the driver was taking him the longer way, through Marunouchi and around the park, but didn’t protest; after all the buggering about, he needed time to get his breath back.