Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

Charlie went patiently through the identification procedure at the embassy and sat where he was told by the crisply efficient receptionist, who didn’t respond to his grin. Crabby old virgin, dismissed Charlie. Couldn’t be many left: veritable museum piece.

Richard Cartright was a thin, well tailored man whom Charlie estimated to be about thirty. There was an attempt at extra years with a thin moustache, which didn’t work and an obvious Eton tie, which always did. Charlie had tried it once but got caught out before lunch: during his early, inverted snobbery days. Cartright gave an open-faced smile, offered his hand.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said Cartright. There’s been some traffic.’ Charlie Muffin was certainly an odd-looking cove.

Thought there might be,’ said Charlie.

He followed the younger man into the rear of the embassy, where the sectioned-off, secure intelligence area was kept at arm’s if not pole’s length by the rest of the diplomatic staff. Over the door to Cartright’s office were some charm bells to ward off evil spirits, and there was a bonsai arrangement of miniature trees on the window shelf. The furniture was better than London and the carpet was genuine, Charlie saw. He hoped the charm bells worked.

‘Minimum involvement, I gather?’ said Cartright, at once.

‘For the usual reasons,’ said Charlie.

‘Nasty then?’

The man should know better than to question, thought Charlie. ‘Could be,’ he said.

‘Ready to do anything I can,’ offered Cartright.

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Charlie. ‘What was your guidance from London?’

Cartright indicated the prepared and waiting dossier. ‘Always necessary to obtain clearance.’

Harkness, guessed Charlie. He said: ‘I want a blank British passport, picture slot and name place empty.’

Cartright made a sucking noise, breathing in. ‘Means involving a recognized diplomatic department of the embassy,’ he said. ‘No one likes that. Why didn’t you bring one from London?’

Because it didn’t occur to me until I was on the plane and thinking of all the possible ways of getting her out, thought Charlie. ‘Couldn’t do it for me as a favour, I suppose?’

Precisely the sort of thing Harkness had alerted him to report, realized Cartright. He didn’t like spying on his own side. He said: ‘Not without London finding out. Have to be Foreign Office clearance. You know what they’re like about official documents.’

‘Don’t I just!’ said Charlie. He wondered if that security complaint had been squashed or merely postponed.

‘Sorry,’ said the Tokyo Resident.

‘Not your fault,’ accepted Charlie. It was actually unfair to ask the man.

‘Sensitive?’ asked Cartright.

‘What?’ replied Charlie, intentionally misunderstanding.

‘Whoever you’re getting out?’ Harkness’s instructions were to test the other man. Dislike it as he might, Cartright saw himself as someone trying to establish a career, and if he were going to do that it required a ruthlessness beyond his upbringing scruples.

Nosey bugger or primed? wondered Charlie. In fairness, he supposed the passport request made it obvious. Still wrong; wrong to ask and wrong to respond at any length. He said: ‘Could be.’

Cartright noted the reservation and felt embarrassed. Trying to cover the awkwardness, he said: ‘I could ask London about a passport issue. Ambassador won’t like it, I should warn you. He doesn’t believe decent chaps read other chaps’ mail and actually uses words like rotter. He’d have to be consulted, of course.’ If he did it that way he would have complied with the orders from London and still not betrayed a colleague.

‘Do you know the American head of station?’

‘Art Fredericks,’ identified Cartright, at once. ‘Met him a few times at embassy things … receptions, stuff like that.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Huge man …’ began Cartright, but Charlie said: ‘I meant as a person.’

‘Came here six months after me,’ started Cartright again, pausing momentarily for the calculation. ‘Just over three years then. Takes part in most of the sports events the US embassy puts on. Word is that he’s ambitious.’

‘What’s the full CIA complement here?’ asked Charlie.

‘Three, including him,’ said Cartright, at once.

‘Sure?’

‘Positive. I like to know the competition, even if it’s friendly.’

‘ Is it friendly?’ demanded Charlie.

‘Amicable,’ said Cartright, in qualification. ‘Depends if they’re asking or telling.’

Charlie realized he was lucky that Cartright was so certain of the CIA staffing: it gave him a figure to work from, when it came to calculating the opposition he was facing. ‘What if they’re telling?’ pressed Charlie.

‘Not easy,’ said Cartright, quickly again.

Which made the Kozlov operation like he imagined it to be, bloody difficult. He said: ‘Any other names, apart from Fredericks?’

‘Harry Fish and Winslow Elliott,’ said Cartright. ‘Fish is a nice enough guy but Elliott seems upset he was too late to wear a six gun and ride off into the Wild West sunset.’

‘So the Agency is the next best thing?’ said Charlie. Like Cartright, Charlie liked knowing as much as he could about competition, friendly or otherwise.

‘Something like that,’ said Cartright. ‘They going to be with you or against you?’

It was another intelligent if rather obvious question, after the passport request, but Charlie had the impression it was more than a surface query. He said: ‘At the moment, I’m not quite sure.’

‘Joint operation: something big then?’

The persistence definitely showed the knowledge of some pre-briefing, Charlie decided. Wilson or Harkness? Despite the attempt at fairness, Charlie reckoned the answer was obvious. If he could prove that, after the security classification, he’d have some ammunition in the battle against the polished and buffed asshole. ‘Too soon to judge yet,’ he said, generally. He wondered if Cartright would withhold messages and keep a time sheet on him.

‘How about the traffic?’ offered Cartright.

‘Thanks,’ said Charlie, accepting the dossier.

The London transmissions were very brief, which was hardly surprising at this stage, just the original and strictly formal notification of his coming, the instruction that any local assistance had first to be cleared by either the Director or deputy and a query whether or not he had reported in, upon arrival. The messages about London authorization and the arrival query were both signed by Harkness. Charlie wondered where the second batch of messages was, briefing Cartright on what to do.

‘That the lot?’ asked Charlie.

‘Everything,’ promised Cartright. ‘Were you expecting more?’

‘Nothing separate, to you?’ pressed Charlie. It would be wrong to let the other man think he was a prick, even if he’d been a bit of one last night. He’d also expected something about the empty boast to Fredericks that he had power to abort. Charlie accepted that if the American had checked and London reacted wrongly he’d be in the shit, right up to his neck. Fredericks’ cleverness had gone beyond putting him under immediate surveillance; making the direct approach at the hotel had wrong-footed him into having to improvise.

‘That’s all there is,’ lied Cartright. Hurrying on in his discomfort, he said: ‘Do you want the code room?’

‘Not yet,’ said Charlie. ‘You can tell them I’ve arrived, OK?’

Cartright looked doubtful. ‘I rather think they are expecting to hear from you,’ he said.

I bet they are, thought Charlie: Harkness first in line, bleating about authority. He needed something to fight back with, before there was any contact. He was pretty sure Cartright had been appointed watchdog and regretted it: the man seemed nice enough and Charlie wanted friends, not enemies. He said: ‘Things to do first. It’s only a formality, after all. And you will check about the passport, won’t you?’