Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

‘Of course we made photo checks!’ said Fredericks, irritably. ‘The Kozlovs who are in Ankara and Paris are the guys who were in Washington. Neither of the wives’ names were Irena, either. Kozlov’s clean.’

‘Sure that’s his real name?’

‘We’ve no way of telling.’

Charlie frowned openly at the evasion. ‘You want me to believe you haven’t taken a photograph, during one of your four meetings!’

Fredericks smiled, in reluctant admission. He said: ‘Twice. We freighted the pictures back to Washington. He’s not on any mug file we or any other agency have.’

‘Born?’

‘Leningrad, 1940.’

‘Age seem right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything unusual?’

‘Unusual?’ queried Fredericks.

The man knew what he meant, for Christ’s sake! Charlie said: ‘Facial hair. Or lack of hair. Scars. A limp. Missing fingers. Jewellery. Odd-shaped rings. That kind of unusual.’

Fredericks decided that Charlie’s mind was sharper than his suit. He said: ‘No.’

‘No what?’ pressed Charlie, determinedly.

‘Nothing unusual whatsoever. No facial hair. He’s not losing it up top, either. Full head. No scars or limps. Doesn’t wear any jewellery at all, not even a ring,’ itemized the American.

‘Full head?’ isolated Charlie. ‘Do you mean he’s got more than you’d expect, for a man of his age?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Colour?’

‘Lightish brown.’

‘Lightish brown? Or a tendency to greyness?’

Fredericks paused and then said: ‘I’m sorry. Would you like a coffee or a drink or something?’

‘Nothing,’ said Charlie, refusing a deflecting interruption. ‘Genuine light brown or greying?’

Beneath the desk, Fredericks gripped and ungripped his hands in frustration. Why this guy, of all people? ‘Genuine brown.’

‘You said light brown,’ reminded Charlie. ‘So what is it, light brown? Or brown?’

‘What the hell is this, a fucking inquisition!’ erupted the American, at last.

‘If you like,’ agreed Charlie, unperturbed by the outburst. ‘You’ve already told me it’s my ass. And it is. And I’ve already told you that I’m not risking it until I’m satisfied. Which I’m not … not by a long way. If I don’t get it all, then we both get nothing…’ He hesitated, wondering if he should take the risk, and thought shit, why not? He said: ‘London confirmed my authority to abort, didn’t they?’

‘Wouldn’t you have checked?’ said Fredericks, defensively.

‘Of course I would. That’s what I’m doing now,’ said Charlie. No doubt about it: General Sir Alistair Wilson was a bloody good man to have watching your back. Or ass, which seemed the buzzword.

‘Light brown,’ capitulated the American. ‘His hair is definitely light brown, without any grey.’

‘Eyes?’

‘Blue.’

‘Light blue or dark blue?’

‘Dark blue.’

‘Spectacles?’

‘Yes.’

Charlie came forward slightly in his chair. ‘Don’t you regard that as an unusual feature?’

‘No,’ said Fredericks.

‘Of course it is,’ disputed Charlie. ‘Heavy framed, light frame, metal frame or frameless?’

‘Heavy,’ replied Fredericks. There was very little he was going to be able to hold back, for themselves.

‘Heavy what?’

‘Plastic, I guess. Black.’

‘Thick lens?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘So they could be false, some sort of minimal disguise?’

‘It would be minimal, wouldn’t it?’

‘That’s all it’s got to be, in most cases,’ lectured Charlie. ‘People, even trained people, respond to immediate impressions, not careful studies. Heavy black glasses are a feature, and if they are missing when you expect them the immediate impression might be that it’s the wrong person … the sort of hair you’ve described can easily be tinted, to heighten the change …’ Charlie stopped, annoyed at an oversight of his own. ‘Is it parted?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Fredericks.

Charlie noted the hesitation. ‘Which side?’ he said.

‘Left,’ said the American. The hesitation was still there.

‘You sure?’

‘Yes,’ said Fredericks, doubtfully.

Charlie hoped the photographs were good: they were a bonus he shouldn’t forget. He said: ‘And if Kozlov really needs glasses, then the opportunity for an appearance change is still there. He could use contact lenses and even alter the proper colour of his eyes.’

‘Why!’ demanded Fredericks, annoyed there was more. ‘What’s the point of debating disguise! The man isn’t trying to hide from us.’

The point was intentionally to cause an apparent side issue to lure the other man into disclosing everything there was to learn, but Charlie didn’t tell him that. Instead he said: ‘I would have thought that if this thing goes ahead the possibility of disguise might be pretty important to you.’

Fredericks swallowed, uncomfortable at the lapse. ‘Getting Kozlov out is our problem, not yours,’ he said, belligerently.

‘How tall?’ resumed Charlie.

‘Five ten.’

‘Weight?’

‘About 168 lbs,’ said Fredericks.

Charlie, who had never adjusted to the American weighing system, made the quick mental calculation: twelve stone. He said: ‘So what’s his appearance, average, heavy or what?’

‘Average.’

‘No gut?’ said Charlie, instinctively breathing in. ‘It’s possible, even though the weight is about right for the height.’

Fredericks shook his head. ‘He’s completely nondescript.’

Charlie decided that it was the first time the other man had said anything to indicate that Kozlov might be genuine. Fredericks, with his distinctive bulk, must find operational work difficult. But then, thought Charlie, in contradiction, he hadn’t isolated the man during the arrival-day surveillance. Subjugate the irritation! he told himself. He said: ‘He admits to being Executive Action?’

‘Yes,’ said Fredericks.

‘Did you take him through it?’

‘Through enough,’ said Fredericks.

Enough for you but not for me, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Tell me about it.’

‘It came out the first time,’ recalled Fredericks. ‘He always insists on stipulating the meeting places: sets out several so that we can’t stake them out properly and then chooses the one at which to make the contact …’

‘So he can check and ensure he’s not going to be jumped, cither by you or his own people …?’ clarified Charlie.

‘That’s the reason he gives.’

That was certainly professional, judged Charlie. ‘You were talking about the first meeting?’ he encouraged.

‘It was at Tsukuba, where the ‘85 Expo was held,’ resumed Fredericks. ‘Good choice. Crowded with people. He identified me …’

‘How?’ came in Charlie. It was a genuine and important question, but he also wanted to jolt the other man from the prepared, withholding delivery he suspected.

‘Part of his proving himself,’ said Fredericks. ‘Claims to know every Agency man on station here. The instruction was that I should simply tour the various stands and the exhibition site and wait for an approach … it came in a revolving theatre, in the Hitachi Pavilion …’

‘How?’ broke in Charlie again. ‘How did that instruction come, in the first place? How did the CIA learn Yuri Kozlov wanted to come across?’

Charlie Muffin was a bastard who didn’t deserve to be readmitted into any intelligence environment. But Fredericks realized the man wasn’t the jerk he’d accused him earlier of being. As he prepared to answer, Fredericks thought again how much the defection was his personal operation and felt a fresh surge of annoyance at the degree of cooperation that was being surrendered. He said: ‘It was direct, to me. There was a reception, at the Swiss embassy. Low-key affair that the ambassador didn’t even bother to attend. I only went for a drink. There was an anonymous note in my car, when I left.’