Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

Charlie sat back, examining his graph of positive results from his meeting with Fredericks, beyond those which had been obvious to him at the time. With the bonus of the photographs, which he could wire to London from the embassy, it was pretty good: pretty damned good, in fact.

What about the not-so-positive intangibles? From the few indications that emerged from Fredericks, Kozlov did appear to operate in a way that Charlie would have expected a professional intelligence agent to conduct himself. Naming Fredericks’ two guardians at the first meeting was professional, and confidently identifying Fredericks himself was further professionalism. And more again with the Russian, according to Fredericks, picking out the surveilling CIA men on the subsequent meetings and actually warning Fredericks not to be accompanied any more. Which Fredericks had ignored. Knowing the sort of training to which Kozlov had been subjected — and how comparatively easy it had been, once he’d started being professional himself, to isolate his own tail on the subway — Charlie decided it was inconceivable that Kozlov would not have picked out the Americans the last time. Yet the man maintained a further meeting, without apparent protest. Which didn’t make sense. Anxious disregard? A possibility: Charlie knew from experience that nearing the moment of crossing, a defector’s nerves were invariably piano-wire tight. But against that was another contradiction: Kozlov’s calmness. Strangely calm, were Fredericks’ actual words. A calm man — let alone a strangely calm, well-trained professional — did not behave with anxious disregard. Charlie annotated several question marks after that query.

Irena Kozlov shouldn’t be ignored, either: not at all, in fact. Charlie’s immediate impression of her importance, at the American’s disclosure, hadn’t been an exaggeration. Providing there was nothing he’d missed — and Charlie needed a lot more yet — the couple were the prize that Fredericks determined them to be. So why was she remaining the mystery woman? Professional caution? Or something else he didn’t yet understand?

Charlie sat back, sighing. Why weren’t things always easy to understand, like the plots in those spy books with hammer and sickle motifs and Kalashnikov guns on the front cover?

Charlie ran the encounter with Fredericks once more through his mind, determined against any omission, wondering if the American would ever realize the mistakes he’d made. Charlie remained attentive going through the rambling lobby area, interested to see if Fredericks would ignore that afternoon’s undertaking about surveillance, like he’d ignored it with Kozlov. When he passed the piano bar the girl of the previous night was entering; she smiled in recognition and Charlie smiled back. His greater duty was to Queen and country, Charlie decided. Sadly. There was the minimal delay for the cab to come up the ramp and Charlie was glad of it, openly studying those who followed him from the hotel. No one seemed at all interested in him, but that didn’t mean much. There were lots of well polished shoes. Charlie abandoned the exercise, as he entered the car: tonight it didn’t really matter.

The British embassy is outside the diplomatic enclave in which those of the other countries are clustered, and as the vehicle began moving through Niban-Cho Charlie looked around, frowning to remember if it were the sex-and-sake district where Harry Lu had proved to him that the Japanese geisha was something of another sort of romance. It looked familiar but he wasn’t sure. If Kozlov stalled on a meeting, maybe he’d be able to find out; be an interesting experience if he still had some of Fredericks’ people in tow. The gardens and parkland of Chiyoda-Ku formed to his right, a mass of comparative blackness against the surrounding lights, and almost at once the car stopped at the embassy. Cartright hurried into the main vestibule within minutes of being summoned by the night-duty clerk and Charlie said: ‘Good of you to stay on.’

‘Need any help in the code room?’ asked the man.

‘No thanks,’ said Charlie. Had it been a polite question or one from a man given an over-the-shoulder brief?

‘London have reacted predictably, I’m afraid,’ said Cartright. ‘Can’t really say I’m surprised.’

Neither was Charlie, in absolute honesty. Cartright’s office was antiseptically clean — there was actually a smell of some chemical cleanser — with the desk and cupboard tops clear and the filing baskets empty.

‘Just like home,’ said Charlie. ‘Can I see the traffic?’

Cartright went through the ritual of opening a double-security key and combination safe and handed across the manila folder. Charlie saw it was marked ‘Confidential’ and thought at this stage that was an exaggeration, like his colour designation that morning in the code room. Cartright had set out the passport request very simply, not intruding any local objections, and Wilson’s response was a one-line message demanding personal contact.

‘Not exactly an outright refusal,’ qualified Charlie.

‘Not approval, either,’ said the local man.

‘Ever worked out of London?’ asked Charlie.

‘No.’

‘Try to avoid it,’ advised Charlie. ‘Full of wankers.’

‘Always treated me all right,’ said Cartright.

‘Matter of personality, I guess,’ said Charlie.

‘How’s everything going?’ queried Cartright, openly.

Definitely a too direct, entrapping question, gauged Charlie. ‘Who knows?’ he said, as awkwardly as possible.

Cartright wondered what irregularities Harkness expected from this man: at the moment he was behaving and operating quite properly.

In the code room, with the door security slide showing red this time, Charlie sent London the notification of his presence with the request that they open up the photo-transmission line while he encoded his material. The response was immediate and Charlie worked concentratedly, breaking away from his hotel room notes only when one picture had been completed and needed replacing with another on the revolving drum. When the picture wiring was finished he opened up the separate transmission line and began sending his impressions of the encounter with Fredericks, checking as the message was relayed against his original reminders. At the end there was the formal acknowledgement from London and at once an instruction to stand by. While he waited, Charlie fed his notes through the shredder and then burned them: just like the hammer and sickle books, he thought again.

The telephone ring jarred, making Charlie jump. He picked up the red receiver, switched on the scrambling device which would distort his voice to anyone except the person at the other end whose telephone had the antidote scrambler, and said: ‘Hello?’

‘You seem to have got quite a bit,’ said Wilson. The Director’s voice was clear and unaffected by the electronic protection.

‘It will mean a lot of work, for the analysts,’ said Charlie.

‘That’s what they’re employed for,’ said the Director. ‘The Americans are being helpful?’

‘No,’ corrected Charlie at once. ‘Suspicious and difficult.’

‘So we shouldn’t channel any of this checking officially through Langley?’ said Wilson, just as quickly.

‘Definitely not,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t want them to know what we’re doing.’

‘Or the West Germans?’

‘No.’

‘Able to reach any impression?’ asked the Director.

‘Not yet,’ replied Charlie. ‘As I said in the message, some things fit, others don’t. It’s still too early.’

‘Do you think you’ll get your own meeting?’

‘I warned the Americans I wouldn’t continue without one: told them to make that clear to Kozlov, as well …’