Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

Irena Kozlov looked just like an Alsatian wearing lipstick, he decided.

Olga Balan stretched up, easing the ache in her shoulders after the intense concentration, happy at last with the Kozlov report. She read it for the final time, collected all the sound and television tapes of the interviews and sealed them altogether in the package for Moscow. The supposition was overwhelming, she decided: absolutely overwhelming. She guessed Boris Filiatov would soon be filing his own back-covering report; stupid, sweaty little man.

The package freighted in the diplomatic bag was waiting at the embassy and while that night’s encoded message was being transmitted to London, Charlie examined the contents. The promised blank passport was uppermost, directly above the three comparison photographs of Kozlov under his previous name. Charlie concentrated upon them, recognizing at once that Irena wasn’t in the background of any of the reception-type pictures.

The security-cleared telephone sounded within minutes of the transmission ceasing, and this time Charlie didn’t jump.

‘Sure about Bonn?’ demanded the Director, at once.

‘Within a month of McFairlane,’ repeated Charlie. ‘Kozlov called it messy. I’d go for an obvious killing.’

‘No idea who?’

‘None,’ admitted Charlie.

‘So what’s the verdict?’ demanded Wilson. ‘Is he genuine?’

‘Everything seems to fit,’ said Charlie. So why didn’t he feel completely happy? Infantile to expect the man to present a resume stamped KGB, Charlie told himself; never been an operation yet when there weren’t uncertainties.

The Director caught the doubt. ‘But?’

‘But nothing,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ve obviously got to go for it.’

‘Sure you have to get her out this way?’

‘I think it stands the best chance,’ said Charlie, surprised the question had taken so long.

‘It leaves the woman exposed.’

‘She’s supposed to be trained: it’s not far. And Kozlov seems worried about someone in his own security section, so it’s got to be quick.’

‘What about the Americans?’

‘It’s the Americans I’m most worried about,’ admitted Charlie. ‘Kozlov expects a grab. Told me himself.’

‘Did you try to persuade him?’

‘He turned me down. Said the Americans had tried the same.’

‘Believe they’re going to try for the woman?’

‘I’d take bets,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s why I want to do it this way.’

‘They’re not going to like you,’ forecast the Director.

‘Not a lot of people do.’

‘There is something further from this end,’ said Wilson. ‘Done some deeper checks, from your original message. Bill Paul was supposed to be unaware of the finance sourcing of that magazine: it came through two cut-outs. Doesn’t look now as if he was. Indications are that he was definitely CIA-employed. The whole thing was Agency.’

‘An obvious KGB target then?’

‘Looks like it.’ Returning to his immediate concern, Wilson said: ‘Don’t you think you should allow yourself more time?’

‘The quicker the better,’ insisted Charlie. ‘There’s no reason for any delay.’

‘The group leader coming in is named Sampson,’ said the Director, ‘Anthony Sampson.’

‘When?’

‘Midnight your time,’ said Wilson. ‘Briefing is to follow your instructions.’

‘I’ll go out to the airport,’ said Charlie, the escape plan formalized in his mind.

‘Sampson’s been ten years in the service,’ said the Director. ‘A lieutenant: one of their best.’

‘Nothing should go wrong then,’ said Charlie and regretted it the moment he’d spoken.

Kozlov got to the apartment ahead of his wife, which surprised him. He stood waiting for her, gazing out of the window over the darkened harbour, smiling at the thought of all the planning and preparation at last coming successfully together. And it was going to be successful, he knew. He turned, as he heard her key in the lock, and smiled wider as she entered.

‘Everything is finalized,’ he announced, at once.

‘What’s he like?’ she demanded.

Kozlov considered the demand and said: ‘I think he’s good.’

‘Tell me the arrangements.’

Kozlov did, in absolute detail, and then insisted: ‘Repeat it all to me.’

‘The tourist bus at noon,’ she recited.

‘And you’ll recognize him?’ persisted the man, determined everything should be absolutely right.

‘Easily,’ she said, condescending.

Kozlov nodded towards the telephone. ‘I’ll be waiting, if anything goes wrong.’

‘It won’t,’ said the woman.

‘There’s nothing we haven’t guarded against,’ said Kozlov.

‘Nothing,’ said Irena, in unusual agreement. ‘Are you sure it’s to be a military plane?’

‘According to Hayashi, it gets in around midnight,’ said the man. ‘It’s the only way.’

Irena laughed, an abrupt, unexpected sound. ‘I’d just love to see Olga Balan’s face when it happens. Filiatov’s, too.’

Harkness offered the Director the results of the audit and said: ‘I felt you should see the figures right away.’

‘Thank you,’ said Wilson, not attempting to open the folder.

The deputy appeared disappointed. He said: ‘There can’t be any doubt. Three of the supposed informants can’t be traced: that alone is a discrepancy of?800. I’ve itemized the other amounts; it comes to a total of practically?1800.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Director, again.

‘It means that Charlie Muffin has embezzled on his expenses account,’ said Harkness, as if he feared the Director misunderstood.

‘Not until it’s proven,’ said Wilson. ‘I think we should give the man an opportunity to explain himself, don’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t suggest anything else,’ said the deputy. ‘That would be most unfair.’

‘Quite,’ said the Director. He offered the audit back, unopened. ‘Why not keep this somewhere safe, until this other business is settled. We’ll look at it then.’

By the time he reached the darkened American embassy, Charlie had fully prepared his approach to the CIA Resident. There were none of the delays of the earlier visit: the marine guard expected him by name and when he reached the vestibule from the main guard post Fredericks was waiting. The man hadn’t shaved, and after a full day and so late into the night his face was black with beard.

They walked unspeaking through the insecure outer offices into Fredericks’ memorabilia-festooned, electronically protected room, and the moment they entered Charlie went into the performance.

‘No tricks,’ he said.

‘What?’ frowned Fredericks.

‘Tonight we agreed no tricks,’ reminded Charlie. ‘So I’m keeping my side of the bargain. Everything up front, from now on.’

Fredericks looked uncertainly at him. ‘Like what?’ he said.

‘We think we’ve identified someone Kozlov killed; one of your guys,’ said Charlie.

Fredericks came forward in his chair, all animosity gone. ‘Who!’

‘The name was Bill Paul,’ said Charlie. ‘Ran a right-wing magazine in London: CIA financed. My people have confirmed he was deep-cover Agency. He was murdered in London, in January 1980. No one was ever arrested …’

‘Son of a bitch …!’ said the American. It was a remark to himself, not to Charlie.

‘There was another unexplained death, connected with Paul,’ continued Charlie. ‘A Ukrainian dissident called Valeri Solomatin. He used to write for Paul. Drowned in a supposed fishing accident. Our counter-intelligence didn’t accept it was an accident. Happened about a year after Paul’s death; March ‘81.’