Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

Mind held by his self-description, Charlie leaned forward in the mirror. Eyes weren’t bloodshot — well, not much anyway — and the hair wasn’t thinning; just looked that way because he’d slept awkwardly. Not in bad shape at all, really, providing he remembered to breathe in all the time and walk with his chin up, to lessen the jowl droop. He managed to shave without cutting himself and chose the freshly pressed suit and the tie that no longer showed the pie stain, smiling at his unusual reflection in the larger mirror. Posh enough for a wedding, he decided. The reflection ran on, soberingly; people dressed up for funerals, as well.

He picked up the passport, checking his entries of the previous night, pausing at the photograph of Irena Kozlov. Certainly no rose, he thought again. He searched for the descriptive word and came up with formidable. Irena Kozlov certainly looked a formidable woman. He guessed it would take a long time fully to debrief her, everything having to be done at her speed and pace. Charlie hoped he didn’t get lumbered with the task; he disliked being boxed up for weeks in guarded country houses, painstakingly stripping the facts from the invariable self-important fiction with which defectors always attempted to make themselves appear better catches than they were. Bad as damage assessments, when one of their own people went walkabout. The thought led naturally to Herbert Bell; better as a conduit, the Director had said. Charlie wondered what disinformation they were feeding the Russians through the Foreign Office traitor. Sir Alistair Wilson was a cunning old bugger: whatever it was, Charlie knew it would be confusingly good.

Charlie did not hurry through the long walkway to the main foyer and stood back for a couple at the taxi rank, wanting at this stage to make it as easy as possible. He didn’t check until the vehicle was down the ramp and into the immediately clogged streets, looking idly through the rear window. Difficult in conditions like this, with so many cars, but he put?5 on the black Nissan with the central roof aerial: two men, neither Japanese. There’d be plenty of opportunity to make sure; Haneda was a bloody long way from the city. Of which he had not seen enough, Charlie decided. When Irena was safely away he’d definitely do the rounds in Niban-cho: he liked the look-at-me neon with bars the size of cupboards and bills the size of wardrobes, especially when it was Harkness’s money. Invite Cartright, maybe; give him indigestion, if he were Harkness’s man.

Charlie guessed correctly about the Nissan. Levine, who was driving, said: ‘I guess the airport.’

‘Where the hell is the pick-up?’ said Elliott.

‘Could be a dozen places.’ His partner’s constant anger worried Levine.

‘Noon, he told Fredericks,’ reminded Elliott. ‘He’s given himself a lot of time.’

‘Suppose it would make sense to meet her at the airport?’ said Levine.

‘Not good for a snatch,’ said Elliott. ‘Too open.’

‘I wouldn’t like it either,’ agreed the other American. ‘Damn all we can do about it.’

‘Shouldn’t we close up a little?’

‘Don’t want to spook him,’ said the more controlled Levine. ‘It’s got to be the surprise of his life.’

‘What there is left of it,’ said Elliott.

‘The woman first,’ cautioned Levine. He wished Fredericks had linked him with someone else.

They joined the airport highway and Charlie made another check and decided he was right about the Nissan. He wondered what Washington’s plans were, to get Kozlov out. It had to be an aircraft of some sort: and military, too. With their bases on Guam and in the Philippines, the Americans were better placed than London had been. Alas, thought Charlie, for the passing of the British Empire, gunships and natives everywhere who knew the words to ‘Rule Britannia’.

The routing signs began to indicate the airport and Levine said, ‘No doubt about it.’

‘Going to be a bastard if the meeting is there,’ said Elliott, echoing the earlier concern.

‘The woman first, then him,’ insisted Levine. ‘Let’s not fuck up by getting the priorities wrong.’

‘Hate to miss the opportunity, after what he did,’ said Elliott.

‘His losing her will be enough,’ said Levine.

‘No it won’t,’ said Elliott. ‘Not half enough.’

In the car in front Charlie leaned forward, indicating to the driver he wanted the military transportation area in the cargo section and not any of the main civilian passenger terminals.

Levine saw the car’s change of direction and said: ‘Shit! We’ll be obvious, if we stay this near!’

Elliott tensed against the windscreen and Levine saw him reach down to unclip the restraining strap on the ankle holster. Levine eased the car back, edging himself behind the hopeful concealment of a food delivery lorry. As he did so he saw the camouflaged markings on some of the parked aircraft they were approaching and said: ‘It checks out, with what he told Fredericks: a military plane.’

‘Where’s the goddamned woman!’ demanded the other American.

Levine saw the taxi stop against the military terminal building and managed to get his car into a filter road and behind a cluster of single-storey sheds.

‘What now!’ said Elliott.

‘We watch and we wait,’ said Levine.

Charlie Muffin entered the control area for transitting foreign military personnel, gazing through a window on to the apron, trying to identify the British aircraft. He saw an Air Force rondel about five aircraft away from the main building.

Sampson responded within minutes to the Tannoy paging, a stiffly upright, closely barbered, open-faced man, obviously military despite the civilian clothing.

‘I was expecting to come to see you, sir,’ said Sampson. There was an eagerness to please about the man.

Charlie tried to remember the last time even a restaurant waiter had called him sir. He said: ‘There was a particular reason.’

‘A lot was explained to me in London,’ said Sampson. ‘When’s it to be?’

‘Today,’ said Charlie. ‘But not from here.’

‘I thought …’

‘Too many interested observers,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m running hare to the hounds.’ It took him fifteen minutes to explain how Irena Kozlov was going to leave Japan, and when he finished Sampson said: ‘Providing she can go through with it, everything sounds remarkably simple. Very little for me to do, in fact.’

‘The best ways are always the simple ones,’ said Charlie. ‘And there’ll be enough to do, from Hong Kong.’

‘How will I recognize her?’

Charlie produced the passport and the photograph from his travel bag and said: ‘Rose Adams.’

Sampson studied the picture, without comment, and then said: ‘She will expect me to be waiting?’

‘At the arrival barrier,’ said Charlie. ‘She’ll have your name.’ Just pick her up, transfer immediately to your own aircraft and head for London. No stop-over. Just go.’

‘What time does her plane get in?’

‘Nine tonight,’ said Charlie. ‘Six o’clock departure from Osaka.’

‘I’ll have a flight plan filed from here for two,’ said Sampson.

‘That should be more than enough time,’ agreed Charlie.

‘Sorry not to have been able to help more,’ said the man.

‘You’re doing everything that’s necessary,’ said Charlie.

Charlie had held the taxi and as it left the airport complex and rejoined the multi-laned highway back into the city, Levine said from the watching car: ‘Checking the escape route. Very professional.’

‘So we know it is going to be from here,’ said Elliott. ‘And how to stop it. We’ve got him, Hank: really got him! The woman, too.’