Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

‘It’s looking good,’ agreed Levine. ‘Very good indeed.’

Charlie turned back into his seat, in the car in front. This had been the easy part: he hoped the dutifully following CIA men had been lulled into believing it was going to continue just as easily.

They had. On the outskirts of Tokyo, Levine — the more cautious of the two — argued they should pass on to the others the departure arrangements they had confirmed for Irena Kozlov. And when Charlie’s taxi pulled into the shopping arcade entrance leading directly into the tower block in which they knew his room to be, Elliott agreed they had time.

Which they didn’t. Charlie went to the elevator, stayed in it until the first-floor stop and then left, going quickly back down the fire-escape stairs. It could have still gone wrong for him, but for Levine’s second mistake. The American was actually on the lobby telephone to Yamada, the liaison man, when he saw Charlie hurry across the short space from the emergency exit into the corridor to the main exit. Levine slammed the receiver down and instead of following alone decided instead to go back to Elliott in the waiting car. The lapse allowed Charlie to get to the exit, feign a movement towards the waiting taxis to check there was no dark-coloured Nissan carrying two non-Japanese, and then double around behind the loading tourist bus to lose himself among the boarding crowd. Done it! he congratulated himself: left them foundering.

The euphoria was very brief. He looked expectantly around the bus and then, abruptly, checked a second time. Irena Kozlov, whose picture he carried in the waiting passport, wasn’t there.

Fredericks and Harry Fish were still at the American embassy, waiting for the meeting instructions with Kozlov, when the liaison message came through and Fredericks said, triumphantly: ‘We can’t lose!’

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ agreed Fish.

The supervisor shook his head at the other man’s caution. ‘We’ve got the bastard! There’s no way he can get the woman out.’

‘Still can’t make up my mind whether we shouldn’t wait: it’s going to be proof to Kozlov from the word go that we are cheating them,’ said Fish.

‘So what the hell can they do about it!’ demanded Fredericks. ‘Say no, they’ve changed their minds and want to go back! We’ve played footsie long enough with a guy who’s killed one Agency man at least. Once he’s aboard the plane, there’s fuck all protest he or the woman can make. And they know it. From then on, we dictate the game plan.’

‘You know Elliott intends to kill Charlie Muffin, don’t you?’ demanded Fish. ‘How do you think the British are going to react to that, losing an agent as well as a defector?’

‘I don’t give a fuck about how they feel,’ said Fredericks. ‘It was an intentional insult, for London to assign the man in the first place. So everyone gets taught a lesson; so what!’

Fredericks saw personal promotion in this, realized the other American. He said: ‘So let’s hope nothing fouls-up.’

‘You worry too much,’ said Fredericks, confidently. He looked at his watch. ‘Kozlov should be making contact any time now.’

Kozlov let himself into the Shinbashi apartment and sighed, a release of tension. Seized by an abrupt thought he lifted the receiver, to hear that the dialling tone was there and that the instrument was functioning; the best conceived plans could be wrecked by the most inconsequential of things, like suddenly out-of-order telephones. It purred reassuringly in his ear. He sighed again. Now that everything was so close, he was held by an overwhelming feeling of anticlimax. Ridiculous, he thought: far too soon to imagine that nothing could go wrong. He checked the time. The Americans would be expecting him to call soon now.

There was a shoving pressure from behind, pushing him further into the bus, and Charlie moved, hollow-stomached. He took a seat on the side furthest from the hotel entrance, instinctively hiding from any pursuit, spreading his shoulder bag across the adjoining place to prevent it being taken. Don’t panic, he thought; another Charlie Muffin Survival Rule. A mistake to expect her to be sitting there, waiting. He’d chosen the tour bus because of the intermediary stops, knowingly adopting Kozlov’s own pattern. More than possible she’d use it, like her husband. No alternative but to take the ride and hope to Christ she didn’t string out her moment of boarding too long: there wasn’t much flexibility. In fact, if she waited …

Irena Kozlov came unhurriedly on to the bus, ensuring she was the last, muttering what had to be an apology to the guide and making her way further inside. She didn’t look in Charlie’s direction or take the available spot next to him, instead settling three seats in front and on the opposite side. Charlie felt the anxiety go from him, a physical release, annoyed at the quickness of his unnecessary concern.

The commentary began from the guide as the bus descended the now familiar ramp, the palaces to the left being individually identified. Charlie closed his mind to the litany, concentrating upon Irena Kozlov. The first and most immediate impression was of her size: she was clearly visible above the high-back seats, dwarfing everyone around her. Quickly there followed an admiration for her expertise; she actually appeared to be listening, twisting and turning to the land-marks, covering herself brilliantly. Irena didn’t make her move until the tour got to Shinjuhu Gyoen Garden and then still brilliantly, because the garden was on the right-hand side of the bus, enabling her to pretend difficulty in seeing and to look obviously around for a better vantage point. Even the approach, when it came, was absolutely right: a polite enquiry if the seat were free and smiled thanks when Charlie moved the place-keeping bag. She was big, he decided, pulling himself towards the window to allow room: her bum was tight against his. She went through the charade of looking at the park, justifying her move, and entered into the necessary conversation by offering Charlie the map she carried, as if she were pointing out a place he couldn’t locate on his own guide.

‘I was worried, when you weren’t on the bus,’ he said.

‘I needed to be sure,’ she said.

‘I lost them,’ he said.

‘You didn’t,’ she contradicted at once. ‘There are two. One is named Levine, the other Elliott.’

Charlie curbed the impulse to swing around, to examine the other tourists. ‘Where!’

‘Not here; following,’ she said. ‘It’s a dark Nissan, blue I think.’

Charlie realized he’d overlooked Kozlov’s boast that they knew every CIA officer on station in Tokyo. He said: ‘I did not agree or plant it. They followed me to the airport.’

‘They were panicked at the hotel,’ said Irena. ‘They only located you aboard at the very last moment; I saw their reaction.’

‘No one on the bus?’ insisted Charlie, using her knowledge.

‘If there had been, I wouldn’t be here,’ she said.

Charlie swivelled in his seat. The Nissan was four vehicles behind. From where they were, the Americans wouldn’t be able to see with whom he was sitting: it still meant he had to hurry, before the first stop. Charlie employed his own map, for the benefit of those in the bus whom the Americans might later question, apparently consulting her. Irena responded superbly, taking from within its folds the passport and dropping it into her own bag.

‘Rose Adams,’ he said. ‘That’s the name.’

‘Easy to remember,’ she said.

Charlie thought he detected an arrogance about the woman. He hoped it would translate into confidence; she was going to need a lot of that in next few hours. He said: ‘That’s why I chose it.’