Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

The trek from the shrine to the Olympic youth centre was a long one and Charlie’s feet were throbbing by the time they reached it. Definitely a celebration tonight, he decided: few drinks at Niban-cho, and then a complete contrast, a ryotei restaurant for Japanese haute cuisine: traditional, too, which was important. He could take his shoes off. He wished to Christ he could do that now. Charlie remained looking intently around him; Levine and Elliott were expectantly behind now, Elliott at one stage standing right next to him. Too late, my loves; too late, he thought.

Charlie returned gratefully to the bus, settling in the same seat as before, aware of Elliott in conversation at the steps with the guide and then of the American boarding the vehicle and establishing himself two rows behind, on the opposite side. Charlie made another obvious time-check. One twenty. Two o’clock, Sampson had estimated, they’d be preparing for take-off. Sampson seemed the sort of man who’d always build in allowances for the unexpected: perhaps he’d already left. Charlie decided to move at the next stop: Elliott might learn of the now missing Irena by questioning other passengers. There was no reason, in fact, to delay the signal to London that everything had gone off perfectly; absolutely perfectly.

The stop was at the nature study park in Shirokanedai and Charlie made no attempt to conceal his departure from the Americans because it didn’t matter any more, separating away as the group began their tour and heading for the road. He ignored the car that Levine parked, looking for a taxi. The traffic was bad, the air shuddering with exhaust fumes; several passing Japanese wore smog masks, like doctors looking for a misplaced operating theatre.

He was lucky with a cab, sitting forward on the seat, impatient now to get to the embassy and find out from Fredericks how everything had gone with Kozlov. Perhaps he’d extend that night’s invitation to include the American. Kozlov would be gone and there was nothing to be gained by continuing the rivalry. As far as Fredericks was concerned, the episode had ended in a draw, one each.

At an intersection, the driver made a sudden turn and Charlie saw, relieved, that they were joining the major Sakuradadori Avenue and that it was comparatively clear. It stayed that way up to and then beyond the Imperial palace. It was fifteen minutes past two when the cab pulled up outside the British embassy.

The Americans were two cars behind and Elliott said positively: ‘It’s gone wrong!’

‘Nothing happened on that bus,’ insisted Levine.

‘It was the only place and we missed it,’ said Elliott.

‘I’m sure nothing happened,’ said Levine, who wasn’t and who knew that Elliott didn’t think so either.

‘What now?’ asked Elliott.

‘We wait.’

‘Shouldn’t we contact the others?’

Levine shook his head, determinedly. ‘I did that last time,’ he said, in admission. ‘We’re not moving.’

‘Holy shit!’ exploded Elliott. ‘The bastard screwed us!’

Inside the embassy, Charlie was conscious of an atmosphere as he waited in the foyer for Cartright to arrive and take him through the admission procedure. When the intelligence Resident reached him, Cartright said: ‘Sorry if I kept you, Charlie. Hell of a flap on at the moment.’

‘What?’ asked Charlie.

‘Had some military people through, on their way to some sort of exercise in Australia. Still not clear yet … only happened about half an hour ago …’

‘Tell me!’ demanded Charlie, shouting.

‘Seems to have blown up, on take-off.’

‘Fuck!’ said Charlie. Where was the perfect planning now? More important, where was Irena Kozlov?

By one o’clock there was still no contact from Kozlov with Room 323 at the Imperial Hotel and Fredericks hurried down to the hotel foyer to use the telephones there, leaving the one Dale was manning unblocked. From then on, the panic rising, he called Yamada, maintaining liaison at the embassy, every five minutes.

‘Still nothing,’ insisted Yamada, at two thirty. ‘Last time I heard from Levine was just before twelve, from the hotel. Said he had Charlie Muffin under wraps.’

‘No problems at all?’

‘Airport and back, obviously just checking arrangements.’

‘But he hadn’t met the woman!’

‘No,’ said Yamada, suppressing the sigh. It had been the same conversation, every time.

‘Kozlov hasn’t shown,’ said Fredericks.

‘You told me already.’

‘So where the hell is he?’ said Fredericks, exasperated.

‘Where the hell is everyone?’ said Yamada. ‘What’s happened?’

It was the question Charlie Muffin was asking himself, in the code room at the British embassy.

Charlie Muffin recognized it was a damage assessment in every definition of the phrase. And he didn’t have a clue how to assess it. Which way — or where — to start, even. The first priority was salvage, to save what he had. And he still had — he hoped — Irena Kozlov. There was insufficient time to try to reach the woman before she caught the train to Osaka. He supposed he could wait and telephone Osaka airport: he knew the flight number and there’d be no risk paging her by her new name. She’d been frightened, Charlie remembered: unwilling at the last moment to let go. Psychologically wrong, then, to attempt any interception and half-thought out rearrangements which might panic her. Which left Hong Kong, where she expected to be met by a man named Anthony Sampson and a military aircraft. And wasn’t going to encounter either. Thank God for insurance, thought Charlie, sighing with relief as Harry Lu replied on the second ring.

‘Hoping to hear from you Charlie!’ greeted the man. His voice caught at the end and the sentence finished in a wheezing cough. ‘How’s business?’ he picked up.

‘Problems,’ admitted Charlie, at once.

‘Serious?’ asked Lu.

‘Danger to a whole contract,’ said Charlie. ‘Someone’s intercepted some samples. Damaged a whole shipment.’

‘What can I do?’ said Lu.

Praise be for true professionals, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Got a sales person coming in. Rose Adams. Expecting a buyer who won’t be able to make it.’

‘Like me to pick her up instead?’ anticipated the man.

‘And keep her from any rival buyers,’ said Charlie. ‘Japanese Airline’s flight 208.’

‘This sales person, she know the name of the buyer?’

‘Sampson,’ said Charlie. ‘Anthony Sampson.’

‘Met before?’

‘No.’

‘She likely to be disappointed?’

‘She was expecting an immediate onward transhipment,’ said Charlie. ‘Likely to be very unhappy.’

‘I understand,’ said Lu, who did. ‘Anyone else from the firm coming to sort it all out?’

‘Getting there myself as soon as possible,’ announced Charlie. He paused and said: ‘Transportation still reliable, in Hong Kong?’

‘Same service as before,’ assured the other man.

‘I remember,’ said Charlie. ‘Apologize to her for me, will you? Make it very clear that she hasn’t lost the business …’ He hesitated, then added: ‘Tell her everything here is fine.’ She’d need the assurance, confronted with the uncertainty of not being met by whom she expected.

‘Will do,’ undertook Lu.

‘There might be some other determined buyers,’ warned Charlie.

‘Business is tough all over.’

‘This is very tough,’ insisted Charlie. He said: ‘It’s good to be working with you again.’

‘Like it to happen more often,’ said Lu, making clear the expected return.

‘I’ll see it does,’ promised Charlie. Another undertaking not backed by authority, he realized. If Harry Lu stood in for him until he was able to get to Hong Kong, Charlie determined to oppose Harkness any way that was necessary to resolve the nonsense of fictitious expenses claims and get Harry Lu back on a London retainer.