Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

In her room above, Irena Kozlov frowned at Charlie Muffin and said, in a now familiar demand: ‘When?’

‘Not today,’ said Charlie. ‘I thought you wanted to rest.’

‘Tomorrow?’ she said, ignoring the reminder.

‘Tomorrow,’ promised Charlie. With luck and a following wind, he thought: awkward bitch.

Relax, you’re safe: Yuri’s assurance. Irena said: ‘I don’t want to stay cooped up here that long. Can’t we go out?’

The summons from Boris Filiatov was waiting when Kozlov arrived at the embassy and Kozlov felt a flicker of unease: he’d forgotten momentarily how Olga had involved the Rezident and wished he’d had time to prepare. He actually considered delaying, to prepare a story, but he was already late and decided against it, not wanting to exacerbate any problem.

‘I have had difficulty locating you: and your wife.’ The challenge came without any preliminaries, as soon as Kozlov entered the office.

‘The surveillance upon the Americans. And the British,’ said Kozlov, cautiously. ‘It’s recorded in the log.’

‘I know what’s recorded in the log,’ said the Rezident. ‘It appears to have become a lengthy operation.’

‘Moscow considers it important,’ said Kozlov, falling back on the rehearsed defence. Filiatov didn’t appear to be impressed.

‘Where is your wife?’ asked the Rezident.

‘She made her own log entry,’ said Kozlov, uncomfortably.

‘Where do you believe her to be?’

‘Conducting surveillance upon the British.’

‘Where?’

Kozlov shrugged, needing time. Seeking safety, Kozlov said: ‘My wife and I are working separately … like the log says. I have remained with the American surveillance … my wife has transferred to the British observation. I do not know her specific whereabouts in the city.’ He would have liked it to have sounded better but maybe the vague uncertainty was more convincing.

‘You’ve not discussed the British operation in detail, then?’

‘No,’ said Kozlov, restricting his answer. He would have to be very careful: the doubts of the stupid, fat slob were obvious.

Throwing out a lure, in the hope of discovering what she might have already transmitted to Moscow, Filiatov said: ‘Have you discussed these operations with Comrade Balan?’

‘Orders do not allow me to discuss elsewhere any conversation I might have had with Comrade Balan,’ said Kozlov, formally.

Filiatov’s face went taut. He said: ‘Comrade Balan also appears absent from the embassy.’

‘I am unaware of anything involving Comrade Balan’s movements,’ said Kozlov, still formal. That might be difficult to explain later, but it was safer than trying to improvise.

‘From today surveillance will be suspended, upon both the Americans and the British,’ said Filiatov. It was a positive decision he could make, without committing himself too far if Olga Balan’s doubts proved unfounded.

Kozlov was about to acquiesce, because it didn’t matter any longer, but then realized it would be a mistake. ‘It had the direct approval of Moscow,’ he said, the other familiar defence.

‘I have the power, as Rezident,’ announced Filiatov.

Pompous fool, thought Kozlov: the fact that Filiatov was prepared to invoke the authority showed how well Olga had sowed the seeds. He said: ‘As you wish.’

‘And I would like the fullest report on what’s been achieved,’ insisted Filiatov.

Which meant that so far the man hadn’t communicated with Moscow, gauged Kozlov: nor would he, until he had the file, because Filiatov was a man who used bureaucracy like protective armour. ‘It will take me some time,’ said Kozlov, seeing a way of holding the other man off from becoming an additional difficulty.

‘As soon as possible,’ insisted Filiatov.

Hurry, Olga, hurry, thought Kozlov.

‘It’s only circumstantial,’ insisted Harkness.

‘Dovetails with everything Charlie said,’ argued the Director, reading from the account that had arrived from Germany. ‘Messy … in Bonn … and the date’s right …’ He looked up. ‘Harry Bales, one of the toughest hawks in the American Senate, touring NATO installations and making a lot of waves about increasing troop strength to confront the Warsaw Pact. That dovetails, too.’

‘I think it’s circumstantial,’ repeated the deputy.

‘I think Charlie’s working well,’ said Wilson.

Charlie considered the inevitable delays — for any aircraft to arrive and for Cartright to get from Tokyo and for Wilson to discover if there were a British naval vessel in the vicinity — and accepted that someone as seemingly impatient and difficult as Irena Kozlov was going to get very pissed off indeed, like he was. Which made a monotony-breaking outing not a bad idea for all of them. It took an hour for Harry Lu to carry out the precautionary checks. Lu extended the checks to the High Commission, who confirmed London’s instructions to issue his entry documents. Three of the calls confirmed the CIA concentration on people working exclusively for the British.

‘It was the obvious short cut,’ pointed out Lu, objectively. ‘We knew they were doing it, before you arrived.’

‘Did you speak to your wife?’

‘She hasn’t noticed anything unusual.’

‘She wouldn’t if they were good, would she?’

‘My not being around is going to provide the confirmation,’ said Lu. ‘Why don’t I get back to Hong Kong; play the innocent?’

And get hold of those immigration documents, thought Charlie. He didn’t criticize the man for his eagerness. If Lu returned to Hong Kong it would put him by himself. But Cartright would be arriving sometime that day and being by himself was something he was accustomed to anyway. Providing Lu played his part convincingly, the man could actually send the Americans on enough wild goose chases to stock a dozen Christmas larders. And now that he had his entry permission, there was no cause to doubt Lu’s loyalty. Charlie said: ‘Any indication of their looking here, in Macao?’

Lu shook his head. ‘Just Hong Kong, at the moment.’

‘How sure are you?’

‘As sure as I can be: I trust my sources.’

Back in the colony, Lu would be able to monitor the Americans’ movements far better than he could here, thought Charlie, recognizing another advantage to the man’s return. He said: ‘Think you could carry it off?’

‘No problem,’ said Lu.

Too quick, judged Charlie: understandably the man was thinking more of getting out to the safety of England than he was about what it would be like to confront the Americans. He said: ‘It is. If they think you know something — get the slightest suspicion — they’ll put your prick through the mangle. Maybe literally.’

‘I can do it,’ insisted Lu.

‘It could be useful,’ conceded Charlie, in final agreement, setting out how he wanted the Americans watched and misled.

‘I can do that, too,’ assured the other man.

‘Just be careful,’ urged Charlie.

‘The balance had changed now, hasn’t it?’ said Lu.

‘What?’ frowned Charlie.

‘I said when you arrived that you owed me: I guess now that I owe you.’

‘I’m glad it worked out,’ said Charlie, vaguely discomfited by the man’s gratitude. Surprised, too: he hoped it was all as clear cut as it appeared.

Furthering the discomfort, Lu extended his hand and said: ‘Thanks Charlie: you’re a friend.’

Trying to lighten the mood, Charlie said: ‘It’s the last station on the Piccadilly Line.’

Now it was Lu’s turn to be confused. ‘What?’

‘Cockfosters,’ grinned Charlie. ‘The stop after Oakwood.’

Lu smiled back and said: ‘Visit us there?’