Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

‘Oh my God!’ said Olga, not even consciously aware of the invocation any more.

‘And then he said I was to see what happened to Filiatov because they had a disinformation source and could do whatever they wanted.’

Olga’s lassitude was completely gone. She was tensed forward, the glass in two hands before her. ‘And Filiatov …?’

‘They came for him. A squad. They got here quickly, from Sakhalin …’ said Kozlov.

‘They’re still here!’ she demanded, the fear immediate.

He shook his head. ‘Took everything with them … files, cable records, everything. Drugged Filiatov, of course. And had a closed off section on an Aeroflot flight.’

Olga brought her hand up against her mouth to prevent the mew of despair, but didn’t quite succeed. ‘What’s going to happen to us!’

‘He said — the Englishman said — I had to stay here. Wait for him to come,’ said Kozlov, practically as listless now as Olga had earlier been.

‘What’s going to happen to us?’ she repeated, her mind blocked by only one thought.

‘He’s proved it,’ said Kozlov. ‘He can do anything to us he wants: we’ve got to wait, like he says.’

Olga gulped at her drink, heavily. ‘I was right, wasn’t I?’ she said. ‘We are trapped.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Kozlov. ‘Absolutely trapped.’

‘You know what he did!’ said Elliott. ‘He made us eat shit! Eat shit! That’s what he made us do!’

‘We don’t have any alternative, not on this occasion,’ said Fredericks. ‘But there’ll be another time. I promise myself there’ll be another time.’

They were all in the Peninsula suite, even Harry Fish and Jim Dale, whom Fredericks had withdrawn from the Mandarin surveillance, strictly observing the agreement. Everyone was gripped with the feeling of impotence but only Elliott was openly expressing it.

‘You sure Langley would agree with that!’ demanded Elliott.

‘Why don’t you ask them!’ demanded Fredericks. ‘Why don’t you tell them how we were suckered by the Russian as well as the Englishman and how you think we should blow Charlie Muffin away just to get our rocks off and not go for Kozlov after all.’

‘You like the sound of all that crap he gave you!’ said Elliott, shouting.

‘I like the sound of it a damned sight better than I like the sound of the word Welfare,’ said Fredericks. ‘How’s Welfare sound to you?’

The rainy season had literally descended on Tokyo when Charlie landed, as if the clouds had split at the seams to spill everything out at the same time. It was thick, impenetrable, at the airport and the car, more like a boat than something on wheels, crested through water-cascading streets into the city, where the pavements were mushroom fields of umbrellas. So much for English weather, thought Charlie; compared to this, London and Manchester in November were positively tropical. He had come up in the military aircraft — enjoying again being called sir by Clarke, whose rank turned out to be a major and whose Christian name was Allan — and from the flight control exchanges he knew that the American C-130 was behind them. And while, as far as he could establish, Fredericks had kept the no-surveillance agreement, Charlie was still careful, knowing the CIA could have put people in ahead of his arrival, to pick him up when he got there. The weather made it easy. He got out at Nijubashimae, ducked off the Toei Shinjuku service after one stop and emerged from the Underground at Kamiyacho, deciding within yards of setting out for Shinbashi that while in theory the tradecraft was good, in practise it was bloody stupid. It was still pissing with rain, and by the time he got to what Yuri Kozlov regarded his safe house Charlie felt anything but safe: the rain had got through his topcoat and jacket and his shoulders were damp, and he knew, from the sticky slip-slip when he moved his toes, that both his shoes were leaking. Maybe, with luck, they could be repaired.

Despite the discomfort, Charlie didn’t enter at once. He went past the building, checking intently, and returned on the opposite side, not so much looking for American observation now but Russian: it still hurt when your balls got caught in the vice, irrespective of who manufactured the pincer machine, and he was not yet sure if Kozlov were sufficiently worried.

Satisfied at last, Charlie squelched into the foyer, shaking himself like a dog to get rid of the surface dampness, aware of the puddle forming around him where he stood. Charlie’s irritation went beyond his physical discomfort: he attached a lot of importance to psychological advantage in the sort of encounter he was about to have and psychologically, arriving like someone emerging from a swamp, he was in the disadvantaged position. He took his coat and jacket off and shook them, and then used his handkerchief to dry his face and hair.

Yuri Kozlov opened the door before Charlie got his hand down from the knock and Charlie decided the swamp-look wasn’t quite the drawback he’d feared; Kozlov would have had to be waiting directly behind the door, to respond that quickly. The man was nervous, then. There was no greeting, from either of them: Kozlov simply stood back and Charlie entered.

Charlie was surprised by the Western-style appearance of the apartment and guessed the view was of the park and the port beyond: the rain was too heavy to see anything now. It was the briefest of inspections — nothing more than to establish the siting of any doors so that he could avoid making himself vulnerable to anyone or anything behind them — and Charlie was back facing Kozlov when the Russian closed the door behind him.

‘Well,’ said Kozlov. ‘I’m here.’

Which tells me a lot, thought Charlie. ‘Quick to get Filiatov, weren’t they?’ he said, confidently. The arrest had already happened for Kozlov to be frightened into keeping the appointment.

‘You know then?’ said Kozlov, in unthinking confirmation.

‘Of course I know,’ said Charlie. ‘I told you how it would be, didn’t I?’ Kozlov had to believe he was practically omnipotent.

‘What will they do to him?’

‘You can guess that better than me. It’s your country; your service.’

‘I meant what have you accused him of?’

‘I didn’t come here to talk about Boris Filiatov,’ dismissed Charlie. He thought the Russian was far smaller than the last time and then remembered he had never seen Kozlov standing, only in a car.

‘You going to tell me now what you want?’

‘It was a hell of a scheme you worked out, wasn’t it?’ said Charlie, avoiding the reply: nothing had to go as Kozlov wanted.

‘Nobody knew, only Olga and I,’ said Kozlov, in sudden urgency. ‘How did you find out?’

This time the man could be answered, because it conveyed the impression of Charlie’s complete control. Charlie said: ‘It’s a big file, Yuri. You and Olga in London, before here. You weren’t very discreet, you know; not very discreet at all.’

‘Nobody knew!’ shouted Kozlov, in desperate defiance.

Charlie didn’t reply. Instead he took from his bag the same photograph that had brought about Irena’s collapse and offered it to the man. For several moments Kozlov made no effort to take it, but at last he reached forward. Attentive, Charlie saw that the man’s hands were shaking. Kozlov held the print for a much longer time and Charlie had the impression of the man becoming visibly smaller, in front of him. Charlie said, with practised carelessness: ‘There’s a lot more.’

Kozlov’s reaction was not what Charlie expected. When the Russian looked up he appeared wet-eyed. He said: ‘I love her, you know. I love Olga.’

‘Like you loved Valentina?’ There was a gain in continuing this conversation.