Brian Freemantle - See Charlie Run

‘He couldn’t have identified you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said, annoyed at the suggestion. ‘I tagged on to a party of Americans, as if I needed the translation. Dale actually spoke to two men, within a few feet of me.’

‘No one followed me out,’ said Kozlov. The statement was faintly questioning, because he had been alert.

‘He left with me, while you were in the souvenir shop!’

Kozlov shook his head in disbelief and then, reminded, said: ‘I bought you a present. There’ll be something better, later.’

Irena took the key-ring, smiling down at her husband for the first time. ‘There’s a lot I want, when we get to the West.’

‘There won’t be any more stupidity, like today,’ promised Kozlov. ‘Fredericks was really frightened.’

‘I wonder if the British will be more professional?’ said the woman.

At that moment Charlie Muffin approached the bar in the departure lounge of London airport,?800 of travellers’ cheques comfortably fat in his wallet and?200 in cash even more comfortably bulging his trouser pocket. There wasn’t any Islay Malt so he chose Glenlivet, peeling off the first of the notes that Harkness had failed to stop him getting and knowing the drink would taste all the better because of it. And not just because of the?1000. Aware of how the clerks gossiped-despite the supposed restriction of the Official Secrets Act — Charlie had allowed exactly twelve hours for the word to circulate before demanding a First Class ticket. And got it because the permanent mandarins had been too shit-scared to query the authority.

‘Going far, sir?’ asked the barman, the perpetually polite question.

‘As far as I can go,’ said Charlie.

Adapting the When in Rome principle, Charlie took a Suntory whisky from the room bar and carried it to the window, gazing out over Tokyo. He was high in the tower block of the New Otani and he decided it was a pretty good pub: a vast, sprawling place with a concealing people-packed shopping complex and more entrances and exits than he’d so far had time to work out. Which he would, of course. First of the Charlie Muffin Survival Rules was always secure an escape route, before discovering what it was necessary to escape from. The early evening lights were coming on and ironically using as a landmark the Tokyo Tower beneath which the Kozlovs had earlier met, Charlie worked out the positioning of the port and then, closer, the embassy section of the Japanese capital. Minimal use, Charlie remembered. OK, so if it were important to protect the embassy, it was important to protect himself. Doubly so. The CIA would have moved a bloody army in by now, tanks, rocket boosters and all. Naive then to expect him to operate without someone watching his back. On a suspect list for charging for non-existent informants! Charlie snorted, in loud derision. Harry Lu was a damned good agent who’d worked Asia for twenty years as a contract freelance without even the scant protection of a Foreign Office or embassy: probably forgotten more about intelligence than Harkness had ever learned. Bloody daft, not to use him: too late to call Hong Kong, but he’d do it first thing tomorrow, to open up a line of communication. Be good to see Harry again: good drinker, Harry Lu. Reminded, Charlie helped himself to another miniature bottle of local whisky, coming to more immediate considerations. Getting literally to know the ins and outs of the hotel was the initial priority. See what the bars looked like, maybe. Then an early night, for tomorrow’s meeting with an American named Art Fredericks: certainly didn’t want to eat again, after all that First Class grub on the plane. Charlie smiled happily at the thought of Harkness’s reaction. Serve the parsimonious bugger right.

Charlie took the elevator to explore the garden lounge area on the main floor. It was packed with intense never-say-no Japanese exchanging business cards in place of handshakes, anxious to sell a computer and a car to everyone in the world. Charlie checked out the foyer and then returned to the secondary elevators serving the shopping floors. He went down to the ground level and wandered around, feigning interest in the stores, and then did the same on the four remaining floors before he got back to the main hotel area, recording the service stairs and then the fire escape feeding each. A right little rabbit warren, Charlie judged; it had been a good choice.

On the first walk-through reconnaissance Charlie had noted the piano bar. A nightcap, he decided: perhaps two. It would, after all, be the last time he could relax for he didn’t know how long. He was offered a seat at the bar but refused, preferring a table with a better view of the room and more importantly the door. He stayed with Suntory, which didn’t compare in any way with single malt but wasn’t bad, looking casually around. There were two Japanese girls seemingly by themselves at the bar and a European sitting alone at a table. He caught the eye of the girl at the table and smiled and she half smiled back. A pleasant end to a pleasant day? It was an attractive thought, but Charlie decided against it. He couldn’t afford any encumbrances. The reflection led naturally to his reason for being there. What would Irena Kozlov be like? he wondered. Not that he was considering the Russian as he was considering the still hopefully smiling girl a few tables away, of course. Never mixed business with pleasure; well, not often, anyway. And definitely not this time. Too much he still didn’t understand or know, and he didn’t intend to try to find it out between the sheets: keep the best friend firmly zipped. He’d never brought a woman defector across before. He wondered if he would this time; be satisfied, Wilson had said. And Charlie was determined to be just that, as satisfied as he could possibly be before putting even a usually aching toe into the water. Hell of a catch, if it were genuine.

Predominantly because of his size, Charlie was particularly conscious of the man’s entry into the bar, before he directly approached the table. He stood with hair-matted hands against the back of the empty chair and said: ‘Charlie Muffin?’

‘Sorry,’ denied Charlie, instinctively protective. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

‘You may be right,’ said the man, heavily. ‘We checked you off the plane at Haneda, followed you here, saw you book into room 1015 and covered you every step of the way while you cased the hotel. Which was the first remotely professional thing you did since arriving …’ Uninvited he sat with difficulty in the small chair and said: ‘I’m Art Fredericks.’

Shit, thought Charlie. It had been unprofessional, not troubling to clear his path from the moment of arrival. Trying to recover, Charlie stared obviously around the crowded bar. Fredericks saw the look and smiled at the attempt. Nodding to the piano area, where a small bass, guitar and drums group had replaced the single pianist who had been performing when Charlie first entered, the American said: ‘The music overlays any listening device. They always come on at eight; that’s why I waited until now.’

Shit again, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Very textbook.’

‘No,’ said Fredericks, disdaining the mockery. ‘Properly done — the way it should be. And always is.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Charlie, foundering and knowing it. ‘I wouldn’t like to be involved in anything amateur.’

‘Neither would I,’ said Fredericks. ‘That’s why I’m worried. So far I’m not very impressed.’

A waiter hovered and Fredericks said: ‘Club soda, with ice.’ The man looked enquiringly at Charlie who nodded for another whisky. Charlie finished the one he had and said to the American: ‘You want to know something! I couldn’t give a fuck whether I impress you or not. That’s not what I’m here for.’