Brian Freemantle - Red Star Burning

“There were times when I thought it was so inconceivable that it couldn’t possibly be made up,” said Geoffrey Palmer, one of the unidentified members of the examining panel and the Foreign Office liaison to the Joint Intelligence Committee.

“Which doesn’t minimize the potential disaster of the situation,” argued the woman.

“I wasn’t trying to minimize anything,” said Palmer, who in every respect personified the career civil servant, even to the striped-trousered, black-jacketed uniform, complemented by the bowler hat and tightly furled umbrella for his daily commute from Orpington suburbia.

“Gerald?” invited the Director-General, addressing his MI6 counterpart, whose inclusion in the meeting he distrusted.

They had moved from their earlier interrogational formality to leathered armchairs and couches around a dead, carved-wood fireplace in which a man could comfortably stand without bending and in which Gerald Monsford had framed his six-foot-three-inch, bulge-bellied figure to be the focal point of the discussion. Monsford said: “From your provisional inquiries, everything he told us about Jersey checks out?”

“So far,” qualified Smith, cautiously, not wanting his insecurity-spurred antipathy to be obvious.

“And it was Charlie Muffin who prevented us and the United States being sucked into the most incredibly successful Russian espionage operation I’ve ever encountered,” said Monsford. Easily lapsing into the pretension of a Classics education he’d never actually had, Monsford added: “If he’s guilty of anything it’s following Ovid’s belief that enemies are the best teachers.”

Jane Ambersom, who’d endured that affectation as she’d endured other irritations, was amused at the startled reactions from the rest of the group at Monsford’s posturing and said: “It could still be part of that Russian operation.”

“How?” immediately challenged the MI6 Director, already sure he could in some way use his totally unexpected inclusion in this emergency-convened committee to extract Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic out of Russia. He extended a hand with his forefinger close to his thumb. “Stepan Lvov, whom the CIA was convinced they had in the bag as their long-established double agent, was just this far from becoming the next president of the Russian Federation. As such, in reality a committed officer of the FSB, Lvov would have maneuvered and manipulated Washington and us down God knows how many roads to destruction: Russian intelligence would have ruled the West as well as what’s left of their former empire: literally ruled the world. How could this have any connection with that?”

Jane’s face blazed at the ridicule from Monsford, whom she rightly believed was the architect of her transfer to the counterintelligence service. She moved to speak but before she could Monsford went back to the Director-General: “What about other cases, before this last one? How many went the wrong way, to the other side’s benefit?”

“That check began the moment Muffin’s state of mind was questioned and was upgraded when he disappeared. A conclusion will take time,” avoided Smith. “The preliminary assessment is that while a few weren’t completely successful, none was compromised through any personal fault or failing of Charlie himself. And none of us needs reminding how he prevented the catastrophe to which you’ve already referred.” As well as preventing my dismissal, Smith mentally added.

“On the subject of preliminary assessments, I have to give to the prime minister and the foreign secretary some indication of the potential problems we might be facing,” came in Sir Archibald Bland, the cabinet secretary, who’d completed the inquiry team.

“I’m not sure we can provide that this early,” apologized Smith, in reluctant admission. “Charlie Muffin will be held here, under house detention. Questioned further to learn far more about Natalia Fedova. I don’t intend a knee-jerk reaction to a situation as complicated as this appears to be.”

“I’m not naive enough to believe this woman doesn’t know anything about operations in which Muffin has been involved for at least the past eight years,” said the deputy director, the disparagement embedded in her mind. “And as such the potential cause of huge embarrassment, if not serious, long-term harm. She should be neutralized.”

“Killed, you mean?” lured Monsford, deceptively casual.

Jane Ambersom hesitated, coloring again, inherently suspicious of the man. “If it were deemed necessary. He’s given us her Moscow address: we know where to find her.”

“What about the child? Do we kill the child as well?” pounced Monsford, baiting her in front of the two civil servants to continue the criticism he’d engineered to achieve her transfer. “I can’t imagine an eight-year-old child knowing enough to cause us difficulties, but we might as well tidy up any loose ends.”

The woman’s color deepened. “I don’t believe we are considering this seriously enough. This is a high-alert situation that needs to be dealt with as such.”

“None of us believes otherwise,” said Aubrey Smith, calmly, despite his irritation at the obvious point scoring and astonished at Monsford’s talking as if he’d been closely involved in the Lvov exposure. “I’d hoped to have made clear that I do not intend worsening a potential problem with a panicked reaction.”

“Which eliminating a woman about whose existence we have only just learned, orphaning a child in the process, would unarguably do,” endorsed Monsford.

“How, precisely, do we learn more about her?” asked Jane Ambersom, descending to mockery.

“Going into what Wordsworth described as the burthen of the mystery,” Monsford awkwardly mocked back, intent upon controlling what he was increasingly deciding to be a gift situation from a God in whom he didn’t believe. “The separation and independence of our two services is well established, for all the obvious reasons. I welcome, however, this opportunity for us to come together in a combined operation, to which I guarantee every contribution asked from MI6.”

“This is precisely how the prime minister wants it handled,” announced Sir Anthony Bland.

“It seems completely appropriate to me,” quickly agreed Palmer, the functioning liaison between MI5 and MI6.

“At this early stage I don’t see the reason for a combined operation,” argued Aubrey Smith, recognizing how he was being railroaded, sure it confirmed his suspicion that his directorship remained in doubt.

“Perhaps I didn’t make clear how I envisage such an arrangement,” said Monsford. “I am offering my resources in one specific area: Moscow. I anticipate our working in the closest possible way, discussing every aspect, but equally expect you to be the controller-the Director-of a matched, one for one, team of officers.”

No one else in the room appeared able to find a response.

Geoffrey Palmer was the first. “That’s a very generous offer that would seem to resolve any command uncertainty: not, of course, that I would expect any.”

“We are all agreed that everything is at a very early, exploratory stage,” persisted Aubrey Smith, his unemotional monotone concealing the anger at so effectively being maneuvered into a cul-de-sac. “Let’s look upon this operational cooperation as a step-at-a-time experiment.”

“I would expect to be an active participant, too,” hurriedly intruded Jane Ambersom, equally concerned at again becoming Monsford’s scapegoat.

“I would expect all of us to be active participants,” said the compromise-adept Sir Archibald.

Aubrey Smith, who fully acknowledged his initial survival indebtedness to Charlie Muffin, wondered how long his second chance might last. At least this time he hoped more quickly to recognize at least some of the moves against him, which he hadn’t before.