Brian Freemantle - Red Star Burning

“Here’s Beckindale with breakfast!” announced Denning, as the second anonymous rental car came down the street. He farted as he spoke, and Halliday knew he wouldn’t be able to eat anything Beckindale had bought.

Charlie finally abandoned the idea of sleep at five and was showered and dressed by five thirty. Charlie wished he could have started out with Natalia, be with them all the way from Pecatnikov, as unrealistic and unprofessional as that would have been. He was confident of Flood: didn’t doubt the man’s professionalism. Natalia had recognized the risk of Sasha’s doing or saying something unexpected and would guard against it. Six fifteen, Charlie saw, checking his watch. Too early to call even though she’d already be awake: probably hadn’t slept at all, as he hadn’t. He’d give her a little longer.

Peter Warren was the last decoy to arrive in the embassy cafeteria, at six thirty. As he joined the other two, coffee spilling as he maneuvered his self-service tray onto the cluttered table. “You sure it’s necessary for us to be up this early?”

“I wouldn’t have set the time if I hadn’t been sure,” said Patrick Wilkinson, tetchily. “Or booked the six o’clock wake-up call for them to find on the internal personnel computer, which I discovered they were monitoring.”

“You hear any movement?” Neil Preston asked Warren, whose compound apartment was on the same floor as Briddle’s and Denning’s.

Warren shook his head, heaping scrambled eggs and sausage onto his fork. “Quiet as a grave when I passed both doors. I stopped to listen outside both.”

“Let’s decide who’s going to go where,” demanded Wilkinson. “I’ll ride the Metro: call Charlie’s phone for the tracker to be picked up. They’ll think that significant, after the last time.”

“What about my doing a river cruise?” suggested Warren. “If I get one to follow me on a steamer he’ll be out of action for two or three hours.”

“I’ll go to the Metropole and con my way onto a tourist coach: there’s always spare seats and guides with their hands out for beer money. I’ll pick out the following car after a few blocks.”

“We’ll all keep in touch on cell phones to add to the tracker confusion,” declared Wilkinson. “It’ll convince them something’s happening.”

“But where the fuck are they?” demanded Warren, looking toward the entrance.

“You’ve spilled egg down your tie,” said Preston.

“Here’s the rental car,” identified Halliday. The coffee had been disgusting and he hadn’t bothered to drink it. He felt physically sick.

“I guess the Hertz sticker gave you the clue,” Briddle continued to mock.

“You think Jeremy will have realized it?” questioned Denning, jerking his head toward the side street in which Beckindale was parked.

“Stay where you are!” ordered Briddle, hurriedly. “Flood and the other MI5 replacements will have photographs of us all.”

“I was going to phone.” Denning sighed.

“Let me see the photographs of Natalia and the kid again,” said Halliday and wished he hadn’t when it was the odorous Denning who offered them.

“Hello!” exclaimed Briddle, bringing Halliday’s concentration up from the prints at the arrival of another Hertz car.

“And that’s Flood,” identified Halliday, as the man emerged from the hotel with the delivery driver of the first vehicle and continued on toward the second car. Together the two MI5 men went back into the Savoy.

“Jeremy says he’s already clocked both of them,” reported Denning, the cell phone to his ear. “Any change from simply following them?”

“He’s to stick to the second car, leaving Flood to us,” ordered Briddle. “And to make sure he’s not seen to be following.”

“Jeremy says thanks for the lesson and to go fuck yourself,” relayed Denning.

Gerald Monsford had slept overnight, and alone, in the studio-apartment extension to his office suite and in which he’d established Rebecca Street as his gratefully rewarding mistress a month after securing her as his deputy. He wished now that she had stayed that night, even though he didn’t completely trust her any longer. Right not to have trusted Straughan, either: dangerous, deceptive motherfucker. Wished he didn’t have to rely on Rebecca for the Straughan business. Didn’t have to, Monsford decided. As soon as he sorted Radtsic out he’d take Straughan off her hands: important he personally ensured Straughan hadn’t left anything dangerous behind. He had to concentrate on Moscow for the moment. Not that there was anything to do at this predawn moment. Except wait. His insistence upon total one-to-one control with Briddle to guard against a later, evidence-providing intermediary meant he couldn’t risk Russian scanner interception of cell-phone communication with the man now outside the hotel at which new MI5 support had been discovered. Halliday’s name threatened an outburst of pointless anger. Why the fuck hadn’t the man followed Charlie Muffin to wherever he’d been hiding? Right now Briddle could have been there carrying out the disposal that so easily could have been accepted as an FSB assassination. The fallout from which, compounded by all the preceding publicity, would have brought about Aubrey Smith’s dismissal not just as MI5 Director-General but as a threatening professional adversary. Now there was too much uncertainty, particularly involving the plausible denial of any personal involvement: what Shakespeare had so rightly described as right perfection wrongfully disgraced.

The summons on his personal line broke into Monsford’s reflection, making him physically jump, despite his expectation of Briddle’s call. “Director Monsford?”

It wasn’t Briddle’s voice: one he didn’t recognize. “Who is this?”

“Matthew Timpson.”

“Who?”

“Matthew Timpson, head of internal security. When I didn’t find you at home I checked in-house registration and discovered you were already here, which is fortunate. I’m already in the building. I need to see you immediately, of course. It’s a matter of urgency.”

“What’s a matter of urgency?”

“The reason I need to see you immediately.”

“It’s not convenient,” refused Monsford. “Arrange a meeting through my appointments secretary in two or three days.”

“I insist it’s now, sir: immediately, as I’ve said.”

“ You must insist! I’m the Director!”

“Which is why it must be now. I shall be with you in five minutes, with my support staff.”

“You will…” began Monsford, outraged, but the line was already dead.

It was, in fact, three minutes. With Timpson were a woman and two men. Timpson was a round-faced, rotund, balding man in a bank manager black, three-piece suit complete with chain-linked fob watch in the waistcoat pocket. The other two men were dressed identically, except for the pocket watch. The woman was in black, too.

“What the hell is this?” demanded Monsford.

“I’m confident of your complete cooperation.” Timpson smiled. “We have information, the reliability and source of which is unquestionable, that there’s been a hostile penetration.…” The man indicated those behind him. “This is my advanced group: team leaders. My full investigatory staff will be here by midmorning. The first essential will be to install independent listening and monitoring facilities upon all incoming and outgoing electronic lines. It’s a comparatively simple procedure: I expect that to be largely established by midafternoon. We require complete and total access to all files, recordings-electronic, audio, written, or printed-initially for the preceding and current year. It may, of course, be necessary to extend that over a longer period. Our inquiries will, inevitably, go beyond the building to encompass the homes of officers and employees…” There was another quick smile, “including, of course, your own.…” The security head reached behind, for documents held in readiness by the woman. “Here’s our necessary documented authority.”