Brian Freemantle: Red Star Rising

“You want a drink?” invited Charlie, to illustrate his own professionalism, by knowing at once who the man was from the photographs of embassy personnel, although it officially listed Halliday as a financial officer, not the MI6 resident.

“Better stay with what I’m already on,” accepted the man, nodding unnecessarily behind the bar to the whiskey that Charlie had already detected upon the man’s breath. “It isn’t really Famous Grouse but it’s not a bad fake.” The head movement turned to one of approval at Charlie’s bar command that got his vodka replenished at the same time as the counterfeit scotch was poured. Halliday said: “Thought you were a whiskey man, too?”

“Only when it’s real.” The mental arm wrestling was beginning.

“Islay single malt, isn’t it?”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“It’s still logged as a special order in the embassy’s commissary book from the time of your permanent posting here.”

That really was professional, Charlie acknowledged, knowing the man would have trawled London records, too. “I dropped by today, but you weren’t there.”

“What do you think of our P-J?”

“What?” asked Charlie, frowning.

“Paula-Jane. That’s how she’s known at the embassy. She told me you’d tried to make contact. Feisty little thing, isn’t she?”

“Why does she insist on that double-barreled name?” said Charlie, avoiding a personality discussion this early, but content for the other man to gossip about whatever or whoever he wanted, eager for all the inside help he could get about the embassy.

“Father was American; met her mother when he worked in the same trade at the U.S. embassy in London.”

An offering of sorts, accepted Charlie. “FBI or CIA?”

“CIA.”

“What’s Paula-Jane doing working for us if she’s American?”

“She isn’t,” corrected Halliday. “Had the choice between American or British nationality when she reached eighteen. Took her mother’s side in the divorce to be British but compensated by taking Dad’s profession. Ambitious as hell. Wants to follow the already established precedents and put that cute little ass in the Director-General’s chair at Thames House.”

The opening lit up like a beacon. “Didn’t get the impression she did so well with my one-armed man.”

Halliday gestured hopefully to the bartender, grateful at the response that kept him level with Charlie. “Difficult one for her. If you want to climb the slippery pole, you go by the book and don’t get involved in anything attracting the publicity that this episode is getting.”

“What book do you go by?” asked Charlie.

“Self-preservation,” replied the other man, at once. “I’ve got ten years to go and certainly don’t intend fucking up an unblemished, pension-assured record by getting caught up in the sort of shit you’ve got to wade through. You’re welcome, old boy, with my deepest sympathy.”

“Did you see the body?”

“For as long as it took me to decide I didn’t want to know what was happening. I suddenly remembered an important meeting with a contact that took precedence.”

Seizing the opportunity, Charlie encapsulated Paula-Jane’s recollections, which Halliday considered before saying, “That’s about it.”

Marking Halliday as a useful insider to cultivate while not forgetting the man was in turn doing his best to cultivate him, Charlie said, “What’s the problem with the gate security?”

“Reg Stout’s the problem. All mouth and trousers, and Dawkins let’s himself be bullied. The CCTV has been playing up for days, weeks even, and hasn’t been fixed properly.”

His priorities for the following day began to arrange themselves in Charlie’s mind. “I won’t involve you, of course, but I’d appreciate a sounding board to bounce things off, as they come up.”

“I know a few quiet bars,” accepted Halliday.

“It’s quite a while since I was here,” further enticed Charlie. “I’d also appreciate a steer if you think I might be going in the wrong direction.”

“Guaranteed,” assured the other man. “And that’s official. You heard of our director, Gerald Monsford?”

“Not a lot.”

“Wants to rule the world, which is fine if you’re one of his soldiers. He’s told me to offer you all the help you might need. If your dead man hadn’t been found inside the embassy grounds, British territory, it would be an MI6 case.”

“I’ll remember that,” promised Charlie, politely. “At the moment it’ll stay MI5.”

Unexpectedly, Halliday said, “Aha! Here’s your first steer!” and gestured toward the mute television picture in the corner behind the bar.

The sequence, which Charlie guessed to be the lead item on the main evening news, showed a smiling, immaculately dressed man of about forty-five. A stunningly attractive, couture-clad woman was at his side, both arms aloft in acceptance of an obviously rapturous reception from a rally audience.

“Stepan Grigorevich Lvov, with his totem wife, Marina,” identified Halliday. “The next president of Russia, the only subject of conversation at the embassy before your body was found. And one they’re anxious to get back to as soon as possible.”

“Already getting newspaper space back in England,” recognized Charlie. “With a woman like that beside him I’m surprised there haven’t been pictures as well.”

“There’ll be a lot when he gets elected,” predicted Halliday. “Interesting similarities between him and Vladimir Putin, but without the baggage Putin’s accumulated. Former KGB, like Putin, until he quit, once attached to the same divisional headquarters as Putin in St. Petersburg.”

“Caused you some work, I guess?” anticipated Charlie, happy for the conversation to drift after gaining as much as he had.

“Haven’t managed much of a file, for all the obvious reasons,” admitted Halliday. “But there’s a contrast between the two. Putin’s taking Russia back into the dark ages, with KGB-style assassinations and using the gas and oil supply as a weapon against Europe. Lvov’s promising to free everything up again, which makes him flavor-of-the-month in the EU as well as in the U.S. of A.”

“There was also a lot of speculation that Putin got the presidency with dirty money and heavy criminal, as well as ex-KGB personnel, support. How’s that match with Lvov?”

Halliday shook his head. “The word is that our new boy is squeaky clean. . ” He smiled. “Or as squeaky clean as a politician can be.”

Reg Stout’s office overlooked the river and was about three times the size of the temporary accommodation allocated to Charlie. Stout wasn’t wearing the ribbon-bedecked uniform that Charlie had half expected but the tie was that of the Royal Engineers; the office was virtually wallpapered with military photographs of parades and regimental dinners and reunions-all of which prominently featured Stout, usually in the front befitting his rank of major. He was a loud-voiced, florid-faced, burly man who frowned in dismay at Charlie’s haystack dishevelment. It was obviously difficult for the man, whose pinstriped suit was razor creased, to address Charlie as “sir,” but he did.

“I’m looking to you for a lot of help,” opened Charlie. Which so far he very definitely wasn’t getting and about which he was thoroughly pissed off. The rabbit hutch that had been allocated to him that morning was obviously the housing officer’s idea of revenge, compounded by the waiting message from Jeremy Dawkins on the card-table desk to make contact before attempting any meetings with embassy staff.

“Sir!” barked the man.

“I’d like, firstly, the full report you’ll have obviously prepared.”