Red Star Burning (38 page)

“You dumped the phone?”

“After removing the SIM card and the battery,” said Natalia, smiling at the insistence. “And I didn’t dispose of them in the same bins.”

Charlie smiled back at the gentle rebuke. “So how was your first day?”

Natalia sipped her wine, considering her reply. “Not what I expected: not that I knew exactly
what
to expect. There are six of us. I’m the only woman. I don’t know any of the others: three have been drafted in from St. Petersburg. There’s no chairperson. We each work on a document batch.” She paused. “Does your service operate by naming, with time, date, and location of each encounter, every potentially useful outside contact?”

Did she want a matching contribution with what she was disclosing or was it just a point of comparison? Charlie waited for them to be served before saying: “It’s universal, isn’t it?”

Natalia nodded. “That’s how we have to work. When we come to any outside name with whom Radtsic’s ever had unsupervised contact, particularly British, we’ve got to flag it as well as verbally announcing it around the table for further recognition if the name appears in someone else’s separated document batch.”

“How thick is each individual batch?”

“About a third of a meter.”

“Have you a better idea of how many other groups there are, apart from yours?”

“Approximately a dozen, as far as I can establish. But there’s an equal number, starting tomorrow, to refine the initial results. The lunchtime rumor was that at that stage the flagged names will transfer to computer analysis and comparison.”

“Is that all you have to flag up, Western—particularly British—identities?”

Natalia shook her head. “Repetitive destinations and locations, again concentrated on the West. Vacation spots, stuff like that.”

“The checking and cross-checking will take months,” estimated Charlie.

“I know.”

“How much cross-referencing did your particular group assemble today?”

“Twelve at the end of the day.”

Natalia was talking on the turned spy’s psychological profile, Charlie recognized: once the initial dyke breaches, the tidal wave of disclosures follows. “The analysis won’t take months. It’ll take years, even computerized.”

“How long it’ll take isn’t the point,” said Natalia. “It’s the documentation itself.”

“What about it?” Charlie frowned.

“It’s all duplicated, no originals, although from its font and typeface it was created on a typewriter, not a computer.”

“Just your duplicates or everybody’s?” queried Charlie.

“Everybody’s. Do you understand my point?”

“Elana and Andrei Radtsic were detained less than forty-eight hours ago,” calculated Charlie. “Allowing a generous twelve for the connection to be established between Paris and Moscow, that gives thirty-six hours for the Kremlin to discover Radtsic had gone. What’s your estimate of Radtsic’s combined KGB and FSB service?”

“Nearly thirty years,” responded Natalia, at once.

“We’ve no way of knowing if
everything
has been duplicated,” cautioned Charlie.

“All the other examining groups are handling copies,” said Natalia.

“Then you’re right,” finally agreed Charlie. “It’s impossible for them to have photocopied a thirty-year archive in just thirty-six hours,”

“So what’s going on?” asked Natalia.

“I don’t know,” replied Charlie. “It’s not our problem. When’s Sasha back?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Thursday,” identified Charlie. “Are you working weekends?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have everything before then. We’ll go for Sunday.”

After several moments, Natalia said: “How?”

“The safest way. I haven’t yet chosen which.”

“Sasha will know it’s not a holiday: that it’s still term time.”

“Don’t say anything to her until Saturday. And only then that it’s a surprise and that the school has agreed. And don’t let her see any of her friends, after you’ve told her.”

“You’ll be with us, won’t you? I won’t be going alone?”

Charlie was unsettled by her complete reliance. “That’s the idea, isn’t it: that at last we’ll all be together?”

“I hope so: hope so very much.”

Charlie wished there weren’t so much uncertainty in her voice. “This is probably the last full time we’ll have together.”

Natalia checked her watch. “I could come back to the hotel for two hours.”

“I’d hoped you could.”

“I want you with me when we go, Charlie: I want to know you’re somewhere close,” she suddenly blurted. “I don’t want it to be just Sasha and me.”

“From Sunday you’re never going to be by yourselves, not ever again.”

It was just after nine when they left the restaurant. In London it was still only six thirty and everyone was still working.

*   *   *

“There’s got to have been a leak.” Monsford was striding up and down in front of the panoramic river view, more angry than nervous. From beside the man’s desk, Rebecca Street had already indicated the sound apparatus was inactive.

“How can there have been a leak?” demanded James Straughan. “Jacobson and Charlie have never met and Jacobson categorically denies he said anything to Halliday, who wasn’t ever involved until the last minute, upon your orders, which were also that Halliday worked blind.”

“It’s not difficult to work out,” calmed Rebecca. “We’re misleading ourselves. Charlie Muffin can’t have had any reason for getting off the Amsterdam plane, apart from distrusting his own shadow. Now he’s got a reason, after the publicity over the seizure of Elana and Andrei. Charlie’s a consummate professional who’s learned and practiced ten times more than anyone ever learns at training school. He’ll have worked out that we’re involved with the two Russian nationals in France at the same time as we’re supposed to be part of the extraction of his wife and child.”

“Elana and Andrei haven’t been identified and there’s been no publicity that Radtsic’s already here!” rejected Monsford, slumping back into his chair.

“People like Charlie Muffin, who trusts no one, can multiply two plus two into the national debt!” argued Rebecca. “What little is publicly known is more than enough to spook Charlie Muffin from coming within a million miles of any of our people.”

Monsford shook his head in refusal, turning to Straughan. “What’s Briddle say?”

“Just that MI5 have retreated into their
rezidentura,
slamming the door behind them.”

“I beat Aubrey Smith into a frazzle in the beginning but he recovered almost completely with the fucking cooperation refusal,” said Monsford, in a rare admission.

“What do we do about our three in Moscow?” asked Straughan.

“They stay!” insisted the MI6 Director, at once. “Now Muffin’s crawled from beneath the stone he’s been under, I want to be his shadow: every time he farts, I want to hear it. I’m not having the Radtsic coup taken away from me by Charlie Muffin.”

“I’ve nominally appointed Briddle our field supervisor,” said Straughan. “Do you have any specific instructions?”

Monsford hesitated, head bent. It certainly wasn’t better to face slings and arrows, he decided: the only way was to take up arms against the sea of trouble. Looking up, he said: “Tell him to call me at ten prompt tomorrow, his time. I’ll take the call personally.”

*   *   *

“It sounds as if you won?” suggested Jane Ambersom.

“We won’t have won until Monsford’s removed, which I’m determined to make happen before I’m fired,” said Aubrey Smith.

“Do you think it was a serious threat?” queried John Passmore.

“Totally serious,” confirmed the MI5 Director-General. “And if I go I’ll go down in flame, which means it’s imperative you get whatever Straughan has.”

“He’s not taking my calls either on his landline or his cell phone,” said Jane.

“Keep trying,” said Smith.

“Are the MI6 backup being withdrawn?” asked Passmore. “Wilkinson doesn’t think it’s going to be easy operating separately out of the same building.”

“I want to speak to Charlie direct,” demanded Smith. “Have Wilkinson tell him that. Tell him also to warn Charlie to watch his back. Talking to Jane, Straughan didn’t rule out physical violence.”

“It’s unthinkable that Monsford would contemplate anything physical against a British intelligence officer,” insisted Passmore.

“No, it’s not,” said Jane, even more insistently. “That’s exactly what he’ll be thinking if it means saving himself.”

28

Charlie worked on the assumption that Patrick Wilkinson, either knowingly or otherwise, would not be alone on the circle line, which he’d most likely join from the station closest to the British embassy. It was also possible they’d imagine he’d get on at Smolenskaya, too, and assemble an ambush there long before his ten
A.M.
departure, using Wilkinson as their on-time bait. Their obvious concentration would be around the entrance, to avoid which he started his approach from Kurskaya at the height of Moscow’s eight o’clock rush hour, sandwiching himself into the second-to-last carriage, which he’d established from his previous day’s footslogging disgorged its passengers into the instant concealment of a vaulted support column and an angled wall. From its cover he allowed himself a protective sweep for a recognizable face, with the train still at the platform for instant escape, before edging himself back into the human flow that took him to his already chosen observation spot, a set of metal service stairs leading up to a mezzanine range of Control offices twenty meters beyond the towering escalator banks to the circle line’s snack, media, and tobacco kiosks. The overshadowing darkness of the service stairwell gave Charlie unbroken observation of arriving and disembarking commuters as well as an uninterrupted view of the other most likely hideaways from which others trained in his craft would wait in readiness for him to appear. And if they chose his hideaway to be theirs, he had a second girdered stairwell farther along the concourse beneath which he could merge unseen. There was even a conveniently low horizontal stress bar separating two of the upright girders against which he propped himself to take his full weight off his troublesome feet.

It was eight fifty before Charlie made the first recognition, relieved it was Neil Preston, a fellow MI5 officer. The fair-haired, overweight man was close to the top of the farthest downward escalator, tightly clutching the hand support to prevent himself being forced down the stairs by the crush behind, anxiously scanning the crowded platform below from his diminishing elevation. Preston hesitated at platform level, pulling himself out of the current of people. Briefly, for no more than seconds, Preston appeared to look directly at Charlie, who tensed, ready to retreat. But then the man looked away and moved in the opposite direction and positioned his back to another of the major support pillars. From the inside pocket of his unbuttoned raincoat Preston took an unidentifiable newspaper already cleverly folded smaller than its tabloid size for commuter-crowded reading, which he gave the impression of doing without obscuring his platform view.

Robert Denning appeared at the top of the escalator exactly four minutes later but pulled himself into a small recess at its top to stare down at the human sea below. Charlie knew he was totally concealed from above from the tall, balding MI6 officer, who also wore a raincoat, although unlike Preston tightly buttoned and belted. Charlie was also sure that from his vantage point Denning wouldn’t be able to locate Preston, whom he’d presumably followed. Denning’s head moved from side to side as he scanned the platform, straining forward at the arrival and departure of trains. After at least ten minutes Denning took from his pocket what Charlie at once recognized to be one of the special Vauxhall-issued Russian cell phones. It was a brief conversation, after which Denning turned back against the crowd, disappearing toward street level.

Charlie kept his concentration on the upper level, at the same time keeping Preston in sight. Preston, in turn, maintained his constant vigil from behind his newspaper screen. Preston had obviously been followed by Denning, whose telephone alert had most likely been to Briddle or Beckindale, but not both: he’d appeared to dial only once and the conversation hadn’t been long enough to involve more than one person. Why hadn’t Denning come down to platform level? To avoid his descent being visible to Preston, Charlie guessed. He hoped it indicated that London had accepted his message to exclude M16.

Nine forty-five, Charlie saw, from the platform clock. Where was Wilkinson? If Wilkinson was going to keep to the timetable, the man should have been here by now. But only if he was joining the merry-go-round from Smolenskaya, Charlie qualified. It would have been wiser, more professional, for Wilkinson to evade pursuit by boarding at a different station, using Preston and Warren to lay false trails. But they hadn’t, came another qualification. Preston had led Denning to the underground system and Denning had doubtless alerted the other M16 men. So even if Warren and Wilkinson were using different stations, the intended encounter was compromised.

Which it definitely was, Charlie accepted, as Patrick Wilkinson appeared at the top of the escalator. By now the rush hour had thinned and as he descended Wilkinson expectantly swept the platform below, seeking Preston, whose head jerk of recognition was even more obvious. Preston left his pillar as Wilkinson reached the platform and for a moment Charlie thought the two were actually going to link up. They didn’t, but Preston stopped close enough for both to enter the same carriage. Charlie’s distraction from the escalator was only seconds but when he looked back Denning was halfway down, using a group of uniformed soldiers for cover, and as the man reached the bottom, Beckindale got on at the top and descended with even less concealment behind a fur-hatted, fur-coated woman. Neither Wilkinson nor Preston looked behind him to check his trail.

Charlie replaced the battery in his adapted cell phone before Beckindale got to the bottom, his attention wholly upon the two MI6 officers hurrying to board the second and third carriage of the incoming train behind that of Wilkinson and Preston. With the carriage doors still open, Charlie texted Denning:
WOMAN IN FUR HAT AND COAT, TWO SEATS IN FRONT, IS FSB
, and saw Denning’s grab at his pocket as he went back to the mobile phone. Charlie texted Wilkinson:
GET RID OF PRESTON
.
STAY WHERE YOU ARE
.
DENNING AND BECKINDALE IN CARRIAGES BEHIND
. The train pulling away from the station prevented Charlie’s catching the second reaction.