Red Star Falling: A Thriller (15 page)

*   *   *

They hadn’t foreseen this—couldn’t have foreseen this, Irena accepted. Now she didn’t know what to do, denied access to anyone from the embassy. They hadn’t foreseen that refusal, either: everything too rushed, too panicked. But she wouldn’t panic. She had to make some concessions and she had enough to begin with. But for how long? Could she hope for any indication from Birkitt, who’d shown his apparent inexperience by naming the scruffy man who’d caught her out in Moscow as Charlie Muffin? Unlikely, she accepted, realistically. She’d thought there might have been, at first, but she’d changed that initial impression. Believing she could recognize like for like, Irena had now decided that Birkitt’s seemingly unfocused demeanour, the apparently rambling approach, wasn’t unfocused or rambling at all: that there was a rat-trap mind hearing everything, analyzing everything. That the man who had to be at least twenty years her junior was better at his job than she might be at hers. Most worrying of all was that she believed that he, and the CIA he represented, were quite prepared to carry out every threat he’d made: that she really could simply disappear.

9

Both intelligence-agency deputies were, in fact, more than satisfied with the enquiry-chamber encounter. To Jane Ambersom—and to Aubrey Smith, whom she told the moment he entered the room—Rebecca’s remark, innocuous though it appeared, eased Jane’s intended approach. To Rebecca Street, Jane’s response was a pinprick to deflate the balloon-thin confidence with which Gerald Monsford arrived, his entry with Harry Jacobson timed to gain the maximum attention from the almost-assembled tribunal.

‘Witness
es
!’ stressed the MI6 Director, drawing Rebecca beyond the hearing of anyone else. ‘You mean there are several?’

‘Certainly more than one.’ This was definitely closer to orgasmic than the farce she’d frustratingly endured the previous night.

‘But not today?’

‘I don’t think so, not from the way she spoke.’

‘We need to know who they are, get an idea of what they’re going to say, before they’re called.’

‘Something might emerge today.’ It was so easy to nudge the man off his self-constructed pinnacle, Rebecca thought. She even knew enough Shakespeare to find the mockery—
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins.
The only inconsistency after the last night’s farce was that it came from
Romeo and Juliet
.

‘What I…’ began Monsford but was halted, needing to return to the table, by the arrival of Geoffrey Palmer and Sir Archibald Bland.

Monsford did not immediately respond to MI6 becoming the focus of attention at Bland’s announcement of Harry Jacobson’s appearance, hunched instead over his pad. It was in the momentary hiatus of Bland’s invitation for Monsford to take his witness through his evidence that the MI6 Director slipped his palm-concealed note to Rebecca, who left the folded paper unopened, preferring instead to watch the unintended difficulty she’d created by putting Monsford and Jacobson beside each other.

Monsford had to twist awkwardly sideways to lead Jacobson, who had matching difficulty needing to face across the table, not at his director, for his responses. Rebecca’s imagery was of a ventriloquist operating his mouth-shuttered dummy, which was totally appropriate in view of the rehearsal she knew Jacobson had undergone.

He had, deposed Jacobson, become Radtsic’s Control from the moment of the Russian’s approach at a French-embassy reception. He had not, at that stage, known the man was Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic, the executive deputy of the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. Over the course of several clandestine meetings at various Moscow locations, Radtsic had made clear his determination to defect, with his family, believing he was about to be purged. He had not given any positive reason for that belief but allowed the inference that he was being held personally responsible for the Lvov debacle. Throughout the planning of Radtsic’s extraction, Jacobson had dealt primarily and directly with the Director but also logistically with the operations director, James Straughan. He was also aware, from both men, that the deputy MI6 director, Rebecca Street, was an active participant at every stage of the planning. A difficulty arose in that planning from Radtsic’s son being a student at the Sorbonne, in Paris. To persuade the son to defect, Radtsic’s wife travelled to Paris. Because of Radtsic’s intelligence expertise, it was decided by James Straughan that a large extraction-support team was unnecessary—that Jacobson alone was sufficient Control and escort for the man—particularly acknowledging the possibility of the FSB becoming aware from airport and embassy surveillance of the arrival in Moscow of a British intelligence contingent for a separate, MI5 extraction of Natalia Fedova. The defection of Maxim Radtsic went flawlessly but that of the man’s wife and son was intercepted by French security. He knew nothing of the circumstances of that interception. Nor did he have any detailed knowledge of the Natalia Fedova extraction.

‘Was there, during the planning with either myself or the operations director, any discussion of a staged diversion to draw attention from Maxim Radtsic’s crossing?’ asked Monsford.

‘Not with you, sir.’

Jane’s exasperated move was halted by Aubrey Smith’s leg jamming into hers.

‘Which is not a complete answer,’ prompted Monsford.

‘There was one reference from operational director Straughan. He said he was thinking of introducing a diversion.’

‘What was that diversion to be?’

‘I don’t know. It was never referred to again by operations director Straughan.’

‘Was there any discussion of a diversion with anyone else: deputy director Rebecca Street, for instance?’

‘I do not recall any such discussion. I cannot categorically say that one never took place. If it did, I can’t remember it.’

Aubrey Smith’s leg was painfully into Jane’s: he felt the anger throbbing through her.

‘Did you ever, either in discussion or as a rumour within either the MI6 or MI5
rezidentura
of the Moscow embassy, hear of an intended distracting assassination?’

‘No, sir. My instructions from operations director Straughan were to keep myself completely separate from the second extraction.’

Properly turning his chair back into the room, Monsford said, ‘I do not think I can help this enquiry any further.’

‘There’ll be a refreshment break,’ decreed Bland.

Rebecca at last opened Monsford’s note. It read, ‘FIND OUT ABOUT MI5 WITNESSES.’

*   *   *

It was Jane’s idea to go alone into the adjoining annexe, leaving Smith and Passmore in the enquiry room analyzing Harry Jacobson’s anodyne puppetry. Jane got there first, putting the onus of approach upon the other woman, quickly getting tea she didn’t want and an empty table, away from which she moved one chair and put her sagged briefcase on the third, leaving only one place vacant. It was physically a mechanical, unthinking process, Jane’s mind blocked by a single mantra:
beat him, beat him, beat him.

‘I guess this vacant chair is for me?’ said Rebecca, standing behind it.

‘Why not?’ invited Jane.

‘Thank you for saving it.’ Straughan had disdained the MI6 headquarters ribaldry at the other woman’s androgyny and Rebecca trusted the sadly dead man’s judgement.

‘With whatever questioning there might be for Jacobson, it made every sense to keep your witnesses back, didn’t it?’ began Rebecca, covering the silence by opening and pouring her mineral water.

‘We haven’t decided a specific day: there’s a lot to be discussed.’ It was her lead, with Rebecca having to follow, Jane decided.

It would be naïve for her to expect any other attitude from the woman whom she’d replaced, Rebecca acknowledged. Objectively considering the circumstances, Jane Ambersom was being remarkably receptive, even though she was sure the attitude was motivated by the same reasons as her own. Knowing the concessions had to come from her, Rebecca said, ‘We’ve both got far too many of our people in Russian custody.’

‘And too many innocents totally unaware what the fuck’s happening to them, largely because of Charlie Muffin.’ It would appear too much, as the all-girls-together obscenity was too much, but Jane hoped it would cloak the direction in which she wanted to lead the other woman.

More than receptive, judged Rebecca. Cautiously, she said, ‘Some people other than the innocents don’t know what’s going on, either.’

‘That was a pretty shitty trick Monsford pulled, getting you into the records.’

There was almost a physical wince of withdrawal from Rebecca. She sipped her water, needing the pause, discomfited by the reminder of how Jacobson’s remark had been manipulated. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to you at Vauxhall Cross. I want you to know that.’

A clever evasion, conceded Jane. ‘If for a moment I believed you had, I’d thank you as sincerely as I knew how. Where I am now, among the people I am with now, is the luckiest escape I’m ever likely to have.’

‘We’re straying into generalities,’ complained Rebecca, further unsettled by the other woman’s response.

‘What, specifically, should we talk about?’ pounced Jane.

‘This, all of it, has gone beyond any sensible rivalry: beyond any sense at all.’

‘I think so, too.’ Jane hadn’t expected such a commitment.

The summons bell signalled the resumption of the hearing.

‘Are your witnesses going to cause us difficulty?’

Jane was briefly off-balanced by the directness. Deciding to match it, she said, ‘The one who was actually at the airport and saw it all, could…’ The pause now was for emphasis. ‘But not to you, personally: you personally haven’t made any claims, have you? We’re judging your inclusion by Jacobson to be yet another of Monsford’s responsibility insurances, having someone else at whom to point the finger if he thinks it necessary.’

Rebecca rose, to prevent their being the last to return. ‘I think we should talk again.’

‘I think so too,’ agreed Jane.

*   *   *

Natalia looked up expectantly at Ethel’s entry. ‘You’ve heard something!’

‘Not about Charlie,’ quickly calmed the security supervisor.

‘What then?’ It was close to a disinterested question, Natalia even turning to where Sasha was playing with her zoo-animal models. She’d chosen a giraffe to go with the tiger.

‘They’ve agreed to your seeing Irena Yakulova’s admission to Charlie.’

Natalia came back, frowning, to the other woman. ‘We only spoke about it this morning?’

‘I told you the conversation was being relayed from the car. Are you surprised?’

Natalia gauged the question. Finally she said, ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Are you debriefing me?’ demanded the Russian. It wasn’t resentment.

‘I don’t think I’m professionally competent enough, do you?’

‘Not if there was something I wanted to keep from you.’

‘Something like why you’re surprised to be seeing Charlie’s confrontation with Irena Yakulova?’

Natalia smiled at last. ‘Normally it wouldn’t be contemplated with someone who hadn’t proved themselves during a full interrogation: it definitely wouldn’t be conceivable in Russia.’

‘The judgement is that these are anything but normal circumstances.’

‘That’s certainly true.’

‘What Irena said isn’t being electronically transmitted, for obvious security reasons, so it won’t be here today. It’s being couriered from London.’

‘A courier could be followed!’ objected Natalia, the concern immediate.

‘Not by helicopter, making an intermediate transfer stop to prevent the initial flight plan being hacked into,’ assured Ethel.

‘You were testing me for right answers, though, weren’t you?’ challenged Natalia.

‘Weren’t you expecting me to test you, being included as closely and as quickly as you are?’

‘I was waiting, hoping not to be disappointed.’

*   *   *

Knowing before he even set out on his experiment that the warning ache in both feet would make it difficult—and determined against worsening the discomfort by encountering any unpredictable
spetsnaz
—Charlie limited the expedition to the dacha’s immediate surroundings, not expecting to confirm the extent of the cottage’s outside electronic surveillance, despite believing he’d isolated the most likely internal observation in the main rooms. He tested that belief by slipping out a side door onto the encircling veranda but sat at once on one of its rough-hewn seats to assess the quickness of the male housekeeper’s pursuit. He spent the fifteen minutes he allowed for the man’s appearance intently studying as much of the exterior of the building as he was able to see, confident he also identified two devices beyond his eyeline from their internal supply cables.

Charlie was careful to avoid both when he finally moved, sticking to the inside of the raised walkway, along which he detected two more telltale supply leads, and by visually estimating the distances between them left the dacha beyond their scope. The usual provision in such safe houses was that every potentially detectable camera or CCTV was duplicated by at least one so well hidden as to be invisible, no matter how well trained or experienced the searcher. And here that invisibility was doubly compounded by the tightly encircling firs among the branches of which a profusion of unseen cameras could be mounted.

None of which was the point or purpose of Charlie’s so-far-uninterrupted excursion, which he was surprised—as well as increasingly concerned—he was being allowed to continue.

The unevenness of the track to the paved road was even more pronounced than it had been during the agonizing car approach, slowing him to a groping foot-at-a-time progress, and he was relieved at the tree break he’d memorized, smiling at the instantly more comfortable pine-needle path through trees so closely packed together that almost at once he was shrouded in near-total darkness. Charlie stopped after about fifteen metres, conscious of the undergrowth scurrying and tree-branch scraping, waving his arms about him in a pointless battle against the miasma of flying, stinging things protesting his intrusion. The movement made his shoulder itch.