Red Star Burning (37 page)

“Go back to Straughan,” the Director-General told Jane. “Promise him every protection, whatever he wants, to get whatever he’s got. Tell him I’ll meet him personally if it’ll help.”

“He’s terrified,” warned Jane.

“So am I,” said Smith.

27

By the time he entered the Foreign Office every uncertainty was perfectly resolved in Gerald Monsford’s mind, the creaking ice hardened into a solid conviction that he was unassailable. Even Straughan’s message during the return from Hertfordshire of Charlie Muffin’s reappearance hadn’t unsettled him. The man and his family were no longer of any practical use, easily discarded encumbrances.

Monsford intentionally avoided Vauxhall Cross to arrive early but wasn’t concerned, either, at finding Aubrey Smith ahead of him, alone with Geoffrey Palmer. “Congratulations upon the return of your prodigal son,” he greeted the blank-faced MI5 Director-General.

“I hope you’ve equally good news of your errant mother and offspring,” Smith mocked back, as Sir Archibald Bland came into the room to complete their quorum.

“Is the long-awaited emergence of Charlie Muffin good news?” questioned Monsford, setting the stage for his intended lead.

“That’ll have to be judged on the outcome of both extractions,” suggested Smith.

“And we’re here to examine the more immediate difficulties of Maxim Radtsic,” halted Bland, impatiently. “Which is dominating the cabinet, who want it concluded in the shortest time possible with absolutely no further problems. I’m authorized to tell you both that you are losing the confidence of this government effectively to continue in the positions you currently hold.”

For the briefest moment Geoffrey Palmer appeared as shocked as the two directors. It was the confidently prepared Gerald Monsford who recovered first. “Then it’s clearly important that on behalf of MI6 I restore that confidence.”

“That’s precisely what we expect you to do,” said Palmer, his stiffness the only indication of his anger at not being warned in advance of the cabinet secretary’s threat.

The drive back from Hertfordshire had allowed Monsford not only to formulate his proposals but mentally to rehearse their presentation, which he did flawlessly. “It will overwhelm all the Charlie Muffin embarrassment,” Monsford concluded, delivering his patronizing coup de grâce to Aubrey Smith, “We can warn Russia through back channels that any retaliation will be met with public exposé of their Lvov disaster.” Unable to stop himself, Monsford went on: “Which is, perhaps, some mitigation against the directorship changes you’ve indicated towards my MI5 colleague.”

“That’s an extremely convincing proposal, supported by an equally convincing argument,” cautiously acknowledged Bland, looking to the Intelligence Committee liaison for agreement.

“Providing the kidnap allegations
are
withdrawn,” qualified Palmer, equally cautious.

“My proposals also make it impossible for Moscow to impose any coercion upon France,” insisted Monsford. “They’ll be neutered.”

“I am grateful to my MI6 colleague for his concern at my professional future,” said Smith, anxious to match Monsford’s condescension. “I also want to make it clear that I am not playing devil’s advocate. But getting the accusation of kidnap withdrawn isn’t the only hurdle. There’s mollifying bruised French pride at MI6 mounting an espionage-linked operation on its sovereign soil. There’s the danger of detained MI6 officers having made incriminating admissions, too. And we don’t know what’s passed between Moscow and Paris. There is absolutely nothing to suggest that this will produce any of the speculated success.”

“None of my officers will have admitted anything, so I won’t bother addressing that canard,” dismissed Monsford, contemptuously, “Nowhere in my proposals have I discounted or minimized our difficulties. What I
have
done, to confront them, is bring to this country the highest-ranking Russian intelligence executive ever to defect and already have his agreement personally to persuade his family to deny they are kidnap victims, removing any criminal justification for France to detain them. France’s precious pride can go to hell. Moscow’s, too. We hold the better hand for whatever poker game they choose to play. We can’t lose.”

None of the others spoke, each of the three waiting for one of the others to comment or commit first. Monsford, too, lapsed into quiet, self-satisfied reflection, amused at how persuasively he’d utilized so much of Charlie Muffin’s arguments to justify his personal involvement at their original Buckinghamshire discussions. He’d started out properly confident, Monsford admitted to himself, but he’d never imagined gaining such an overwhelming victory. Even the condescension he’d directed at Aubrey Smith, a finger snap, unprepared decision, had worked. He was the rule maker, the motivator: the others, Aubrey Smith their leading supplicant, had obediently to follow.

It was Sir Archibald Bland, the permanent civil servant whose influence spanned all political and diplomatic divides, who at last broke but tried too hard for cynicism. “Some diplomats might sometimes be mistaken for gangsters but very few aspire to such gunpoint blackmail.”

“I’ve put forward practical, workable proposals,” insisted Monsford, impatient at last with too many confused metaphors. “I’m looking forward to hearing alternatives.”

“I believe we’ve taken this discussion as far as we can and from which there might well be a place for the suggested diplomatic involvement,” said Palmer.

“But isn’t there something further?” questioned Monsford, reluctant to quit while he was so far ahead. “What about the resurrection of Charlie Muffin?”

“I’m curious at your describing Charlie’s reappearance as a resurrection?” quickly seized Aubrey Smith. “Do you have a reason for imagining he might have been dead?”

Monsford’s balloon didn’t burst but the air began to seep from the overinflated euphoria. “It was an inappropriate remark,” he forced himself to admit. “But I’m sure all of us are curious about what he’s been doing.”

“Charlie’s surfaced,” Smith told the other two. “I’ve heard very little, apart from discovering he’s refusing to operate with MI6, which makes me as curious as I’m sure it does all of you.”

“With which I’m more than happy to accept,” Monsford hurried in. “I’m no longer willing to risk either my officers or my service on such an irresponsible operative. I would even suggest the extraction of Charlie Muffin and his family is abandoned and all our officers withdrawn before anything else goes wrong.”

“We talked…” began Smith but Palmer talked over him.

“Are you telling us the confounded man’s still refusing specific instructions?”

“No!” denied Smith emphatically, unsure how far he could manipulate Monsford with Jane Ambersom’s limited information. “There are indications that he’s discovered a situation making it unsafe—maybe even physically dangerous—for him to be associated with the MI6 secondment.”

“I demand an explanation of that remark!” exploded Monsford, exaggerating the outrage, the fragile confidence wavering.

“Which I’m as anxious to give as you are to hear,” said Smith, enjoying the quick reversal. “But as we’re discussing your operatives I was hoping you might have some input.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” blustered the MI6 Director.

“In which case there’ll need to be the most rigorous inquiry, which I assure all of you it will get,” undertook Smith. “Perhaps we could get some early indication the three seconded, no-longer-acceptable MI6 officers will be recalled.”

“Or perhaps they should remain to prevent further disasters,” argued Monsford, panicked half thoughts refusing properly to cohere.

“You’ve changed your mind remarkably quickly,” challenged Smith, hoping the two government grandees were assessing Monsford as he was. “You began hardly able to wait to disassociate your service from mine: now you’re demanding they remain.”

“That was before your accusations started!” Monsford threw back, awkwardly.

Turning that awkwardness back upon the other man, Smith said: “What accusations! I haven’t accused anyone of anything. I merely speculated in the widest possible manner on a reason for Charlie’s curious message. And I would, in passing, strongly argue against abandoning Charlie’s mission. I believed we’d accepted Charlie will try to get his wife and child out, with or without our support.”

“Precisely the potential danger I’m warning against and why my men must stay,” blurted Monsford, to the frowned confusion of both Bland and Palmer.

Bland said: “This is spiraling into absurdity. We’ll adjourn but by tomorrow I want this sorted out, to be discussed and resolved constructively. I opened this session warning of lost government confidence. Little of what I’ve heard today has changed the sentiment. I think…” The man stopped at a summoning buzz from outside the room.

Palmer pressed the door-release button and accepted the message slip from a Foreign Office messenger. Looking up, Palmer said: “It’s just been announced in Moscow that one of the two heart-attack victims from the tourist group has died.”

*   *   *

After its productive start, Charlie’s day went downhill. He’d spent a frustrating forenoon failing to reach Natalia and too much of the early afternoon unable to reconnect with David Halliday to learn of a reaction to his approaching Patrick Wilkinson.

Long before the clumsy Russian entry into his Vauxhall flat, Charlie acknowledged the onion-skin overlap of espionage and burglary, the cardinal credo of both being always to establish a guaranteed exit before contemplating an entry, which required the utmost preparation for the following day’s Metro merry-go-round with Wilkinson, which he hoped would be as successful as his London evasion of his original safe-house guardians. Smolenskaya was the station closest to the Moskva-bordering British embassy and the logical place for Wilkinson to set off. To guard against his expectation of Wilkinson’s not being alone, Charlie spent a full thirty minutes refamiliarizing himself with the station layout and hideaway surveillance spots. He twice rode his chosen route and following that refamiliarization disembarked at each of the linked intersections to memorize their individual geography. At four randomly chosen stops Charlie interrupted his protective survey to return to ground level for still unsuccessful telephone attempts. It took Charlie three hours to complete his personal mapping and isolate the best-suited stations. Charlie finished at Smolenskaya with the last of the continuous tests he’d risked during the journey testing the recharged British-adapted Russian mobile that was to feature heavily the following day, knowing the replacement Russian pay-as-you-go devices wouldn’t operate at the depths of the Moscow underground system. He moved as deeply into the station as possible, impressed as he had been every previous time that the phone’s indicator showed a full battery. As soon as he’d proved its effectiveness Charlie once more removed the battery to defeat the suspected tracker application.

It was past six before Natalia eventually answered and from the obvious terseness Charlie knew at once she was not alone. He named the time and restaurant, in the university district, quickly enough for her to dismiss the call as misdialed as she disconnected. Charlie tried from the same kiosk and twice more from others during his next reconnaissance before accepting that Halliday’s refusal was deliberate, which was irritating although predictable. Charlie wondered how difficult it would be to restore their situation. It depended, he supposed, on London’s response to his reappearance and insisted separation from MI6. To get an indication of that he’d have to wait until he met Wilkinson:
if
he managed to meet Wilkinson, came the realistic qualification.

There had been, as always, a professional practicality in Charlie’s booking dinner that night at the Wild Egret. It had been a favorite of both at the beginning of their marriage, conveniently close to their prerevolutionary-mansion apartment, the nostalgia of which he hoped she’d appreciate as much as she had his earlier choice. He enjoyed the nostalgic significance, too, but equally important was its nearness to the multientranced warren of Kurskaya Metro station, from which he planned to leave the Wilkinson carousel. He studied that as intently as he had Smolenskaya, going in and out of all three entrances, marking every concealment and vantage point and back once more aboveground rediscovered the tributary streets to the treble-lane highways and connecting ring road. Gratefully approaching the end of his professional preparations, Charlie sought out a half-remembered landmark that he found closer to the Wild Egret than he’d recalled, slipping easily into the alcove’s completely dark interior. It had once contained a horse-watering trough, now removed but still with a wide ledge remaining for Charlie to perch on to relieve the foot-burning discomfort after so much walking, refusing even to contemplate how much worse it would be the following day. Charlie picked out Natalia when she was still more than a hundred meters away, approaching from the direction of the Kurskaya station, and was at once caught by the caution she was showing, discreetly checking her trail twice before reaching a cross-street intersection where she hesitated longer to ensure she was not under parallel road surveillance. He couldn’t detect any either but waited a full five minutes to make absolutely sure Natalia was alone before he left the alcove to follow.

She was being seated as he entered. She smiled up as he joined her and said: “So you were checking I didn’t have unwanted company?”

“The alcove where the trough used to be: you were very good.”

“I was trying to impress you.”

“You knew I’d be watching?”

“As I expected you’d choose this restaurant.”

“Let’s hope it lives up to the memories.”

They took their time ordering, Charlie insisting upon celebration beluga.

“Was my call a problem?” asked Charlie.

Natalia shook her head. “We’d finished but I was still in the building, with people around. I had it on mute, so no one heard it.”