See Charlie Run (2 page)

Charlie went back to the files he had discarded as read and assimilated, looking for the connection he wanted, but was vaguely aware of Witherspoon moving in the other office although he didn't realize the man was coming into his section until the door actually opened. Witherspoon stayed in the doorway, flax-haired, stripe-suited, school-tied and faintly disapproving, looking down at Charlie.

‘I took some messages for you, before you arrived.'

‘Thanks,' said Charlie, ignoring the clearly implied criticism of his lateness.

‘Accounts telephoned that you're four weeks behind with your expenses and that you're £400 overdrawn: they won't accept any more withdrawals, not even if they're countersigned by the Director himself …'

Witherspoon was enjoying himself, Charlie realized; the man actually looked like something out of a Noel Coward production. He said: ‘That all?'

‘No,' said the other man, confirming Charlie's impression. ‘The Director called himself, asking for you. I had to say you weren't in.'

‘Always essential to tell the truth,' agreed Charlie.

‘Said he wanted to see you, when you finally got here.'

‘So why'd you wait half an hour, before telling me?' The bastard, thought Charlie.

‘Didn't see you arrive, not right away,' said Witherspoon, easily. He came further into the tiny office, staring intently at Charlie. ‘You've got a piece of toilet-paper stuck on your face!' he said.

‘Disguise,' said Charlie.

‘Disguise?'

‘I'm trying to become shit of the week,' said Charlie. ‘Thought maybe there was a competition.'

Witherspoon's own face tightened. He said: ‘There's something else. Security want you …' He looked pointedly at the disordered files on Charlie's desk. ‘Last night's patrol discovered restricted material in an unlocked drawer in your desk. They're red designation. Should have been returned to Records.'

‘Bet you can quote the regulation?' challenged Charlie.

‘I can,' said Witherspoon, a man devoid of humour. ‘It's 120/B'.

‘I'll try to remember that,' promised Charlie.

‘It's probably what the Director wants to see you about,' said Witherspoon.

Charlie doubted it. General Sir Alistair Wilson was a professional interested in results, not books of rules. He said: ‘Looks like I might be in trouble.'

‘Which is entirely your own fault,' lectured Witherspoon. ‘You know about expenses. Just like you know red designation files.'

‘I'm a fool to myself,' said Charlie, weighing the cliche.

‘It's not a joke!'

Charlie remembered the previous day's shirt and wished he'd had some advance warning of the Director's summons. It had to be seven months since he'd last met the man. He said: ‘Nothing is funny this morning.'

Charlie used the internal, secure line and was told by General Sir Alistair Wilson's personal secretary to come up immediately, which meant it was priority and that he had probably been waiting. Charlie ascended the two floors burning with anger at Witherspoon purposely delaying the message: sneaky little bastard. When he reached the outer office the woman said: ‘You're to go straight in,' confirming Charlie's apprehension.

The Director was predictably up from his desk, propped against the radiator: the artificial leg fitted badly after the battlefield operation and it pained him to sit too long. He was a bonily thin man, with a large, hawkish nose, and when Charlie saw Wilson's concertina-creased, elbow-patched suit he felt more comfortable about his own shirt and tie. Wilson's appearance was in complete contrast to Peter Harkness. The deputy director was a small-featured, pink-faced man whose suits were always impeccably pressed, whose shirts were always hard-collared and whose hand-tooled brogues were always mirror-sheen polished. Before entering the service Harkness had trained as an accountant; if he'd had £5, Charlie would have bet Harkness was behind the expenses embargo.

‘Sorry I'm late,' apologized Charlie, at once.

‘Some enquiry concerning the defector?' asked the Director, giving Charlie the immediate escape.

‘Yes,' said Charlie, gratefully. Sir Alistair Wilson was a good bloke, one of the few.

Harkness was sitting neatly in front of his superior's desk, knees and feet properly together, saucer in one hand, teacup in the other. Charlie wondered if the man starched his underpants like he did his shirt collars: at least they stayed down. Harkness frowned up and said: ‘Are you all right? You don't look well.'

‘Ate something that didn't agree with me,' said Charlie. He looked between the two men, going beyond the immediate impression of complete contrast. They were, he decided, a good combination. Wilson was a former Ghurka commander who specialized in jungle warfare and provided the entreprenurial brilliance and Harkness kept the books and made sure they balanced.

‘How's that enquiry going?' asked Wilson, easing himself into a more comfortable position in front of the window.

‘Not too badly,' said Charlie, immediately cautious. He'd been around too long to say it was practically over and get shifted prematurely from one rotten job to another rotten job.

‘Could someone else take it over?'

Shit, thought Charlie. He said, still cautious: ‘Take a long change-over briefing. But it might just be possible.' There was always the possibility, of course, that the job might be better and not worse: but that wasn't the way his luck usually ran.

‘So it can be swapped?' insisted Harkness, determined on a positive manner.

‘Yes,' said Charlie, reluctantly.

The Director moved with stiff-legged awkwardness to the desk. Rose growing was the man's hobby and at one corner was a vase of Pascali. He looked briefly down at some papers laid out in readiness and then smiled up at Charlie. ‘It's good, Charlie; could be one of the best. But it won't be easy.'

That was the trouble, thought Charlie: they never were. He said: ‘Another defector damage assessment?'

Wilson smiled, discerning the reason for the question. ‘It's a defection,' he said. ‘But definitely not another office job. Asia.'

The last vestiges of Charlie's headache lifted. Back on the streets: his proper place. Gutters too, if necessary. Whatever, as long as it was operational. He said: ‘Where?'

‘Japan,' said the Director.

‘Worked Tokyo twice,' said Charlie. ‘Went well both times.'

‘Let's hope it does this time,' said Harkness. ‘It could be spectacular.'

Wilson went back to his papers and said, with dictated formality: ‘Yuri Kozlov is an operative of Department 8 of Directorate S of the KGB's First Chief Directorate, currently attached to the Soviet embassy in Tokyo. For the past six months he has been negotiating with the Americans, to come over. They want us to share.'

‘Balls!' said Charlie, at once.

Both men looked up at him, surprised.

‘Like you said,' continued Charlie, ‘it could be spectacular. If Kozlov is genuine Department 8 then he's a killer, a trained assassin. He could give details of assassinations that have been carried out and not been detected as such; maybe some indication of future targets. He could detail the training and be used for incredible propaganda, publicly disclosing that the Soviets actually train and despatch people to kill. To get something like that the CIA would think it was Christmas, every day. They wouldn't let us or any other service within a million miles. And certainly not offer him, openly. It's wrong.'

Wilson smiled again, at Charlie's objections. ‘I agree with you, absolutely: on the face of it utter balls.'

‘Then I don't understand,' said Charlie.

‘The CIA don't want to share. I bet they're as mad as hell at the idea,' continued Wilson. ‘But they haven't got any choice. From the caution he's showing, I think Kozlov is genuine. He's got a wife, Irena. Also KGB. And also stationed in Tokyo. The deal – Kozlov's deal – is that he'll go over to the Americans and the wife comes over to us.'

‘Why?' demanded Charlie, even more confused.

‘He's openly told the Americans he doesn't expect them to keep the promises they're making, in their eagerness to get them over,' took up Harkness. ‘The Americans have treated defectors badly in the past: milked them dry and then dumped them. And he knows it. Kozlov is taking out insurance, to see he gets everything. There's to be no complete re-union until they've got all they're asking for. Which would seem to be quite a lot …' The neat man coughed, finishing his tea and placing it on the edge of the Director's desk. ‘If they both went across to the Americans,' resumed Harkness, ‘they'd only be guaranteed one income. Kozlov is demanding separate payments and pension arrangements, his from the Americans, his wife's from us …'

‘Which we'll pay, of course: the lot,' said the Director.

‘They could be apart for years!' said Charlie.

‘A further part of the deal,' expanded the Director. ‘Conjugal visits, every month, on neutral territory, under our joint protection.'

‘I don't like it,' said Charlie. ‘It doesn't feel right.'

‘Kozlov claims to have worked in England,' announced Wilson.

‘Any trace?' demanded Charlie. Whatever the uncertainties, it was obviously something they had to go for: go all the way.

‘Not under that name,' said Wilson. ‘Doesn't mean it isn't true.'

‘We're going to share everything with the Americans: they tell us what Kozlov says and we tell them what Irena says?' asked Charlie.

‘That's what the Americans are promising,' said Harkness.

‘They won't,' insisted Charlie, at once. ‘They're getting the better part of the deal, with Kozlov himself. They'll just want us to get the woman out. From Kozlov we'll only get the scraps.'

Wilson smiled, wolfishly. ‘Unless he tells us himself.'

Charlie answered the smile. ‘We snatch him, once they're both across?'

‘It depends,' said Wilson. ‘I'd prefer to convince him it would be better for them both to come to us in the first place.'

‘The CIA will try to do the same,' said Charlie.

‘Of course they will,' agreed Wilson. ‘I never thought it was going to be easy. That's why it's got to be you, Charlie. I want someone who can think dirtier. And quicker.'

‘Thanks for the character reference!' said Charlie.

‘It's the game, Charlie,' reminded Wilson. ‘And there's to be limited contact with the British embassy …'

‘To reduce any embarrassment if anything goes wrong?' anticipated Charlie. How many times had he heard that?

‘It's the same game,' said Wilson. ‘Embassy for communication, nothing else.' He slid a photograph of a young-looking man towards Charlie. ‘Richard Cartright. Young fellow, third posting. We'll advise your arrival …'

‘I'll need some assistance,' insisted Charlie.

‘There'll be everything you want, once you've decided it's absolutely genuine,' said Wilson. ‘Until then, you're on your own.'

Charlie worked to rules – his rules, not anything written in triplicate in manuals marked Eyes Only – and an absolutely essential rule was to have someone to hold the shielding umbrella if the shit hit the fan. Which in his experience it nearly always did and this time looked inevitable. He said: ‘I quite understand about embassy embarrassment but I know someone in Asia on contract …'

‘Not Harry Lu,' refused Harkness, at once. ‘He's on the suspect list.'

‘Why?'

‘Auditors found he was charging for informants in the communist Chinese office in Hong Kong who didn't exist,' said Harkness.

Bloody accountant, Charlie thought again. He said: ‘Everyone does that.'

Harkness winced at the admission. The deputy director said: ‘It makes him someone who has the potential for being bought. This operation has got to remain absolutely secure.'

What about
his
security? wondered Charlie. He'd have to make his own arrangements. He said: ‘We've got the positive guarantee of cooperation from the Americans?'

Wilson looked briefly down at the papers in front of him. ‘The promise came from the CIA headquarters at Langley; the Director himself. Your liaison at the US embassy in Tokyo is Art Fredericks.'

Not a name Charlie knew. But then it had been a long time. He said: ‘Do they know it's going to be me?'

‘I cabled them last night,' said Wilson.

So all the enquiries about the progress of the Jeremy Knott defection were so much bullshit: nothing changed. Ever. He said: ‘No reaction?'

‘Getting the Kozlovs out, where they're ours, is the only consideration,' said the Director. ‘What happened a long time ago is just that – history.'

If Wilson believed that then he believed in Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy and that the cheque was always in the post, decided Charlie. He said: ‘You'll want me to go right away?'

‘There's a direct flight tomorrow night. That gives you a day to hand over the other thing,' said Harkness.

Remembering, Charlie said: ‘Jeremy Knott was at Cambridge: read history at King's. Another undergraduate was Herbert Bell, who's now an Under Secretary here at the Foreign Office. They were both friends, at Cambridge; members of the debating society. I found a photograph of them, together. Bell was in Brussels, at the same time as Knott. And there was a six-months overlap in Rome.'

‘So?' asked Wilson.

‘In the assessment survey afterwards I found a statement from Bell that Jeremy Knott was only a casual acquaintance: that they had not met or had contact after Cambridge,' said Charlie. ‘Foreign Office background reports record them occupying the same house at Cambridge and Bell's father actually provided Knott with a character reference, for his Foreign Office entry.'