See Charlie Run (38 page)

Clarke gave up on Olga. To Charlie he said: ‘It was really all remarkably easy, wasn't it?'

Charlie looked quizically up at the man, decided it was a genuinely innocent question. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘I suppose you could say that. Easy as can be.'

Winslow Elliott was with the Special Forces group who watched the British plane go and Elliott said: ‘She was there! It was all crap! He got her out tonight!'

Jamieson said: ‘So maybe we struck out.' It had turned out to be a shitty assignment. You win some, you lose some, he thought: just follow the orders and think of the pension and the PX facilities. It was stupid to make it a personal thing.

‘Know what I'm going to do! I'm going to turn in a report showing how Art Fredericks fucked this up, every step of the fucking way. That's what I'm going to do,' Elliott promised himself.

The Special Forces colonel, more experienced in the way of buck-passing and report filing than the CIA fieldman, said: ‘Wait a while, buddy. See how the whole thing shakes down before you start throwing garbage into the wind.'

At that moment Yuri Kozlov entered the enormous lobby of the Imperial Hotel, no longer concerned about security – no longer concerned about anything – and walked up to Fredericks, who was waiting for him at the steps leading into the sunken lounge.

‘Thank you for being here,' said Kozlov.

‘I'm glad you finally made it,' said Fredericks.

Fredericks didn't give a shit if the Russkie or any of the CIA guys watching were aware of how relieved he was. He'd just saved his ass.

Chapter Thirty

The airport arrival in London went as smoothly as the departure from Tokyo. The aircraft went to the private, northern section of Heathrow, where the transportation was ready: a helicopter for Olga – and female as well as male escorts – to fly her undetected by any doubtful Soviet interception to the safe debriefing house in Surrey. And a surprising limousine for Charlie, with the sealed instruction carried by the security-cleared driver to go directly to Sir Alistair Wilson's house in Hampshire.

‘It's Sunday,' reminded the driver.

Charlie lounged in the back of the vehicle, savouring the unaccustomed luxury. There was even a cocktail cabinet recessed into the seat in front, and Charlie pulled the flap down and saw that the cut glass bottles were full.

‘Help yourself,' invited the driver. ‘Comes off the Ministry of Works budget.'

‘It's been a long flight and it's early,' refused Charlie. Guessing the reason behind the invitation, he added: ‘Bottles don't look full to me,' and the driver smiled appreciately at him through the rear view mirror.

It
had
been a long flight, and Charlie felt buggered. There hadn't been any proper washing facilities on the transport plane – the lavatory had been a hear-the-splash affair behind a canvas screen – and he felt sticky and knew he was stubble-chinned: he wondered if there were any grey in the growth. He was aware the suit looked even more than usual as if he had slept in it, which on this occasion he had but not well, because the webbing seats he'd assured that cheery major would be fine had turned out to be damned uncomfortable: para-troopers weren't brave, just smart enough to know how to get out of the bloody things as quickly as possible.

A posh car with a driver in a uniform and a cubby-hole full of booze was a definite improvement. And indicative, If he were still in the shit he wouldn't be getting the welcome-home little hero treatment: well, maybe hero was a bit strong, but the rest was near enough. On a scale of ten, he was shooting at least eight. Charlie glanced again at the drinks cupboard, reconsidering a celebration. Better not: always the chance of the unexpected steel-shod boot, and there had been too many of those in the past few days.

The driver turned off at a Micheldever sign and looped through lanes that hadn't been built for cars this size and certainly not at this speed, and Charlie hoped the driver didn't go at the cocktail cabinet too hard before the journey back. He was grateful when they swept into an unmarked drive, past gate pillars surprisingly with no gate and a gatehouse even more surprisingly with no attendant. Charlie's uncase was just forming when they came to the security, sensibly placed halfway up the drive where it was not visible from the road. Hidden though it was, the cordon was still discreet, the replacement gatehouse looking like its predecessor but less lavish, a box-like guard house designed to look like a retraction forced upon a land-owner whose fortunes were diminishing. It was, in fact, perfect protection, pitched upon an obvious elevation with a soldier's eye-view of any approach from the highway. The attendant was close cropped and upright and clearly ex-army, and because he was looking hard Charlie managed to identify the concealed antennae which would be linked to the electronic surveillance of the place. Absence of any high wall was understandable: ground sensors and infra-red television cameras were far more effective. The pass check was very thorough, and when they went through Charlie saw there was a second man in the tiny building.

Sir Alistair Wilson's home was a square-built, weathered-red mansion with a parapet around the roof edge and matching, miniature parapets before all but the ground-floor facing windows. The front of the house was bearded with cut-close creeper, buried in which – because he was looking and recognized them – Charlie picked out three surveillance cameras but guessed there were more.

The house was not, however, the focal point of the approach. It was the rose beds, laid out with the squared and rectangular perfection of the attack formations of Wellington's red-coated armies and with the same regimentation of colours, beyond the reds to oranges and pinks and whites and yellows and crimsons and peach. Everywhere was dominated by the varying smells when Charlie was let out of the car: the driver called him sir and Charlie decided it was becoming a habit.

A man with another soldier's haircut opened the door, but the Director was already clumping across the black and white tiled entry hall, hand outstretched in greeting: ‘Charlie! Well done, Charlie! Good to see you back in one piece.'

‘There were times when I didn't think I would be,' said Charlie. He rubbed his chin and look down at himself: ‘Afraid I didn't have time to …'

‘Didn't expect you to,' said Wilson, dismissively. He said – an order, not an invitation – “You'll stay for lunch” and then, ‘Before drinks let's walk in the garden,' and set off despite the stiff leg at a pace Charlie had trouble matching. The Director led through a leather-furnished library, out of french windows and directly on to the rear of the house. There were even more rose beds in military formations, and Charlie thought an army to the back and an army to the front. At the rear, ramblers replaced the creeper of the approach and the cameras here were placed again to be scarcely visible: if he hadn't been looking, he wouldn't have seen them.

Wilson jerked his hand towards a pink species and said: ‘Displayed at Chelsea this year: got a commended.'

Charlie was unsure what was expected, so he said: ‘Well done.'

‘Do better next year,' said the Director. ‘Irena's singing her head off, incidently; can't stop talking.'

‘Olga won't,' said Charlie, positively. ‘There's still a lot of remorse at the killing – shock, I suppose – but eventually she's going fully to realize what she's done by coming across. She's not a defector, not like they normally are.'

Wilson pulled a branch of something yellow towards him and said: ‘Smell that: isn't it wonderful? She's here though, isn't she? She'll have to cooperate, finally.'

‘I suppose so,' said Charlie. He seemed to remember apologizing before but decided a repetition wouldn't hurt. ‘Sorry for any upsets.'

‘All forgotten,' said Wilson, breezily. ‘Even got a congratulation at a session of the Intelligence Committee. Our estimation of Soviet technology espionage was about eighty per cent too low: Irena's giving us names, dates, places … and everything about what her husband did. Names, dates, places, as well. She's very bitter.'

‘Got a bloody good reason to be.'

‘She's asked about you, incidently.'

‘Asked what?'

‘Seemed to think you would be her debriefing officer.'

‘What was she told?'

‘Nothing positive: we'll have to put you in, of course, if we think there's something she's holding back, for you.'

‘I don't think we built up much reliance,' said Charlie, wanting to avoid the chore.

‘She seems to think you saved her life,' disclosed the Director.

Reminded of someone's life which hadn't been saved, Charlie said: ‘Have Harry Lu's family arrived?'

‘Yes,' said Wilson.

‘That's all going to be OK, isn't it?'

The Director stopped at the end of a walkway, did a smart about-turn without any apparent difficulty from his stiff leg, and announced: ‘Drinks and lunch.'

Charlie followed, with foreboding, but didn't press because he knew it had to come as Wilson dictated. The Director poured the Scotch, heavy-handed, and Charlie dutifully expressed admiration at more roses displayed around the room and reminded the ex-soldier that Jun Hayashi was still in place in Haneda. Wilson said the decision had been made to do nothing about the man until Irena's debriefing had progressed to their uncovering the complete extent of Japan's witting or unwitting involvement in the hi-tech smuggling chain, when Hayashi might be useful as a bargaining counter with Tokyo.

The meal was beef, thick carved, and there was a bottle of Margaux on the table between them and another opened and breathing on a sideboard, for when the first was drunk.

‘Don't like the officialdom of government service,' started out Wilson. ‘Never have done.'

‘I have difficulty with it myself sometimes,' said Charlie.

‘Bloody forms and columns of figures.'

‘I'm not looking forward to getting back to that,' said Charlie, anxious to keep an important conversation going.

‘Think you should,' said the Director. ‘Had a man in the regiment once, first class soldier operationally but a lousy administrator. Got himself involved in some mess account and there was a discrepancy or two. Payments to tradesmen for which there were no receipts, that sort of thing. Forget the figures: £800 comes to mind but I think the final audit was nearer £1800. Hell to pay: couldn't protect the poor bugger, although I didn't want to lose him as a soldier. Tragedy: an absolute tragedy.'

‘I can imagine it must have been,' said Charlie. Christ, what a smashing bloke Wilson was! Charlie said: ‘Strange that we should be talking of accounts. Had a long conversation with Harry Lu, before he was killed. It was all a misunderstanding: just forgot to list those informants.'

Wilson topped up their glasses and said ‘Ah!' but there was a great deal of satisfaction in the expression. Then he added: ‘Glad you did that.'

‘I do like to keep the records straight, although I don't enjoy the form filling,' said Charlie.

‘Nuisance factor of the job.'

‘Nuisance factor of the job,' agreed Charlie.

‘We haven't talked about Yuri Kozlov yet,' said the Director.

Charlie set out the meeting and the ultimatums of the previous day in Tokyo and Wilson sat nodding and adding to their glasses when it was necessary, and when Charlie finished the Director said: ‘I like that. I like that a lot.'

‘I want to make it happen,' said Charlie, a promise to himself.

‘I don't think you can go, not the way the Americans feel,' said the Director.

‘I told him I would be the one.'

‘I suppose you could use a different passport, but we've hammered that system a bit lately,' said Wilson, doubtfully.

‘We've got time to think it through,' said Charlie.

‘You're right,' agreed the Director, reaching around for the second bottle. He said: ‘You must be bloody tired, what with the flight and everything.'

Charlie recognized it wasn't a polite, social enquiry. Accepting the opening, he said: ‘Yes I am. Very tired.'

‘Why not spend a couple of days at home, resting up? No need to come into the department until, let's say, Wednesday at the earliest.'

‘That's extremely thoughtful,' said Charlie.

‘Never have been able to get over the tragedy, losing a first class field soldier over a miserable £1800,' reflected the Director.

‘Like you said,' agreed Charlie, ‘a tragedy.'

‘An absolute tragedy.'

When Charlie opened the cocktail cabinet on the return to London he found the whisky decanter half empty: the driver took the lanes back to the motorway with considerable care and Charlie decided that half a bottle for half the speed was a pretty good deal. He said. ‘Sorry I can't offer you one.'

‘Never drink and drive,' assured the man. ‘Good meeting?'

‘Couldn't have been better,' said Charlie.

The memorandum from Harkness, demanding an immediate meeting, was uppermost in Charlie's in-tray when he arrived at the office on the Wednesday, so he put it to the bottom and summoned a messenger instead of using the inter-office postal system, entrusting to the man his own expenses with an explanation of the addendums and, in a separate envelope, enclosed a list of informants with a second memorandum that they constituted the omissions from Harry Lu's accounts. Hubert Witherspoon was a blurred figure through the fluted glass. Charlie flickered his fingers but the man didn't respond, and Charlie thought fuck you then.

The telephoned summons did not come until after lunch, which was longer than Charlie had expected, and he guessed the deputy had been adding up the figures and he hoped he'd got them near enough right.

‘You wanted to see me?' he said, ingenuously, as he entered Harkness's office. It was directly below the Director's, with a lowered view of the park.