Authors: Brian Freemantle
“I’ve logged everything Jonathan Miller told me of every exchange he had with both mother and son,” said Straughan. “As far as I recall, Miller never told either of them exactly
where
we were flying them from: only that it would obviously be from somewhere along the north coast. Yet the ambush was only a few miles from Orly, as if our route was known in advance. And if Andrei knowingly set out to sabotage it, wouldn’t it be more likely he’d go to the Russians and their embassy, not to the French?”
“We haven’t yet confirmed it was a French interception,” Rebecca said.
“Whether it’s Russian or French is largely academic,” dismissed Straughan, philosophically. “The fact is that whichever it is has got them and two of our officers and the service is well and truly in the shit and sinking fast. And we should warn the Director.…” He gestured toward a computer on an adjoining table. “That’s monitoring Radtsic’s flight. It’s on time, landing in thirty minutes.”
“And it’ll be another two hours after that before he gets to the safe house,” said Rebecca. “Painter and the others will be back to Paris long before that, won’t they?”
Straughan looked at the French chronometer on the far wall. “Probably before Radtsic’s plane lands.”
“Does Painter have friends in the SDECE?”
“He has contact. I don’t know how friendly or not.”
“We’ll give it a little longer, for Painter to pull in every favor he can,” decided Rebecca. “We need as much information as possible for Gerald. Get a message to Jacobson. Warn him but tell him to say nothing to Radtsic. That’s Gerald’s responsibility: that and informing our government liaison.”
What sort of marked-card game was Rebecca Street playing? wondered Straughan. Whatever it was, it had been sensible to keep the safeguarding recording running for these exchanges, along with the rest. How much he wished again for someone like Jane Ambersom to help him decide what to do. The telephone interrupted the reflection. Straughan snatched it up, listened, and then said: “Fuck!”
“What…?” started Rebecca, but stopped, trying to understand from the gabbled conversation. “Tell me!” she demanded, as Straughan slammed the phone down.
“Our plane’s been seized at Orly along with everyone in it.”
“You’re right,” agreed Rebecca. “It’s a total fuck-up!”
* * *
He was properly floating, acknowledged Harry Jacobson: floating thirty-five thousand feet off the ground, on his way to justifiably well-earned rewards. Nothing could go wrong now: he’d done it! No one would ever know the fears he’d endured, the potentially calamitous mistakes and shortcuts he’d made. And now they never would. This was going to be engraved in his service record as a 100 percent, all singing, all dancing coup that could never—
would
never—be taken away from him. But he still wasn’t taking chances. Twice since takeoff Maxim Radtsic had turned from his seat two rows ahead, stupidly expecting recognition, which twice he’d refused and was glad he had: Radtsic hadn’t turned again but on the second occasion Jacobson overheard two Russians in the seats behind refer, laughing, to the Stalin similarities. It would be a story embellished in its telling to their families when photographs of Radtsic appeared in the inevitable publicity to follow the man’s defection. There wasn’t anything he’d miss about Moscow, apart obviously from its exquisite ballet. He’d thought the city dirty and its people arrogant, with any professional advancement drowned in a backwater increasingly stagnated by Putin’s constantly tightened control. Until Radtsic’s unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime approach, what passed for secret information gathering was virtually the distillation of cocktail-party gossip from one espionage operative to another, flavored by the national political mindset of each teller, additionally spiced as it went around the incestuous intelligence circuit. Paris or Washington was going to be far more rewarding.
Jacobson’s cell phone was switched to flight mode but he immediately felt the vibration of a mutely received text. When he got it from his pocket it read:
CONTACT URGENTLY ON ARRIVAL UNKNOWN TO NOW SOLITARY COMPANION
, and although he was still at thirty-five thousand feet Jacobson was no longer floating.
* * *
“It’s definitely SDECE,” announced Paul Painter. Despite twice using both his antiasthma inhalers the words wheezed from the man.
“Definite confirmation?” demanded Straughan, unsettled by the closeness with which Rebecca was pressed against him to hear both sides of the exchange, her shirt gaped sufficiently for him to see the pinkness of her nipples.
“Definite,” said Painter.
“What else?”
“It’s being dealt with at a political level.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the plane? Our people at Orly?”
“The same.” Painter’s breathing was getting easier.
“That’s bollocks.”
“That’s what my SDECE man is telling me.”
“Has there been any formal contact with the embassy?”
“Not up to five minutes ago, when we began this conversation. What am I to tell the diplomatic ranks here? I’ve had to warn them there’s a potential situation.”
“I wish you hadn’t. And don’t forget this conversation is being officially recorded,” warned Straughan. “You have any idea how the SDECE are going to handle it?”
“It was when I asked that question that I got the political-level answer.”
“You mean that it’s been taken out of the hands of the SDECE?”
“Let me tell you again.” Painter sighed, fully recovered now and refusing to be pushed into speculation. “I called my man at the French service and told him I’d heard something had happened on the Orly autoroute. He said it was a security operation, as was the impounding of the plane. He told me he didn’t know what was going to happen next: that it had been passed up to a political level and that everyone, the four at the toll booth and everyone with the plane, were being detained. That’s it. I couldn’t get any answers to how, why, or through whom the SDECE got involved. I am, of course, copying you both the complete voiceprint and hard-copy translation.”
“What chance is there of it all being kept under wraps?” asked Straughan.
“Something else I can’t tell you.”
“What I was—” started Straughan.
“Wait a minute,” stopped Painter. “There’s something coming in on the news wires.” There was a moment’s silence. “Shit!”
“What?” demanded Straughan.
“It’s an official release on Agence France-Presse. It says two Britons have been detained on suspicion of kidnapping two Russian nationals. Other Britons have been held at Orly, along with an aircraft suspected to be part of the same attempt.”
* * *
Rebecca Street remained in the communications room, where there were better facilities for Straughan to participate in the conference call, peremptorily breaking across Monsford’s announcement of his arrival. “You’re already at the house?”
“Of course I am. Where are Elana and the boy?”
“That’s why I’m calling you. It’s bad.”
The equipment was so finely adjusted that it was possible over Rebecca’s succinct explanation to hear Monsford’s increasingly labored breathing, which was scarcely less difficult than Paul Painter’s, earlier. There was no immediate response when she finished. Finally Rebecca said: “Are you there? Did you hear what I’ve told you?”
“How…? I mean, why…? Kidnap’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve told you all we know,” said the woman, smiling as she pushed a note across the desk to the operations director that read: “My £10 to your £5 he’ll give us Shakespeare’s wisdom.”
“I can’t stay here … need to get back to London. There’ll be calls.… Downing Street. You come down here to take over … you and Straughan.…”
“I can’t move from here,” refused Straughan. “There’s got to be a coordinator. I’m keeping the line permanently open to Paris. And I’m still waiting to speak to Jacobson.”
“Bland’s already telephoned twice: Aubrey Smith’s been on once,” picked up Rebecca, the smile widening. “You’re to make contact with Bland as soon as I’ve located you. I need to stay here, where everything’s being channeled, to field it all.”
“Jacobson!” seized the man. “Where’s Jacobson and Radtsic!”
“The plane’s just landed: it’s still taxiing,” said Straughan. “I got a message through during the flight, telling Jacobson to ring me the moment he gets off.”
“Jacobson’s to stay with Radtsic: that was always the plan. Jacobson and the others are to bring Radtsic here. I’m leaving right now.”
“What shall I tell Bland or Palmer or Smith?” asked Rebecca.
“Don’t tell anyone anything!” The words came out in a near shout, which Monsford realized. More controlled, he went on: “Tell them you got me but I’m in a bad cell-phone-reception area but that I’m on my way back. I want everything up-to-date and waiting for me on my desk.”
“Everything will be ready.”
“‘This was an ill beginning of the night,’” quoted Monsford, at last.
“He’s shitting himself,” Rebecca told Straughan, when the call ended.
“With every reason,” said Straughan.
“But we’re ring fenced.” She smiled, picking up Straughan’s five-pound note as well as crumpling her wager note. “I think I should have what’s recorded so far.”
“I’ll run it through, make sure it’s all okay,” said Straughan. And after making his copy, ensure he took out additional insurance, he decided.
In Moscow, Charlie Muffin was surprised at the quickness of Natalia’s response until she said: “Something’s broken. I can’t talk now.”
“Eight tonight at the restaurant we used in the beginning, behind the gardens,” Charlie managed, before Natalia put the phone down. He’d have to wait for at least six hours to discover what it was, Charlie estimated. It wouldn’t take him that long to complete the shopping he needed.
24
As it was, Charlie didn’t have to wait that long at all.
He checked out of the Mira hotel, moving south to the student transient anonymity of the Moscow university district with the Komsomolskaya Metro and its pursuit-evading convenience of two major subway routes. The Galaxy Hotel was a considerable improvement upon the Mira, due chiefly to the bedroom television with a CNN channel upon which, within half an hour, he saw the breaking-news flash of the French autoroute arrests and Orly plane impoundment. Charlie sat unmoving through two repeats, the last update of which confirmed that the alleged kidnap victims were Russian and that documentation upon the two detained Britons indicated diplomatic connections.
Charlie’s immediate speculation was the extent to which he could stretch what little there was to gain more from David Halliday. Not much, was the objective conclusion: scarcely anything at all, under the closest examination. His best, maybe only, hope was to lure Halliday into conjuring more ghosts from his fear-clouded mind. Charlie was encouraged by the audible uncertainty in Halliday’s voice as the man grabbed up the
rezidentura
phone. To increase it, Charlie said: “Not such a clean job after all, was it, David?”
“I’m not responsible for any of it! How could I be!” gabbled Halliday.
The satisfaction moved through Charlie. “You tell me.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with the French end,” Halliday continued to protest.
“That’s how it is when things fuck up. Don’t forget scapegoats and fall guys.”
“Not this time,” insisted the other man, in weak defiance. “They try to stitch me into this, I’m going to demand an internal inquiry to prove I can’t be held responsible.”
So far, so good, judged Charlie: not just good, 100 percent better than he’d expected. But it would take only one misplaced word. “How can they stitch you into it, if you didn’t know about France?”
“That’s the question I asked Straughan.”
“What was his answer it?”
“He couldn’t answer it, not properly. Said he wasn’t accusing me of anything: that he just wanted to know how much Jacobson told me about Radtsic.”
Who the fuck was Radtsic? Wrong question, Charlie instantly corrected himself. It was obvious who Radtsic was. And even more obvious, from Natalia’s telephone reaction, was the man’s occupation if not his actual rank within it until the departure of British Airways 9:30 flight that morning to London. And Halliday had lied, insisting he didn’t know the defector’s identity. What more was there to squeeze out of the man? “How much
did
Jacobson tell you about Radtsic?”
There was an abrupt silence. After what Charlie estimated was minutes, Halliday said: “You’re part of the stitch-up, now it’s all gone wrong. You just referred to Radtsic by name! Earlier you told me you didn’t know who we were getting out!”
“I didn’t know until you mentioned it less than five minutes ago.”
“I didn’t mention a name,” rejected Halliday.
“‘He just wanted to know how much Jacobson told me about Radtsic,’” quoted Charlie. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”
Once more Halliday didn’t reply. Charlie didn’t prompt.
“I don’t trust you,” eventually declared the MI6 man, close to his usual petulance.
“I never asked nor expected you to trust me,” reminded Charlie. “You proved that, not telling me until now that Radtsic was the extraction.”
“I didn’t
know
the name, not until London began the inquest,” implored Halliday.
Professionally the man was a disaster, Charlie decided once more. If Halliday had ever undergone hostile interrogation he would within minutes have disclosed the identities of every agent and every secret he’d ever known, up to and including the color of his grandfather’s underwear. “Tell me about Radtsic,” Charlie demanded.
“All I now know is that the extraction from here worked perfectly and that he’s already arrived in London. I don’t know if he’s been told about his wife and son.”
Halliday probably didn’t realize the amount of information he imparted every time he opened his mouth, for which, Charlie supposed, he should be grateful. “What is Radtsic within the FSB?”