Red Star Burning

11

Charlie Muffin disliked shared assignments that made him reliant upon others whose professional ability he didn’t know and therefore couldn’t trust, his unease increased by the inclusion of MI6 as well as by his belated recognition at how quickly his personal involvement had been agreed to. Charlie’s well-honed sensitivity to potential betrayal extended beyond the smell of a rat to being aware of them scuttling underfoot, which was the instinctive impression settling upon him.

His general discomfort began with his 8:00 A.M. arrival not at his Thames House workplace, which he’d expected, but across the river at MI6’s tree- and shrub-festooned edifice, the smoked-glass car sweeping too fast through last-minute-opening steel doors into a basement garage from an unsuspected entrance a block and a half from the actual building. Charlie dismissed the security checks as far more perfunctory than they would have been at Thames House, unquestioningly following the two reimposed escorts who’d steadfastly refused conversation during the journey from Buckinghamshire. A matching electronic warning he guessed to have opened the garage doors had obviously alerted the two men waiting for him as the elevator doors opened.

“At last a face I recognize,” greeted Charlie.

John Passmore was respected within the counterintelligence agency for dropping the civilian entitlement of colonel after his transfer appointment from the SAS, although he continued to wear the regimental tie, which didn’t coordinate with the suit he was wearing today. He was a reserved, taciturn man who responded to Charlie with a curt, unsmiling nod and an immediate introduction to James Straughan.

“Why am I here, not across the river?” demanded Charlie, at once.

“Your own building will be under far tighter Russian surveillance than usual,” said Straughan, leading the way into a directly opposite, anonymously bare office. “And Thames House doesn’t have the separated entry facilities that we do.”

Bollocks, thought Charlie. “You should charge for the helter-skelter approach; sell candy floss to attract the customers.”

“Your proposal for getting Natalia and the girl out has been gone through in some detail,” picked up Passmore, the intended briskness slightly marred by an almost-suppressed stutter. “The instructions are to give you your head but personally I think your chances of success are extremely limited.”

“It’s difficult for them to be otherwise, knowing as little as we do so far,” defended Charlie. “It has to be governed by on-the-spot decisions according to the circumstances as they arise.”

“Which operations are invariably insufficiently prepared, inadequately planned, and blow up in your face,” argued the ex-soldier, feeling out with his remaining hand to the empty left sleeve of his jacket.

“It’s been sanctioned?” pressed Charlie.

“With reservations beyond the obvious,” confirmed Straughan.

“Which are?” queried Charlie, apprehensively.

“Shortly you’ll meet your backup group,” disclosed Straughan. “They’re not being told of your personal relationship to Natalia or that Sasha is your child.”

“It’s the weakest aspect of what you’ll be trying to do,” criticized Passmore, before Charlie could respond. “You’re team leader and because of who Natalia and Sasha are, you’ll take more risks than you should. They’ll know and distrust that if they’re told.”

“Is everything going to be independently monitored, above and beyond the people I’m about to meet?” asked Charlie, presciently. There could be gains, having so many distracting people milling about.

Passmore looked to the other operational director and Straughan momentarily hesitated. “No. But there’s another reservation. There’s to be no maverick bullshit from you. We accept there’s a lot that’s got to be worked out when you get there. But you don’t initiate anything without approval. And we want your acknowledgment, right now, that you understand what I’m saying. If we get the slightest suspicion you’re trying to perform as a one-man band, we abort everything and you’ll lose a wife and child.”

The bullshit was Straughan’s, for the benefit of the inevitable protective recording, Charlie knew. “I’m not going to do anything to put Natalia and Sasha at more risk than they already are. And I’ve already given the undertaking about diplomatic embarrassment.”

“Don’t, for a moment, forget it,” threatened the MI6 division chief, ending the encounter. “People are waiting for us.”

Waiting or scuttling underfoot to trip him? wondered Charlie.

The briefing room was four doors away on the same level, the six men already assembled at name-carded lecture desks in front of a slightly raised stage on the wall behind which were displayed the enlarged photographs of Natalia and Sasha. At the far end of the room were visible camera-projection facilities from which everything would be filmed.

After Straughan’s domination of their introductory meeting, Charlie was mildly curious at Passmore’s supervising the team briefing. This was an unusually linked combination between their two services because of the importance of what had to be achieved, opened the MI5 operations director, the stutter, strangely, no longer pronounced. Each of them had been provided with a individual pack that included the maximum available information upon Natalia Fedova and her background within the FSB. Those packs were to be familiarized until their departure for their Moscow flight that afternoon but would be retrieved before they left the building. Duplicate packs were already waiting for them at the British embassy, in the residential compound of which they were all to be accommodated. The duplicate packs-particularly the photographs of Natalia and the child-were never to be taken outside the embassy. Also awaiting their collection at the embassy were Russian mobile telephones through which they would liaise with their team supervisor, Charlie Muffin. That liaison had always to be through their cell phones: they should never initiate contact by calling his cell phone, the number of which would be in their Moscow documentation, from an embassy or outside landline. Charlie would not be accommodated at the embassy but would work from hotels, between which he would move, at his decision and choosing. It was, obviously, an extraction mission, the method, timing, and manner of which could not be decided until contact had been made with Natalia Fedova. Until the moment of extraction, their function was entirely one of support, at which announcement Passmore hesitated again, identifying those among the group responsible for finance, which was to be provided internally from embassy funds, and logistics. Those logistics were to be obtained through outside, Russian sources, paid for in cash and not traceable in any way to the embassy or to Britain. Each of the Moscow packs was nominated by name and contained Russian driving licenses in their Russian cover names, together with false Russian passports and other necessary identity documents. Each had been allocated an individual code designation signaling the mission’s cancellation, together with specific escape routes to be unquestioningly followed. Upon that alert they were immediately and separately to get out of the country. Under no circumstances whatsoever were they to risk identification or association among themselves and their team supervisor by attempting to contact Charlie Muffin: there had to be no evidential electronic-or any other-link whatsoever.

Throughout Passmore’s presentation Charlie’s attention was divided, dissecting the man’s every word and phrase while at the same time comparing his initial reaction as much as was visually possible against those before him. Patrick Wilkinson was the only one of the group Charlie recognized, from a brief encounter at the British embassy in Washington, D.C., which had been Wilkinson’s first MI5 overseas posting. The man showed no recognition, although throughout most of Passmore’s address he was looking directly at Charlie, as were most of the others. Charlie decided they were trying to assess him from his visible responses, as he was trying to assess them. They were uniformly bland featured, an essential attention-avoiding requirement, and dressed accordingly. There were occasional frowns, one or two nose blowings, a few seat rearrangements, but no nods of acceptance or head-shaking disapproval, nor expression of surprise or uncertainty. Throughout, no one had taken a single reminder note.

“You’ll have questions, in which your team leader will participate,” Passmore concluded, overly formal.

At once a balding man identified by his name card as Neil Preston, another MI5 man, said: “Is this woman an embedded asset?”

Both operational directors deferred to Charlie, who hurriedly replied: “She had the potential to have been.”

“I don’t understand that answer,” protested Preston. “She either is or she isn’t.”

“It’s a perfectly understandable answer,” refused Charlie. “She occupies a position within the FSB and before that the KGB that could provide invaluable intelligence.”

A man named by his place setting as Stephen Briddle, who’d been picked out by Passmore as the operational bag man, said: “Does that mean it’s uncertain whether she’ll provide it?”

“The uncertainty is getting them both out, which it is imperative we do,” insisted Charlie, content to use the moment. “Natalia Fedova’s cooperation depends entirely upon the safety and protection of the child.”

“You’ve indicated that I’m the finance officer,” said Briddle, addressing Passmore. “It might be in my briefing pack but if it isn’t, is there a budget within which I have to work?”

There were isolated sniggers among the other five at the bureaucratic demand, which increased when Passmore replied: “None. But we expect receipts,”

“Are these two detained in any way?” asked Robert Denning, a tall but stooped man whose card identified him as an MI6 officer.

“There’s no indication of that,” avoided Charlie. “It is something to be established when we get to Moscow.”

“Does any field instruction need London confirmation?” demanded Peter Warren, disclosing his MI6 allegiance by directing the question to Straughan.

“No,” replied Straughan, without hesitation. “Charlie has full operational authority. There’ll need to be liaison with us here, which I don’t think is covered in your Moscow packs, so I’ll make you, Peter, responsible for that, particularly relaying anything that Charlie wants sent, okay?”

“I’m finding this difficult to follow,” Preston continued to protest. “Has she approached us, to defect?”

“There are sufficient indications,” said Charlie, acknowledging the importance of separate back-channel arrangements with his known fellow officers.

“Who’s her Control in Moscow, through whom these indications have come?” asked Wilkinson, coming into the discussion.

Again the other two men on the stage looked to Charlie, who hesitated, anxious to get the answer right. “There isn’t one, not in Moscow. That’s what I am going there to become. I’ve had some prior contact.”

“Sufficient to justify an operation of this size at this early stage?” frowned Preston.

They were professionals, Charlie judged hopefully. But then so was he. Or supposed to be. “There isn’t time for lengthy ground planning, only what I can set up. Which is why there is to be the separation between us. Until the actual moment of extraction, I’m the only one at risk.”

“What about that extraction?” questioned Wilkinson, whom Passmore had designated a logistics officer, along with Denning. “There’s surely been advanced planning put into that?”

Straughan indicated the enlarged photographs behind him. “Already at the embassy there are Polish and English passports carrying those pictures. You and Denning have to pay locally for all transport, obviously including airline tickets. This is an in-and-out job, which is why we’re manning it as we are.”

“Mother and daughter,” itemized Jeremy Beckindale, who completed the MI6 secondment. “What about the father?”

“There isn’t one,” replied Charlie, prepared before the question concluded.

“What’s the likelihood of either personal or protective resistance?” persisted the most obviously doubtful Preston.

“None,” insisted Charlie, as quickly as before. “They’re not being kidnapped. No extraction will be contemplated if there’s the slightest possibility of violent opposition.”

“What guarantee is there of that being avoided?”

“Me,” said Charlie, shortly. “Nothing and no one moves until I press the button.”

The room became silent. Passmore said: “All through?”

Preston said: “I’d like a much better idea of what we’re getting involved in.”

So would I, thought Charlie.

“We saw it all on the television relay,” pre-empted Monsford, as Straughan entered the Director’s office suite.

“I thought it went well,” offered Harry Jacobson, tentatively. As with Stephen Briddle earlier, it was Jacobson’s first personal encounter with Monsford, which was unsettling in itself, and he now believed he’d made a bad mistake. The London recall, to witness the televised briefing and reinforce the physical identification of Charlie Muffin by flying back to Moscow on the same plane, had been waiting when Jacobson returned to the embassy after the failed meeting with Radtsic and on impulse Jacobson hadn’t told the Director or Straughan of the Russian’s nonappearance. Now it was too late and there was no guarantee Radtsic would keep the automatically prearranged catch-up meeting to be activated on his return.

“The majority of the others feel like Preston,” balanced Straughan.

“I’d be disappointed if our people didn’t. But they’re not going to be involved, so their uncertainties don’t matter.” Monsford shrugged. He once more hadn’t switched on his personal recording apparatus.

“What about Charlie himself?” queried Jacobson. “Hasn’t he wanted more?”

“His sole interest is getting there,” dismissed Straughan.

“I’ve read his file,” said Jacobson, tapping his dossier. “He’s unpredictable.”

“Not this time,” insisted Monsford. “His reasoning is knocked to hell by his one, single priority: getting to Moscow.”

“Why don’t we tell Radtsic the protective diversion that’ll doubly guarantee his extraction?” unexpectedly suggested Straughan.

“Is that a good idea?” wondered Monsford, with his customary reluctance to respond to an idea without first getting the opinions of everyone else.

“It might calm Radtsic down,” said Jacobson, uncomfortably. “I’m surprised every time he turns up for a meeting.”

With no knowledge of the Director’s earlier encounter with Stephen Briddle, the operations director wondered what Jacobson’s personal feelings must be, sitting as Jacobson was sitting, discussing an assassination, a murder, that he had to commit. Straughan had always hoped never to be personally associated with a sanctioned killing, particularly one predicated upon such tenuous reasoning as this. He wished he had the courage officially to object, for which there was provision in the statutory regulations. “Natalia’s under surveillance by the FSB. If we told Radtsic, he could guarantee Natalia-and therefore Charlie-being precisely where we want them to be for the distraction operation.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” reflected Monsford. “Everything would be gift wrapped.”

“So we’ll do it?” pressed Straughan, determined against being sacrificed as Jane Ambersom had been. He’d liked the woman, refusing the sniping of others at her sexual uncertainty, and felt guilty that his own asexuality had prevented his doing more to protect her, although knowing that if she’d survived, he would have been the victim instead.

“Not in precise detail,” qualified Monsford. “Tell Radtsic we’re setting up a failsafe extraction: that he’s got no reason to worry about anything going wrong. And tell him I’m looking forward personally to welcoming him here, in London.” It was a good feeling, knowing everything was perfectly arranged, with no possibility of error.

Charlie held back in the departure lounge, waiting to let the other passengers not just board ahead of him but actually get into their seats, giving him the opportunity to study the faces of those traveling with him, which he prolonged while finding a space in the already stuffed overhead lockers for his minimally packed suit carrier before finally sitting in his personally selected aisle seat just two rows back from the business-class separation.

Only when Charlie completely settled did Jacobson properly look up from the in-flight shopping brochure. For additional concealment as well as for his assigned purpose, Jacobson had secured a window seat only three rows behind Charlie’s but on the opposite side of the cabin to give him an uninterrupted view of his intended target. Which prompted the immediate reflection of how ideal it would also be to get this close when the moment came to pull the trigger of the already skipped Russian Makarov in his embassy safe. Away from the MI6 building, Jacobson’s concern at having said nothing about Radtsic’s failed meeting had lessened. No one in London or Moscow, apart from Radtsic, had known of the appointment, so he couldn’t be caught out on that omission. Jacobson’s hope was that the Russian wouldn’t appear at the failsafe meeting, sparing him from the assassination order.

As the flight crew began their acrobatics of emergency flight evacuation, Charlie was mentally evaluating the potential success against the possible failure of what he had to achieve. He was encouraged by the briefing assertion of no expenditure limit. Realistically there was no way he could have got back to Jersey to retrieve what was left of the already committed money, which was why, at the final departure session with Straughan and Passmore, he’d argued up the initially proposed, personally carried working float to ten thousand pounds by quoting the irrefutable statistics that Moscow had become the most expensive city in the world. But potentially he’d need considerably more. The fine line he had to follow was obtaining sufficient additional money without arousing suspicion that he wasn’t going to utilize any more bullshit backup than was minimally necessary, which anyway might be difficult after what he planned so soon to do.

Charlie halted the instinctive half turn behind him practically as it began at the expectation of there being one if not more puppet-watchers monitoring his every movement, curious if his intended actions would be accepted as proving his professional caution. Which was more than Passmore and Straughan had illustrated with their insistence that he was being allowed operational autonomy. Charlie was glad he’d managed the brief, private conversation with John Passmore before he’d left the MI6 meeting, impressed with the man’s reaction.

Jacobson had been prepared for Charlie’s backward look, the face-concealing in-flight magazine ready at the first indication, which turned out to be unnecessary when Charlie didn’t continue, easing his seat back as the plane attained its cruising height. He would, Jacobson decided, deserve recognition, positive promotion, after this if Radtsic did turn up at the emergency rendezvous: he’d been disappointed at the Director’s vagueness at the hints he’d risked, every innuendo hedged with a caveat.

Charlie put his hand to his jacket pocket, feeling the hardness of the Russian cell phone, one of the dozen air-freighted from Moscow to be technically tweaked before being returned for distribution to the backup squad upon their arrival. He’d retain it as an insurance, but always turned off as it was now, and buy himself another when he got to Moscow. What other personal adaptations did he need? He’d covered the passport changes during that brief, private meeting with Passmore, hoping Wilkinson had been properly briefed just as privately afterward. And he was carrying sufficient money for his immediate needs. Too early to think about anything more, he decided, at the copilot’s announcement of the impending en route landing at Amsterdam’s Schipol airport.

Charlie stood out into the aisle for his window-seated companion to get out, resuming his seat at once for other disembarking passengers behind him to follow, flicking through his own seat pocket sales magazine, his concentration entirely upon the departing line. He timed his move as the last figure disappeared from the plane, standing, stretching, and setting off unhurriedly toward the restrooms, relieved the indicator showed the farthest cubicle to be unoccupied. He started to hurry only when he reached it, partially opening the door but releasing it to continue on to the disembarkation pier, his feet at once protesting as he bustled past those ahead of him.

Still in his seat, Jacobson had craned around the business-class-curtain separation to see Charlie approach the toilet door just before his view was blocked again by a steward moving to greet arriving Dutch passengers who filled the aisle for several minutes, locating their seats and stowing their baggage. By the time they had finished, Jacobson was standing awkwardly between the seats, looking to the toilets. The occupancy indicator showed the farthest to be the only one in use. Several more minutes passed before the door opened for a woman to emerge.

At that moment, the aircraft doors thumped closed.

Hampered as they were by not knowing precisely what time of day or night they would be making the journey, Jonathan Miller stretched the reconnaissance-car journeys from Paris to Orly airport over a forty-eight-hour time frame into which he fitted six trips to establish an average, driving himself back to the city on their final run.

Albert Abrahams, hunched over his clipboard in the passenger seat, said without looking up: “Never exceeding the speed limit to ensure against traffic violations and building in an additional thirty minutes for unanticipated problems, it gives us two and a half hours during the day, two at night.”

“We’ll include a backup car, against engine breakdown,” decided Miller.

“When’s Straughan going to give us Andrei’s pickup schedule? From all the guidance we’re getting from London, they’re expecting us to snatch the guy off the street.”

“Straughan told me we’ll get it all in good time.”

“Including personal contact with the kid himself? He’ll need to meet us, know us, in advance, won’t he?”

“I’ve made the point. Straughan says it’s all in hand.”

“You been involved in an extraction before?”

“Once, ten years ago in Rome. His cover was third secretary at the Russian embassy. Turned out he was abandoning his wife for his mistress. He backed off confronting embassy diplomats at a consular-access negotiation and went back to his wife without telling us anything whatsoever of value.”

“Let’s hope this one goes better.”

“That’s all we can ever do, hope it all works out,” said the MI6 station chief. “You fancy the Brassiere Lipp for lunch?”

“After two days and nights of sandwiches we deserve nothing less,” agreed Abrahams. “Apart, that is, from a hell of a lot more information.”