Red Star Burning

31

It usually came at the live-or-die part of an assignment, without warning and irrespective of place or time. Charlie Muffin didn’t think of it as fear, although that’s what it was: instead, as he always did, he considered it the essential senses-sharpening adrenaline boost to react faster and think quicker. And win. But this time the fear was different: more hair-triggered, the keep-ahead intensity stronger.

Charlie knew why. Winning, emerging the victor, had never been enough by itself. To win totally meant surviving, which he’d always done, disregarding the cost to friend or foe alike. But not this time. This time he had far more-everything-to win by getting Natalia and Sasha safely out of Russia but far more still-everything-to lose if he failed. Which made the predictable adrenaline-spurred fear the wrong sort, the dangerously overcompensating, overreactive sort of fear that risked skewing his subjectivity to cause the forbidden, inconceivable failure. The possibility of which, from the moment of his Amsterdam sidestep, had been compounded almost daily by inconsistencies and uncertainties. Which, subjectively again, was par for the course of professional espionage but from which he’d hoped to be spared in this particular instance.

It was twelve ten, later than he’d intended, when Charlie literally pushed his way into the tourist-packed Arbat, sure he was alone but after the Metro debacle of the day before with no confidence in Patrick Wilkinson’s ability to detect surveillance. Charlie let himself be carried, unresisting, along the stall-cluttered thoroughfare, seeking the remembered centrally placed, brick-built emporium, disappointed from the outside at the limited escape options if Wilkinson once more guided MI6 pursuit to him. After two further top-to-bottom street reconnoiters Charlie failed to locate a better alternative.

Charlie correctly guessed Wilkinson would arrive at the Arbat Metro, despite the man’s vow never again to use the underground system. Wilkinson emerged, manila package tightly clutched beneath his right arm, precisely ten minutes ahead of their appointed time. Charlie remained in the station-bordering cafe, his Pravda spread before him but concentrating upon recognizable faces, needing a second vodka to justify his staying where he was during the forty-five minutes it took Wilkinson to get through the tourist crush in both directions. He let Wilkinson get twenty meters ahead on the man’s third promenade before following. He caught up at the emporium and said: “To your left, with the green-painted shutters,” sure the man would visibly jump, which he did.

Wilkinson moved without turning. Charlie went with him, but didn’t enter, lingering at the outside displays to satisfy himself the man was alone. Wilkinson was in the back of the incense-perfumed arcade, examining icon reproductions, when Charlie finally entered. It took a full meandering five minutes for Charlie to reach him.

Charlie reached out for Wilkinson’s package, slipping it between the pages of his newspaper before turning to keep the main door in view. “What did London say?”

“You’ve got new backup,” announced Wilkinson, copying Charlie’s icon interest. “No connection to the embassy, no connection with us. Your contact is an Ian Flood. He’s at your favorite hotel: you’re supposed to understand that. We’re to decoy the others.”

“Try to get it right this time,” said Charlie, unforgiving.

“I’m glad to be out of it,” blurted Wilkinson. “All three of us are.”

“So am I,” said Charlie. “Did you also tell London MI6 did more than just try to get to me: that Briddle was with you and through you was with me right up to Dmitrouskaya? From where he obviously watched us in the park and afterwards rode the train with you: the train upon which he imagined I’d be, a sitting target.”

“How do you know that?” said Wilkinson, disbelievingly.

“Because watching you leave I saw him in the carriage behind you.”

“I … I mean I should…” stumbled the man.

“Don’t bother,” stopped Charlie. “Is there anything more to tell me?”

“MI6 have been officially taken off, their guys withdrawn.”

“Have they gone?”

“We only got the cable this morning, just before all three of us left the embassy to give us-me-time to lose surveillance. But I told him last night I knew about London’s order: that they were out of it.”

“What did he say?”

“To go fuck myself: that he took his orders from London. That’s why the three of us are staying as decoys.”

Another uncertainty in the lucky dip tub, thought Charlie.

In an afterthought Gerald Monsford stopped to buy roses for Elana. The fumble-fingered florist took almost half an hour to gift wrap them, complete with red ribbon to match the flowers, and he was practically an hour late getting to the Hertfordshire safe house. Radtsic was alone in the conservatory.

“I’m late because I stopped to get these for Elana,” said Monsford, offering the bouquet as if for approval. “Where is she?” He already knew from his arrival meeting with Harry Jacobson.

“Resting,” said the Russian, ignoring the flowers. He was in the chair Elana had chosen the day before, preventing Monsford’s sitting close to him.

“Perhaps she’ll join us later for me to give them to her?”

“She doesn’t want to see you: be part of anything.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Monsford, putting the flowers on a side table.

“You already knew,” accused Radtsic, looking up to the ceiling joist Elana had identified.

Monsford instinctively followed the look and wished he hadn’t, uncomfortable that it would have been filmed. “It’ll get better.”

“Not without Andrei,” refused the man.

“You’ve got to be realistic, Maxim Mikhailovitch,” cautioned Monsford. “We’re trying, you know we’re trying, but it’s going to take a lot of time.”

“Then it’ll have to take a lot of time,” said Radtsic, flatly. “Our deal was that we’d all be together, a complete family. There’s no deal if we’re not a complete family.”

Not anticipating its weight, Monsford had to struggle to get another chair opposite the Russian and knew the film would show his overweight awkwardness. “What happened in France wasn’t our fault. We don’t yet know how or why it happened. We’ll find a way to get Andrei back. But our deal can’t be put on hold indefinitely.”

“I can’t accept anything without Andrei being here. Neither can Elana.”

“Andrei will be here! But during the time it’ll take we’ve got to start work. There are people you’re going to meet: people you’ll regard as friends as you work together.”

“I know what debriefing is,” snapped Radtsic, in a small spark of his old arrogance. “Just as I know what you want and which you’ll get. But that’s got to be met with what I want. And that’s not empty words and talk of indeterminate time. It’s got to be a balanced exchange: what I have to tell you equated against getting Andrei back.”

“That’s not a balanced exchange,” protested Monsford, tensed against his anger at the other man’s belief that he had a bargaining position. “It’s tilted entirely in your favor.”

“Which creates the incentive to get Andrei here.”

The bastard was playing with him, cat to mouse, realized Monsford, hating his own analogy and hating even more that others would witness Radtsic’s derision. “I won’t be coming down every day. Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to the people you’ll be dealing with all the time. And to a liaison officer, a woman, to ensure Elana’s got all she wants.”

“The only thing Elana wants is Andrei, like me,” repeated Radtsic. “I hope that tomorrow you’ll have something to tell us about that.”

“The confounded man’s refusing to cooperate,” complained Bland.

“It’s early days, as Monsford said,” reminded Palmer. “It’ll settle down when Radtsic realizes he hasn’t any real option.”

“Why did Monsford tell him we can get the boy back?” Bland demanded. “We don’t stand a chance of doing that.”

“It would have made Radtsic even more difficult if he hadn’t,” said Palmer.

“Every day I tell myself it can’t get any worse and every day it does get worse,” bemoaned the other man. “I’m fearing the time when we’re no longer able to shift all the responsibility on these two bloody directors and start getting it apportioned onto us.”

“I don’t want that to happen,” said Palmer, unsettled.

“I’m not going to allow it to happen,” determined the cabinet secretary. “Mine isn’t going to be the head that rolls.”

“Nor mine,” said Palmer, even more determinedly.

It took Charlie a long time to move between individual booking outlets to make, one from each, paid and confirmed reservations on separately available flights on his intended, hedge-hopping escape route the following day. And then to duplicate the entire process from different booking facilities to ensure there were two situation-dictated alternatives for himself, Natalia, and Sasha. In addition, improvising upon their changed roles as decoys against both his M16 pursuers and the FSB, who by now would have identified their presence from embassy surveillance, Charlie confirmed booking on LOT Polish Airlines to Warsaw, with a direct transfer connection to London from Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport-from which none of his other escape flights was departing-for Patrick Wilkinson, Neil Preston, and Peter Warren. Throughout the second ticket buying Charlie also booked tickets for his new protection squad, for only one of whom he had a name. At the end he had only three thousand pounds left from the twenty-five thousand earlier provided by Wilkinson in the Arbat.

The delay made Charlie much later getting to Moscow’s permanent state circus for his premeeting security check, restricted anyway by the Saturday-afternoon throng of arriving and departing audiences. Natalia responded at once to his precisely timed call, as she had to be told their rendezvous, and said she was twenty minutes away. Charlie bought admission tickets before becoming a crowd person among the outside refreshment and souvenir kiosks. The area was slightly higher than the main approach and from its elevation Charlie picked out Natalia when she was still some way away. She showed no recognition at seeing him, halting at a souvenir seller five booths away. As he reached her, she said: “It’s definitely tomorrow?”

“We need to go through it,” confirmed Charlie, disappointed at her nervousness. “I’ve got tickets for the circus. We’ll be less obvious inside.”

“No,” she refused. “Let’s walk: maybe find somewhere to sit.”

Charlie took her firmly by the arm, leading her back against the incoming crowd. “You have to get what I’m going to tell you totally clear in your mind. Your actual extraction depends on your getting this right.”

“I’m frightened I’ll make a silly mistake and-”

“You won’t make stupid mistakes,” stopped Charlie, as they reached the main road. “If you do what I tell you, you can’t make a mistake. All you’ve got to do is take Sasha to the airport, go through the normal formalities, make one change en route, and you’ll be safely in England by this time tomorrow.”

“You’re saying me, me and Sasha. Where are you going to be?”

“With you, all the way. With others to protect you both.”

“There’s a bench.” She pointed. “I want to sit, to concentrate.”

Charlie was concerned at the indecision he’d never seen in Natalia when they’d lived together at greater risk of discovery. “These are new Russian passports. They’ve got all the necessary exit and entry visas and documentation. Everything is valid. You and Sasha are booked on Finnair flight 362, leaving at noon from Vnukovo Airport to Helsinki. There’s a transfer connection within two hours on Finnair flight 028 to London. I won’t acknowledge you: keep as far away as possible. Sasha won’t remember me. There’ll be three other people on the plane you won’t know: I’ll only know one. We’ll be taken off before other passengers at Heathrow.”

“Stop!” demanded Natalia, urgently. “You’ll definitely be on the same plane? I want you to be with us. I don’t want to be alone, not knowing what to do.”

This was far more difficult than he’d anticipated: as close as he was to her, he could feel her nervousness vibrating along the bench. “I will always be with you but as far back as I can be: the last, probably, to board the plane. The others you don’t know will be onboard, too. I have to tell London we’re on our way. The moment you enter the embarkation lounge I’ll trigger that alert.…” He had to stop her physical shaking, Charlie decided. “What’s the first principle of entering an operational situation?”

Natalia frowned sideways. “Don’t play tradecraft games, Charlie!”

“I’m not playing a tradecraft game!” he insisted. “Answer the question!”

The twitching spread to Natalia’s face at Charlie’s tone. “Guarantee an exit: why do you want me to acknowledge that?”

“There’s a second complete set of tickets, doubly to guarantee our exit,” said Charlie, tapping the bulky manila folder on his lap. “I’ve booked the three of us, as well as our escorts, on a direct MEA flight to Nicosia, also from Vnukovo. I’ll only have minutes from my London call to catch the Helsinki flight. If I miss it you’ll still have three other escorts and an assured, protected arrival in London. I’ll simply call London again, tell them what’s happened but that you’re still on the Finnair flight. If, when we’re all at Vnukovo, there’s something I don’t like, all of us will abandon the Finnair route, although staying booked on it, and switch to Cyprus. But Cyprus is only an exit insurance. But remember, once you’ve started to board, don’t turn back. That’s the unbreakable rule: don’t turn back, keep going.”

“Why can’t one of the escorts alert London, use the Cyprus plane if it’s necessary?” asked Natalia.

Her shaking had subsided and Charlie was reassured by the professional question. “I personally want to guarantee you’re onboard, safe.

“I feel confident every moment I’m with you but so frightened, so incapable, the minute I’m not,” Natalia said, feeling out for his hand.

“Twenty-four hours from now we’ll be exaggerating our stories about it all, laughing.”

“I don’t think I will be.”

“But you’re going to go through with it,” encouraged Charlie. “Not let Sasha down.”

“I won’t let you or Sasha down. You know that.”

Finally handing her the package, Charlie said: “Everything you want is there. We’ll talk a lot on the throwaway phone, on your way to Vnukovo airport.”

“Yes,” she said, looking down at the package before closing her handbag.

“What have you told Sasha?”

“Nothing. I didn’t want her talking at school. I’ll tell her tonight. She’ll be excited.”

“Are you?”

“I will be, this time tomorrow. Excited and happy for the rest of my life.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“I couldn’t be more serious,” said Jane Ambersom. She was glad she’d waited until after their lovemaking, anticipating his reaction to the story prepared between her and Aubrey Smith. Barry Elliott had pulled away and was now sitting directly opposite on their crumpled sheets, naked but with all intimacy gone.

“Why the hell haven’t you told them!”

“You can’t begin to understand Monsford’s outright animosity.”

“But they’ve got to be warned! It’s … it’s what you said, absurd: absurd not to.”

“I’m telling you. They’d dismiss it as disinformation if it came from us.”

“You think it’s this guy Straughan: that it’s why he killed himself?”

“He must have known something: suspected something. There’s got to be a damn good reason for the operations director of M16 to kill his own mother and then himself.”

“This new?” demanded Elliott, head suspiciously to one side. “Or is this something that Irena Novikov told Charlie about the Lvov penetration?”

They hadn’t anticipated the question. Improvising, Jane said: “There could be indications.”

“You going to give them to me: an actual printout of the debriefing?”

Shit, thought Jane. “There isn’t a debriefing paper. It was conversation between them when they were still in Moscow: before Charlie had any reason to suspect her.”

“He didn’t file a proper, official report?” pressed Elliott, head still to one side.

“I wasn’t at M15 during the Lvov affair,” escaped Jane, “I’m picking up secondhand, telling you what I’ve been told. Certainly there’s nothing officially logged.”

“But you know both camps. What’s the problem between you?”

“Monsford,” said Jane shortly. “The bastard who framed me for his mistakes.”

“You’re surely not suggesting…?” stumbled Elliott, incredulous.

“I’m telling you what we suspect from what I’m told of the Lvov investigation. I can’t tell you anything more.”

Elliott looked down, appearing surprised at his nakedness. “I’m cold and think I should get back under the covers.”

“I think so too,” invited Jane.

Within fifteen minutes of their being together Charlie was reassured, a feeling he’d rarely experienced since the very beginning of the attempt to get Natalia and Sasha out of Moscow. Ian Flood appeared a totally controlled, self-confident man who allowed himself to think before speaking, which wasn’t slowness but sensible consideration, not interrupting as Charlie outlined in detail the following day’s extraction. Charlie was enjoying, too, being back in his familiar corner stool at the Savoy bar, brief though the visit had to be. The FSB had discovered his preference for the hotel during the Lvov investigation: Mikhail Guzov, the involved FSB colonel, had personally confronted him as he’d sat on the same stool. At this time of the evening the bar was filling with the professional girls, two of whom Charlie recognized from before, but the bartender had changed.

“There are photographs of Natalia and Sasha with the tickets: you’ll have to add the names I don’t know to the two left open,” concluded Charlie. He hadn’t demanded the other names and Flood hadn’t offered them.

“Aren’t you following in tandem from Pecatnikov to ensure they get to the airport?” questioned Flood, polishing his spectacles for the second time since they’d made contact. It wasn’t a mannerism, Charlie knew, but an added, head-lowered precaution against their conversation being overhead despite their carefully established separation from anyone close.

Charlie shook his head. “Natalia doesn’t think she’s under observation but I don’t want to take the risk: the FSB know what I look like. I’ll keep beyond airport CCTV until you enter and for Natalia to see me.”

“I’ll have one of the others in a separate car from Pecatnikov,” decided Flood. “I’ll put the other one inside the terminal. Is that how you want it?”

Charlie nodded. “Make sure everyone understands there’s to be no interference if I’m challenged: the only essential is to get Natalia and Sasha out.”

“What have you told Natalia about that?”

“Nothing. I’ve said I might miss the flight alerting London.”

“You think there could be CCTV recognition?”

“It’s no secret that I’m here,” said Charlie. “I’ve got to ensure against the possibility. That’s why I want you to keep me permanently in view inside the terminal, until the last minute. If I’m not satisfied I’m clear after checking in for Helsinki I’ll switch to the Cyprus flight.”

“Why bother?” questioned Flood. “You’re the weak link. The essential is getting Natalia and the child out. Why can’t I and my team extract them, leaving you to make your escape later?”

“She’s as tight as a spring, about to snap,” judged Charlie. “If she doesn’t physically see me, she’ll abandon. The major FSB and CCTV concentration will be at Sheremetyevo, not Vnukovo. And I’ve laid a false trail to Warsaw from another airport. I’m making myself visible to Natalia and you, no one else.”

“It’s your call,” acknowledged Flood, doubtfully. “Okay, we don’t intervene if you’re challenged. What if she sees it? Do we try to make her get on the plane?”

“If you can, without turning it into a second incident,” said Charlie. “If I am intercepted I’ll try to concentrate the attention as a distraction for you.”

“You must consider this a hell of an important extraction,” said Flood, head bent for the third time, covering the preceding two by holding his spectacles up to the light as if there were a blemish he couldn’t clean off.

The man wouldn’t have been told of the personal relationship, Charlie realized. “If it weren’t important, it wouldn’t have been initiated. You come with any guidance from the Director-General?”

“There’s an internal war between us and MI6,” said Flood. “He knows we were used as dummies to get Radtsic out. But Smith’s convinced, without knowing why, that there’s also an order out for you to be eliminated.”

“I’ve already been warned.”

“Smith wants you warned again: wants you to believe it,” said Flood. “And why I was also told getting you out was as essential as extracting Natalia and the girl. My orders are to follow your instructions, without question. But whatever those instructions are, that you’ve got to be brought out too.”

“Which gives you a problem,” said Charlie.

“Which gives us both a problem,” agreed Flood. “You got a God you can trust that it’ll all go to plan?”

“No,” said Charlie.

“That’s another problem,” said Flood. “Neither have I.”

It was inevitable that he should think about Charlie Muffin as he approached the Savoy Hotel, supposed David Halliday: it was where he and Charlie had spent a lot of time during Charlie’s previous assignment and because of which it had become a favorite watering hole of his. It was, reflected Halliday, about the only benefit he’d gained from his association with the man. It had been a mistake not to have held back the day the FSB picked up the Rossiya tourist party. And made an even bigger mistake imagining an advantage in cooperating with Charlie instead of maintaining the monitor that others in the MI6 rezidentura had been ordered to keep to locate the man. But he’d got away with it, Halliday reassured himself: broken the contact until finally Charlie had stopped trying to reach him. He wasn’t being ostracized as much after his inclusion in the last stage of the Radtsic extraction and wasn’t being blamed for the French fiasco. Now he reverted to the trusted practice of avoiding each and every difficulty.

It was initially only a fleeting image, as Halliday pushed through the hotel entrance, looking instinctively to his left, into the bar, but he was sure it was Charlie getting off his accustomed bar stool, another man beside him. The door leading from the lobby to the baroque dining room was heavily engraved but there were sufficient gaps in the etching for Halliday, hurriedly concealed on its far side, to confirm the sighting and to see Charlie pass something to the other man before turning to leave.

Halliday left, too, after five minutes, crossing the square to the Metropole, relieved the shaking had gone when he lifted the brandy snifter for the first recovering sip. It was, he decided, his chance to be completely rehabilitated: of not being kept out any longer.