Red Star Falling

12

Judged as a theatrical performance, which was how Russia staged the repatriation of the Manchester tourists, the production was of Oscar — winning proportions.

The announcement of their release, by a smiling, strikingly attractive Interior Ministry spokeswoman, began from a brightly backdropped studio but in less than a minute the picture dissolved into live, outside coverage of the event itself, with the voice-over commentary switched to English. The group was filmed emerging, mostly smiling, from an unnamed Moscow hotel, their clothes very obviously freshly cleaned and pressed, all the women professionally coiffured; two of the men and one woman were in wheelchairs pushed by uniformed nurses. They were greeted in the hotel forecourt by a waiting delegation of six, two men and four women, from the Moscow tourist board. As ferried-forward bouquets were presented to each of the English women — with vodka for the men — the delegation leader referred to the tourists as totally innocent, manipulated victims dismissively used as pawns by uncaring British intelligence agencies engaged in hostile activities against the Russian Federation.

The perpetrator of their deception was in Russian custody, as were others involved in associated espionage acts for which they would all face appropriate Russian justice. The tourists were being returned to their homes and to their families with every good wish from the Russian authorities, with a warm invitation to return to Moscow as guests of the city, the authorities of which sympathized with their initial ordeal, as they sympathized with the family of the one member of the group whose premature death, from a heart attack, was the obvious result of the incident. A heavy-busted girl wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Manchester tour company and identified in a caption as the group leader, Muriel Simpson, thanked the Russian authorities for their care, kindness, and help after it was established none of her group was in any way involved in activities against the country. They had been disgracefully deceived and used by intelligence organizations of the British government, which she hoped, upon her return to Britain, to find the subject of legal action by her company.

It was past six in the evening before the committee reassembled and there was no preamble from the co-chairmen. Sir Archibald Bland announced at once, ‘The plane’s arriving at Heathrow, not Manchester, in an hour. The company have arranged an immediate press conference. The Mail and the Express are offering contracts for exclusive personal stories.’ As he spoke he looked accusingly between the two intelligence chairmen.

Aubrey Smith said, ‘It’s a good thing they’re free. It can’t have been pleasant for them. At least now all the others detained are professionals, with some idea of what to expect.’

There were isolated stirrings around the table. Geoffrey Palmer said, ‘Is that really all you’ve got to say!’

Smith frowned, curiously. ‘What else would you have me say? They were wrongly used, by one of my officers, which was unfortunate. I regret whatever treatment and hardship to which they were subjected. It’ll have been a bad experience, upon which the Russians — and now they — are capitalizing. But there’s nothing practicable we can do to defuse what’s happened.’

‘Except endure yet another publicity circus!’ said Bland. ‘Downing Street is furious.’

Smith went to continue but before he could Gerald Monsford said, ‘We should announce the defection of Maxim Radtsic, which I’ve argued for days now. The sensation of that would overwhelm whatever fuss these tourists are going to make.’

‘No, it wouldn’t: it would hugely escalate the whole thing, making the tourists appear far more important than they are,’ rejected the MI5 Director-General. ‘Do nothing and the media interest will fade. Associate them with the defection of the second-most-important man in Russian intelligence and it’ll be a sensation that’ll go on for weeks.’

‘That reflects the initial feeling elsewhere,’ disclosed the Cabinet Secretary. ‘We’ll return to the remit with which we were convened and only officially consider this if we’re called upon to do so.’ Turning to Monsford, he said, ‘We adjourned at the moment of your examining of Mr Wilkinson.’

‘Which created the opportunity for me very thoroughly to consider everything that Mr Wilkinson told this enquiry,’ responded Monsford, his voice thick with disdain. ‘Every word of which was totally unsubstantiated by any factual evidence or documentation from someone who — which is substantiated by him and his colleagues being replaced — was considered to be incapable of fulfilling the purpose for which they were sent to Moscow. I don’t believe this enquiry would be usefully served by anything further from Mr Wilkinson.’

Monsford’s move seriously disconcerted Aubrey Smith, who’d so confidently expected that day’s hearing to conclude with Wilkinson’s cross-examination that he’d considered not including Ian Flood in their return that evening. Their pre-hearing preparation — along with their professionalism — prevented its being obvious.

In what appeared an instant rebuttal to Monsford’s dismissal, Flood at once isolated Charlie Muffin’s fear—‘more a positive expectation’—of physical intervention within minutes of their meeting at the Savoy Hotel the night before Natalia and Sasha’s extraction. Because of that conversation, recounted Flood, he was particularly alert for surveillance the following morning and became aware of a following car just before clearing the city on their way to Vnukovo Airport. He warned Charlie when they met, as arranged, outside the departure terminal. Charlie refused an offered gun, for protection, and abandoned his original intention to leave on the same plane as Natalia and the child. Instead he switched to a Cyprus-bound flight to draw attention from the extraction route. Charlie was third in the Cyprus check-in queue when three MI6 officers — Stephan Briddle, Jeremy Beckindale, and Robert Denning — entered the terminal. Briddle separated from the two others and headed directly towards Charlie Muffin, who was initially unaware of what was happening. Beckindale and Denning remained by a perimeter wall, giving no reaction to David Halliday’s arrival several moments after the first three MI6 men. Halliday appeared to see Charlie and Briddle, breaking into a run in their directions. Flood believed, from the man’s facial expression, that Halliday shouted, although he was unable to hear what the man yelled. Briddle heard, though, at the same time as Charlie, and both turned in Halliday’s direction. Briddle began to run too but awkwardly, holding his jacket around him. Charlie did not move, just watched. Flood saw a pistol in Briddle’s hand when the man was about eighteen metres from Charlie. There was the sound of a shot — Flood did not see who fired it — and a militia officer fell. Flood then very clearly saw the gun in Briddle’s hand, thrust out from beneath his jacket.

‘And I saw him fire. The gun, a Russian Makarov, was aimed at Charlie. From the recoil movement of Briddle’s hand I believe he fired twice. Charlie jerked, obviously hit, and twisted to his left and fell. My orders — Charlie’s specific orders to me — were not to intervene but to get Natalia and the child safely away. Which I did.’

‘How far away were you from the shooting?’ questioned Smith.

‘Approximately fifty metres.’

‘Was the terminal building crowded, putting people between you and the other three, Charlie, Briddle, and Halliday?’

‘It was busy, but not crowded. At no time was my view seriously impaired by people.’

‘Was Stephan Briddle shooting at Charlie Muffin?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have no doubt about that?’

‘No doubt whatsoever.’

‘With intent to kill?’

‘There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that it was Briddle’s intention to kill Charlie.’

‘Fifty metres is a substantial distance,’ declared Gerald Monsford. He appeared quite confident, picking up the questioning at once at Aubrey Smith’s invitation. The scribbled notepad was in front of him but he didn’t consult it as he began.

‘I do not regard it as substantial,’ refused Flood. The wariness was obvious.

‘You were able quite easily to see Briddle, Halliday, and Muffin over such a distance without your view being obscured by the crowds milling about the departure terminal?’

‘My view was never obscured.’

‘What colour was Charlie’s suit?’

‘Grey,’ replied Flood, at once. ‘Over it he wore a beige raincoat: it was very crumpled. And what appeared to be very old suede shoes.’

Monsford hesitated, off-balanced by the detail of Flood’s reply. ‘Describe the view you had, from where you were standing.’

‘The entry into the terminal was to my left. The various check-in desks were directly in front of me. The way into the passport checks and the embarkation lounge was to my right.’

‘Where was the MEA desk for the Cyprus flight positioned in the bank of check-in desks directly in front of you?’

‘To my right.’

‘Explain the episode from your viewpoint in Vnukovo Airport.’

Now it was Flood who briefly hesitated. ‘Charlie was in the check-in. The two who came in with Briddle were to my left, about thirty metres from me, against the wall. Briddle first walked and then ran directly in front of my line of vision, with Halliday running behind, both towards Charlie.’

‘A tableau, directly in front of you?’ pressed Monsford.

‘It happened directly in front of me, my being separated by a distance of about fifty metres,’ replied Flood, pedantically.

‘Which didn’t give you the perspective from which to judge, did it?’ pounced Monsford.

Flood remained silent for several moments, staring across the intervening table. Eventually he said, ‘Perspective? To judge what? I don’t follow the question.’

‘It’s all happening in front of you, from left to right: literally a stage setting,’ established Monsford. ‘But from where you were you can’t tell this enquiry with any accuracy that Charlie Muffin was Briddle’s target, can you?’

‘Briddle fired at least twice at Charlie Muffin,’ insisted Flood.

‘According to the airport CCTV, which the Russians have shown — the camera in an entirely different position from your view — a militia officer fell before Charlie?’

‘Yes, I saw a militia officer go down.’

‘How far was the officer from Charlie?’

‘Close. About two metres, between two check-in lines.’

‘Who shot him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know! It was all happening before your very eyes: eyes that were in no way obscured by other passengers, allowing you a perfect view of everything.’

‘My concentration was upon Briddle, Halliday, and Charlie.’

‘You’ve just told us you saw the officer fall.’

‘Of course I saw the officer fall: his was the direction in which I was looking, although not specifically at him.’

‘What about Halliday? Did he have a gun?’

‘I did not see him carrying a weapon, nor did I see him with one on the CCTV the Russians made available.’

‘I’m not asking you what was on the CCTV. I’m asking you what you saw David Halliday carrying.’

‘I did not see Halliday with a gun.’

‘You did not see David Halliday carrying a gun. But you can’t be sure that he didn’t have one.’

Flood hesitated. ‘No, I can’t be sure.’

‘How many people did you see with guns, in addition to Briddle?’

‘I believe the militia officer who fell had his pistol in his hand. And I saw another militia officer behind Charlie take his weapon out when the shooting began.’

‘Just two men! You are surely aware of the number of people seriously injured by gunshots, in addition to those who actually died!’

‘I have already given evidence that I followed my orders when the shooting started and left the outer terminal area to ensure the extraction of the woman and child.’

‘What do you say to my suggestion that Stephan Briddle was not shooting at Charlie Muffin with intent to kill but at others who were closing in to arrest him after his identification on CCTV?’

‘That just isn’t the way it happened?’

‘But you don’t know and therefore can’t tell us how it happened, can you, Mr Flood? By the time it all happened you’d already left the main concourse to get on the plane to Helsinki, hadn’t you? Your account, like that of Mr. Wilkinson before you, does nothing to help this enquiry.’

From the opposite side of the table Jane Ambersom tried to gauge a reaction from Rebecca, but the woman turned away, refusing to answer the look.

‘Thanks for delaying the meeting: for telling me there was to be a televised statement,’ said Irena Novikov, determined to control the exchange as she believed she’d conducted their previous session.

‘I guessed you’d want to watch it,’ said Edwin Birkitt, who hoped Irena would regard his alerting her to Moscow’s release of the English tourists as an indication of their growing and improving relationship.

If only you knew how vital my seeing it really is! thought Irena, further tightening any outward satisfaction. ‘It’ll increase the public pressure on the British, won’t it?’

‘It’s not a mess I’d like to be part of,’ said Birkitt.

‘You heard how badly hurt Charlie Muffin was?’

‘We don’t believe it was serious.’

‘He was very good,’ reflected Irena. ‘He’ll be a loss to the British.’ It was important that they believed everything she’d told Charlie in Moscow.

‘What do you imagine will happen to him?’ pressed Birkitt, anxious to bring the interrogation on track.

Irena made a doleful expression. ‘Guessing he’s having a bad time won’t get you anywhere close to what it’ll be like. He’s the guy that ruined twenty years of espionage planning, remember?’

‘Which you were telling me about last time,’ encouraged Birkitt, seizing the opportunity.

Irena smiled across at the man, inwardly amused at the eagerness. ‘I was right, wasn’t I? You found what I told you you’d find in CIA and State Department files, about the first Gulf War? Why the U.S. backed off?’

‘Yes,’ allowed Birkitt. It was his interrogation technique always to flatter the subject whenever possible.

‘That established us, those of us formulating the Lvov penetration,’ embarked Irena, everything prepared. ‘And we needed it. Don’t forget what was happening in 1991, Gorbachev surrendering it all and talking shit like perestroika and glasnost. We were frightened that our particular operation was going to be tossed away before it properly began and that Gorbachev might actually take the KGB apart, which was one of his earliest promises coming into power. But with just that one success, which was a hell of a success, actually first stopping America in its tracks and then letting you sink into what later became a quagmire, changed a lot of the thinking about what to do about the KGB.’

‘What did—?’ broke in Birkitt, at once halted by an over-eager coughing fit. ‘What were the changes to the KGB?’ he managed to finish.

Irena sniggered a laugh. ‘Precious little, compared to what some of the early suggestions were. There was the change of name but that was cosmetic, as it’s always been when it’s politically suited. The clearing out of dead wood, which needed clearing out anyway. Amalgamation of Records and Archives. And then we had another success.’

‘What was that?’ Birkitt frowned, struggling to keep up.

‘Showing us how completely, because of the Gulf success, your people trusted Lvov,’ said Irena, close to patronizing. ‘Through Lvov we drip-fed all sorts of changes and watched them being fed to the media: picked a lot up intercepting your station-to-station chatter, too. We couldn’t believe how easily it was all turning out.’

‘I’d like to make a comparison test,’ said Birkitt. ‘Could you make a list?’

‘I’ll try to remember as much as I can.’

‘That would be great,’ encouraged Birkitt, pushing a yellow legal pad across the table towards her.

Irena carefully began her list, frequently pausing for apparent recollection. During one hesitation, she said, ‘I don’t suppose Charlie knows his unhappy band of tricked travellers have been freed.’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Birkitt.

Charlie did.

‘A prime example of Russian compassion,’ declared Mikhail Guzov, turning off the portable DVD player with which he’d arrived at the dacha an hour earlier.

‘And a far more important example of a very effective use of propaganda,’ conceded Charlie. ‘What about my consular access?’

‘I’ve already told you about that but it was you who made that propaganda possible; we should really make some gesture to thank you, shouldn’t we?’ goaded Guzov. ‘I’m having the London press conference recorded for you to watch later. From what I heard in the car on my way here, you really aren’t their favourite person.’

‘I’m rarely anyone’s favourite person.’

‘Make yourself mine,’ urged Guzov. ‘Tell me from the very beginning everything that passed between you and Irena Yakulova, right from the moment of her anonymous telephone call to the contact number you set up at the embassy after the murder.’

Was that a guess? wondered Charlie. Or a test? The truth as much as possible, the intentional disinformation in the finest threads, Charlie reminded himself. ‘She staged it brilliantly,’ he began, settling in the rough wood chair.