See Charlie Run

Chapter Eight

Charlie was as objective as Sir Alistair Wilson — perhaps more so where his personal safety was concerned — and accepted at once the need for the incoming commando squad. He just hoped they wouldn’t start clumping about in their bloody great army boots and get in the way. Childish thought, he corrected himself at once. On the occasions he’d worked with the specialized military groups he’d found them shit-hot. It would still have been nice if Wilson had trusted him to blow the whistle but that — like thinking too much about the first night — was a reaction of pride rather than professionalism. Charlie continued transcribing the message, alone in the locked and secure embassy code room, nodding gratefully when he read that Wilson was sending copies of the identifying photographs and the passport by diplomatic pouch and not with the arriving squad. The diplomatic mail was quicker and not subject to any Japanese customs search. The men were coming in on a military-passenger aircraft, officially described as a unit on its way to exercise in Australia, and so they would have to go through all the usual entry formalities. Charlie’s mind moved immediately to the practicalities. To come in wasn’t the problem; it was leaving, with everything they wanted and no one getting in the way. Would it be possible, to take Kozlov and his wife, at the same time? That was the ideal and clearly a reason in the Director’s mind for sending in commandos. But here in Tokyo, at the actual moment of crossing, was where the American protection would be at its height: more than likely with trained soldiers of their own, as well as their CIA circus. Every potential for disaster then, an attention-grabbing tug of war between the two groups, risking the intrusion of the Japanese or, worse, the Russians, ending up with neither of them getting who or what they wanted. Security would be tight during the conjugal visits, of course, but they’d be competing then on their own ground — wherever that might be — without the possibility at least of Japanese or Russian involvement mucking everything up. Better to get one rather than neither and to try the dirty stuff later. By herself, Irena would be a good enough catch. And … Charlie sat back positively in his chair, stopping the run of thought. He was ahead of himself; too far ahead. London might be happy enough with the identification and it certainly gave him the sort of advantage he always liked to have, but there was a long way to go before the uncertainties were resolved in Charlie’s mind.

He sent the formal acknowledgement of receipt, read Wilson’s transcribed cable a second time, to memorize it, and then shredded and burned it.

Cartright was in the outer office, apparently working on some documents, when Charlie emerged. Charlie said: ‘There is quite a lot of stuff coming for me in the diplomatic bag.’

‘I’ll warn Dispatch,’ said the Resident.

‘It’s important,’ stressed Charlie.

‘Do you want it at the hotel?’

Charlie was about to say yes and then stopped, recognizing the pitfall; definitely a trick question. ‘Probably safer here,’ he said instead.

Cartright was hot with discomfort. He said: ‘I’ll be glad when this is all over.’

‘So will I,’ said Charlie. ‘I usually am.’ Until three or four days after the return to London, boring desk work and poisonous meat pies, he thought.

Charlie remained observant on his return to the hotel, although accepting — objectively again — that so varied and so many nationalities gathered up in a complex this large made any proper sort of incoming surveillance check impossible. He gave up after half a dozen possibilities, because it didn’t matter. He’d make a definite check tomorrow: Charlie knew he had to get Fredericks and his merry men off his back before things got serious. Definitely before he got into any sort of negotiation with Irena: if he got into negotiation with Irena. Still a long way to go: miles, in fact. Keeping things in their order of importance when he reached his room, he first removed his spread-apart Hush Puppies, flexing his toes and feet against the day’s incarceration, and he was looking towards the efficiently re-stocked refrigerator and bar when the telephone rang.

‘Wondered what you were doing?’ said a voice he recognized as that of Fredericks.

Not necessary to check surveillance tomorrow, Charlie accepted, knowing they’d covered his return to the hotel: Fredericks was an asshole. He said: ‘Exercising my feet.’

‘What!’

‘Nothing important,’ said Charlie.

‘Thought maybe we might eat?’ invited Fredericks.

‘With friends?’ asked Charlie, immediately attentive.

‘Not quite,’ said the American.

So there was something at least, Charlie thought. He said: ‘I’d like that.’

‘You enjoy Japanese food?’

‘Very much.’ Harry Lu had been the teacher, Charlie remembered. Challenging at first, so they went beyond the raw fish of sashimi and because it was winter progressed to the fugu, Harry trying to put him off with stories of how many people died from eating the poisonous bits of the blowfish. He’d have to introduce Harry to meat pies.

‘The Japanese eat early, you know? I thought we might.’

Another hint, decided Charlie. He said: ‘Eating early suits me fine.’

‘I know a good shabu-shabu place near your hotel. That all right with you?’

‘Shall I meet you there?’

‘I’ll pick you up,’ said Fredericks. ‘How about five minutes?’

‘I’ll be waiting,’ said Charlie. Fredericks had obviously been doing the same, maybe in the hotel itself; there was definitely some movement. Charlie felt a stir of anticipation. Reluctantly he encased his feet again, leaving the shoes unlaced until the last moment, looking towards the inviting refrigerator. Not time, he decided.

The American’s summons from the lobby came precisely on time and the man was waiting when Charlie emerged from the elevators, smiling a greeting. Charlie nodded back, aware of the changed attitude.

‘We’ll take a cab,’ announced Fredericks, leading off towards the second set of lifts.

‘Sure,’ said Charlie. Was that important?

Fredericks gave the address in Japanese and the taxi took a route away from the Ginza and Charlie was glad they weren’t going somewhere overly touristy. He glanced through the back window, wondering how much protection Fredericks had around himself. By now, reflected Charlie, his own military squad would already be airborne.

In the tightly enclosed but still open cab, Fredericks played the guide and Charlie adopted the required role, nodding appreciatively at the identified landmarks, noting in passing that from the American’s description Niban-Cho was the fun place he remembered from earlier trips and deciding, sadly, that it would have to remain one of fond memories.

The restaurant was formal. Charlie removed his shoes at the entrance and placed them traditionally correct, with the heels against the step, toes turned outwards.

Fredericks watched and said: ‘You didn’t tell me you knew Japan.’

‘There’s a lot we haven’t talked about,’ said Charlie, pointedly. He looked down at the discarded footwear and said: ‘Just imagine if they were stolen.’

The American looked down in disbelief. ‘I shouldn’t worry.’

‘It’s taken a long time to get them like that,’ said Charlie.

‘I believe you,’ said Fredericks.

They were shown to a discreet, two-only table with a recessed dip beneath, so they did not have to sit crossed-legged, Japanese fashion. A smiling, bowing waitress placed the copper-protected charcoal cone on the table between them and then poured in the moat of water, to heat. Another smiling waitress brought the see-through Kobe beef and the sauces.

Indicating, Fredericks said: ‘This is ponzu …’

‘Which is vinegar-based,’ took up Charlie. ‘I prefer the sesame taste of gomadare.’

‘I didn’t mean to patronize,’ apologized the American.

Charlie deftly used the chopsticks to hold a strip of beef in the water to boil, dipped it into the sauce and said, as he ate: ‘Good restaurant. I like it.’ Patronize as much as you like; that’s what you’re supposed to do, thought Charlie. When people were mocking and convincing themselves what a mess he was and imagining how superior they were, the mistakes — their mistakes, to his benefit — were usually being made left, right, centre and backwards. And the silly buggers never realized it. He said: ‘There’s been some response?’

Instead of replying directly, Fredericks said: ‘What about the stuff I let you have?’

‘Sent it all to London,’ said Charlie, appearing intent upon his meal. It would be wrong for him to stop being careful.

‘And?’ prompted Fredericks.

The American wasn’t eating much, Charlie saw. He said: ‘Nothing, not yet. You couldn’t expect anything this quickly, surely?’

‘Kozlov talked of London: I hoped you guys might have had some record to which we didn’t have access.’

Sure you did, thought Charlie. ‘I’d hoped the same thing,’ he lied, easily. ‘So far, no luck.’

The vegetables arrived. After the dish was deposited on the table Charlie said, gesturing with his chopsticks: ‘Hakusia, shiitake, negi, yakidofu and shungiku.’

‘You’ve made your point and I said I was sorry, OK!’

I made it but you missed it, thought Charlie. The nonsense of picking out the food was to irritate the man, deflecting his concentration. These were the times Charlie enjoyed, producing words like conjurors pulled coloured scarves out of hats, so quickly it was hard to see the trick.

‘What about Germany?’ tried Fredericks, in persistence of his own.

Charlie dipped some cabbage into the water, deciding from the quality of the meat and vegetables that the soup it was making for the end would be excellent: Harry would have approved. He said: ‘Make some allowance, Art, for Christ’s sake! If we can’t turn up anything from our own records, what chance have we had so far to get anything out of Germany? We need time: you’ve had time: what have you come up with!’

‘All right, all right!’ said Fredericks. ‘I just wanted to know …’ He stopped, smiling. ‘And I would know, wouldn’t I, Charlie? We’ve got a deal, haven’t we?’

Consciously trying to continue the other man’s distraction, Charlie cooked and then wrapped some spring onions in chrysanthemum leaves and said: ‘I hope so …’ He allowed the pause. ‘I was thinking earlier that if we’re not careful, you and I — and those we represent and who invariably over-react and fuck everything up — we’re going to end up with nothing … try the combination, it’s terrific.’

Competing in the game they were playing, Fredericks identified the hakusai and employed his chopsticks as expertly as Charlie and said: ‘This is very good.’ Then, just as expertly, he wrapped the onions in the leaves and said: ‘The meeting’s tonight.’

Charlie gave a head-bowed nod to the waitress who came to skim the detritus off what would later become the soup, welcoming the interruption. He continued the ritual, cooking some fungus, and said: ‘How?’

‘Street designations.’

‘Car pick-up, then?’

‘Could be something else, but I can’t think of it … I forgot to ask if you’d like something to drink?’

Fredericks was employing his own distraction ploy, decided Charlie. ‘Maybe a little sake,’ he accepted. ‘You gave a reason?’

‘I said someone from Britain had arrived.’ Fredericks summoned the waitress and ordered the wine.

‘You haven’t ever met the wife?’ asked Charlie, directly.

‘No.’

‘Did you ask?’

‘No,’ said Fredericks again.

‘Why not?’

Both men waited while the wine and the tiny choko cups were delivered to their table. Then Fredericks said: it hasn’t got that far: I’ve let him make the running.’

Charlie raised his cup to the other man, thinking how differently he would have conducted the negotiations. ‘Haven’t you thought that Kozlov might be fronting for the woman?’ It was a maverick question, thrown out to make ripples.

‘Why should he be?’ demanded the American.

‘No reason,’ said Charlie. ‘Just seeking your thoughts.’ Shit, he thought: the idea had been to get Fredericks reminiscing from that first moment of contact, at the unimportant embassy meeting. Charlie had hoped he could have picked up something. Smoothly — reasonably smoothly at least — as everything was going, Charlie couldn’t lose the nagging feeling that there was a yawning gap that he’d failed to recognize, and that if he did not realize where or what it was he was going to fall ass over apex into a great big hole.

‘How quickly could you move?’ asked the American.

‘Woa!’ said Charlie, avoiding the question. ‘I haven’t met either of them yet; heard what they have to say …’ He drank more sake and said: ‘Being so far ahead, as you are, you must be ready?’

Now it was Fredericks who sidestepped. He said: ‘Kozlov won’t move until he’s seen you; is satisfied about his wife. So we haven’t made any plans.’

The man spoke looking directly at Charlie, who decided the American was as good a liar as he knew himself to be. He wondered if Fredericks had any source at Haneda airport from which he could learn of the arrival of the commando unit: the man would see immediately through the Australian manoeuvres cover story. He said ‘What time?’

‘Nine: the first place, that is.’

The waitress cleaned the water for the last time and poured the stock into bowls for them.

Charlie said: ‘Same meeting arrangements as before?’

‘This is really very good,’ praised Fredericks, sipping the soup. ‘He’s set out six different places: all near enough to tourist hotels so we won’t attract any unnecessary attention, hanging around.’

From the number of meeting places Charlie decided he’d been right in his estimate of extra CIA men. ‘Very cautious,’ he said.

‘I told you before, everything’s professional.’

If only you knew, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Have we far to go?’

‘I chose this place because it was close,’ said the American.

Charlie raised his cup: ‘Here’s to success.’

‘We’re working together on this, OK? No tricks?’

‘No tricks,’ agreed Charlie. At least not until I’ve decided what they’re going to be, he thought. He wondered what Fredericks was planning.

Fredericks drank, belatedly, and said: ‘Here’s to success.’

At the exit Charlie said: ‘No one took my shoes.’

‘Let’s hope it’s our lucky night,’ said the American.

In another taxi, Charlie acknowledged the importance of the first cab: if Kozlov did intend a vehicle pick up, their own car would have been a burden. The drop-off was at the Diamond Hotel, but after paying the fare Fredericks led away from the entrance, towards the park. Charlie orientated himself, realizing how close they were to the British embassy. Would the diplomatic bag have arrived by now?

‘We hadn’t better stay together,’ warned Fredericks.

‘Surely he knows the point of the meeting?’

‘I don’t want to spook him, straight off. I’ll make the contact, then bring him to you.’

Charlie gazed alertly around him. Was that Fredericks’ only concern, unsettling the Russian? Or was there something he hadn’t anticipated. ‘I’ll be close,’ said Charlie, with no alternative.

Fredericks went ahead, stopping about ten yards away at the intersection with the main road. Charlie remained where he was, tensed for anything. He made out the entrance to the Hanzomon subway station and remembered the trail clearing of the first day: how close, he wondered, was the man in the shiny shoes tonight? Ten past, Charlie noted, checking his watch; he hadn’t asked Fredericks what the waiting period was to be, which was an oversight. The American’s movement, at quarter past, answered the unasked question.

‘Marunouchi. The Post Office,’ said Fredericks, coming back to him.

‘You put watchers in place?’

Fredericks’ hesitation was just a few seconds too long. ‘No,’ said the American. ‘I didn’t want to screw anything up.’

Let’s hope you haven’t, thought Charlie. As the cab picked up the Shinjukudori highway Charlie said, testing: ‘What’s after Marunouchi?’

‘Why?’ demanded the American, at once suspicious.

‘Just curious,’ said Charlie. ‘Checking the expertise.’

‘A second-hand book store, near the Surugadai Hotel,’ said Fredericks. ‘District’s called Jimbocho.’

Charlie smiled and said: ‘He knows the business.’

The American frowned across the cab. ‘How come?’

Charlie indicated the darkened Chiyoda-Ku to their left and said: ‘That’s the pivot. We’re going around it to get to Marunouchi and then virtually continuing in the same circle to the hotel. Easy travelling. But more for him than for us. Means he can monitor and keep ahead of us all the time. The circle goes on, after Jimbocho, right?’

‘The Yasukini shrine,’ confirmed Fredericks.

He’d got two further meeting places, Charlie recognized. He said, goading: ‘Be easy to isolate any surveillance.’

Fredericks grunted, not bothering to respond. The separated wait by the Post Office was as fruitless as the first and there was difficulty this time in getting another taxi, so Fredericks was shifting impatiently by the time they set out for the third designated spot.

‘It’s pretty easy to get pissed off,’ complained the American.

‘Prefer this to being trapped, through carelessness,’ said Charlie. ‘I was once, remember?’

The bookshop provided the best cover of all. It was crowded, like Japanese bookshops always are, and Charlie went in, to use the people for concealment, while Fredericks remained outside, slightly to the right of the shop front and its lights. Charlie wondered if Fredericks’ protector were inside or outside the shop. Charlie was lucky with an English language rack which gave him perfect observation of the waiting American. He pretended to browse, aware of the developing discomfort in his feet. If the run-around went its full course he’d be standing for practically three hours: it was going to be bloody agony.

No it wasn’t!

Fredericks started moving before the anonymous, silver-coloured Toyota came completely to a halt at the pavement edge. Charlie moved, too, as soon as he felt it was safe to do so without attracting any sort of attention. The very brightness which enabled him perfectly to see Fredericks became an immediate disadvantage because it blurred his vision into the darkened Toyota, reducing the driver to a grey, indistinguishable mass. At the doorway he paused, holding to the arrangement he’d made with Fredericks, letting the American prepare Kozlov. Charlie was alert not just to the car but everything around, nerves tuned for the first indication of anything wrong. The bookshop customers swirled around him and there were a lot of people on the pavements and everything appeared perfectly normal. Charlie didn’t relax: in his bruised experience things always looked perfectly normal seconds before the steel-shod boot came up to catch him right in the balls. Come on! come on! thought Charlie, impatient now: things had actually moved remarkably quickly, but he had the impression of having hung around, too long. The passenger door of the silver car opened and Fredericks started to enter and Charlie shifted again. They were in Kozlov’s hands but there was no planning for his being left behind: was he expected to wait here or move on, to the Yasukuni shrine? And what, after that, if Kozlov went on playing follow-my-leader?

Charlie decided he’d spent too much time in word games with Fredericks and not enough on the elementary who-does-what-and-where-and-how planning for this encounter. So he had the advantage of the London identification: apart from which, Charlie decided, in sudden frustration, he was still being held very much on the outside of this sodding affair. Tonight was when it stopped. Which meant not being left standing on the pavement like a runny-nosed kid who hadn’t been invited to the party. Charlie’s uncertain movement became positive, and he was actually making towards the vehicle — prepared to run to it if Fredericks’ door started to close in positive abandonment — when instead the American turned, looking for him.

‘What the …!’ began the man.

‘If I’m in, I’m in,’ announced Charlie. And he was.

Winslow Elliott, who had been the bookshop observer, was at the pavement edge before the Russian’s car properly entered the traffic stream. He stood momentarily uncertain and then hurried to his own car, congratulating himself on having parked it so conveniently close. He pulled out in pursuit, with the Toyota comfortably in view.

Still in the bookshop, Irena Kozlov watched the American take off, shaking her head at the obviousness of it. That hurried entry into Yuri’s car of the man she assumed to be the Englishman had been too abrupt, as well. Useful, though. He’d hidden himself well and until he’d moved she’d had difficulty in isolating him. Which had, after, all been an additional — actually the main — reason for her monitoring the meeting place tonight. She hoped Yuri’s encounter would be as successful.

Filiatov looked across his desk at Olga Balan, the apprehension obvious.

‘You can’t be serious!’ he said.

‘There is a pattern,’ insisted the woman. She nodded to the documentation she had assembled. ‘Everything is there. As a matter of courtesy I felt I should show you, before communicating directly with Moscow.’

Filiatov swallowed, the sweat bubbled on his forehead. ‘It’s a courtesy I appreciate. Very much indeed,’ he said. Maybe the rumours about Olga Balan’s single-minded pursuit of personal success were misplaced.