See Charlie Run

Chapter Four

Not having to pay for his own laundry was a perk of foreign travel. Charlie included for pressing the more creased of his two suits — the one that had been a give-away bargain in the January sales with the green check in the trousers only slightly different from that in the jacket — and gave himself odds of 6–4 that Harkness would knock it off his expenses. Charlie was still pissed off, getting caught out the previous evening. Only temporary, he thought, a private promise to himself.

He left unhurriedly, increasing his pace immediately outside, going at once to the lifts serving the shopping area. He managed to get himself into the corner with his back to the wall, enabling him to see everyone who entered after him. Three Asian men, a Caucasian couple and a man by himself, Charlie noted. The single man disembarked on the first floor and two more Japanese got in after another couple talking animatedly in what Charlie thought to be German, but wasn’t sure. The new arrivals filled the elevator, so the grouping stayed until it reached the ground floor. Charlie made as if to emerge, behind everyone else, but then mimed the pocket-patting charade of someone who had forgotten something and stepped back into the lift, to return to the hotel level. One of the Asians who had travelled down with him just managed to get back in with the freshly entering group. Gotcha! thought Charlie. Back at the hotel level, he went directly to the long, open-lounge bordering corridor, towards the main exit, stopping abruptly to feign interest in the antique shop at the end. His pursuer was trapped in the middle of the walkway. The man still made the effort, halting like Charlie at one of the arcade shops. You’re dead, cowboy, thought Charlie. He went further on towards the main area, wondering if there was any more surveillance.

As the taxi went towards the Ginza, Charlie decided Tokyo was a city full up with people and tight-together houses. It was the uncertain time, sticky with rainy-season heat. Although it was dry at the moment, everyone carried condom-sheathed umbrellas that by an ingenuity of engineering bloomed into the real thing at the first shower.

Charlie sat with his money ready, isolating the Akasaka Mitsuke Underground station as the car went beneath the elevated roadway and glad of the clog of traffic. He waited until the cab was practically alongside before stopping the driver, gesturing with supposed impatience at the traffic delay and thrusting notes into the man’s hand. The impression of a full-up city was greater in the subway, and as well as the people noise there was the crickets-in-the-bushes clatter of the passenger counters at the barriers. He chose a train already at the platform, not trying to check for pursuit until he was actually on board. As the doors closed, Charlie thought that if he had?I for every time he’d used tube trains to lose a tail he could afford his own personal chiropodist. Charlie knew it would be difficult for him to spot his follower in a crowded situation of many Japanese, which was why he’d taken particular care. The man in the lift had been wearing a grey suit, muted tie, white shirt, with neither hat, topcoat nor spectacles. The mistake had been the shoes — a subject frequently on Charlie’s mind — black and polished so highly they could have been made of some plastic material. Four men nearby matched the description, except for their footwear. Charlie moved slightly and found his man at the far end of the carriage. By studying the colour coding chart, Charlie worked out that he was on the Yurakucho line; when the train hissed into Aoyama-Itchome station he realized he was going the wrong way, with too many intermediary stops. Charlie did not immediately disembark at Omatesando, wanting as many people as possible to clear ahead of him. He slipped through the closing doors as the warning bell sounded, hurrying towards the sign for the Hanazomon line, but at the last moment switching to Toei Shinjuku. He was lucky with a waiting train again and ran on. He was sweating and his ribs hurt, from having to hurry. He looked around the carriage, intent upon the feet. There was one man again at the end of the carriage who qualified, but he got off at Akasaka and Charlie reckoned it was looking good. He made another delayed departure at Hibaya, caught the first train and got off at the next stop, at Ginza. He ran up the stairs, breath groaning from him, and plunged at once into the man-wide labyrinth of paths and alleys behind the main streets, stopping frequently now, openly seeking the pursuit. There wasn’t any, but Charlie still wasn’t satisfied. He kept twisting and turning, managing to reach the larger Miyukidori Street entirely by back alleys. He remained drawn back, until he saw an unoccupied, cruising taxi, emerging to hail it at the moment of passing.

Charlie gave the location of the British embassy and sat back gratefully, wet-bodied and panting, against the upholstery. Maybe he was getting too old for all this Action Man stuff; then again, perhaps he should exercise with something heavier than a whisky glass in his hand. He saw the driver was taking him the longer way, through Marunouchi and around the park, but didn’t protest; after all the buggering about, he needed time to get his breath back.

Charlie went patiently through the identification procedure at the embassy and sat where he was told by the crisply efficient receptionist, who didn’t respond to his grin. Crabby old virgin, dismissed Charlie. Couldn’t be many left: veritable museum piece.

Richard Cartright was a thin, well tailored man whom Charlie estimated to be about thirty. There was an attempt at extra years with a thin moustache, which didn’t work and an obvious Eton tie, which always did. Charlie had tried it once but got caught out before lunch: during his early, inverted snobbery days. Cartright gave an open-faced smile, offered his hand.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said Cartright. There’s been some traffic.’ Charlie Muffin was certainly an odd-looking cove.

Thought there might be,’ said Charlie.

He followed the younger man into the rear of the embassy, where the sectioned-off, secure intelligence area was kept at arm’s if not pole’s length by the rest of the diplomatic staff. Over the door to Cartright’s office were some charm bells to ward off evil spirits, and there was a bonsai arrangement of miniature trees on the window shelf. The furniture was better than London and the carpet was genuine, Charlie saw. He hoped the charm bells worked.

‘Minimum involvement, I gather?’ said Cartright, at once.

‘For the usual reasons,’ said Charlie.

‘Nasty then?’

The man should know better than to question, thought Charlie. ‘Could be,’ he said.

‘Ready to do anything I can,’ offered Cartright.

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Charlie. ‘What was your guidance from London?’

Cartright indicated the prepared and waiting dossier. ‘Always necessary to obtain clearance.’

Harkness, guessed Charlie. He said: ‘I want a blank British passport, picture slot and name place empty.’

Cartright made a sucking noise, breathing in. ‘Means involving a recognized diplomatic department of the embassy,’ he said. ‘No one likes that. Why didn’t you bring one from London?’

Because it didn’t occur to me until I was on the plane and thinking of all the possible ways of getting her out, thought Charlie. ‘Couldn’t do it for me as a favour, I suppose?’

Precisely the sort of thing Harkness had alerted him to report, realized Cartright. He didn’t like spying on his own side. He said: ‘Not without London finding out. Have to be Foreign Office clearance. You know what they’re like about official documents.’

‘Don’t I just!’ said Charlie. He wondered if that security complaint had been squashed or merely postponed.

‘Sorry,’ said the Tokyo Resident.

‘Not your fault,’ accepted Charlie. It was actually unfair to ask the man.

‘Sensitive?’ asked Cartright.

‘What?’ replied Charlie, intentionally misunderstanding.

‘Whoever you’re getting out?’ Harkness’s instructions were to test the other man. Dislike it as he might, Cartright saw himself as someone trying to establish a career, and if he were going to do that it required a ruthlessness beyond his upbringing scruples.

Nosey bugger or primed? wondered Charlie. In fairness, he supposed the passport request made it obvious. Still wrong; wrong to ask and wrong to respond at any length. He said: ‘Could be.’

Cartright noted the reservation and felt embarrassed. Trying to cover the awkwardness, he said: ‘I could ask London about a passport issue. Ambassador won’t like it, I should warn you. He doesn’t believe decent chaps read other chaps’ mail and actually uses words like rotter. He’d have to be consulted, of course.’ If he did it that way he would have complied with the orders from London and still not betrayed a colleague.

‘Do you know the American head of station?’

‘Art Fredericks,’ identified Cartright, at once. ‘Met him a few times at embassy things … receptions, stuff like that.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Huge man …’ began Cartright, but Charlie said: ‘I meant as a person.’

‘Came here six months after me,’ started Cartright again, pausing momentarily for the calculation. ‘Just over three years then. Takes part in most of the sports events the US embassy puts on. Word is that he’s ambitious.’

‘What’s the full CIA complement here?’ asked Charlie.

‘Three, including him,’ said Cartright, at once.

‘Sure?’

‘Positive. I like to know the competition, even if it’s friendly.’

‘Is it friendly?’ demanded Charlie.

‘Amicable,’ said Cartright, in qualification. ‘Depends if they’re asking or telling.’

Charlie realized he was lucky that Cartright was so certain of the CIA staffing: it gave him a figure to work from, when it came to calculating the opposition he was facing. ‘What if they’re telling?’ pressed Charlie.

‘Not easy,’ said Cartright, quickly again.

Which made the Kozlov operation like he imagined it to be, bloody difficult. He said: ‘Any other names, apart from Fredericks?’

‘Harry Fish and Winslow Elliott,’ said Cartright. ‘Fish is a nice enough guy but Elliott seems upset he was too late to wear a six gun and ride off into the Wild West sunset.’

‘So the Agency is the next best thing?’ said Charlie. Like Cartright, Charlie liked knowing as much as he could about competition, friendly or otherwise.

‘Something like that,’ said Cartright. ‘They going to be with you or against you?’

It was another intelligent if rather obvious question, after the passport request, but Charlie had the impression it was more than a surface query. He said: ‘At the moment, I’m not quite sure.’

‘Joint operation: something big then?’

The persistence definitely showed the knowledge of some pre-briefing, Charlie decided. Wilson or Harkness? Despite the attempt at fairness, Charlie reckoned the answer was obvious. If he could prove that, after the security classification, he’d have some ammunition in the battle against the polished and buffed asshole. ‘Too soon to judge yet,’ he said, generally. He wondered if Cartright would withhold messages and keep a time sheet on him.

‘How about the traffic?’ offered Cartright.

‘Thanks,’ said Charlie, accepting the dossier.

The London transmissions were very brief, which was hardly surprising at this stage, just the original and strictly formal notification of his coming, the instruction that any local assistance had first to be cleared by either the Director or deputy and a query whether or not he had reported in, upon arrival. The messages about London authorization and the arrival query were both signed by Harkness. Charlie wondered where the second batch of messages was, briefing Cartright on what to do.

‘That the lot?’ asked Charlie.

‘Everything,’ promised Cartright. ‘Were you expecting more?’

‘Nothing separate, to you?’ pressed Charlie. It would be wrong to let the other man think he was a prick, even if he’d been a bit of one last night. He’d also expected something about the empty boast to Fredericks that he had power to abort. Charlie accepted that if the American had checked and London reacted wrongly he’d be in the shit, right up to his neck. Fredericks’ cleverness had gone beyond putting him under immediate surveillance; making the direct approach at the hotel had wrong-footed him into having to improvise.

‘That’s all there is,’ lied Cartright. Hurrying on in his discomfort, he said: ‘Do you want the code room?’

‘Not yet,’ said Charlie. ‘You can tell them I’ve arrived, OK?’

Cartright looked doubtful. ‘I rather think they are expecting to hear from you,’ he said.

I bet they are, thought Charlie: Harkness first in line, bleating about authority. He needed something to fight back with, before there was any contact. He was pretty sure Cartright had been appointed watchdog and regretted it: the man seemed nice enough and Charlie wanted friends, not enemies. He said: ‘Things to do first. It’s only a formality, after all. And you will check about the passport, won’t you?’

‘Certainly? Sure that’s all?’

‘There are telephones, in the code room?’ Let him work that out.

‘Of course.’

Charlie recognized the standard design, trying to remember the first time he’d ever enclosed himself inside a secure capsule like this: certainly he’d been younger than Cartright. An inner, sealed chamber was supported by four metal struts he knew were tested weekly against electronic interception. The chamber was reached across a small walkway which lifted, separating it from the outer shell and isolating the occupant completely. The door had a system operated from the inside which displayed on the outer part a colour code designation, indicating the degree of sensitivity of the material being transmitted or received inside the sanctum, pink for the lowest through a varied rainbow to purple, the highest. Charlie itemised red, which was an exaggeration, and direct-dialled Hong Kong: Harry Lu’s telephone would not be secure, of course, but the electronic gadgetry in the code room prevented any trace of source if the conversation were intercepted.

Harry Lu answered on the third ring, gruff-voiced from the sixty cigarettes a day. Charlie identified himself at once and then without pausing said: ‘You clear your end?’

‘No,’ confirmed Lu, aware at once from the query that it was an official call. ‘You?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, telling the other man he was in an embassy somewhere.

It was still difficult for Lu to contain himself. ‘Charlie! For Christ’s sake, Charlie! I thought you were dead!’

‘Almost was,’ said Charlie. ‘Very much like it at least.’

‘Somewhere local, Charlie?’ asked Lu, guardedly.

‘Nearby,’ said Charlie, with equal caution.

‘Near enough for a meeting?’

‘No.’

‘Pity, I’d have liked that. Talk over old times.’

Charlie smiled at the cue: the man was bloody good. ‘Maybe new times as well,’ he said.

‘Not a lot of contact with head office,’ warned Lu.

‘Accountants are out to rule the world,’ guided Charlie.

‘Always a problem,’ said Lu, understanding.

‘Doing anything else?’ probed Charlie.

‘Things are very quiet,’ said Lu.

‘Maybe possible to put something your way.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Lu. ‘Be good to meet, too.’

‘Not going anywhere?’ asked Charlie, an important question. He wanted Lu instantly available if the need arose, as it might if he decided Kozlov’s defection were genuine: certainly now he wasn’t sure that he and Cartright held tickets for the same performance.

‘Best time of the year in Hong Kong,’ said Lu. Still searching, the man said: ‘What’s the weather like where you are?’

Charlie grinned at the most frequently asked question during any long distance call, admiring again Lu’s expertise. He said: ‘About the same as yours, I would think.’

‘We’ll keep in touch then?’

‘Definitely,’ said Charlie.

‘Soon?’

‘Difficult to say, at the moment,’ cautioned Charlie. ‘Lot of clients to meet.’

‘Hope it goes well,’ said Lu, played the part.

‘Me too,’ said Charlie. ‘Might be some sticking points over the contract.’

‘Contracts can sometimes be difficult.’

‘This one might be particularly so.’

‘Good luck then, Charlie.’

Hong Kong didn’t become part of China until 1997, and as a British possession it was certainly the best transit point in the area through which to smuggle something (or someone) Britain didn’t want the world to know (or see) was happening. Alerting Harry Lu was wise insurance, then: and it would be bloody good to see and work with the man again. Maybe even sort out the nonsense of making a few quid on his expenses. He said: ‘We’ll be in touch.’

‘I hope so, Charlie,’ said the other man. ‘I really hope so.’

Charlie replaced the telephone, warmed by the contact. It was a comforting thought to have a consummate professional just down the road: well, practically, anyway. Other things were still uncertain. He had definitely expected some indication from London whether or not the Americans had called his bluff. And hadn’t got it. So there was no alternative but to continue bluffing. If the Americans had caught him out, he’d discover it soon enough.

Fredericks answered at once and said: ‘I know this is a secure call.’

Too anxious to recover, judged Charlie. He said: ‘You can train monkeys to watch embassies. What happened to your guy on the train this morning?’

‘Aren’t you the smart-ass!’ said Fredericks.

‘Thought it was proving time,’ said Charlie. If the chain were to be pulled, flushing him down the toilet, the hand had to be reaching up by now. So there was no further point in blowing bubbles at each other. He said: ‘So OK. Are we going to meet?’

The silence lasted for several moments and then Fredericks said: ‘Of course we have a meeting. I thought we decided that last night.’

Charlie grinned at the blank wall in front of him. He’d demanded a review as well as an encounter with Kozlov, and if Fredericks were agreeing to that then he was also agreeing to his seeing Kozlov. Things were on an upswing. Charlie said: ‘I’m glad things are working out,’ letting the sentence trail, so that ‘my way’ was clearly inferred.

‘This afternoon?’ suggested Fredericks, who got the point.

The response showed yet more anxiety, like coming to the hotel the previous night. Recognizing that it was bridge-building time, Charlie said: ‘Why don’t I come down to see you at the embassy?’

‘That’ll be fine,’ said Fredericks, tightly.

Charlie signalled his emergence from the code room and Cartright was waiting when he lowered the walkway and went back into the main body of the embassy. ‘Always feel uncomfortable in these things: like I’m in one of those funny spy films where people have code names and kill each other,’ said Charlie.

‘Sometimes it happens, and it isn’t in films,’ said Cartright.

‘You know something?’ said Charlie. ‘Until now it’s been a great day. You just pissed all over it.’

‘Well?’ demanded Wilson.

‘It could have been luck,’ said Harkness, with insufficient thought.

‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ insisted the Director. ‘It was intelligent assessment from a damned good operator …’ He paused and said: ‘Disappointing that Witherspoon didn’t establish any possible connection.’

Witherspoon was a protege of the deputy director, who ignored the remark. Instead he said: ‘How did we get such an immediate confession out of Knott?’

Wilson smiled and said: ‘Promise of an early parole review and a five-year reduction of the sentence.’

‘We’re going to do that!’ exclaimed Harkness, surprised at the concessions.

‘Of course not,’ said Wilson, surprised in his own turn. ‘I wanted a confession in a hurry and that was the way to get it. The bastard will serve his full time, with no remission or parole consideration.’

‘What about Herbert Bell: he’s dangerously in place.’

‘Don’t want another espionage trial, so soon upon the other one,’ said Wilson. ‘It would unsettle NATO more than they are at present: particularly the Americans. And I definitely don’t want any uncertainty between us and Washington, no matter how peripheral, until this business in Japan is settled.’

‘We can’t just leave him,’ protested Harkness. ‘He’s been positively identified as a Soviet spy.’

‘I’m not going to leave him,’ said Wilson. ‘I’m going to use him. I’m going to make Herbert Bell a conduit for as much confusing disinformation to Moscow as I can possibly manage. And then, when we do arrest him, the Russians won’t know what they can and what they can’t trust, out of everything he’s sent, for years.’

‘Let’s hope Charlie Muffin is as lucky in Japan as he was on this thing,’ said the deputy.

‘I keep telling you, it wasn’t luck,’ insisted Wilson. ‘Charlie’s better than most, for all his faults.’

One day Charlie Muffin would make a mistake impossible to cover up or lie about, thought Harkness: a mistake he was determined to uncover and expose. Hopefully Cartright would provide it. Harkness wondered how long the Director’s strange loyalty would last, after Charlie Muffin made the inevitable slip.

Kozlov concluded the arrangements with the letting agency and then went by himself to the apartment in Shinbashi, overlooking the Hamarikyu Garden and the sea beyond. Aware of the accommodation problems of Tokyo, Kozlov decided it was extremely good: a bedroom separate from a living area, a small kitchen and — most important — an existing telephone. The Russian would have enjoyed staying longer but he was late and Hayashi was important.

Hayashi was waiting at the appointed railway-arch yakatori stall where it was a habit for home going commuters to stop, for chicken and sake. He smiled anxiously when he saw the Russian and said: ‘The message said it was important.’

‘You do control the military section of the airport?’

‘Yes,’ said Hayashi, at once. He’d ordered but wasn’t eating.

‘I must know of any US or British arrivals,’ said Kozlov.

‘I can guarantee it,’ promised Hayashi.

Beneath the table Kozlov handed the man his retainer: a bourgeois revolutionary, thought the Russian, contemptuously.