The Run Around

Chapter Fifteen

It was a safe house again but in Geneva this time and much larger, almost half a floor of a black-glass-and-aluminium tower block far away from the lake, on the Rue Saint Victor. The outer offices were occupied, like some sort of buffer to guard the conference suite, which was on the corner of the building with a panoramic view of the city. Charlie arrived intentionally early, wanting the psychological advantage of being there first with his territory already established. Levy and Giles entered simultaneously, right on time. Levy was a large man, both in height and size, bulge-chested and heavy bellied and he walked with a strange, shoulder-swinging swagger, as if it were difficult to carry so much weight. His hair was cropped very close to his head. He appeared to wear clothes for necessity, not style: the sleeves of his jacket and the legs of his trousers, behind the knee, were lined with creases and although he wore a tie it was pulled down from his open collar. He dwarfed the American. Giles was small to the point of almost being petit, an impression heightened by his neatness. His hair was not as short as the Israeli’s but it was more carefully combed. His tie was precisely in place, the knot clipped by a pin which secured both edges of his collar and each of the three buttons of his uncreased suit was secured. The red-toned brogues glistened and Charlie was glad it was so late in the year; if there had been any sunlight the reflection would have been dazzling.

The Swiss counter-intelligence chief made the introductions and as he did so Giles put his head curiously to one side and said: ‘Charlie Muffin …? Weren’t you the guy that — ?’

‘Yes,’ cut off Charlie. It was best to get it out of the way as soon as possible.

‘Well I’ll be a son of a bitch!’ said Giles.

‘Do you two know each other?’ asked Blom.

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s something that happened a long time ago.’ Like Edith’s death, he thought. And then Natalia.

‘The word was that you were back,’ said Giles, the surprise still showing.

‘Is it something we should know about?’ asked Levy. The voice, like the man, was heavy.

Charlie looked enquiringly at Giles who turned to the other two men and said: ‘I don’t think so. Like he told you, it was something that happened a long time ago.’ He looked back to Charlie and said: ‘But I don’t understand what you’re doing here.’

‘You will,’ promised Charlie.

Blom, playing the part of the uncertain host, gestured them to seats around a conference table and summoned someone from the outside offices to provide coffee, which he poured. To Levy and Giles he said awkwardly, confirming his difficulty: ‘Thank you both for coming.’

Levy frowned and said: ‘Your message said it was important.’

Instead of responding, the Swiss counter-intelligence chief turned to Charlie and said: ‘I’d like you to set everything out, as you did for me.’

I should have cut a long-playing record, thought Charlie. So familiar was he now with the facts that he was able to concentrate upon the reaction of the two men as he spoke. Almost at once Giles pulled forward in his chair, listening unblinking and again there was a contrast. Levy remained pushed back in his chair, almost slumped, occasionally sipping from his coffee cup.

When Charlie finished the American erupted in a burst of questions: ‘But Geneva is only a surmise on your part? Based on the airport identification? Nothing more than that?’

‘Nothing more than that,’ conceded Charlie, at once.

‘And the surveillance hasn’t been relaxed, in London?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Who specifically debriefed Novikov on the assassination?’ came in Levy.

‘I did,’ said Charlie.

‘No doubts?’

‘None.’

‘Without wishing to convey any offence, I’d like Mossad access,’ said the Israeli.

The man couldn’t give a fuck about causing offence, Charlie knew: it was an ideal opportunity to get hold of a Soviet defector, which was always a prize. He said: ‘I anticipated that you would.’

‘And I’d like someone from our embassy in London to see him, too,’ said Giles hurriedly, as if he were afraid of missing out.

‘I think he should be made available to my service, as well,’ completed Blom, wishing he’d been first instead of last.

The queue was going to stretch practically to the Sussex border, thought Charlie. He said: ‘I’ll pass on the requests.’

‘I’d also like the photograph and the full physical description, to run our own check,’ said Giles, ahead of the Israeli this time.

‘Of course,’ assured Charlie. ‘I’d like to believe your records will come up with something where ours didn’t, because we need the break. But I don’t think they will.’

‘Why not?’ said Blom.

‘He’ll be a first timer,’ guessed Charlie. ‘Squeaky clean.’

‘That would be the obvious way to operate,’ agreed Levy.

Conscious from the State Department briefings — two from the Secretary of State himself — of the personal importance that President Anderson was attaching to the conference, the CIA man said to Blom: ‘I think it’s wise to keep this under wraps. We’re still guessing, after all.’

There speaks another vested interest, thought Charlie. He said: ‘I’m surprised we’re not including any Arab intelligence official in this discussion.’

‘The Arab delegations are not arriving for two or three days,’ Blom tried to avoid.

‘They are going to be briefed then?’ pressed Charlie.

‘The view of my government is that at this stage the matter should be restricted to just us,’ admitted Blom, reluctantly.

‘I think you’re taking a hell of a chance,’ said Charlie.

‘You’ve already expressed your views,’ reminded Blom. The Englishman was insufferable. He said: ‘The decision does not directly affect you.’

‘Low profile in everything at this stage,’ urged Giles.

‘I agree,’ said Levy, at once.

Too many gaps were being left, thought Charlie. To Blom he said: ‘We decided upon full co-operation?’

‘Yes,’ agreed the man, cautiously.

‘So what’s happening here, apart from records searches?’

‘I’ve been instructed, obviously, to carry out the most rigid counter-intelligence investigation,’ said Blom. ‘Which is what I am doing. The Palais des Nations — indeed every part of the international complex — is being thoroughly swept, both visually and electronically against explosives already having been planted. Sniffer dogs are being used, as well, of course. All local staff engaged there in the last three months are being questioned and their references and backgrounds re-examined. We can explain that as normal security, considering the importance of the forthcoming conference. Every hotel and auberge is being visited by officers checking registrations after the thirteenth against the photograph. Every car rental firm is being made to run through its computer the names on the manifest of flight 837: from that we can get a registration number to make road checks …’ Blom paused, nodding in Charlie’s direction. ‘Here we’re maintaining the cover explanation that the British used in gathering the airline staff together: that we’re pursuing a major drug enquiry.’

‘Seems comprehensive enough,’ said Levy.

On superficial examination it did, agreed Charlie. But there remained more holes in that sort of investigation than in a piece of Swiss cheese. It was logical, even without the alarm, for the conference area to be swept because it was standard security practice to do so, which Blom had just admitted. Ridiculous, then, to imagine the Russians would have planted explosives at this stage, for obvious discovery. Likewise it was pointless interrogating staff engaged in the last three months when they knew bloody well the man they were hunting had only arrived in the last week. And Charlie considered the car hire search a waste of time: he was prepared to bet the overdraft he didn’t have and didn’t expect to get that the bastard he wanted had flown into Geneva on a name quite different from that in the British passport on which he’d left London airport and that any other documentation — a driving licence, for instance — would be in a different name, too. The only thing with which he did agree was covering hotels and boarding houses: he wished to Christ Johnson’s picture had been better. Still, he thought, in optimistic balance, at least two people had found it good enough: he supposed they had to hope that the man would have attracted attention to himself by rudeness again.

‘I could bring more men in from America, to help your people,’ offered Giles.

‘No!’ rejected Blom, at once, seeing professional criticism in everything. Appearing to realize the brusqueness, he said more quietly: ‘No thank you. This must at all times remain a Swiss enquiry.’

‘I was offering assistance,’ emphasized Giles. ‘I wasn’t in any way suggesting that my Agency should take over.’

Charlie sighed, feeling very much the onlooker. He’d never known a committee operation yet that hadn’t been like this, everyone staking claims and guarding their sovereignty, like virgins with their hands over the rude bits. Which was why he always insisted, whenever he could, on working absolutely alone and independently. At least that way the mistakes and oversights were his own, not somebody else’s cock-up to be landed with.

More diplomatically, Levy said: ‘Is there anything at all that my service can do to help?’

‘Just run the picture and description through your records,’ said Blom. ‘That way we get the benefit of three separate services. An unprecedented check, surely?’

‘I would have thought so,’ said Levy.

‘It would be far better — and more effective — simply to publish the picture,’ said Charlie, obstinately.

‘It would endanger the conference,’ said Giles, almost as quickly as Blom had earlier rejected the offer of CIA assistance.

The second time the American had come out against going public, Charlie recognized. It was a query worth channelling back to Washington. He said: ‘Someone being killed would also be a hell of a way to ruin the conference. Wouldn’t do the victim a lot of good, either: probably make his eyes water.’

‘Shouldn’t we let your enquiry run its course in England, while we carry out our record searches?’ suggested Levy.

‘Publishing the picture wouldn’t affect that,’ argued Charlie. ‘Of course everything should continue. And will continue.’

‘I think we should defer to the wishes of our host country,’ came in Giles, supportively.

‘So do I,’ agreed Levy.

‘I appreciate your understanding,’ said Blom.

They were like the original models for the three wise monkeys, thought Charlie: hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil because it might be something nasty we don’t want to hear, see or talk about. It didn’t make him angry: Charlie’s feeling was uneasiness. And not for some poor sod who at the moment risked being despatched to the great big stripe-trousered bureaucracy in the sky. Determinedly he said: ‘OK, so what happens if the records of the Mossad and the CIA come up with nothing, which I think they will? And the Swiss investigation doesn’t take us any further forward, either?’

‘I think we should wait until we encounter that bridge before we attempt to cross it,’ said Blom, satisfied with the way the conference had gone and intentionally invoking the English cliche to put the scruffy little man in his place.

‘Know what bridges are for?’ demanded Charlie.

‘What!’ said Blom, more in surprise than in response to the question.

Charlie took it the way he wanted. He said: ‘They’re to stop people falling into the water and getting out of their depth.’

‘Motherfuckers!’ erupted the President.

James Bell’s grimace was almost imperceptible. He wondered how future historians would interpret the gross obscenity when they listened to the Oval Office tapes at the Austin memorial archive. As forcefully as possible, he said: ‘There’s no proof whatsoever that it’s the Geneva conference, Mr President.’

‘I want you to call in the Soviet ambassador,’ said Anderson, red faced, a vein pumping in the middle of his forehead. ‘You let him know. You tell him if his people try to play dirty pool we’ll break the fucking cue stick over their heads.’

‘We can’t do that, Mr President,’ said Bell.

‘Why not!’ demanded Anderson, happy to have someone tangible upon whom to vent his anger.

‘Giles is quite clear in his cable. It’s supposition on the part of the British-’

‘It looks good enough to me,’ stopped Anderson.

‘Diplomatically I have no reason nor grounds to summon the Soviet ambassador to make any protest,’ said Bell, formally, his mind on the tape system dating from the Nixon years. Bell thought it was a stupid concession to posterity: but then so in hindsight had Nixon.

‘Do you know what I think of diplomacy?’

‘What?’

‘I think it’s a pain in the ass.’

‘As do most diplomats,’ conceded the Secretary of State. ‘We need a system of guidelines.’

‘You make it sound like a railroad track.’

‘In many ways that’s exactly what it is.’

‘Remember the phrase in Vietnam? No one being sure whether the light at the end of the tunnel was the ultimate exit or an oncoming train?’ demanded Anderson, who had served in those last months in 1975 and actually piloted one of the rescue helicopters from the roof of the American embassy. The Purple Heart he’d been awarded, aged only twenty-two, had been his war hero’s ticket into Congress.

‘I remember,’ said Bell, who’d endured all the wartime reminiscences and couldn’t understand the point of this reminder.

‘I’m not going to be run down on this,’ announced Anderson, answering the unasked question.

‘Giles has got the handle on it,’ assured Bell.

‘He did well, keeping the cap on,’ remembered Anderson. ‘Let him know I appreciate it: tell Langley, too, so it’ll go on his record.’

‘He’ll be grateful,’ assured Bell.

‘Are you quite sure we can’t eyeball the Soviets over this?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘What then?’

‘I think we’ve got to go with Giles,’ said the Secretary of State. ‘Let it run and see what happens: we’ve got the intelligence communities of four countries involved, after all.’

Anderson was unimpressed and let it show. He said: ‘What have CIA records come up with?’

‘Zero.’

‘Switzerland?’

‘The same.’

‘England?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Israel?’

‘We’re waiting to hear.’

‘You want to mark that out of ten for me?’

The trouble with worrying about oncoming trains was that it gave a person tunnel vision, thought Bell. He said: ‘How bad will it be if Geneva is a target? And there is an assassination?’

Anderson leaned forward on the table, starimg at his friend. ‘You want me to answer that?’

‘Yes, Mr President, I want you to answer that,’ said the other man. It would be some years anyway before the tapes were available to historians.

‘It’ll be a disaster,’ said Anderson. ‘An absolute, unmitigated disaster, that’s what it’ll be.’

‘The British are allowing us access to this man Novikov,’ reminded the Secretary of State.

‘So?’

‘We’ll have our own evidence of a Soviet assassination intention from a defector,’ continued Bell.

Anderson began to smile, in growing awareness. ‘Which could be made public?’ he suggested.

‘Which could be made public,’ confirmed Bell. ‘The way I see it we’ve got insurance. If this is a false alarm — which it could easily be — then we’ve the chance of achieving the Middle East peace. Which was the original intention. But if there’s an assassination and the conference is wrecked we can immediately produce the evidence — evidence supported by Britain and Switzerland and Israel, all of whom have had or will have access to Novikov — to prove that Moscow were the architects.’

Anderson’s smile broadened. ‘So we can’t lose?’

‘Not from the way I’m looking at it, Mr President.’

‘Is that what you call diplomacy?’

‘That’s part of it,’ said Bell.

‘I like it,’ said Anderson. ‘I like it a lot.’

The diplomatic bag is rarely, in fact, a bag: the term generically describes any cargo precluded by international agreement from Customs interception or examination in the receiving or despatching country by the appropriate designation of the embassy involved. Sometimes the diplomatic bag comprises the hold of an entire cargo plane: frequently the counter-intelligence service of a country stand helplessly by as crates and boxes are loaded, well knowing — but unable to prove — that some technological advance is being smuggled out in front of their eyes, to be lost forever.

The special American M21 sniper’s rifle with all its adaptations, together with the American Browning automatic and matching — but even more specially chosen — ammunition for both did not, however, need a crate when they arrived in Geneva. Both were accommodated in a small container of the sort long ago identified by the Swiss as that used by Moscow to transport embassy office furniture. Which was how it would have been described upon the counter-intelligence report if one had been submitted. But no report was submitted. So many men were needed to conduct the new surveillance demands that the observation at Geneva airport was suspended. It was, after all, just routine.