The Run Around

Chapter Thirty-two

Vasili Zenin continued to set his planning around traffic congestion, actually using the early morning rush hour into Geneva in which to lose himself, just one of a thousand cars and a thousand men arriving for a day’s work. He utilized the car park at the railway terminal again, for the same reason, but on this occasion it had the additional advantage of being a place where people were expected to be seen with luggage.

He took the guncase from the boot but did not set out at once for the Colombettes apartment: the rush hour had served its purpose but he did not want to arrive at the block with the crush of workers on their way to the lower floor offices. Instead he went into the terminal, to arrange his escape train for the following day. There was still some last minute timing to co-ordinate — timing which was impossible until today’s tests — but there was a local departure for Carouge at twelve forty-five which he thought was possible. As a fail-safe, there was a train for Thonon at one. Zenin purchased separate tickets from separate windows and decided it was still too early to quit the station. He bought a coffee and croissant in the cafeteria, carrying out a personal test when he lifted the cup to his lips. This near to the final moment and there was still not the slightest shake in his hand, he decided, satisfied.

It was nine-thirty when he left the station, choosing the already reconnoitred route that connected with the Avenue Guiseppe Motta, transferring the case from hand to hand every so often to balance the weight, instinctively alert to everything around him but confident he was unobserved.

He slowed when he cut off the Colombettes road, wanting his entry to be precisely right. It meant hesitating further, to let a group of people enter the block, and allowing a full minute to pass before entering himself. There were only two girls in the foyer, talking animatedly as they waited for the elevator. Zenin passed them, sure he remained unobserved, and climbed the stairs to the second floor before summoning a lift himself. It arrived empty and he managed to reach the top floor without it being stopped by any other passengers on the way up. He emerged cautiously on to the residential corridor: there were sounds from behind apartment doors but the walkway was deserted.

Zenin hurried now, practically running, pushing into his own apartment and closing the door quickly behind him. Directly inside he remained for a moment with his back to it, releasing the pent-up breath. A completely successful entry he told himself, in further congratulation. He held his hand up. Still no shake, and that despite having carried the heavy bag so far.

He bent to it, taking out first the three rubber wedges he had bought in Bern, together with the workman’s overalls. Still stooped he jammed them firmly between the bottom of the door edge and the floor, totally securing the place against any sudden, unexpected entry, actually testing the door to ensure they worked. He then carried the bag over to the chosen window but did not immediately take anything further from it. Instead — standing back so that he would not be visible with the net curtaining pulled aside — the Russian went again through the sightline to the spot where the commemorative photograph was to be taken, wanting to be sure he had chosen the right window. He had.

The already assembled rifle was the first thing Zenin took from the bag but without any specific attention at this stage, wanting to get to what lay beneath. He took out the tripod, extending its legs and fitting the securing hinges to the bottom of each, but he did not try to screw the hinges to the floor. He manoeuvred the rest into a trial position and took up the rifle from the chair upon which he had laid it. The grooved bolt three inches beyond the trigger guard slid smoothly into the swivelled receiving disc on the tripod head and experimentally Zenin swung the rifle around a wide arc, covering not just the window through which he intended shooting but one to the left. Fitted with the sound suppressor the barrel was too long, needing to extend through the window. All right on the day, but not now, Zenin decided, removing it and laying it alongside. He crouched over the rifle, reaching forward to make a minute adjustment to bring the stadia into line, and was at last able with the sight magnifier accurately to calculate precisely at four hundred and twenty metres the distance from the window to where the photograph was to be taken. An easy shot, he thought: several easy shots, he corrected.

Zenin checked his watch and then squinted up. There was hardly any sun now but there could be the following day and at the time scheduled for the photograph it would be shafting in dangerously across his vision. Deciding a protective shift was necessary, he eased the tripod closer to where the wall jutted out into the room. It put him close to the buttress but not to the degree of it interfering with his ability to swing the rifle and the sightline was in no way impaired.

Zenin made several more tests before marking the position of the tripod feet and then lifting the entire assembly away from the window, to jab into the floor the initial entry points for the screws. To make the fixing easier, he took the rifle off its base, arranged the three feet into position and screwed the bolts through the hinges with hard, positive twists of the screwdriver. Finished, Zenin squatted back, shaking the tripod with both hands. It was absolutely rigid.

For a few moments he rested, contentedly, enjoying at last some definite activity. He replaced the rifle on the tripod, sighting once more to be sure, and then took the leather harness from the case. It was an elaborate fitment, a buckled and belted vest and one with which he was not altogether happy. Certainly it succeeded in its purpose, literally attaching him to the weapon, so that he became part of it, but so complete was the attachment that it was not easy to extricate himself: at Balashikha his best time had been four minutes and Zenin considered that too long. It would be necessary to rehearse and practise again today because it formed part of the schedule necessary for the escape train.

Zenin took off his jacket, put it across the back of the chair on which he had earlier rested the rifle and slipped into the harness. It had been tailored to fit him and did so perfectly. It was without sleeves but complete, front and back, to provide the base for the necessary straps which connected with the rifle. The front zipped up, from waist to neck, and there were two cross-straps to prevent it sliding around his body. Zenin closed both, shrugging as he had earlier with the rifle to make himself completely comfortable before taking up the straps to connect him to the rifle and tripod. There were four, three at different lengths to link with specific rings on the rifle — one near the tip of the muzzle, one where the barrel met the butt and the last on the butt itself — and the fourth, the longest of all, to connect him to the tripod. He attached all of them, tugging and testing each one as he did so, needing only slightly to adjust that to the tripod. The vest welded him to the weapon, so that they were one entity, and Zenin gazed through the sight yet again, swinging it along an imaginary line of people as he would the following day, knowing that it was impossible for him to miss. Indulgently he pressed the trigger of the unloaded weapon, one, twice, three times, hearing the greased click of the hammer hitting home, pulling back himself every time as the M21 would kick when the bullets were fired. Dead, he told himself; all dead. But not just three: five was the instruction for the maximum chaos. He wondered if he would maintain his one minute ten second average. He supposed the woman would get at least one, so the score could go as high as six.

Reminded of timings, Zenin twisted, awkwardly restricted, and took from his wrist the heavily calibrated watch, placing it on the convenient chair where it would always be in view. As he did so he depressed the button to start the second sweep, bending over the rifle again. He aimed, fired and edged the weapon slightly at each shot, as he would have to the following day, on the fifth occasion snatching a look at the watch to fix exactly the position of the moving hand.

And then started his release. He unbuckled himself from the tripod first, then the rifle, moving from butt to muzzle, as the last strap fell away jerking up to free himself from the leather vest. Zenin continued the zipping down movement as the fitment came off, snapping off the timing. Four minutes thirty seconds, he saw, disappointed. It had to be a month since he’d last practised. On the second attempt he only clipped ten seconds off the first test and just a further five on the third run through. For several moments he paused, panting and wet with the on-off effort, gazing down at the discarded vest. Should he discard it, literally? Zenin was confident he could hit every time, without it, and as he’d told the woman all he needed was to hit because the shock factor of the hollow-nosed bullets ensured it would be fatal, wherever the wound.

But all the training had been conducted wearing it, he reminded himself, in balancing argument. And it guaranteed absolutely the accuracy necessary after the first or second shot, because by then the panic would have erupted.

Sighing, Zenin zipped and buckled himself into the vest yet again, rehearsing and adjusting and rehearsing and adjusting, not satisfied until he had achieved the Balashikha minimum of four minutes on three consecutive occasions.

Physically aching, Zenin slumped on to an easier chair, away from the rifle and the tripod but staring fixedly at them, the harness crumpled alongside. One minute ten seconds to loose off the shots, four minutes to disentangle himself, a minute to the door, putting on his jacket as he moved, six minutes to quit the building allowing for the two minutes it had usually taken on his test departures for the elevator to get to the top floor and descend again. Twelve minutes ten seconds. During that time he was sure there would be nothing but panic at the Palais des Nations, no one knowing what was happening or from where, milling about in confused pandemonium. And there was the woman as the decoy, the person whom all the security forces were supposed to believe responsible, not immediately troubling to search further. Zenin smiled at his calculation. He decided he could allow as much as a further three minutes to get clear of the apartment and he already knew how long it would take for him to walk briskly but unhurriedly to the railway terminal. Easily enough time for the Carouge train: later that day, after getting rid of Sulafeh, it would mean his driving the Peugeot there, for it to be waiting when he arrived.

The orders were that he should abandon the car, against the risk of Swiss intelligence carrying out some car-hire sweep after the killings and ensnaring him in the net, but now that he had evolved his method of escape Zenin doubted the necessity. He’d leave the final decision until later but the Russian saw no reason why he should not return the vehicle on the due date and leave the country quite ordinarily. But not by air, initially. He’d wait a day or two — not in Bern but somewhere else, Zurich perhaps because it was conveniently north — and then cross the border into Germany by train. He had no need for an airport until Amsterdam, for the connection back to Moscow, so Zenin thought he might continue by rail right into Holland. But not in one journey. He’d break it in Germany: Munich, maybe. He’d never been to Germany and considered he would deserve a short vacation, after it was all over. And it would not strictly be an indulgence. His training was to work in the West, so the more exposure he got in the different countries the better he would be able to carry out the assignments.

Aware of the appointment with Sulafeh, Zenin shifted at last, going back to the guncase still containing the Browning with which she was to be supplied. Her obvious excitement by violence concerned him: she could not be relied upon to have it today, he determined. It would have to be a last minute hand-over. There was the need anyway for them to meet briefly on the actual day in the event of there being schedule changes so it could be done then.

Zenin closed the bag and arranged the harness more tidily over the rifle, like a dust cover. He carefully pulled the already concealing curtains and looked briefly around the apartment, ensuring he had forgotten nothing, before removing the wedges from beneath the door. He stared uncertainly at them for a moment, realizing that by not using them he could reduce by at least thirty seconds — maybe a whole minute — the time it would take him to leave the apartment, after the shooting. Something else to be decided on the day, he thought, putting them neatly side by side on the table.

Zenin was customarily early at the cafe on the Rue de Coutance he had given Sulafeh as a meeting place, wanting his usual satisfaction that it was safe, not approaching it until he saw her arrive without any pursuit — and unflustered like she had been the previous day — and settle herself at a window table.

She smiled up eagerly when she saw him approach, reaching out for his hand to pull him down into the chair opposite.

‘It worked!’ she announced at once.

‘Tell me.’

‘All hell was breaking loose when I got back to the hotel last night,’ said the woman. ‘Some passer-by had found Dajani in the alley. His accreditation, too, so it didn’t take long for the police to notify the delegation. They even interviewed me!’

‘The police!’ said Zenin.

‘There was no problem,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘They just asked me what the arrangement was and I said we were going to dine as colleagues but that he did not turn up. Zeidan sat in on the interview and confirmed that I had called, asking about Dajani …’ She smiled. ‘I agreed last night that having me call him was clever, didn’t I?’

Her coquettishness irritated him. ‘Was it only the police!’ he demanded.

Sulafeh retreated, as she always did. She said: ‘Of course, darling! It was just routine!’

‘How routine!’ he persisted.

‘Just like I said it was. Zeidan confirmed that I had called: said — like he told me — that he thought it had been a misunderstanding and didn’t bother to do anything. That he hadn’t worried about it until they, the police, arrived.’

‘How much questioning was there about what you were doing?’

‘None,’ insisted Sulafeh. ‘I said that after telephoning I went to another cafe, had a meal, walked around Geneva and then went back to the hotel. Where I found the police waiting for me.’

‘Did they ask which cafe?’ said Zenin, realizing another possible oversight.

‘No.’

‘Or for any proof of your eating there?’

‘They don’t suspect me!’ insisted Sulafeh, in weak defiance. ‘They’re putting it down to a street mugging: embarrassing in the circumstances, maybe, but just a mugging.’

Why hadn’t he thought of the need to identify a cafe other than the bistro! Because he’d become sexually involved and failed to be as objective to the degree of removed sterility to which he had been trained. No more, Zenin determined. And never again.

‘What else?’ he asked.

Sulafeh sniggered, coquettish again. ‘Guess what Zeidan said, afterwards?’

‘What?’ responded Zenin, forcing the patience.

‘He said there was no possibility of bringing anyone else in to replace Dajani,’ recounted Sulafeh. ‘That he was sorry if there had been any misunderstanding between us and that he had the greatest admiration for me as a linguist. And that he was sure I could take over the sole responsibility, demanding though it might be!’

Zenin forced his cynical laugh. ‘So it worked,’ he said.

‘I am back where I should be, for the picture session,’ she announced, almost proudly. ‘It’s all right now.’

Zenin relaxed, just slightly. ‘Good,’ he said, distantly. ‘Very good.’ Now everything could work as it was designed to work: it would be all right, like she said.

‘The police told me something, during the interview,’ announced Sulafeh.

‘What!’ said Zenin again, feeling his tension rise.

‘About Dajani,’ she said. ‘Do you know what you did to him? You broke his pelvis.’

‘Did I?’ said the Russian, in apparent innocence.

‘He really won’t need those condoms again for a long time, will he!’

Zenin realized the direction of her conversation and did not want to follow it. He said: ‘Does the translator change involve anyone at the conference?’

She shook her head. ‘It was made public today at the Palais des Nations, on an adjustment of representation order: there was no reaction whatsoever, apart from a few ridiculous expressions of sympathy for the randy bastard.’

It seemed he had got away with it, thought Zenin. He said: ‘We’ll need to meet tomorrow, for you to tell me of any last minute changes.’

‘When do I get the gun?’ she demanded, eagerly.

‘Then.’

‘Why not today?’

‘Too dangerous,’ he refused. ‘There could be a spot check, even though you’ve made friends with the security people. Someone could go through your room. Better to leave it until the very last moment.’

‘I have to be at the Palais des Nations by eight-thirty.’

‘It will have to be before.’

‘Shall I come to the apartment?’

‘No!’ said Zenin, too anxiously. He’d taken his last chance with the woman: from this moment on it was distancing time. Less forcefully, not wanting to upset her, he said: ‘I told you yesterday we’ve got to protect the mission: nothing else matters now until that is all over.’

‘We’ve still got to make arrangements for afterwards,’ she said.

‘One step at a time,’ Zenin insisted, thinking. The railway terminal was an obvious meeting place but they had used that almost too much; and it was the route he had chosen for his escape, so it would be definitely wrong to be seen there with her. A hotel then. He said: ‘Do you have a list of the delegation hotels?’

‘Yes,’ she said, bending to the large briefcase and handing it to him.

Zenin ran through the list, from the Beau-Rivage and the Des Bergues and the President and the Bristol and then smiled up: ‘On the Quai Terretini there’s the Du Rhone: it’s on the way you will take, from your hotel to the conference. I will be in the foyer at seven.’

‘What do I do?’

‘If there are any changes to the schedule just hand me the sheets.’

‘The gun!’

‘And I’ll give you the gun,’ promised Zenin, patiently.

‘And afterwards?’

‘You’ve got a city map?’

‘I bought one the first day.’

‘Memorize where the Rue de Vermont connects with the Rue de Montbrilliant,’ instructed Zenin. ‘There will be immediate panic, when the shooting starts. Get away from the garden and out of the international area at once and go to that connecting point.’

‘I understand,’ said Sulafeh, intently.

‘I will already be waiting there. The car is a blue Mercedes, numbered 18-32-4. You got that?’ said Zenin. The Peugeot was brown, the number was 19-45-8 and it would anyway be at Carouge, awaiting his arrival off the train.

‘Blue Mercedes, licence number 18-32-4,’ Sulafeh recited, trustingly.

‘Where would you like to go?’ asked the Russian.

‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Anywhere, as long as it’s with you.’

Playing the part, Zenin reached across the table, covering her hand with his. ‘You’re going to be,’ he promised.

‘Please let’s go to the apartment now,’ she said. ‘I want you!’

‘I thought you wanted the gun, just as much?’ said Zenin, the excuse already formulated.

‘I don’t understand,’ said the woman.

‘The weapons aren’t here in Geneva,’ lied the Russian. ‘I’ve got to get them. There isn’t time for the apartment today.’

Zenin walked from the cafe to collect the car from the railway terminal, relieved to be away from the claustrophobia of Sulafeh’s attention. He took the south route out of the city, the lake grey and stretched away to his left, picking up the Carouge signpost almost at once. This time tomorrow, he thought, it would all be over. He was beginning to feel excited: excited but not nervous.

David Levy made the demand as soon as he entered the office of Brigadier Blom in the Geneva safe house. Roger Giles was already there and said he thought it was a good idea, as well.

‘I’ve arranged the tour for the security services of the participating countries,’ said Blom, stiffly. ‘That’s all.’

‘What harm would it do for Charlie Muffin to come along?’ asked Levy.

‘He has no cause or reason to be there.’

‘Or not to be, by the same token,’ pointed out the American. ‘I’d actually like him along.’

‘So would I,’ said Levy. ‘We’re all convinced it’s a false alarm. Let’s show him the protection is more than adequate, whatever happens.’

Charlie responded at once to Blom’s telephone call, nodding as the man extended the invitation.

‘Thought you’d never ask,’ said Charlie.