The Run Around

Chapter Thirty-four

‘It could be nothing,’ cautioned Sir Alistair Wilson, over the echoing, scrambled line, ‘but I think it’s sufficient for a warning.’

‘What?’ demanded Charlie.

‘The two men didn’t match,’ said the British Director. ‘But another picture did.’

‘With the man in Primrose Hill?’

‘No,’ declared the Director, ‘with a picture you sent of a woman described as Sulafeh Nabulsi.’

Charlie frowned in the secure communications room of the Bern embassy, striving for recall. ‘The translator,’ he said, remembering.

‘We didn’t have a name, until your picture. All there was on our terrorist files were two other photographs, both blurred and indistinct. With the assessment that she was a fanatic,’ said Wilson.

‘A positive match!’

‘The technical physiognomy comparison suggests it’s the same person and two of our expert visual examiners here agree.’

Charlie’s mind was far ahead of the conversation. Levy and Giles might believe in coincidence — his word, Charlie recalled — but he didn’t. So what connection was there between an apparent street attack on one translator with the Palestinian party and this sudden discrepancy with another? Charlie was sure the Israeli dossier upon the woman had not recorded any terrorist connections at all, like it had with some of the others. Aged thirty-four, he remembered further. Single and a language graduate from the University of Jerusalem. Her father had been listed as a doctor, practising in Ramallah, her mother dead. There had even been a number of teaching appointments he could not recall, apart from their having been in the Lebanon and Egypt. And from the University of Cairo there had been a further language degree. As the memories returned, Charlie had the most important recollection. The Israeli material had been indexed, with function descriptions of everyone. Now that Dajani had been incapacitated Sulafeh Nabulsi was not just another translator, she was the only translator. Charlie, a man of hunches, felt a familiar tingle: he had not known it for far too long. He said: ‘What have we got on her?’

‘Practically nothing, like I said,’ reminded Wilson. ‘The name even came from you. One of our photographs was supplied from Eygpt: she’s very much in the background of the Sadat attack. The other is from the Lebanon: it was taken at a mass funeral of guerillas who died in an Israeli air attack on Marjayoun, in the south.’

‘Why the insistence that she’s a fanatic?’

‘What information there is with both pictures describe her as belonging to the Fatah Revolutionary Command,’ said Wilson. ‘That’s the most extreme of the Palestinian factions. It’s led by Abu Nidal, who according to the Foreign Office has pledged his followers utterly against the accord being worked out in Geneva.’

‘None of this is in the Israeli dossier,’ disclosed Charlie.

‘I’m not prepared to be definite about it,’ said the Director, cautioning again. ‘I’m sending some stuff first thing tomorrow morning and I want you to warn Blom that it’s coming. Nothing has changed about our role. Which means your role. We’re advising. Nothing more.’

‘Of course.’

‘I mean it, Charlie.’

‘I understand,’ assured Charlie, easily. He’d gone through the routine of fuzzy pictures with Blom and been patronizingly tolerated by Giles and Levy, just in case he came up with something they’d missed — which they had with this — and now it was time to return to normal, Charlie Muffin’s normal. Working by himself.

‘Anything new from your end?’ enquired the Director.

The attack upon Dajani lifted the London information from the curious to the suspicious. Yet Sir Alistair himself acknowledged that the Nabulsi photographs could mean nothing. No purpose just yet then in crying wolf, Charlie thought, in self-justification. Easily again he said: ‘Not a thing.’

‘What’s the security like?’

‘Better than it was.’

‘Seems like it might have been a good idea for you to stay on, after all,’ said Wilson.

‘Could easily be.’

‘I said advisory, Charlie!’

‘I heard.’ To cover his arse he would eventually need to advise as ordered: and the problem with trying to be a one-man band was playing the trumpet and the trombone at the same time as banging the drum. Charlie said: ‘Any objection to Cummings coming back to Geneva with me?’

‘Why?’ demanded Wilson, the surprise obvious.

Every cloud turns out to have a silver lining in the end, thought Charlie. He said: ‘The Swiss complained, don’t forget. It might be better if he were involved, as the local man whom they know and have worked with before.’

There was a long silence from London. Wilson said: ‘Involved with what?’

‘Liaison,’ said Charlie. He hoped this part of the conversation didn’t continue much longer because there weren’t many words left before he fell over the edge.

Wilson spoke slowly, spacing the delivery, wanting Charlie to understand every nuance. He said: ‘Strictly speaking, I disobeyed higher authority by not bringing you home.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, shortly.

‘Now there seems to be an excuse. Just.’

‘Yes,’ repeated Charlie.

‘This conversation — everything I’ve said — is being recorded at this end.’

‘I know,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s automatic.’

‘It’s a protection device, to ensure accuracy,’ said the Director. ‘Don’t forget it, will you?’

‘No,’ promised Charlie. ‘I won’t forget.’

There was another discernible pause. ‘Have Cummings, if you think it’s necessary,’ conceded the Director.

The Bern rezident suggested driving back to Geneva in his own car and Charlie readily agreed, wanting to be cocooned with his thoughts. There was a need to be careful, he accepted; despite the experts’ assessment the identification could still be mistaken. And the Dajani assault really could be concidence, although he didn’t personally believe coincidence, space ships, ghosts or that the world was round. That long-absent sensation wouldn’t go away, though: that tingle of anticipation, the gut feeling that at last something was going right after so much going wrong. Inside looking out, he’d told the Israeli. There would obviously have been the need for someone on the inside. Christ he’d been slow, not thinking of it before! Still not too late: almost, but not quite.

‘I still don’t know what I am supposed to be doing,’ protested Cummings beside him. ‘What this is all about?’

Charlie told the other man as much as he felt necessary, editing completely the restrictions imposed upon him by their Director in London, realizing as he talked that it would be an advantage to have a car. Beside him Cummings listened in increasing discomfort, physically shifting in his seat. Cummings had felt safe in Switzerland. It was one of the easiest postings in the service, a place where nothing ever happened and where his role had previously been to transmit between Bern and London low level intelligence judged so unimportant by both that neither side minded the other knowing. Which was how he wanted to continue, acting out the role of a special postman, enjoying the overseas allowances and the embassy cocktail parties and avoiding anything and everything which might upset the status quo. Like this, he recognized, worriedly.

‘I don’t believe it!’ he said.

‘Millions don’t.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Sit in my hotel room and drink Harkness’s whisky until it comes out of your ears,’ said Charlie. He felt cheerful — ebullient — at finally having a pathway to follow.

‘What!’

‘I need a contact point: a number and a person I know will be there, when I call. Just leave the bathroom door open when you pee, so that you’ll hear the phone.’

‘Why!’

‘There’ll be a need to tell the Swiss.’ And I hope the time, Charlie thought, remembering Wilson’s injunction.

‘Why not tell them now?’

‘Because we don’t know enough to tell them anything, yet.’ Which was a lie and could get him hanging by his balls from the ceiling hook if it all went wrong and Wilson launched an enquiry.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked the man.

‘See what the second-class hotels of Switzerland are like,’ replied Charlie, nebulously. ‘And I’ll need this car, incidentally.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ protested Cummings.

‘It’s a department car, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And we’re in the same department, aren’t we?’

‘Mr Harkness is very strict about office property,’ reminded Cummings.

And don’t I know it, thought Charlie. He extended his hand across the vehicle, so that Cummings could see his fore and middle fingers tight together. ‘Dick and I are like that,’ he said.

‘Is that his name, Dick?’ said Cummings. ‘I never knew.’

Dick was very much the man’s name, reflected Charlie. ‘Richard,’ he said. ‘One of the best.’

‘I thought you said “fucking Harkness” that day at the embassy,’ accused Cummings.

‘Joke!’ said Charlie. ‘You don’t really think I’d call the Deputy Director that, do you?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Cummings. ‘You will be careful of it, won’t you?’

‘Look after it like it was my own,’ assured Charlie.

He escorted Cummings up to the room at the Beau-Rivage and actually ordered a bottle of whisky, taking a quick nip himself, and said: ‘OK. Just wait for my call.’

‘How long?’ asked Cummings.

There was no way he could make the assessment because he had no idea what was going to happen, Charlie accepted. ‘The formal session starts at noon tomorrow,’ said Charlie. ‘If you haven’t heard from me by eleven-thirty, press every button you can find.’

‘I should know where you’re going to be.’

‘The hotel where the Palestinians are staying, off the Barthelemy-Menn.’

‘How do you know you’ll get a room!’ said Cummings, clerk-like.

‘One of their guests is in hospital, with his balls in a bandage,’ said Charlie, confidently.

It was almost midnight when Charlie approached the night desk. As he signed in Charlie said casually: ‘Too late to call Miss Nabulsi tonight, I suppose? Two-oh-eight, isn’t it?’

‘Three forty-nine,’ corrected the night clerk, turning to check the key on the hook. ‘She appears to be in her room.’

‘I’ll wait until tomorrow,’ said Charlie. ‘What time does she usually leave?’

‘Depends,’ said the man, consulting a ledger. ‘But tomorrow she’s booked a call for six.’

‘Thanks,’ said Charlie, surprised how easy it often was with just a little bit of knowledge. And then thinking in immediate contradiction that it was about time things became easier. Charlie didn’t bother to undress, just to remove his Hush Puppies to stretch his feet out before him on top of the bed, his back supported against the headboard. Should he have told the others, instead of trying to go it alone? he wondered, in rare second thoughts. No, he decided, in immediate reply. Time enough to bring them in if there were no contact and he was wasting his time: the fail-safe was established with Cummings, after all.

Charlie left the hotel at five-thirty, using the fire exit on the ground floor to avoid the informative clerk of the previous night, shivering in the early morning mist that spilled over from the lake to cloak everything in wet, clinging greyness. To have started the engine to get the heater working would have created tell-tale steam from the exhaust so he remained hunched in the front seat, arms wrapped around himself, occasionally leaning forward to clear the condensation from the window so that his observation of the hotel was unobstructed.

‘Hurry up, my love,’ Charlie said in the empty car. ‘It’s bloody freezing!’

It was as if she had heard him. Sulafeh Nabulsi left the hotel precisely at six-thirty, hurrying down the step and setting off in the direction of the Avenue de la Roseraire with her head deep into the collar of a yellow topcoat, which Charlie isolated immediately as a marker. He waited until she had almost reached the junction before starting the car and edging forward, switching the heater on to full before the engine was really warm enough.

He reached the connection just in time to see her entering an early morning taxi, which took off towards the l’Arve river, and Charlie let the distance increase between them because the roads were practically deserted, making him too obvious. The taxi made a right turn on to the Rue de l’Aubepine, heading into the centre of the town, and Charlie let a newspaper delivery van intervene between them, head craned to his left to keep her vehicle in view around the obstruction.

Charlie was alerted to its stopping just before the sweep of the Carrefour Pont d’Arve by the sudden glare of brake lights and managed to halt with Cummings’s car still hidden by the van. As he hurried forward Charlie passed a sign warning that parking was prohibited at all times and said softly: ‘Sorry, mate.’

Charlie paced himself about one hundred yards behind the woman, grateful that the city was gradually awakening around them and that the streets were becoming fuller. The yellow coat was very visible and in the better, growing light he saw that she carried a large, briefcase-type bag slung from her shoulder by a looped strap.

He had to close up when he saw the size of the junction, nervous of losing her at the controlled crossings of the converging streets, able to let the gap grow again when she regained the Avenue Henri Dunant. Sulafeh started obviously to try to clear her trail when she reached the cluster of cross streets. It was amateurish and caused Charlie no problems whatsoever. Rather, it pleased him because he immediately saw it as the confirmation that he’d got it right and that she was heading for some encounter that should not be taking place. Always, despite the dodging, she continued north, either on the Dunant avenue or the parallel Rue Defour. Charlie felt the first twinge of protest from his feet and winced, knowing it would get worse: it always did.

She did something clever that he did not expect when they reached the river, going down the Quai Motrices but then suddenly doubling back upon herself. Had he not been one hundred yards behind, sure of her from the coat, they would have come practically face to face and he would have had to continue on, risking her getting away. As it was, he was able to pull into a news-stand on the corner and study the selection until she unknowingly passed him. She seemed to stop bothering after the manoeuvre, striding across the Coulouvreniere bridge and going immediately right, when she reached the quai.

Charlie guessed at the Rhone Hotel before she entered it, hurrying so that he was only twenty yards behind when she went through the doors. It meant he was too late to see Zenin place the package containing the Browning into her briefcase.

‘Any change?’ said the Russian.

‘No.’

From the perfect concealment of the telephone box into which he had pulled Charlie made the immediate identification from the Primrose Hill photograph. Got you, you bastard, he thought. Charlie was reaching out for the receiver to alert Cummings when he realized the man was making his way out of the hotel. It would have to be later, Charlie decided.

They had made love before Giles got up and Barbara lay languorously in bed, still warm from it, watching him dress. She said: ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with the boat trip after all. Maybe tomorrow.’

‘They’re televizing part of the ceremony live,’ said Giles. ‘Why don’t you watch?’

‘I might,’ she said.