The Run Around

Chapter Thirty-five

Charlie thought many things, all too quickly, the immediate predominant reaction being that the bastard had beaten him; then came the realization that he was up against an absolute professional, which he supposed he’d always known but which had been put out of his mind by the euphoria of actually finding the Russian.

From the Rhone Hotel Zenin strode directly across the quai to where the lake cruise boats were assembled, like bustling ducks at feeding time. Charlie, as far behind as he felt it safe to risk, saw the man appear to study the posters setting out the various trips and then board the leading cruiser, a shiny blue double decker. At the top of the steps he turned at once, leaning on the rail and gazing back on to the quayside.

‘Shit,’ muttered Charlie, in reluctant admiration. The position meant the Russian had a complete view of everyone boarding — and possibly following — behind him. And he was studying everyone, Charlie saw. And who studied back, in return, covering himself as best he could by pretending to read a restaurant menu displayed in a glass case, about twenty yards away. The physical description that the experts had created from those snatched photographs was very accurate. So, too, was the impression of the immigration official at London airport: the Russian appeared to hold himself in readiness, a very fit man, tensed always to move. The face, which Charlie could see for the first time, was dark skinned — like the picture had recorded — but lean and narrow, which it hadn’t. The skin seemed stretched over high cheekbones beneath the jet black hair he’d known about.

Definitely not Slavic, Charlie judged. Maybe one of the southern republics.

What was he going to do? There was a haphazard line of early tourists straggling aboard the cruiser, but they actually looked like tourists, carrying cameras and guidebooks. The fact that he was not would possibly register at once with a cautious man, Charlie decided: by itself it would mean nothing, but it would isolate him from the rest, mark him out for attention. Could he risk letting the cruiser go, hoping to follow in the next? Ridiculous, Charlie dismissed at once. He did not know because he could not chance going to the posters to find out but he guessed the sailings were staged, possibly as far as an hour apart. So a boat that left an hour later returned an hour later. By which time the Russian could be God knows where. Wait then, until he got back? Ridiculous again. Once more he didn’t know, without checking, but Charlie guessed there would be several stops around the lake, at any one of which the Russian could disembark.

He had to get aboard, Charlie accepted, reluctantly. Try to disguise himself as much as possible among a holiday group, avoid the risk of eye contact and bury himself as quickly as he could. Except there did not appear to be a convenient holiday group. Instead sailors came down the ramp and began their cast-off preparations and Charlie acknowledged he had only minutes to move and that he’d buggered it up by waiting because his hurried arrival now would attract even more attention from the Russian still at the top of the steps.

Charlie actually started to move when he saw Zenin do the same, just managing to pull himself instead into one of the restaurant chairs, half turned away from the ship. Brilliant, congratulated Charlie, absolutely and utterly brilliant. He saw the Russian gesturing down the ramp to the company officials, indicating his watch as if there were some time difficulty making him change his mind, but then turn to watch the sailing. The manoeuvre meant the Russian had not been particularly interested in who boarded anyway: just in anyone attempting a panicked departure after him, providing positive proof of pursuit. With the Russian’s back to him Charlie jerked up from the table to avoid getting trapped there with an order, aware of the nervous perspiration across his back. He’d escaped by a whisker, he realized: Charlie was accustomed to out-professionalizing everyone and didn’t like being matched this close.

Zenin took his time, scouring the deck rail for any obvious, frustrated attention but Charlie saw the beginning of the turn and anticipated the direction, so that he was able to start out ahead of the Russian. Following from the front rather than from the rear is the most difficult method of surveillance, disliked because of the obvious risk of losing the target even by experts able to do it, but it is correspondingly difficult to detect. Which was not the only reason Charlie tried it. He was piqued at coming so near to being caught out and wanted his own private challenge. Careful, laddie, he told himself in immediate warning, pride doesn’t come into it and this isn’t a game.

He picked up the Russian behind him in the brief reflection from the glass of a kiosk display and then later from the pane in an angled doorway. Charlie could not risk going further than about ten yards along the main road when he reached the bridge, in case the Russian continued to follow the river line along the quai, but the halt was necessary anyway because it was time to change his appearance as much as possible. He slipped out of his topcoat, which he no longer needed, and reversed it so that the lining was uppermost and visible. He chose the complete concealment of a newsagent’s shop, where revolving drums of cards and trays of magazines and newspapers were set out on to the pavement. Further to appear different, if his presence had passingly registered with the Russian, Charlie bought a copy of Le Monde and the sort of guidebook he had been lacking back there on the quai, arranging both visibly in his left hand and held across his body.

Able safely to look directly backwards from the protection of his card containers Charlie saw Zenin come up from the waterside but hesitate, looking directly backwards himself, the outward action of an innocent man admiring the view of the lake, in reality the protective action of a superbly trained operator not content with the steamer avoidance, refusing to relax for a moment.

Again Charlie set off slightly ahead of the other man, realizing almost at once that the indulgence of this sort of surveillance would have to end. Ahead the road split into two major highways and off each ran a warren of smaller avenues and streets, a dream evasion labyrinth for someone as good as the Russian.

Charlie walked just into the Rue des Terreaux du Temple where Zenin had staged one of his meetings with Sulafeh Nabulsi, glad of the immediate department store with its wide, deep corridor entrances. Although he expected the Russian still to be around the corner Charlie thrust in with the apparent determination of someone intending to enter the store, only halting at the shadowed bottom and turning for the man to pass.

Ten o’clock, Charlie saw. Remembering his interrupted effort to contact Cummings from the Rhone Hotel, he realized he needed a telephone. Still a little time, though: thank Christ for the fail-safe. He edged forward as soon as he saw the Russian go by the entrance, not intending to follow any closer but wanting to pick him out at once, seeking a marker. Why the hell couldn’t he be wearing something that stood out, like the woman, instead of the nondescript, everyday grey! Charlie didn’t bother to answer his own fatuous question, because the answer was too obvious. His feet ached, a solid, thumping ache. He wasn’t happy.

And he grew unhappier. Never, in any pursuit at any time in the past, had Charlie been opposed by such a man. There was not a trade-craft trick the Russian did not employ. In a cafe on the Rue des Terreaux du Temple — not that where he had sat with Sulafeh — Zenin ordered coffee but just as Charlie reached the telephone pod to make contact with Cummings he jerked up without drinking it, staging another of his hurried departure tricks like he had with the ferry. He got on a tram at one stop, feigned disembarkation at the next and finally got off at the second stop, making Charlie run to catch it and stand sweating more than before, frightened of detection. At the railway station he milled among passengers on the concourse, joining a line so that Charlie actually thought he was going to board a train but then hurried away to a lavatory on the first floor. He stayed inside a very long time — far longer than any natural necessity — and Charlie fought back the tensed inclination to hurry in after the man to ensure he had not escaped through another exit, unable either to risk the increasingly urgent telephone call because the telephone bank was too far away to use and maintain the proper watch at the same time upon the lavatory entrance.

Deciding they had served their minimal use, Charlie dumped the newspaper and the guidebook and put his topcoat back on, although he didn’t need it: he was damp with effort. Which was still not enough, he acknowledged. He’d been so preoccupied just keeping up that he had not properly recognized what was happening until now, when there was a moment literally to stand still. And he’d even admired the trade-craft, failing properly to see it for what it was! This was no ordinary caution. This was the twisting and weaving of an ultimate professional doing what an ultimate professional did just before the focus of his mission, going through every motion to remain undetected. One awareness followed another. Despite all the dodging and the back-tracking, they had been drawing inexorably closer all the time to the Palais des Nations.

So the assassination was actually planned for today!

The realization brought a fresh trickle of apprehension and Charlie scrubbed the sleeve of his coat across his forehead, looking again towards the faraway telephones. It had been a mistake, trying to go it alone. He needed more people, a squad at least. There should have been proper, technical communications and necessary warnings, not just to those who had been involved so far but to the other unwitting delegations. And his having finally located the Russian should not have been allowed to run, like he was being allowed to run now. The difficulty of any proper charge could have been ignored. He should have been swept up and held, until the conference was over and the danger with it. Ten-thirty, Charlie saw, from the station clock. Time was getting tight: too tight. Should he abandon the Russian, worry only about a warning? There was still Cummings to provide that, whatever happened. Blom would not be able to keep everything under wraps, once the woman were seized. So everyone would be alerted, the protection made absolute. And Charlie wanted the Russian. After all the ridicule and condescension he wanted to bring the bastard in and destroy the entire Soviet operation, not just half. He’d stay with the Russian, Charlie decided: cling to him like shit to a blanket until the man stopped moving and he could lead Blom right to him.

Charlie actually started, as if he were surprised, when the Russian emerged from the lavatory, making at once for the steps leading down to ground level. Charlie set out in renewed pursuit, conscious at once that the man was moving faster and with more positive direction than before, striding around Cropettes park into the Leonard Baulacre avenue. Twice Charlie was aware of him checking his watch, appearing no longer concerned about being followed. Further realizations crowded in upon Charlie. One was that they were heading due northwards now, without any attempted evasion, directly towards the Palais des Nations. Another was that, convinced he was safe from any surveillance, the Russian had abandoned any further precautions, which represented a victory: there began a bubble of satisfaction, which popped abruptly, unformed. He’d fucked it up! The awareness crowded in upon him, sickeningly. He’d been wrong — horrifyingly, stupidly wrong — relying upon an imagined fail-safe of eleven-thirty, with the conference not convening until noon. He’d forgotten the photographic session: all that stupid posturing for posterity! Charlie looked at his own watch. An exposed, targetable photographic session that began in precisely seventeen minutes!

They turned off the Rue du Vidollet on to the Avenue Guiseppe Motta, Charlie searching desperately for a telephone box or a policeman. Why were there never any of either about when you wanted one, like the joke said! Almost at once, ahead, the Russian went off the major highway and Charlie hesitated, unsure. Why hadn’t the man continued straight on, to the Palais des Nations? Because he had almost arrived at wherever he was heading, idiot, Charlie told himself.

Charlie risked getting closer, only twenty yards behind when the Russian turned into the small road off Colombettes. Charlie stood at the corner, watching, feeling another small spurt of satisfaction when he saw the man enter the building. Gotcha! he thought again.

Charlie practically ran forward himself, hesitating only at the entrance, but the Russian had already entered the elevator. Charlie didn’t need to see the indicator needle heading to the top floor, because he’d already worked out the building’s location and its overlooking vantage points into the conference complex.

Inside the foyer Charlie looked desperately around, seeing the travel agency in the corner. He threw open the door and said to the startled clerk who looked up: ‘A telephone! For Christ’s sake where’s a telephone!’

There was a wall clock, facing him. Fourteen minutes, he saw.

The assembly was strictly regimented, rehearsed over several days by the support groups, so there was no confusion. The Israeli group formed one edge, with the American delegation creating the buffer as they did within the conference building. Then came the Palestinians, followed by the Jordanians and finally the Syrians. The delineation was very positive in the front, with the leaders, but less formal among the aides and secretariat. Sulafeh Nabulsi stood less than ten feet from her victim, the briefcase containing the Browning no longer hanging from her shoulder but held in front of her, her hand already partially inside.