‘It didn’t, no. At least I’d thought—’
“Shall I tell you again — how much I’d like to put the clock back?’
‘No, Charlie. Thank you, but—’
‘I don’t get drunk now. I drink, but not real falling-down drunk. Honestly. And I don’t—’ his arm scythed — ‘you know—’
‘No, I’ve no idea what—’
‘Get sick.’ The gesture illustrated it, showed her a pool on the carpet. He saw her eyes close, and went on quickly, ‘All right, OK, I never did — around you, Anne, not—’
‘Thanks—’ her eyes were open again — ‘for small mercies.’
‘All I’m saying — trying to say—’
‘I know what you’re saying, Charlie.’
‘This lawyer business, couldn’t it be stopped? So we’d have a — a little time, a chance — fresh start, just the chance of one?’
‘No, Charlie, there isn’t any chance of—’
‘Not even think about it?’
‘D’you imagine I haven’t thought about it?’
‘I think about practically nothing else!’
She was staring at him; for a moment he had a wild hope that she might be weakening. Then she’d shaken her head.
‘I haven’t gone through the misery of this past year just to start again. You might as well make your mind up to it, get your life going — fresher the start the better, I’d think, but just don’t waste your time with thoughts of including me in it. You must understand this, accept it. I don’t wish you any harm, Charlie, far from it, I just don’t intend to put my own head on the block again — OK?’
He winced. Getting up, slowly, because she was standing now. He said, ‘I’d hoped you might have remembered how wonderful it was. It was, wasn’t it — I mean for you as well as for me, we meant the things we said in those days, didn’t we?’ She’d turned away. He muttered, ‘I wouldn’t have believed you could be so — so unforgiving.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought I could be so—’
‘Hurt?’ He’d supplied the word for her. Feeling as sober as he had on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday… ‘You don’t have to rub that in, I know it.’
‘But it’s spilt milk, Charlie, it’s spilt milk.’ She had her back to him. ‘And your ten minutes is up…’
*
The telephone buzzed and the man slumped in the armchair stirred, pushing himself semi-upright and reaching over the desk to get to it. Muttering to himself: a crumpled-looking man in his fifties, in need of a shave, the whites of his eyes the colour of dirty laundry.
He knew what this was going to be about, anyway.
‘Harrington.’
‘Despatch from FCO, Mr Harrington. Wants a signature, he says.’
‘I’ll come down.’
He’d been waiting for it, had dozed off again since the resident clerk on duty in the Foreign Office had called half an hour ago to say he was sending it over. But he’d been waiting for that call from the FCO anyway. He’d accepted the chore of duty officer last night as well, would have had to take Sunday’s too if the message hadn’t come through tonight. In fact he would: to cover the truth that this was the crucial night, the thing he’d been waiting for. It had been due to come some time out of working hours and during the weekend, and he’d provided himself with an excuse to be available as a stand-in by encouraging his wife to go on a visit to their daughter and son-in-law in Paris. It bored him to be alone in the flat, he’d explained, and he and the son-in-law didn’t get on; so why not give some colleague a break. After all, he’d soon have all the free time he could handle: in a matter of weeks he’d be out on his car, not retiring but being retired — early retirement with a matchingly reduced pension, of course. He knew what the young gentlemen had been saying, on the top floor: ‘Eddie Harrington? Well, old Eddie’s been rather running out of steam, you know…’
He shambled to the lift, descended in it to the entrance floor and signed for the brown envelope, took it back upstairs with him. His movements were slow, even ponderous, as befitted a man on the verge of retirement. Although he knew he could still have run rings — if he’d been given the chance — round those young so-called ‘high-fliers’ …
He shut the door, sat down at the desk and opened the envelope. He made his first note — on the back of another envelope, actually a gas bill which he’d had in his pocket — before he’d read anything but the figures at the top. Time of receipt — in the Foreign Office, not here at SIS. The FCO was where they’d look for their leak, if at some later time he was contacted as they’d said he would be.
And this was it, all right. Telegram from the ambassador in Damascus. Prefixed DEDIP, decoded by the resident clerk on duty, the one who’d called to say he was sending a copy round. He’d have made other copies, of course, for certain FCO officials. The head of the Middle East department, obviously, and the DUS who was his boss, and probably the head man too, the Permanent Under-secretary. And others: and the more the merrier, Harrington thought as he read on.
Vernon Stillgoe, kidnapped in Beirut several weeks ago, allegedly now in custody in Syria. Map-reference for God’s sake: nobody had said there’d be this much detail… Statement by Hoda Al-Jubran — brother Hafiz special assistant to Minister of Interior — in conversation with Elizabeth Thornton, information officer at the embassy. The brother alleged to be supervising Stillgoe’s custody and interrogation. President Assad reportedly not privy to this situation: Ambassador requesting guidance as to whether to make representations to Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Minister having left for Moscow in company with President Assad. An alternative might be to request an interview with Vice-President Halim Khaddam, but with the report as yet unconfirmed, and not being in a position — without instructions — to name the source, this might not be considered timely.
Suggestion: an approach in Moscow to Assad?
Harrington added a few more notes to those he’s scribbled on the back of his gas bill. Then he replaced it in an inside pocket, and reached for the other telephone.
‘I need to speak to Mr Bremner. At his home, or wherever.’
*
In the apartment on Sloane Street, feeling bouyant with relief because a late edition of the evening paper had carried the news of President Assad’s departure for Moscow, Leo checked through the airline tickets which the big woman had had ready for him in envelopes bearing the logo of Bluewater Cruises. Outward and return flights to and from Ercan in the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus, via Istanbul, in the names of Campbell, Sharp, Tait and Denham. Charlie and Leo would travel as friends who’d booked together, and the other two would appear to be travelling as individuals, unknown to each other; as a foursome they’d have been an unlikely group. He noticed that the ticket had been rubber-stamped by a travel agency in Knightsbridge.
‘I thought you’d set up your own business?’
‘As a pilot scheme, sure. To see if it’ll get off the ground. Obviously I don’t have ABTA and IATA licences at this stage, though. These people are helping me out, we split commission. If they were asked they’d confirm they’d sold the tickets on behalf of Bluewater Cruises — head office in Israel, local agent my own home address… Which reminds me — here…’
Brochures. Leaflets, really, but professionally produced. Brilliant blues of sea and sky, and a photograph of a quite large timber ship with two masts, sails furled on the booms.
‘Is that our yacht?’
She nodded. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’
‘Very nice.‘ He put the brochures away with the tickets, and picked up his one piece of luggage. ‘Be seeing you, then. Thanks for your help.’
‘Mind you’re at the airport in good time.’
‘Mothering me, now?’
‘Being a good travel agent, that’s all. Don’t want you back on my hands after missing the flight, do I. It’s Terminal One, by the way.’
‘I know.’
‘You’ll have a long wait in Istanbul. On Sundays there�
��s no connection to Ercan until the evening. You could take a look around the town, if you felt like it.’
‘Yes, Mummy.’
‘And Eric said to wish you the best of luck.’
‘Tell him I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.’
‘I wish you luck too, Leo. Or Knox, Campbell, whoever you are.’ She beckoned. ‘Here — just for luck…’
It was like being kissed by a giant grouper.
In the taxi on his way to Charlie’s flat he put his mind rigorously to checking over detail, searching for anything he might have overlooked. He didn’t think he’d forgotten anything. He’d given Tait and Denham a final pep-talk, impressing on them the importance of maintaining the fiction of being Royal Marines, SBS, and rubbing Pete Denham’s nose in the fact that he’d come very close to blowing the whole thing in that exchange of remarks about underwater entry to and exit from submarines. He’d pointed out to them that they had to be alert for traps of this kind, and to think before speaking, no matter how trivial the subject might seem to be. He’d also reminded them of the terms of their contracts — balance of cash payable only on successful completion — and pointed out that success depended amongst other things on fooling Charlie.
It was remarkable, Leo thought, how easily people could be fooled — in this case, led by their snouts to end up not only unpaid, but dead.
He rang Charlie’s bell, then waited. Too long a wait — he was beginning to worry, to think he might not be there, might have gone out on a bender, might even not come home tonight… A wave of near-panic then: seeing what risks were involved when you had to rely on someone with a built-in flaw like Swale’s…
‘Yup?’
‘It’s Bob here, Charlie!’
Virtually shouting, in relief… Last-minute nerves, he told himself. Better take a grip. Smotrenko’s comment echoing in memory: Kicking you straight into the deep end, right?
Five nights ago he’d answered that identical ‘Yup?’ with his own introductory question. ‘Captain Swale?’ and the reply had been — characteristically — ‘Never heard of him’. They’d come a long way in the five days — thanks to Swale’s instant acceptance, boozy lack of suspicion — but at that moment, Leo remembered, he’d reckoned the chances of success as no better than evens. One mischance for which he’d prepared himself as he travelled up in the lift had been that this former SAS officer might know serving SBS people, might ask his visitor, ‘How’s Johnny Smith?’ — which could have been a trap. Alternatively he might instead have telephoned some ‘John Smith’ later: ‘Johnny, what can you tell me about a colleague of yours, bloke by the name of Bob Knox?’
He’d been on guard against some such contact having been made before he’d called Charlie at his office on the Tuesday; in that conversation his ears had been fine-tuned for any false note. Then a day later the tape from the bug had provided another check — as good as one could expect to get, ninety per cent clearance, say, enough anyway for Leo to have felt justified in telephoning Smotrenko with an ‘OK’ this afternoon.
A blast of whisky fumes met him in the doorway of the flat. He could see it in Charlie’s face, too, and in his stance — upper part of the body inclined a bit forward and a slight weaving motion… Leo said as he walked in, ‘Undoing the fine work of recent days, are we?’
‘Ah, fuck off.’ Charlie lurched away into the sitting room. ‘Just had a few to remind me what it tastes like. What’s more, young Bobby bloody Bootneck, I’m about to have another… You wan’ one?’
‘Maybe I will. Thanks.’ Leo followed him into the room. ‘We might drink a toast — happy landings…’
*
Colonel Vetrov knocked, opened the door without waiting for an invitation, sidled into his chief’s large, functionally-furnished sanctum. He shut the,door carefully, ensuring privacy from the staff in the outer office, before he advanced to the glass-topped desk.
‘Excuse me, General. Word’s just in from Damascus. Vorontsev’s heard from his Syrian that the information’s on its way to London.’
‘That’s good.’ Gudyenko shut the file he’d been studying. ‘And all’s well in London meanwhile?’
‘Yes. Smotrenko’s confirmed they’ll be flying out tomorrow. They’ll get to the port rather late, probably about midnight. Cyprus time, that is.’
‘So our wonderboy has put us in orbit.’ Gudyenko added, ‘The achievement’s not to be underestimated, you know, he had some real problems there… Sit down. Let’s see where we stand, roughly, the timing. With Assad safe under wraps here, Leonid Ivan’ich and his odd little party on their boat tomorrow night… obviously it’s the Syrians — and Vorontsev — who’ll have to run it now — run our molodyets once he’s out of our own reach… But — would you agree the action might take place Wednesday night, Thursday morning?’
Refreshing his memory, Vetrov realised, putting himself back on this wavelength. He’d have plenty more on his plate, the colonel knew very well, not just this one operation. He said tactfully, ‘Thursday’s probably more — realistic, General. It’s not only the physical problems — factors such as the night landing, the distances that have to be covered, also in darkness — but as you’ll remember, we have to time it with the receipt of the Stillgoe information in London. There must be time for reaction, for their people to have been readied and sent out. We don’t want the risk of their being able to show that if the intelligence had been received at this time they couldn’t have been on the spot by that time… But in any case the transit overland won’t be fast. Swale has to believe he’s with an SBS team, they wouldn’t risk moving in daylight — eh?’
‘Presumably Vorontsev and his Syrians are aware of these limitations.’ A shrug. ‘It has to be left to their judgement, anyway, nothing else would make sense — unfortunately. But—’ the general shrugged again — ‘with Assad here all week there’s certainly no need to rush it.’
‘Does he—’ Vetrov queried — ‘fly back on Saturday, to Damascus? Or maybe Friday night — if the visit’s only for this week?’
‘How would that concern us?’
‘Only that maybe we shouldn’t cut things too fine at that end either. I’m thinking of Leonid Ivan’ich, getting him back here when he’s finished. When Assad gets home, his return more or less coinciding with the event — maybe — or with the news of it breaking — well, there’ll be political explosions. I suggest we should have our lad well clear of the scene before then.
‘Well.’ Gudyenko’s gesture was dismissive. ‘That’s — in the light of my orders to Vorontsev — not of consequence. Forget it.’
Vetrov frowned, worried that he might have missed something obvious. The Syrian end of the operation wasn’t strictly his business; but Leo was, and there had to be some overlap. Gudyenko said, ‘I never accept a risk when I don’t have to. You know that.’ His tone was gentle, explanatory. ‘So I dislike half-measures if they impose such risks. Think of the massacre scene — the Syrians who’ll float in to keep Swale alive, and so forth… Ask yourself, Dmitry Arkey’ich — if you were one of them, what would your thoughts be if there was another survivor, not even wounded, whisked off to Damascus in a chopper like some movie stunt-man who’s earned his fee… Remember, some of those guys’ll be walking around afterwards — with tongues in their heads, wagging. They’ll remember — and talk — when the world’s listening to the revelations from Swale’s trial.
Vetrov nodded.
‘Now from the viewpoint of the same eye-witnesses, think of it this way — if there’s no such mysterious person rising from the ashes, no survivor except Swale — and of course the Syrian soldiers who’ve put paid to the invaders?’
‘Yes, I see.’ Vetrov blinked. ‘But—’
‘You’re thinking of the waste of that talented young man with his identity so well established, and all the years of work we’ve put into him.’
‘Well, yes, I admit I—’
‘Don’t think of it as waste.‘ The general’s hands moved dismissi
vely. ‘Think of it as though he’d been designed, reared, created for this one enormously worthwhile purpose. Then it’s not waste — d’you see?’
6
Flight BA 570 had been called; its passengers were pouring out of the departure lounge, out through the glass doors and around the bend into the first long straight. Charlie and Bob only strolling, knowing there’d be another wait before long.
Charlie been up at five, to shower then fix breakfast for himself and his guest; they’d had a cab ordered for six fifteen. On the early side, but Bob had wanted to make sure of it, also to meet Tait and Denham outside the terminal building to give them their tickets and brochures. Those two were now solo, separate from each other and from Bob and Charlie; they were to get together as Bluewater Cruise clients on the ground at Istanbul.
Charlie had grumbled, ‘So who gives a shit who knows whom?’
‘As a group, we might look like — well, what we are. We don’t want ’em to know we’re coming, do we?’
‘Or me to know where we’re going.’ He’d shrugged. ‘Except it has to be Syria.’
Because he knew now that they were flying to Cyprus; and where the hell else would one go from there? Except maybe Syrian-controlled Lebanon. Bob had said, frowning, ‘You’ll know soon enough, Charlie’, and picked that moment to mention that on the passenger list he was Christopher Sharp, not Charlie Swale. Charlie had checked his ticket: Bob pointing out, ‘Same initials, you see. But they don’t normally check passports against the list. You must put your real name on the card for Turkish immigration, of course.’
‘But what does this achieve, for God’s sake?’
‘My ticket and passport aren’t in my real name, Charlie. There wasn’t time to get you a faked passport, that’s all.’
‘I asked why, what—’
‘Covering tracks. We don’t want reconstruction of our movements, anything to tell anyone how we got there. “Investigative journalism” for instance.’
Special Deception Page 10
