The Run Around cm-8

by Brian Freemantle

  The Director had talked of a pursuit, at the moment of crossing. Charlie said: ‘Wouldn’t you have attracted attention, trying to book into the Druzhba without any luggage?’

  ‘You’re very careful, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘What about the luggage?’

  ‘I had my briefcase with me, of course. It was quite large: it would have appeared sufficient.’

  Restricted by the clothing shortages in the Soviet Union, people frequently travelled as lightly as that, remaining for days in the same suit, remembered Charlie. Just like he did, in fact. Time to check Witherspoon’s insistence upon the man’s ability for recall. Charlie said: ‘Your memory is good?’

  ‘It is excellent.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Charlie. ‘When did you start being denied access to the sort of material to which you were accustomed?’

  ‘August.’

  ‘The precise date?’

  ‘I think it was 19 August.’

  ‘Definitely 19 August? Or approximately 19 August?’

  Novikov hesitated. ‘Do you consider it that important?’

  ‘You did,’ reminded Charlie. ‘It was the first signal you had that they were on to you.’

  ‘Definitely 19 August.’

  ‘How can you be so definite?’ pressed Charlie.

  ‘I protested to the controller. Said there must have been a circulation error, in giving me such inferior communication.’

  ‘Wasn’t that putting yourself at risk?’

  ‘When I made the protest I thought it was a mistake: it was not until I was told it was intended for me that I realized the suspicion.’

  ‘So from 19th August on, everything was low level?’

  ‘The lowest.’

  ‘Tell me now about the assassination cables.’

  ‘There were three.’

  ‘What was the first: the exact words?’

  ‘The need is understood that a political, public example has to be set, for the maximum impact,’ quoted Novikov.

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘Despatched or received?’

  ‘Despatched.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘The Politburo: that’s how I came to encode. I was cleared that high.’

  ‘And that was the first?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The word assassination is not there: so how did you know it involved killing?’

  ‘The message came from Department 8 of Directorate S.’

  ‘Which is also responsible for sabotage and abduction.’

  ‘You’re very knowledgeable.’

  ‘It’s not my knowledge we’re questioning.’

  ‘There was a marker designation, on the cable.’

  ‘What’s a marker designation?’

  ‘It’s like a subject reference.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Mokrie,’ said the Russian.

  ‘Mokrie dela,’ completed Charlie. ‘Do they still refer to assassinations as “wet affairs”?’

  ‘It’s a bureaucratic institution, with long time rules,’ said the Russian.

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ said Charlie. ‘Were there any other types of reference?’

  ‘The word “purple”,’ said Novikov.

  ‘What does that identify?’ asked Charlie, who knew.

  ‘The Politburo,’ replied the Russian.

  ‘I would have expected something else,’ said Charlie.

  Novikov smiled. ‘Run Around,’ he said.

  ‘Numbered?’

  Now a nod of admiration accompanied the smile. ‘Four,’ the Russian agreed.

  ‘Who handled the first three?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ apologized Novikov. ‘There were five others in the department with clearance that matched mine.’

  ‘And you could not have asked them,’ said Charlie, a comment more than a question.

  ‘Any discussion of messages sent or received is absolutely forbidden,’ confirmed Novikov. ‘Suspension and investigation would be automatic.’

  Charlie nodded and said: ‘Tell me about the second.’

  ‘It said, “You will despatch the catalogue,”’ quoted Novikov, again.’

  ‘The same references?’

  ‘One addition. The number seventeen.’

  ‘What did that signify?’

  ‘The destination of the cable: the rezidentura in London.’

  ‘What about the other number?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘So you were handling the messages in sequence now,’ said Charlie, excited at the disclosure but not showing it.

  ‘And I transmitted the cable numbered six, the last one,’ confirmed Novikov once more.

  Excellent, thought Charlie. ‘To where?’

  ‘London again.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘“You will wrap the November catalogue”.’

  Charlie decided there had been sufficient intensity and that Novikov needed a respite if he were not to become exhausted. He smiled and said: ‘Wonder if we can get a drink around here?’

  ‘I enjoy very much your Scotch whisky,’ said Novikov.

  ‘So do I,’ said Charlie.

  The man who answered the bell summons was stiffly upright, giving away the previous army service from which all the support staff at safe houses were recruited. He was someone Charlie had not encountered before but immediately agreed there was Islay malt and when he returned with the tray Charlie said they didn’t want to bother him again, so why didn’t he leave the bottle.

  ‘Here’s to the British taxpayer,’ toasted Charlie.

  ‘I do not understand,’ said the Russian.

  ‘Neither would they, if they knew,’ said Charlie.

  ‘We are making progress?’ asked Novikov. There seemed some concern in the question.

  ‘I think so,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You know why I want to hurt Russia?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I loved her so much,’ said Novikov, distantly. ‘So very much.’ He drank heavily from his glass and said: ‘You can’t imagine what it’s like to lose someone you love as completely as I loved Lydia.’

  I can, thought Charlie. I lost twice, not once. He wanted Novikov relaxed but not maudlin. He added to both their glasses and said: ‘There are some more things I want you to help me with.’

  Novikov’s effort to concentrate again was very obvious. He said: ‘What?’

  ‘More dates,’ said Charlie. ‘You were cut off on 19 August?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the date of that last cable, the one numbered six?’

  Novikov frowned for a moment, determined upon recall, and then said: ‘August 12.’

  ‘And the one before that, the first to mention London?’

  ‘August 5,’ said the Russian, quicker this time.

  ‘And the first one you encoded was dated 29 July?’ anticipated Charlie.

  Novikov frowned, head to one side. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I guessed,’ lied Charlie. ‘Something more about that second cable, the one mentioning catalogue? Had you ever before encoded messages from Department 8 of Directorate S?’

  ‘Twice, both times before Lydia was killed.’

  ‘With mokrie as a reference?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was the word “catalogue” used?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Novikov.

  Thank God and the fairies for bureaucratic rigidity, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Do you know what it signifies?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the Russian, in careful qualification.

  ‘What do you guess it to signify?’

  ‘The operative,’ said Novikov.

  Charlie nodded. ‘That’s what I think, too,’ he said. ‘One last thing: you worked from Dzerzhinsky Square?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Novikov.

  ‘But the cipher division is not general, is it?’

  �
�I’ve never suggested it was.’

  ‘I think other people made wrong assumptions,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s compartmented?’

  ‘Of course. Everything is. That is the system.’

  Charlie nodded again, in agreement. ‘So for which department of the First Chief Directorate did you work?’

  ‘The Third,’ agreed Novikov.

  Charlie sat back, satisfied, refilling both their glasses. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It had to be that, didn’t it?’

  ‘Is it significant?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Do you play chess?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’m surprised,’ said the Russian. ‘I would have thought with a mind like yours that you would have done. I was going to suggest a game, if we met again.’

  ‘Maybe darts,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Darts?’

  ‘It’s an English game. Played in pubs.’

  ‘Maybe I could learn.’

  ‘Be quicker than me trying to learn chess,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I don’t think that is necessarily so,’ said Novikov.

  Charlie encountered Hubert Witherspoon in the entrance hall, a cavernous place of wood-panelled walls around a black and white marbled floor. The man’s face was flushed with his recent exertion and for once his hair was stuck down, still wet from the shower.

  ‘I got a hole-in-one and two birdies,’ announced Witherspoon, triumphantly.

  ‘Terrific,’ said Charlie.

  ‘That hole-in-one cost me a fortune in the bar afterwards. It’s a tradition to treat everyone, you know.’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Witherspoon nodded in the direction of the drawing room and said: ‘Nothing I hadn’t got, was there?’

  Jesus! thought Charlie. He said: ‘Hardly a thing.’

  ‘Wasted journey then?’

  Caught by Witherspoon’s complaint at having to buy drinks in the club-house and remembering the forgotten lunchtime receipt, Charlie said: ‘You wouldn’t by chance have a spare restaurant bill from anywhere around here, would you?’

  Witherspoon’s face coloured. He said: ‘You don’t imagine I am going to get caught up in your petty little deceits, do you!’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie, wearily, ‘of course not.’

  When he got to the Mercedes Charlie found the red communication light burning, indicating a priority summons. He was patched directly through to the Director’s office and recognized Alison Bing’s strained-through-a-sieve voice at once.

  ‘The bomb’s gone off right beneath you,’ said the Director’s secretary. ‘I don’t think there’s going to be enough pieces to bury.’

  Arrival security — Special Branch and immigration and Customs checks — at all the Scottish fishing ports is ridiculously inefficient, so lamentable that the KGB regard them as open doorways into Europe.

  Vasili Nikolaevich Zenin arrived at Ullapool on a Russian trawler but did not go ashore that first night, letting the genuine Russian seamen attract what little attention there might be. He went with them the second day, but not to drink. In a pub lavatory he stripped off the sweater and leggings that covered his suit, for one of the seamen to carry back to the trawler, and caught a meandering bus to Glasgow, arriving in time for the overnight sleeper to London.

  He collected the waiting suitcase from the left luggage locker at King’s Cross station and went directly to the Ennis Hotel, in Bayswater.

  ‘You have a reservation for me: the name’s Smale,’ he said.

  ‘Travelled far, Mr Smale?’ asked the girl, politely.

  ‘A long way,’ said Zenin, which was so very true.

  Chapter Four

  The KGB exercise the greatest care in the selection of operatives for Department 8 of Directorate S of its First Chief Directorate, devoting more time to their instruction than to any other agent in any other division of its service.

  A prime consideration is one of mental attitude because the most essential requirement in a department in which men are trained to kill is that they do not want to kill, which is not as illogical as it may first appear: there is no place for a psychopath because psychopaths cannot be relied upon to behave rationally and a professional killer must at all times remain absolutely rational. Psychopaths do, however, have their function in the final week of the training period.

  Vasili Zenin graduated from that as he graduated from every course at Balashikha, with a maximum assessment which confirmed his accolade as the most outstanding recruit of the year. The only way to fail the ultimate test was to die.

  A Ukrainian serving a life sentence in Gulag 16 in the Potma complex for killing three people — one his mother — was not immediately shot after cutting the throat of a fellow prisoner while he slept in order to steal the man’s boots. Instead, having psychiatricly been found to be insane he was offered the choice of entering a kill-or-be-killed situation, assured that if he were the victor he would be granted his freedom. Which was, of course, a lie. Had he killed Zenin the delayed execution would have been carried out anyway, but warning the man he was to be hunted tilted the odds against Zenin; in a proper operation a true victim is usually unaware of being a target. Additionally, Zenin was not told the Ukrainian was expecting an attack.

  Balashikha is a huge but frequently divided complex. Areas are separated according to their instructional needs sometimes by barbed and electrified wire and occasionally with high concrete walls the tops of which are again electrically guarded. The concreted sections are those of maximum secrecy and it was in one, located at the very centre of the camp, that the contest was staged. Here there had been re-created in a vast, aircraft-type hanger a typical European city street — because Zenin was selected to operate in Europe — with shops and a cafe and apartment houses. Every part of it was monitored and surveyed by television cameras, so that the movements and behaviour of both men was relayed to a control room in which sat the panel of assessors.

  Zenin was slightly built and small featured with the dark colouring of a man born in Azerbaijan, which was a further reason for his being selected for the specific mission already then being planned for him. He moved with the quiet but assured confidence of someone sure — but without conceit — of his own abilities, which had been one of the first qualities isolated by the assassin division recruiters when the man had been accepted into the Kirovabad office of the KGB. He spoke four languages, English and French with a fluency that betrayed no accent, and had no moral difficulty with killing, satisfied assassination was justified because his victims were legally judged enemies of the state before he was entrusted with the responsibility of carrying out the sentence imposed upon them. The Ukrainian fitted into the same category, a criminal proven guilty of a crime.

  The Ukrainian was allowed no weapon. And Zenin’s instructions were that the killing had to appear to have been an accident or suicide. He was told he could have a weapon of choice or any one of the six Soviet-perfected poison-spray guns, the gas of which dissipates within thirty seconds, leaving no trace to be found in any later post-mortem examination. Zenin refused anything.

  The test, he was told, was timed for one hour: if the encounter had not taken place by then, he would begin losing assessment points. If twenty points were deducted, he would be dismissed from the course.

  Zenin entered the hanger door low and fast, moving immediately sideways, unsure what to expect but knowing he was an obvious target framed in the doorway. Once inside, however, he did nothing fast, observing the basic teaching to merge into any background, to become a wallpaper man. The mock-up was artificially illuminated to represent natural sunlight, providing shadows, and Zenin used every one available, never once disclosing himself. A constant theme through each training session at Balashikha was self reliance and awareness beyond the instruction at those sessions, to think ahead beyond the obvious. Zenin at once recognized the unreality of a confrontation in such a ghost town setting, guessing the possibility
of an ambush. So he observed another lecture, switching from hunter to hunted. He slipped into the supposed cafe, intentionally because it was so obvious, soft-footedly exploring the outer area and the kitchen, and having satisfied himself they were unoccupied he checked the upstairs rooms, discovering a make-believe bathroom. By the time he regained the ground floor Zenin had isolated a disparity in the cafe. It was complete in every respect — even to cooking materials which he decided to utilize — but there were no knives or forks in the customer area nor knives in the kitchen to be used as weapons. It was always possible, of course, that his opponent or opponents would have been offered weapons like he had been but if they had there would have been no purpose in precluding them from the fake restaurant. There were a lot of bottles and glasses, which could be broken to provide a cutting edge, but Zenin considered anything makeshift easier to defend himself against. Of course they were personally denied him, because it was essential for his killing not to appear a killing at all. He found three containers of oil and emptied them into pans and lighted a high gas beneath each. Noise was important so he stood back, ensuring it was loud enough. Satisfied, Zenin returned to the main room and sank to his haunches by the window, with a perfect view of the outside street.

  The Ukrainian, whose name was Barabanov, had entered the warehouse at precisely the same time as Zenin but through a door diametrically opposite. And like Zenin he had gone immediately to ground, although not with so much caution, only bothering to check the immediate room in which he concealed himself in the apartment block, careless of others around it, which Zenin would not have been.

  Barabanov was a giant of a man physically hardened by ten years of existence in the most punitive of the penal colonies in the Soviet Union and mentally reduced even beyond his clinical psychosis to animalistic violence by the need during those ten years to survive, someone who instinctively fought with boot and teeth and knee and gouging fingers, overwhelming anyone in his path. And he was determined to survive by killing whoever it was being pitted against him.