The Run Around cm-8

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘The same.’

  ‘England?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Israel?’

  ‘We’re waiting to hear.’

  ‘You want to mark that out of ten for me?’

  The trouble with worrying about oncoming trains was that it gave a person tunnel vision, thought Bell. He said: ‘How bad will it be if Geneva is a target? And there is an assassination?’

  Anderson leaned forward on the table, starimg at his friend. ‘You want me to answer that?’

  ‘Yes, Mr President, I want you to answer that,’ said the other man. It would be some years anyway before the tapes were available to historians.

  ‘It’ll be a disaster,’ said Anderson. ‘An absolute, unmitigated disaster, that’s what it’ll be.’

  ‘The British are allowing us access to this man Novikov,’ reminded the Secretary of State.

  ‘So?’

  ‘We’ll have our own evidence of a Soviet assassination intention from a defector,’ continued Bell.

  Anderson began to smile, in growing awareness. ‘Which could be made public?’ he suggested.

  ‘Which could be made public,’ confirmed Bell. ‘The way I see it we’ve got insurance. If this is a false alarm — which it could easily be — then we’ve the chance of achieving the Middle East peace. Which was the original intention. But if there’s an assassination and the conference is wrecked we can immediately produce the evidence — evidence supported by Britain and Switzerland and Israel, all of whom have had or will have access to Novikov — to prove that Moscow were the architects.’

  Anderson’s smile broadened. ‘So we can’t lose?’

  ‘Not from the way I’m looking at it, Mr President.’

  ‘Is that what you call diplomacy?’

  ‘That’s part of it,’ said Bell.

  ‘I like it,’ said Anderson. ‘I like it a lot.’

  The diplomatic bag is rarely, in fact, a bag: the term generically describes any cargo precluded by international agreement from Customs interception or examination in the receiving or despatching country by the appropriate designation of the embassy involved. Sometimes the diplomatic bag comprises the hold of an entire cargo plane: frequently the counter-intelligence service of a country stand helplessly by as crates and boxes are loaded, well knowing — but unable to prove — that some technological advance is being smuggled out in front of their eyes, to be lost forever.

  The special American M21 sniper’s rifle with all its adaptations, together with the American Browning automatic and matching — but even more specially chosen — ammunition for both did not, however, need a crate when they arrived in Geneva. Both were accommodated in a small container of the sort long ago identified by the Swiss as that used by Moscow to transport embassy office furniture. Which was how it would have been described upon the counter-intelligence report if one had been submitted. But no report was submitted. So many men were needed to conduct the new surveillance demands that the observation at Geneva airport was suspended. It was, after all, just routine.

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was a queue to interview Vladimir Novikov, although it did not actually extend to the Sussex border. There should not have been, because the meetings were arranged with sufficient intervals between each. The delay was created by the Americans. They did not depute someone from their London embassy to conduct the questioning but on the President’s instructions flew overnight a Russian-speaking interrogator from Washington, accompanied by a polygraph team. Novikov at once displayed the arrogance that Charlie had encountered and protested at being subjected to a lie detector test, refusing to submit to it and there was a delay of two hours and a flurry of telephone calls between Whitehall, Westminster Bridge Road and the US legation in Grosvenor Square before he could be persuaded. Novikov remained hostile and it showed on the first polygraph test so the operator asked for a second, to make comparisons against his first readings, further antagonizing the defector. For the first hour of the interview he was intentionally awkward, choosing to misunderstand at every opportunity. A debriefing that had been timed for two hours took four and was still ended without being as comprehensive as that which Charlie obtained.

  A Mossad team followed, a man and a woman, both Russian speakers again and they capitalized upon the preceding episode, flattering Novikov by insisting they did not doubt his genuineness or honesty and asked for his co-operation instead of demanding it.

  It was the better approach to a man of Novikov’s ego. He consciously tried to provide more than he had for the Americans, volunteering information he thought the couple had failed to seek, which they hadn’t: they just let Novikov talk himself out and then confirmed what he had provided by asking their questions in a different form.

  Novikov complained of tiredness when it came to the Swiss interview, at first giving clipped answers, only expanding them properly after the initial thirty minutes when he realized that the interrogator intended persisting with the same questions until he was satisfied with replies.

  The focus of each session was whether Novikov believed the assassination was planned for either of the Geneva meetings and he became irritated again, this time at the persistence about something of which he had no knowledge.

  Each debriefing was, of course, automatically recorded on the electronic system installed in the Sussex house and simultaneously translated, so that complete transcripts were available to Sir Alistair Wilson and his deputy within an hour of the completion of the final meeting.

  ‘Not a thing that Charlie didn’t get, despite their having the advantage of his interview to prepare themselves in advance,’ judged the Director. ‘We’ll pouch it to him, with the other stuff.’

  ‘I’d like to see the detailed assessment of the analysts before committing myself,’ said Harkness, with his customary reluctance.

  ‘How about the airline interviews?’

  ‘All completed,’ said Harkness. ‘No other recognition whatsoever.’

  ‘And the Watchers?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So all we can do is go on the belief that it’s Geneva,’ said Wilson.

  ‘Why not let it remain there?’

  ‘Bring Charlie home, you mean?’

  ‘You said he should withdraw, if the Swiss remained difficult.’

  ‘What are you worried about?’

  ‘What I’m always worried about with that man,’ said the deputy. ‘Of his doing something to damage our interests. At the moment we’ve got the gratitude of the intelligence agencies of three countries, America among them. That’s sufficient, surely?’

  ‘We’ll stay involved, for a little longer,’ decided Wilson. ‘Like Charlie, I don’t really like leaving things half done. I only talked about his coming home to keep him in line.’

  ‘I’d like to get him back in London,’ said Harkness, more directly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There are some financial difficulties to be resolved.’

  ‘They can wait, can’t they?’

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s applied for a bank overdraft. For?10,000,’ disclosed Harkness. ‘The bank referral was naturally channelled to me.’

  ‘So?’

  Harkness blinked, disappointed with the Director’s response. ‘Considering the man’s history, I would have thought an apparent need for money was something with which we should concern ourselves. It’s obviously necessary to bring it to the attention of the Review Board.’

  Wilson made clear his stifled laugh. ‘You think there’s a risk of Charlie going across to the other side for thirty pieces of silver!’

  ‘He did before.’

  ‘No he did not,’ refused the Director, no longer amused.

  ‘The point’s academic.’

  ‘The point is that he won when he was supposed to lose and others lost in the process.’

  ‘We had to replace an embarrassed Director. So did the CIA.’

 
; ‘The embarrassment was of their making, not his. They were prepared to abandon him. The bloody fools deserved to spend a few days in Soviet captivity.’

  ‘When they were released they both had to undergo delousing!’ said Harkness, outraged.

  ‘I think they deserved that, too,’ said Wilson. ‘There’s actually a poetic justice to it.’

  Conscious of engaging in a losing battle, Harkness said: ‘It’s covered in regulations.’

  ‘Do you intend instituting a deep investigation into Charlie Muffin’s loyalty and background?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harkness, in further disclosure.

  ‘Because of the overdraft application?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d better extend it,’ said the Director.

  ‘Extend it?’

  ‘There’s a second charge on my place in Hampshire, to cover a?50,000 facility. I’m pretty close to the ceiling:?48,000, I think.’

  It made practical sense for the Secretary of State to fly to Europe with the President, because the Berlin visit that Anderson was making preceded by two days the Geneva Middle East conference.

  ‘I just adore Air Force One!’ said Martha Bell. She was a diet-trim, exercise-fit woman fifteen years younger than her husband. She’d had her bust siliconized, but discreetly, so that it was not outrageously inflated, and undergone more plastic surgery to have the cellulite removed from her thighs and buttocks.

  ‘It’s certainly a special way of travelling,’ agreed her husband.

  ‘What should I wear?’

  ‘You’d better check with the White House: see what Janet Anderson is going to wear,’ reminded Bell. ‘It’s protocol to do so.’

  ‘It’ll be something garish, like it always is. Red or orange, to brighten herself up. Why did he marry such a dowdy woman!’

  ‘Her father was worth $50 million and she was his only daughter.’

  ‘I fancy my blue suit with the muted stripe.’

  ‘You should still call the White House.’

  ‘After Geneva we go to Venice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Need we come straight back afterwards?’

  ‘What would you like to do?’

  ‘Spend a few days in Paris, to do some shopping. And then London. It’s practically on the way home, after all, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess we could manage that,’ agreed Bell. He was going to need the predicted income after he ceased being Secretary of State just to pay her bills.

  ‘If Janet isn’t wearing red, I will,’ declared the woman.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll look fine.’

  ‘Did I tell you about Women’s Wear Daily?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They called my secretary. They want to do a feature about me being the fashion leader of Washington.’

  ‘Say no.’

  ‘I’d like to do it: it’s true, after all.’

  ‘It would be a mistake, politically.’

  ‘What’s politics got to do with the way I dress?’

  ‘Everything, when it’s an obvious comparison with Janet Anderson.’

  ‘We’ll be photographed going aboard Air Force One, won’t we?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘They’ll make the comparison then.’

  ‘That’s different: we don’t have any say about that.’

  ‘Will there be caviar and champagne on the flight?’

  ‘There usually is.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll do well enough for us to have a jet of our own when you leave government? Only something small, obviously.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Bell.

  At that moment Sulafeh Nabulsi was disembarking from a Libyan commercial flight at Geneva airport. With the rest of the support staff she had travelled in the tourist section.

  The British intelligence chief based at the embassy in Bern was a career officer named Alexander Cummings who had been on leave for Charlie Muffin’s first visit to the embassy and who had hoped there would be no more. He knew of Charlie’s reputation and did not want to become involved in any way with the man, reluctant even to summon him from Geneva but with no alternative because the instruction came from the Director himself.

  Charlie, who sensed the reserve and wasn’t interested in discovering the reason, strolled in off the Thunstrasse after lunch and Cummings could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  ‘Quite a lot for you in the diplomatic pouch,’ announced the locally based man.

  ‘Borrow your office then?’ asked Charlie. ‘Hadn’t better go wandering about the streets with it, had I?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cummings, tight-lipped.

  Charlie studied intently the transcripts of the three different debriefings with Novikov, recognizing at once how the American team had mishandled it with their insistence upon the polygraph and smugly aware that no one had got any more than he had. The Washington embassy had replied at length to his query about the importance attached by the USA to the Middle East conference, from which Charlie found it easy to understand the CIA man’s attitude at their meeting. In addition there was included the CIA query to London about his personal involvement in Switzerland and Charlie sighed, easily able to understand that, too. He supposed it was obvious Giles would have alerted Langley to his being here. He tore open the last envelope, imagining it would be the Director’s reply to the American agency, but it wasn’t. As required by regulations, it was the official notification that a full investigation was being initiated into his affairs, with the warning that he would at some stage of the enquiry be required to undergo positive vetting.

  ‘Fucking Harkness,’ said Charlie, vehemently.

  Cummings, who was waiting in an outer office, looked in through the door. ‘Did you say something?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Charlie. ‘I said, “Fucking Harkness.” I often say it.’

  Cummings breathed in sharply, shocked. Everything that they said about this dreadful man was obviously true.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sulafeh Nabulsi had been included in the Palestinian support staff because of her outstanding ability as a linguist, not just because of her willingness to sleep with whoever was necessary to achieve the appointment. She spoke fluent Hebrew, Arabic and English and each better than the other language expert in the party, Mohammed Dajani. Their function, like that of linguists accompanying every other delegation, was to listen to the simultaneous translation during the conference to ensure the official version was absolutely accurate. They were also required to attend private sessions and gatherings, to act more obviously as translators. It meant they would frequently be closer to the leading participants of the conference than their bodyguards, which was why Sulafeh was of such importance to the KGB.

  The Palestinian secretariat was accommodated a long way from the international complex, on two floors of a small hotel off the Rue Barthelemy-Menn, and were bussed across the city for the first day accreditation.

  Sulafeh thrust on to the coach ahead of everyone else, to get a window seat so that she could see as much as possible. She did not know fully what would be asked of her by the unknown man she was to meet but was determined to be able to answer any query, not to fail him in anything.

  She was aware of Dajani sitting beside her and of his thigh pressed against hers but did not turn to him, trying at once to orientate herself by identifying the streets and avenues, using the lake and the Rhone as markers.

  ‘A pretty city,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, still not looking at him. She moved her leg away.

  ‘After the formalities of today there won’t be a lot for us to do until the conference starts,’ reminded Dajani.

  Maybe not for you, thought Sulafeh. Disinterested in his attempted conversation, she said: ‘There’ll be enough.’

  ‘I thought we might explore the city, you and L’

  Sulafeh guessed that with his convoluted Arab chauvinism, Dajani resented a woman having matching importance to himself but still wan
ted to get her into bed. She said: ‘This seat seems too small for you. There are empty benches at the back.’

  The pressure of his thigh diminished, slightly. He said: ‘What about it?’ She’d slept with everyone else, so why not him?

  She shook her head, turning back to the window, and said: ‘I’ve got other things to do.’ If he wanted sex he could buy it.

  ‘Like what?’

  Sulafeh hoped the man was not going to be a nuisance. Not wanting overly to antagonize him into becoming an unwanted distraction either, she said: ‘Maybe I’ll think about it.’

  The pressure resumed against her leg. ‘I’m sure there are many enjoyable things we could do,’ he said, heavily.

  ‘Like buying a present for your wife?’ she said.

  Dajani remained smiling, undeterred. ‘That,’ he said. ‘And other things.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Sulafeh, as dismissively as possible. The coach crossed a roadbridge over a skein of railway lines and she saw the huge terminal, to her left. Almost at once the bus made a right turn, following one of the routes that Vasili Zenin had paced during his earlier reconnaissance, and shortly afterwards she saw the entrance to the conference area. She concentrated absolutely, the man beside her forgotten. There were security barriers with uniformed and armed officials checking the documentation and authority of people arriving on foot or in private cars. But the coach was acknowledged as an official vehicle and gestured through. An important oversight, the girl thought.

  In the secretariat building they formed lines at the registration desks, slowly edging forward to identify themselves against their already provided names and photographs. Sulafeh was accepted after a brief comparison with her picture and handed a plastic accreditation wallet equipped with a clip for it to be worn on a lapel or breast pocket. Her photograph was already inside, her authority authenticated by the conference secretary. She was also handed a bulging envelope, plastic again, containing maps and explanations of all the facilities and a provisional timetable of the conference sessions. Sulafeh clamped the identification at once on to her shirt-front and hurried out, wanting to distance herself from the persistent Dajani and study everything about the main building where the delegates would be assembling in a few days time.