Red Star Burning

by Brian Freemantle

  * * *

  Charlie finally abandoned the idea of sleep at five and was showered and dressed by five thirty. Charlie wished he could have started out with Natalia, be with them all the way from Pecatnikov, as unrealistic and unprofessional as that would have been. He was confident of Flood: didn’t doubt the man’s professionalism. Natalia had recognized the risk of Sasha’s doing or saying something unexpected and would guard against it. Six fifteen, Charlie saw, checking his watch. Too early to call even though she’d already be awake: probably hadn’t slept at all, as he hadn’t. He’d give her a little longer.

  * * *

  Peter Warren was the last decoy to arrive in the embassy cafeteria, at six thirty. As he joined the other two, coffee spilling as he maneuvered his self-service tray onto the cluttered table. “You sure it’s necessary for us to be up this early?”

  “I wouldn’t have set the time if I hadn’t been sure,” said Patrick Wilkinson, tetchily. “Or booked the six o’clock wake-up call for them to find on the internal personnel computer, which I discovered they were monitoring.”

  “You hear any movement?” Neil Preston asked Warren, whose compound apartment was on the same floor as Briddle’s and Denning’s.

  Warren shook his head, heaping scrambled eggs and sausage onto his fork. “Quiet as a grave when I passed both doors. I stopped to listen outside both.”

  “Let’s decide who’s going to go where,” demanded Wilkinson. “I’ll ride the Metro: call Charlie’s phone for the tracker to be picked up. They’ll think that significant, after the last time.”

  “What about my doing a river cruise?” suggested Warren. “If I get one to follow me on a steamer he’ll be out of action for two or three hours.”

  “I’ll go to the Metropole and con my way onto a tourist coach: there’s always spare seats and guides with their hands out for beer money. I’ll pick out the following car after a few blocks.”

  “We’ll all keep in touch on cell phones to add to the tracker confusion,” declared Wilkinson. “It’ll convince them something’s happening.”

  “But where the fuck are they?” demanded Warren, looking toward the entrance.

  “You’ve spilled egg down your tie,” said Preston.

  * * *

  “Here’s the rental car,” identified Halliday. The coffee had been disgusting and he hadn’t bothered to drink it. He felt physically sick.

  “I guess the Hertz sticker gave you the clue,” Briddle continued to mock.

  “You think Jeremy will have realized it?” questioned Denning, jerking his head toward the side street in which Beckindale was parked.

  “Stay where you are!” ordered Briddle, hurriedly. “Flood and the other MI5 replacements will have photographs of us all.”

  “I was going to phone.” Denning sighed.

  “Let me see the photographs of Natalia and the kid again,” said Halliday and wished he hadn’t when it was the odorous Denning who offered them.

  “Hello!” exclaimed Briddle, bringing Halliday’s concentration up from the prints at the arrival of another Hertz car.

  “And that’s Flood,” identified Halliday, as the man emerged from the hotel with the delivery driver of the first vehicle and continued on toward the second car. Together the two MI5 men went back into the Savoy.

  “Jeremy says he’s already clocked both of them,” reported Denning, the cell phone to his ear. “Any change from simply following them?”

  “He’s to stick to the second car, leaving Flood to us,” ordered Briddle. “And to make sure he’s not seen to be following.”

  “Jeremy says thanks for the lesson and to go fuck yourself,” relayed Denning.

  * * *

  Gerald Monsford had slept overnight, and alone, in the studio-apartment extension to his office suite and in which he’d established Rebecca Street as his gratefully rewarding mistress a month after securing her as his deputy. He wished now that she had stayed that night, even though he didn’t completely trust her any longer. Right not to have trusted Straughan, either: dangerous, deceptive motherfucker. Wished he didn’t have to rely on Rebecca for the Straughan business. Didn’t have to, Monsford decided. As soon as he sorted Radtsic out he’d take Straughan off her hands: important he personally ensured Straughan hadn’t left anything dangerous behind. He had to concentrate on Moscow for the moment. Not that there was anything to do at this predawn moment. Except wait. His insistence upon total one-to-one control with Briddle to guard against a later, evidence-providing intermediary meant he couldn’t risk Russian scanner interception of cell-phone communication with the man now outside the hotel at which new MI5 support had been discovered. Halliday’s name threatened an outburst of pointless anger. Why the fuck hadn’t the man followed Charlie Muffin to wherever he’d been hiding? Right now Briddle could have been there carrying out the disposal that so easily could have been accepted as an FSB assassination. The fallout from which, compounded by all the preceding publicity, would have brought about Aubrey Smith’s dismissal not just as MI5 Director-General but as a threatening professional adversary. Now there was too much uncertainty, particularly involving the plausible denial of any personal involvement: what Shakespeare had so rightly described as right perfection wrongfully disgraced.

  The summons on his personal line broke into Monsford’s reflection, making him physically jump, despite his expectation of Briddle’s call. “Director Monsford?”

  It wasn’t Briddle’s voice: one he didn’t recognize. “Who is this?”

  “Matthew Timpson.”

  “Who?”

  “Matthew Timpson, head of internal security. When I didn’t find you at home I checked in-house registration and discovered you were already here, which is fortunate. I’m already in the building. I need to see you immediately, of course. It’s a matter of urgency.”

  “What’s a matter of urgency?”

  “The reason I need to see you immediately.”

  “It’s not convenient,” refused Monsford. “Arrange a meeting through my appointments secretary in two or three days.”

  “I insist it’s now, sir: immediately, as I’ve said.”

  “You must insist! I’m the Director!”

  “Which is why it must be now. I shall be with you in five minutes, with my support staff.”

  “You will…” began Monsford, outraged, but the line was already dead.

  It was, in fact, three minutes. With Timpson were a woman and two men. Timpson was a round-faced, rotund, balding man in a bank manager black, three-piece suit complete with chain-linked fob watch in the waistcoat pocket. The other two men were dressed identically, except for the pocket watch. The woman was in black, too.

  “What the hell is this?” demanded Monsford.

  “I’m confident of your complete cooperation.” Timpson smiled. “We have information, the reliability and source of which is unquestionable, that there’s been a hostile penetration.…” The man indicated those behind him. “This is my advanced group: team leaders. My full investigatory staff will be here by midmorning. The first essential will be to install independent listening and monitoring facilities upon all incoming and outgoing electronic lines. It’s a comparatively simple procedure: I expect that to be largely established by midafternoon. We require complete and total access to all files, recordings—electronic, audio, written, or printed—initially for the preceding and current year. It may, of course, be necessary to extend that over a longer period. Our inquiries will, inevitably, go beyond the building to encompass the homes of officers and employees…” There was another quick smile, “including, of course, your own.…” The security head reached behind, for documents held in readiness by the woman. “Here’s our necessary documented authority.”

  “No!” objected Monsford, loudly. His mind blanked, refusing orderly words, and all he could again manage was “No.” It was a physical strain to recover, to pull himself up to confront them. “Why haven’t I been told? Properly informed … I mean…”


  “You are being informed now, sir.”

  “What’s the reliable source?”

  “I can’t disclose that at this stage,” refused Timpson. “Our investigation has to be total, from the very top to the absolute bottom, until proper safeguards are established.”

  “You can’t suspect me!” insisted Monsford, new outrage hovering.

  “You could be compromised,” Timpson pointed out, calmly. He indicated those behind him. “Initially, until those safeguards are in place, you’ll have one of my senior officers with you at all times, as will your deputy and division directors.”

  “This is absurd: ridiculous!” persisted Monsford. “I can’t have … won’t allow … people wandering about the building, looking wherever they choose. Have you forgotten where we are?”

  “People will not wander unsupervised around the building, looking wherever they choose,” corrected Timpson. “I and those with me have the same level of security clearance as yourself and your deputy.”

  “It’s the Straughan business…” started Monsford but was stopped by the ringing of his personal phone. Briddle, from Moscow! he thought at once, staring down at the receiver, which blinked its red light as well as rang.

  “Shouldn’t you answer that?” suggested Timpson.

  Monsford did so tentatively, said: “Yes?” and held the receiver tightly to his ear so that only he could hear.

  “Glad I caught you before you left,” said Harry Jacobson. “Radtsic doesn’t want to see you or those you were bringing down until you’ve got something about Andrei.”

  * * *

  “Here we go!” announced Briddle, as Flood and the other man emerged from the Savoy. To Halliday he said: “Your job is to make sure he doesn’t see us behind him.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” echoed Halliday. To Denning, who’d pulled forward to look through the windshield, he said: “Get back. You’re in the way of my rearview mirror.”

  Halliday waited until the second Hertz car turned in line behind Flood and allowed two vehicles to intervene before following. Beckindale came directly behind.

  As Flood took a left turn Briddle twisted to the rear of their vehicle and said to Denning: “You following the route on the map?”

  Denning broke wind but didn’t reply. Halliday said: “East, maybe. The beltway would be better for Sheremetyevo.”

  “They’ve got pickups to make, haven’t they?” said Briddle.

  * * *

  “You all right?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes,” said Natalia, tightly.

  “Sasha?”

  “She’s excited. She was awake early.”

  “What have you told her?”

  “That it’s a surprise holiday.”

  “You didn’t tell her I’d be with you, did you?” questioned Charlie, the possibility of Sasha’s recognizing him in his mind.

  “Of course not. Where are you? I can hear traffic.”

  “On the street,” said Charlie, “looking for a taxi.” There was a grunt. “I’ve just flagged one down. I’ll be outside the terminal but not obvious.”

  “I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.”

  “I love you. It’s all going to go as I told you it would.”

  “I’ll look for you.”

  * * *

  Beckindale overtook the others but pulled directly in front, leaving the barrier of the four other vehicles that had built up between them and the MI5 men.

  From the rear, Denning said: “Pecatnikov is three streets away.”

  “They’re picking up Natalia and the child,” decided Briddle, his voice catching. He coughed, to clear the nervousness, one hand over the other, glad there was no tremor. The Makarov suddenly felt heavy in its holster, hard against his ribs.

  “Charlie could be with them,” suggested Denning.

  “Call Beckindale: warn him to be careful,” ordered Briddle. “Charlie won’t take the slightest chance.” Would it be possible here, outside Natalia’s apartment? If Charlie tried to resist it would provide the excuse but he’d planned to do it close, the Makarov hidden as much as possible and not with the others as witnesses. Nor in front of Natalia and certainly not Sasha. There’d be panic, hysteria: the child could get in the way, get hurt. Killed even. He didn’t want to shoot a child: wouldn’t shoot a child.

  * * *

  The log had switched from night to day registration by the time they got to the gate house and there was further delay going back to the security office inside the embassy to retrieve it to discover all three MI6 officers were recorded leaving the legation at 2:00 A.M., with the MI6 resident, David Halliday. All three were in Halliday’s embassy car. None of the names was listed on any of that morning’s flights, direct or transfer connections, from Sheremetyevo to London.

  “And they wouldn’t have needed to leave at two A.M. to catch a plane,” said Warren.

  “So where have they gone?” demanded Preston, rhetorically.

  “I think I should tell London,” said Wilkinson.

  “What’s there to tell them?” said Warren.

  “We’re in enough shit already, according to what you’ve told us,” agreed Preston. “You really think it’s a good idea for London to know we’ve lost everyone we’re supposed to be leading all over Moscow?”

  “I think it’s better than waiting until London hear it some other way,” said Wilkinson. “We were supposed to mislead them: we couldn’t physically stop them, could we?”

  “You’ve got a point,” conceded Preston.

  “I think we should tell London,” capitulated Warren.

  * * *

  “It’s definitely Pecatnikov,” declared Halliday. “It’s the next turning and Flood’s indicating.”

  “I agree,” said Denning.

  Briddle could feel the tremor now, not just in his hand but trembling through his arms, and he had to press his left leg hard against the floor to stop it pumping.

  “Beckindale’s signaling,” said Halliday, unnecessarily.

  “Stay back,” ordered Briddle. “Let’s not screw everything getting too close.”

  “What are we supposed to do, if they’re all together?” complained Halliday.

  “Leave it all to me,” said Briddle. “That goes for you, too, Jeremy. I make the approach alone. You stay back, guard against my being intercepted.”

  “We should have gone through all this earlier,” said Denning.

  “I’ll approach alone,” insisted Briddle. “But not here.” Even if Charlie was with them, he couldn’t shoot here. They’d have to halt way back from Natalia’s apartment to avoid being seen. Charlie would be warned by their driving up fast.

  Beckindale had stopped just after the turn into the road, at least one hundred meters from Natalia’s known address.

  “Stop here,” ordered Briddle, waving Halliday in about ten meters farther on. To Denning he said: “Tell Jeremy to keep out of the way: to leave me alone.”

  “There’s a taxi pulling up outside,” said Halliday, straining through binoculars. “And there’s Natalia: must have been waiting just inside. Just Natalia and the girl. No sign of Charlie.”

  “You all right?” Denning asked Briddle, from behind. “You’re shaking.”

  * * *

  “They haven’t any idea!” exclaimed Aubrey Smith, passing the printed message slip to Jane Ambersom, whom he’d summoned after Passmore’s alert.

  “None. Nor any chance of finding out,” said Passmore, to whom Wilkinson had confessed.

  “And we haven’t heard from Flood?”

  “It’s all being done away from the embassy, away from secure lines,” reminded the operations director. “It’s all at Charlie’s lead. That’s the arrangement.”

  “There’s no way Monsford’s people could have found out,” said Jane.

  “It’s got to be some kind of MI6 move,” said Passmore.

  “Our only link to Charlie is through Flood,” said Smith.

  “We don’t have secure communication,” insi
sted Passmore.

  “Route it through one of our European relays,” decided Smith. “We’ve got to warn Charlie.”

  * * *

  “Tell me where.” Sasha giggled.

  “It’s a surprise,” insisted Natalia.

  “Hot or cold?”

  “Sometimes hot, sometimes cold.”

  “You’re holding my hand too tightly,” protested the girl. “Mountains or flat?”

  “Small mountains.”

  “But we can swim: you packed my costume.”

  “I hope we can swim. Do lots of things.”

  “I wish you’d tell me where we’re going,” Sasha complained.

  Natalia started forward at the sound of the mobile telephone. “We’re on our way.”

  “I’m already at the terminal, waiting,” said Charlie.

  “About thirty minutes.”

  “No problems?”

  “No.”

  “I told you there wouldn’t be.”

  “Who was that?” demanded the child.

  “Someone from the airline, wanting to know we were on our way.”

  * * *

  “Vnukovo,” declared Halliday. “This is the road to Vnukovo.”

  “Can they get to London from Vnukovo?”

  “Direct and via a lot of other links,” confirmed Halliday.

  “How far is the airport?”

  “Maybe two miles.”

  “We’ve got to be careful,” said Briddle. “Charlie might already be there, waiting. Drop us off at the approach to the terminal, before you park the car.”

  Behind them, Denning broke wind.

  Halliday said: “I won’t drive back with you. I’ll catch an airport bus.”

  * * *

  Charlie saw them before their taxi stopped, sure Natalia wouldn’t be able to locate him on the farthest side of the booth from which the baggage handlers and traffic supervisors operated. Natalia got out first, at once searching, and Charlie stepped out, saw from her facial reaction that she’d seen him, and withdrew. He had the briefest sight of Sasha before the booth blocked his view of their entering the building. Charlie hoped the unknown escort had picked them up inside. He’d failed to isolate any professional indicators earlier, getting his boarding pass from the prebooked electronic dispenser, and been reassured because it proved the expertise of whoever Flood had put there ahead of their arrival.