See Charlie Run

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘We’re still feeling out in the dark about Kozlov,’ reminded Fredericks. ‘More things can still go wrong than we can even guess at. The participation of someone like Charlie Muffin – a man who proveably screwed the British and American services and got both directors arrested by the Soviets in doing it –gives us a hell of an insurance policy, don’t you think?’

  Smiles from the other men in the room matched that of Elliott, but it was the disgruntled man who spoke. ‘I like that,’ said Elliott. ‘I like that very much indeed.’

  ‘Only if something goes wrong with Kozlov?’ pressed Levine, who knew as well the American side of the history.

  ‘Let’s get Kozlov in the bag,’ said Fredericks. ‘Once we’ve achieved that and got the woman as well, we can think of settling things with Charlie Muffin.’

  ‘The British aren’t going to keep the woman? queried Dale, embarrassed the moment he spoke at showing his inexperience.

  Elliott actually laughed, glad that finally the ridicule had shifted from him.

  More kindly, Fredericks said: ‘Come on, Jim, what do you think! Do you really imagine we’re going to let the Limeys – and more particularly a Limey who made one of our directors prick of the month – get their hands in the cookie jar? Kozlov wants his particular cross-over deal, and after this morning he’ll get it. He’ll get the British baby-sitting his wife and he’ll get us, promising the keys to Fort Knox. And when we hit them the British – but more importantly Charlie Muffin – will think World War III has started in their own backyard.’

  ‘Which will serve the bastards right,’ said Yamada. ‘Can you believe the incredible arrogance, putting the man forward at all!’

  ‘We’d have screwed them whoever their man was,’ reminded Fredericks. ‘Charlie Muffin just makes it that much sweeter.’

  ‘Me!’ demanded Elliott, with sudden urgency. ‘When it happens, I want to be the one who fixes the son of a bitch: who teaches him a lesson!’

  Fredericks recognized that Elliott was a worrying weakness, someone whose objective balance could not be trusted in a moment of absolute crisis. ‘We’ll see,’ he said, avoiding any sort of commitment. ‘There’s so much that’s more important, initially, before we start concerning ourselves with side issues.’

  ‘I don’t regard settling things with Charlie Muffin as a side issue,’ disputed Elliott, who saw retribution as the surest way to impress those grey-suited, anonymous men at Langley upon whom promotion always depended. ‘We lost a lot of face and a lot of people over that man. He can’t be allowed to escape, not a second time.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ reiterated Fredericks. He would have to take care that this man did not become a difficulty. There were already too many uncertainties as it was.

  The Shiba Park is conveniently close to the Soviet embassy so the contact was arranged there. Although the meeting was flexible, for Irena’s benefit, she was still later than the time they had estimated. Kozlov showed no impatience, either while he waited near the Tokyo Tower, with its added radio mast to make it taller (and therefore marginally better) than the Paris Eiffel Towel of which it is an exact copy, or when she actually entered the recreation area. He did not approach her even then, and she made no attempt to make directly for him, either. Instead she walked with apparent casualness along a perimeter pathway intentionally chosen to take her a long time to reach him, enabling Kozlov to seek any pursuit for which he knew she would have already checked, at least six times since leaving the Soviet enclave. Kozlov was actually against one of the struts of the tower, confident he was completely concealed, because they had rehearsed and ensured that, too. It was a hot evening and the park was crowded – another advantage – but Kozlov was sure no one who came in after his wife was following her. Still he waited, not breaking the arranged pattern, remaining intent upon those behind her in case the followers – either American or fellow Russian – were as professional as he considered himself to be. It was unlikely but still possible. Still nothing. Waiting for Irena to complete the prepared route, Kozlov allowed himself a brief, satisfied smile. Today had been unsettling, a minor hiccup, but he was still absolutely in charge and in control of everything. It was a comforting feeling. It was going to work brilliantly, as he’d always planned that it should.

  Irena showed no recognition when she reached the base of the tower, waiting for Kozlov’s approach to signal they weren’t under any observation, and positioning herself against a concealing strut as an added precaution. When he eventually approached she said, unsmiling: ‘Well?’

  ‘You’re clear,’ he said.

  ‘I already knew that,’ she said, the confidence obvious. Irena Kozlov was altogether a big woman, prominent nosed, large featured, big busted, wide hipped and much taller than her husband. She wore her hair strained back in a severe bun, and because of her size it was difficult for her to buy clothes in small-statured Japan. Those she had on today had been bought during their first posting together, in Bonn, and were worn in preference to anything Russian against the unlikely but still remote possibility of their being identified as coming from the Soviet Union.

  ‘Was I monitored?’ he said.

  ‘Every time,’ confirmed Irena, who had been her husband’s protector in the three meeting places at Kamakura that Art Fredericks visited that day. ‘They weren’t very impressive, any of them. I took photographs of all three and compared them for confirmation back at the embassy, against the picture files we have of American diplomatic personnel. The man at Meigetsu-In is named Harry Fish, at Enno-Ji it was someone called Levine and during the meeting it was Samuel Dale …’ The woman paused. ‘We didn’t have Dale positively identified as CIA, incidently. So everything can be justified to Moscow quite properly. Is everything arranged?’

  Kozlov shook his head, abbreviating the purpose of Fredericks’ summons, looking not at his wife but beyond her, still checking the park.

  ‘Today it was to be settled!’ complained Irena, at once.

  ‘I threatened to call everything off, to withdraw.’ Kozlov looked toward her. ‘Frightened the silly man to death.’

  ‘They are trying to trick us!’ she insisted.

  Kozlov shook his head again. ‘I was expecting it,’ he said. ‘It was something they had to attempt.’

  ‘Why didn’t they take you seriously, from the beginning!’

  ‘They do now,’ insisted Kozlov. ‘It’s good they only put one man in each place, to protect Fredericks. I was nervous of a commando squad.’

  ‘There’s been no warning, from Hayashi at the airport.’

  ‘They could have arrived by commercial airline, not necessarily military.’

  ‘You’ve briefed Hayashi?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anything military, British or American.’

  ‘We always chose public places, to avoid a snatch,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Did the man Dale take any photographs?’

  ‘No,’ said Irena. ‘Pure surveillance. Not particularly good, either.’

  ‘He couldn’t have identified you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said, annoyed at the suggestion. ‘I tagged on to a party of Americans, as if I needed the translation. Dale actually spoke to two men, within a few feet of me.’

  ‘No one followed me out,’ said Kozlov. The statement was faintly questioning, because he had been alert.

  ‘He left with me, while you were in the souvenir shop!’

  Kozlov shook his head in disbelief and then, reminded, said: ‘I bought you a present. There’ll be something better, later.’

  Irena took the key-ring, smiling down at her husband for the first time. ‘There’s a lot I want, when we get to the West.’

  ‘There won’t be any more stupidity, like today,’ promised Kozlov. ‘Fredericks was really frightened.’

  ‘I wonder if the British will be more professional?’ said the woman.

  At that moment Charlie Muffin approached the bar in the departure lounge of London airport, £800 o
f travellers’ cheques comfortably fat in his wallet and £200 in cash even more comfortably bulging his trouser pocket. There wasn’t any Islay Malt so he chose Glenlivet, peeling off the first of the notes that Harkness had failed to stop him getting and knowing the drink would taste all the better because of it. And not just because of the £1000. Aware of how the clerks gossiped—despite the supposed restriction of the Official Secrets Act – Charlie had allowed exactly twelve hours for the word to circulate before demanding a First Class ticket. And got it because the permanent mandarins had been too shit-scared to query the authority.

  ‘Going far, sir?’ asked the barman, the perpetually polite question.

  ‘As far as I can go,’ said Charlie.

  Chapter Three

  Adapting the When in Rome principle, Charlie took a Suntory whisky from the room bar and carried it to the window, gazing out over Tokyo. He was high in the tower block of the New Otani and he decided it was a pretty good pub: a vast, sprawling place with a concealing people-packed shopping complex and more entrances and exits than he’d so far had time to work out. Which he would, of course. First of the Charlie Muffin Survival Rules was always secure an escape route, before discovering what it was necessary to escape from. The early evening lights were coming on and ironically using as a landmark the Tokyo Tower beneath which the Kozlovs had earlier met, Charlie worked out the positioning of the port and then, closer, the embassy section of the Japanese capital. Minimal use, Charlie remembered. OK, so if it were important to protect the embassy, it was important to protect himself. Doubly so. The CIA would have moved a bloody army in by now, tanks, rocket boosters and all. Naive then to expect him to operate without someone watching his back. On a suspect list for charging for non-existent informants! Charlie snorted, in loud derision. Harry Lu was a damned good agent who’d worked Asia for twenty years as a contract freelance without even the scant protection of a Foreign Office or embassy: probably forgotten more about intelligence than Harkness had ever learned. Bloody daft, not to use him: too late to call Hong Kong, but he’d do it first thing tomorrow, to open up a line of communication. Be good to see Harry again: good drinker, Harry Lu. Reminded, Charlie helped himself to another miniature bottle of local whisky, coming to more immediate considerations. Getting literally to know the ins and outs of the hotel was the initial priority. See what the bars looked like, maybe. Then an early night, for tomorrow’s meeting with an American named Art Fredericks: certainly didn’t want to eat again, after all that First Class grub on the plane. Charlie smiled happily at the thought of Harkness’s reaction. Serve the parsimonious bugger right.

  Charlie took the elevator to explore the garden lounge area on the main floor. It was packed with intense never-say-no Japanese exchanging business cards in place of handshakes, anxious to sell a computer and a car to everyone in the world. Charlie checked out the foyer and then returned to the secondary elevators serving the shopping floors. He went down to the ground level and wandered around, feigning interest in the stores, and then did the same on the four remaining floors before he got back to the main hotel area, recording the service stairs and then the fire escape feeding each. A right little rabbit warren, Charlie judged; it had been a good choice.

  On the first walk-through reconnaissance Charlie had noted the piano bar. A nightcap, he decided: perhaps two. It would, after all, be the last time he could relax for he didn’t know how long. He was offered a seat at the bar but refused, preferring a table with a better view of the room and more importantly the door. He stayed with Suntory, which didn’t compare in any way with single malt but wasn’t bad, looking casually around. There were two Japanese girls seemingly by themselves at the bar and a European sitting alone at a table. He caught the eye of the girl at the table and smiled and she half smiled back. A pleasant end to a pleasant day? It was an attractive thought, but Charlie decided against it. He couldn’t afford any encumbrances. The reflection led naturally to his reason for being there. What would Irena Kozlov be like? he wondered. Not that he was considering the Russian as he was considering the still hopefully smiling girl a few tables away, of course. Never mixed business with pleasure; well, not often, anyway. And definitely not this time. Too much he still didn’t understand or know, and he didn’t intend to try to find it out between the sheets: keep the best friend firmly zipped. He’d never brought a woman defector across before. He wondered if he would this time; be satisfied, Wilson had said. And Charlie was determined to be just that, as satisfied as he could possibly be before putting even a usually aching toe into the water. Hell of a catch, if it were genuine.

  Predominantly because of his size, Charlie was particularly conscious of the man’s entry into the bar, before he directly approached the table. He stood with hair-matted hands against the back of the empty chair and said: ‘Charlie Muffin?’

  ‘Sorry,’ denied Charlie, instinctively protective. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said the man, heavily. ‘We checked you off the plane at Haneda, followed you here, saw you book into room 1015 and covered you every step of the way while you cased the hotel. Which was the first remotely professional thing you did since arriving …’ Uninvited he sat with difficulty in the small chair and said: ‘I’m Art Fredericks.’

  Shit, thought Charlie. It had been unprofessional, not troubling to clear his path from the moment of arrival. Trying to recover, Charlie stared obviously around the crowded bar. Fredericks saw the look and smiled at the attempt. Nodding to the piano area, where a small bass, guitar and drums group had replaced the single pianist who had been performing when Charlie first entered, the American said: ‘The music overlays any listening device. They always come on at eight; that’s why I waited until now.’

  Shit again, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Very textbook.’

  ‘No,’ said Fredericks, disdaining the mockery. ‘Properly done – the way it should be. And always is.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Charlie, foundering and knowing it. ‘I wouldn’t like to be involved in anything amateur.’

  ‘Neither would I,’ said Fredericks. ‘That’s why I’m worried. So far I’m not very impressed.’

  A waiter hovered and Fredericks said: ‘Club soda, with ice.’ The man looked enquiringly at Charlie who nodded for another whisky. Charlie finished the one he had and said to the American: ‘You want to know something! I couldn’t give a fuck whether I impress you or not. That’s not what I’m here for.’

  ‘I know why you’re here because I started all this,’ said Fredericks. ‘And if you screw up then the whole thing becomes a disaster. So I need to be impressed.’

  ‘So do I,’ fought back Charlie. ‘I’m not yet convinced that this is a big deal; is anything at all. So I need convincing, about a lot of things.’

  ‘I’ve had four meetings,’ said Fredericks. ‘It looks right to me. Every way.’

  Both men pulled back for the drinks to be served. When the waiter left, Charlie said: ‘You made any arrangements for me?’

  Fredericks stopped with his glass halfway to his lips, frowning. ‘Arrangements for what?’

  ‘To meet Kozlov. And the woman.’

  Fredericks put down the glass, without drinking. ‘It obviously hasn’t been properly explained to you,’ he said, patiently. ‘Kozlov is ours. You’re babysitting the woman.’

  Thank Christ the chance had come, thought Charlie. He said: ‘I thought I was getting a lecture on professionalism from a professional.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded the American.

  ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I go into this without seeing the man himself … assessing things for myself. Without seeing the woman, too … come on, Sunshine!’ Although the bar was dark, Charlie was aware of the pinpricks of colour on the man’s face, showing the anger. Charlie was glad he’d finally managed to unsettle the American.

  ‘This is our show,’ insisted Fredericks. ‘He came to us. He stays with us. You get the woman. I’ll tell y
ou where and when.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Charlie.

  ‘What’s bollocks?’

  ‘You. The operation. Everything,’ said Charlie. He sighed, drinking deeply from his glass. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I really enjoy Japan. Would have liked it to have lasted longer.’

  ‘You want to say something, why don’t you say it straight out?’ said Fredericks.

  ‘Sure,’ said Charlie. ‘The British just withdrew.’

  Charlie spoke intent upon the other man, alert for the signs, and he saw them. If there had been any other way of getting the Kozlovs out, Washington would not have approached London. So the fact that Fredericks was meeting him – within hours of arrival, and trying to impose himself as the controller from the world go – meant not only that the British participation was essential but that the Americans were desperate for it.

  ‘You haven’t got the authority to withdraw,’ challenged Fredericks.

  ‘I have,’ said Charlie. ‘And that’s what I’ve just done …’ Dismissively, the action of someone bringing an encounter to a close with a gesture of politeness, Charlie said: ‘Would you like another drink? Maybe something stronger? I’m going to have the last one.’ As he turned to catch the waiter, Charlie saw that the smiling girl on the adjoining table was deep in conversation with a blonde-haired man who used his hands a lot when he spoke. Lucky bugger, Charlie thought: she looked like she might have been a goer.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded Fredericks.

  ‘I thought I told you,’ said Charlie. ‘I want to see Kozlov and satisfy myself. And then – myself, again not through you – I want to arrange a meeting with the woman and be satisfied about her, as well. And I want you and I to get together and go through everything you’ve done, from the very first moment of contact. And when I’m satisfied about that, we’ll start making plans …’

  The waiter’s return prevented Fredericks’ immediate reaction, which was probably fortunate. This time he ordered whisky – imported, not local – and when they were alone he said: ‘I know all about you: what you did. I don’t buy that crap, your getting even, for being set up. You cost us a director and your people a director. In my book, that makes you a traitor. I don’t know how – can’t believe how – you managed to convince your own people you’re loyal. You haven’t impressed us. We think you should have stayed in jail and rotted there …’ The drinks came and the American had to stop. ‘I did everything I could to stop your coming,’ resumed Fredericks. ‘I don’t want you to be a part of anything …’