See Charlie Run

by Brian Freemantle

  It was impressive bluster, but Charlie guessed he’d won. He said: ‘You got a point?’

  Fredericks’ face stiffened, realizing his early advantage had gone. Striving to regain it, he leaned across the table towards Charlie and said: ‘You listen and you listen good. We’ve got a hell of a file on you so I know all about the act, too: the fuck-everybody-I’m-the-best routine. And I don’t buy that, either. You’re a jumped-up jerk and if you try anything clever – anything at all – it’s going to be your ass. That’s a personal promise. You understand?’

  He’s a big bastard, thought Charlie, letting the silence grow between them: probably thinks he could do it. Charlie said: TU be careful crossing roads.’

  Fredericks’ face grew taut once more, at the open mockery. ‘Yes,’ he said, with soft-voiced sincerity: ‘You be very careful.’

  ‘Haven’t we sidetracked a little?’ It was good to be in control, Charlie thought. It had definitely been careless, earlier, though. He promised himself he wouldn’t make another mistake like that: he couldn’t afford to.

  ‘What?’ demanded Fredericks.

  ‘You’ve got a contact procedure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Use it, to set a meeting up for me. Alone.’

  Fredericks shifted, uncomfortable at Kozlov’s reaction the last time. He said: ‘He expects the crossing details at the next meeting.’

  ‘Before anyone’s met the woman!’ jeered Charlie. ‘You just answered a question. The guy’s not professional and the whole thing is a load of balls. No one in their right mids would move, at this stage. He should know that. So should you.’

  Fredericks was sweating, angry at being so easily exposed. He said: ‘He’s frightened. Wants things to happen as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I’m frightened,’ said Charlie. ‘Too frightened to move things more quickly than they should be moved.’

  ‘He’s very cautious, too,’ said the American. ‘I’m his contact. He won’t make a rendezvous with anyone else.’

  ‘Meet him first then,’ agreed Charlie. ‘Tell him the reason. I won’t come in, to scare him away, until I get the signal from you.’

  Fredericks controlled any expression of satisfaction. It would mean that he would be present throughout the entire encounter: that the son-of-a-bitch couldn’t try anything smart. ‘You won’t go ahead, without a meeting?’ said Fredericks, as if the agreement were being forced reluctantly from him.

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Charlie, positively.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Fredericks. ‘It’ll take a day or two.’

  ‘So there’ll be time for you fully to brief me, on everything that’s happened so far?’ said Charlie.

  Fredericks just succeeded in biting back the go-to-hell refusal that came automatically to mind. ‘Sure,’ he said, instead.

  Later, back at the tower block window and looking out over the now lit-up Tokyo, Charlie decided it hadn’t been bad, after all. Not as good as it should have been, of course, but still not bad. He’d made a good enough recovery and recognized sufficiently early that Fredericks was over-confident and been able to use it, against the man. There was always the danger that Fredericks would review everything that had been said and promised and realize the mistakes he’d made, but Charlie didn’t think so. The American attitude at how he’d screwed their director was inevitable, Charlie supposed. It had been another mistake of Fredericks, making it as obvious as he had. It meant, reflected Charlie, that he’d had good early warning. Which was always a bonus.

  ‘You were lucky, Charlie: bloody lucky,’ he said, to his own flop-haired, loose-tied reflection. He hoped he stayed that way.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ exploded Levine, when Fredericks finished the account to the assembled CIA team. ‘What the hell does he think he’s doing, running the operation!’

  It hadn’t been posed as that sort of question, but Fredericks paused before responding and then said: ‘Yes. I guess that’s exactly what he thinks. Or wants to do.’

  ‘Tell him to go kiss ass,’ said Elliott. ‘This thing is going to fuck up and it’s going to fuck up over Charlie Muffin.’

  ‘I’d have argued the same way as he did, in the same circumstances,’ said Yamada, more reasonably. ‘I wouldn’t take second string in a British set-up, not without trying to make some sort of independent assessment.’

  ‘From the sloppy way he behaved when he arrived today, I’m surprised he thought of it,’ said Levine.

  ‘Sloppy is a good word,’ said Fish, who had been the airport surveillance. ‘I’ve seen bag women on 42nd Street in better shape than he’s in.’

  ‘Think he meant it, about pulling out?’ asked Dale. ‘We’d be in bad shape if he did. Don’t forget what Kozlov said.’

  Fredericks looked irritably at the man, not needing any reminder. ‘I think he meant it,’ he said. ‘What I don’t know is if he’s got the authority. Which is why I’m checking. Be great, to slap the cocky bastard into line.’

  Harkness handed the Director the enquiry that had come from Langley and said: ‘That’s directly contrary to what you insisted. There had to be communication between us, before he considered an abort. He hasn’t even been in contact with our embassy. I’ve checked.’

  ‘I know what I said,’ smiled Wilson. That morning he’d brought some Anne Cocker floribunda from the garden in Hampshire. He took one of the roses from the vase on his desk, sniffing it reflectively. ‘Charlie’s only been in Tokyo a matter of hours,’ he said. ‘That’s not enough time for anyone to decide whether to abort or nor. He’s bargaining.’

  ‘He should have made contact,’ insisted Harkness.

  ‘Maybe the circumstances didn’t allow it,’ said Wilson.

  ‘Shall I advise Langley he hasn’t got the authority?’

  ‘Good God, no!’ said Wilson, hurriedly. ‘Tell them he has.’

  ‘But that’s …’

  ‘Backing our man in the field,’ finished Wilson.

  ‘There are some other things I’d like to discuss with you,’ said Harkness, starting to open Charlie’s accounts file he’d brought with him to the Director’s office.

  ‘Later,’ said Wilson. ‘Not now.’

  The deputy director decided he had been right in alerting Cartright.

  Chapter Four

  Not having to pay for his own laundry was a perk of foreign travel. Charlie included for pressing the more creased of his two suits – the one that had been a give-away bargain in the January sales with the green check in the trousers only slightly different from that in the jacket – and gave himself odds of 6-4 that Harkness would knock it off his expenses. Charlie was still pissed off, getting caught out the previous evening. Only temporary, he thought, a private promise to himself.

  He left unhurriedly, increasing his pace immediately outside, going at once to the lifts serving the shopping area. He managed to get himself into the corner with his back to the wall, enabling him to see everyone who entered after him. Three Asian men, a Caucasian couple and a man by himself, Charlie noted. The single man disembarked on the first floor and two more Japanese got in after another couple talking animatedly in what Charlie thought to be German, but wasn’t sure. The new arrivals filled the elevator, so the grouping stayed until it reached the ground floor. Charlie made as if to emerge, behind everyone else, but then mimed the pocket-patting charade of someone who had forgotten something and stepped back into the lift, to return to the hotel level. One of the Asians who had travelled down with him just managed to get back in with the freshly entering group. Gotcha! thought Charlie. Back at the hotel level, he went directly to the long, open-lounge bordering corridor, towards the main exit, stopping abruptly to feign interest in the antique shop at the end. His pursuer was trapped in the middle of the walkway. The man still made the effort, halting like Charlie at one of the arcade shops. You’re dead, cowboy, thought Charlie. He went further on towards the main area, wondering if there was any more surveillance.

  As
the taxi went towards the Ginza, Charlie decided Tokyo was a city full up with people and tight-together houses. It was the uncertain time, sticky with rainy-season heat. Although it was dry at the moment, everyone carried condom-sheathed umbrellas that by an ingenuity of engineering bloomed into the real thing at the first shower.

  Charlie sat with his money ready, isolating the Akasaka Mitsuke Underground station as the car went beneath the elevated roadway and glad of the clog of traffic. He waited until the cab was practically alongside before stopping the driver, gesturing with supposed impatience at the traffic delay and thrusting notes into the man’s hand. The impression of a full-up city was greater in the subway, and as well as the people noise there was the crickets-in-the-bushes clatter of the passenger counters at the barriers. He chose a train already at the platform, not trying to check for pursuit until he was actually on board. As the doors closed, Charlie thought that if he had £I for every time he’d used tube trains to lose a tail he could afford his own personal chiropodist. Charlie knew it would be difficult for him to spot his follower in a crowded situation of many Japanese, which was why he’d taken particular care. The man in the lift had been wearing a grey suit, muted tie, white shirt, with neither hat, topcoat nor spectacles. The mistake had been the shoes – a subject frequently on Charlie’s mind – black and polished so highly they could have been made of some plastic material. Four men nearby matched the description, except for their footwear. Charlie moved slightly and found his man at the far end of the carriage. By studying the colour coding chart, Charlie worked out that he was on the Yurakucho line; when the train hissed into Aoyama-Itchome station he realized he was going the wrong way, with too many intermediary stops. Charlie did not immediately disembark at Omatesando, wanting as many people as possible to clear ahead of him. He slipped through the closing doors as the warning bell sounded, hurrying towards the sign for the Hanazomon line, but at the last moment switching to Toei Shinjuku. He was lucky with a waiting train again and ran on. He was sweating and his ribs hurt, from having to hurry. He looked around the carriage, intent upon the feet. There was one man again at the end of the carriage who qualified, but he got off at Akasaka and Charlie reckoned it was looking good. He made another delayed departure at Hibaya, caught the first train and got off at the next stop, at Ginza. He ran up the stairs, breath groaning from him, and plunged at once into the man-wide labyrinth of paths and alleys behind the main streets, stopping frequently now, openly seeking the pursuit. There wasn’t any, but Charlie still wasn’t satisfied. He kept twisting and turning, managing to reach the larger Miyukidori Street entirely by back alleys. He remained drawn back, until he saw an unoccupied, cruising taxi, emerging to hail it at the moment of passing.

  Charlie gave the location of the British embassy and sat back gratefully, wet-bodied and panting, against the upholstery. Maybe he was getting too old for all this Action Man stuff; then again, perhaps he should exercise with something heavier than a whisky glass in his hand. He saw the driver was taking him the longer way, through Marunouchi and around the park, but didn’t protest; after all the buggering about, he needed time to get his breath back.

  Charlie went patiently through the identification procedure at the embassy and sat where he was told by the crisply efficient receptionist, who didn’t respond to his grin. Crabby old virgin, dismissed Charlie. Couldn’t be many left: veritable museum piece.

  Richard Cartright was a thin, well tailored man whom Charlie estimated to be about thirty. There was an attempt at extra years with a thin moustache, which didn’t work and an obvious Eton tie, which always did. Charlie had tried it once but got caught out before lunch: during his early, inverted snobbery days. Cartright gave an open-faced smile, offered his hand.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said Cartright. There’s been some traffic.’ Charlie Muffin was certainly an odd-looking cove.

  Thought there might be,’ said Charlie.

  He followed the younger man into the rear of the embassy, where the sectioned-off, secure intelligence area was kept at arm’s if not pole’s length by the rest of the diplomatic staff. Over the door to Cartright’s office were some charm bells to ward off evil spirits, and there was a bonsai arrangement of miniature trees on the window shelf. The furniture was better than London and the carpet was genuine, Charlie saw. He hoped the charm bells worked.

  ‘Minimum involvement, I gather?’ said Cartright, at once.

  ‘For the usual reasons,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Nasty then?’

  The man should know better than to question, thought Charlie. ‘Could be,’ he said.

  ‘Ready to do anything I can,’ offered Cartright.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ said Charlie. ‘What was your guidance from London?’

  Cartright indicated the prepared and waiting dossier. ‘Always necessary to obtain clearance.’

  Harkness, guessed Charlie. He said: ‘I want a blank British passport, picture slot and nameplace empty.’

  Cartright made a sucking noise, breathing in. ‘Means involving a recognized diplomatic department of the embassy,’ he said. ‘No one likes that. Why didn’t you bring one from London?’

  Because it didn’t occur to me until I was on the plane and thinking of all the possible ways of getting her out, thought Charlie. ‘Couldn’t do it for me as a favour, I suppose?’

  Precisely the sort of thing Harkness had alerted him to report, realized Cartright. He didn’t like spying on his own side. He said: ‘Not without London finding out. Have to be Foreign Office clearance. You know what they’re like about official documents.’

  ‘Don’t I just!’ said Charlie. He wondered if that security complaint had been squashed or merely postponed.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the Tokyo Resident.

  ‘Not your fault,’ accepted Charlie. It was actually unfair to ask the man.

  ‘Sensitive?’ asked Cartright.

  ‘What?’ replied Charlie, intentionally misunderstanding.

  ‘Whoever you’re getting out?’ Harkness’s instructions were to test the other man. Dislike it as he might, Cartright saw himself as someone trying to establish a career, and if he were going to do that it required a ruthlessness beyond his upbringing scruples.

  Nosey bugger or primed? wondered Charlie. In fairness, he supposed the passport request made it obvious. Still wrong; wrong to ask and wrong to respond at any length. He said: ‘Could be.’

  Cartright noted the reservation and felt embarrassed. Trying to cover the awkwardness, he said: ‘I could ask London about a passport issue. Ambassador won’t like it, I should warn you. He doesn’t believe decent chaps read other chaps’ mail and actually uses words like rotter. He’d have to be consulted, of course.’ If he did it that way he would have complied with the orders from London and still not betrayed a colleague.

  ‘Do you know the American head of station?’

  ‘Art Fredericks,’ identified Cartright, at once. ‘Met him a few times at embassy things … receptions, stuff like that.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Huge man …’ began Cartright, but Charlie said: ‘I meant as a person.’

  ‘Came here six months after me,’ started Cartright again, pausing momentarily for the calculation. ‘Just over three years then. Takes part in most of the sports events the US embassy puts on. Word is that he’s ambitious.’

  ‘What’s the full CIA complement here?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Three, including him,’ said Cartright, at once.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive. I like to know the competition, even if it’s friendly.’

  ‘Is it friendly?’ demanded Charlie.

  ‘Amicable,’ said Cartright, in qualification. ‘Depends if they’re asking or telling.’

  Charlie realized he was lucky that Cartright was so certain of the CIA staffing: it gave him a figure to work from, when it came to calculating the opposition he was facing. ‘What if they’re telling?’ pressed Charlie.

  �
��Not easy,’ said Cartright, quickly again.

  Which made the Kozlov operation like he imagined it to be, bloody difficult. He said: ‘Any other names, apart from Fredericks?’

  ‘Harry Fish and Winslow Elliott,’ said Cartright. ‘Fish is a nice enough guy but Elliott seems upset he was too late to wear a six gun and ride off into the Wild West sunset.’

  ‘So the Agency is the next best thing?’ said Charlie. Like Cartright, Charlie liked knowing as much as he could about competition, friendly or otherwise.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Cartright. ‘They going to be with you or against you?’

  It was another intelligent if rather obvious question, after the passport request, but Charlie had the impression it was more than a surface query. He said: ‘At the moment, I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘Joint operation: something big then?’

  The persistence definitely showed the knowledge of some pre-briefing, Charlie decided. Wilson or Harkness? Despite the attempt at fairness, Charlie reckoned the answer was obvious. If he could prove that, after the security classification, he’d have some ammunition in the battle against the polished and buffed asshole. ‘Too soon to judge yet,’ he said, generally. He wondered if Cartright would withhold messages and keep a time sheet on him.

  ‘How about the traffic?’ offered Cartright.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Charlie, accepting the dossier.

  The London transmissions were very brief, which was hardly surprising at this stage, just the original and strictly formal notification of his coming, the instruction that any local assistance had first to be cleared by either the Director or deputy and a query whether or not he had reported in, upon arrival. The messages about London authorization and the arrival query were both signed by Harkness. Charlie wondered where the second batch of messages was, briefing Cartright on what to do.