“What chance is there of it all being kept under wraps?” asked Straughan.
“Something else I can’t tell you.”
“What I was—” started Straughan.
“Wait a minute,” stopped Painter. “There’s something coming in on the news wires.” There was a moment’s silence. “Shit!”
“What?” demanded Straughan.
“It’s an official release on Agence France-Presse. It says two Britons have been detained on suspicion of kidnapping two Russian nationals. Other Britons have been held at Orly, along with an aircraft suspected to be part of the same attempt.”
* * *
Rebecca Street remained in the communications room, where there were better facilities for Straughan to participate in the conference call, peremptorily breaking across Monsford’s announcement of his arrival. “You’re already at the house?”
“Of course I am. Where are Elana and the boy?”
“That’s why I’m calling you. It’s bad.”
The equipment was so finely adjusted that it was possible over Rebecca’s succinct explanation to hear Monsford’s increasingly labored breathing, which was scarcely less difficult than Paul Painter’s, earlier. There was no immediate response when she finished. Finally Rebecca said: “Are you there? Did you hear what I’ve told you?”
“How…? I mean, why…? Kidnap’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve told you all we know,” said the woman, smiling as she pushed a note across the desk to the operations director that read: “My £10 to your £5 he’ll give us Shakespeare’s wisdom.”
“I can’t stay here … need to get back to London. There’ll be calls.… Downing Street. You come down here to take over … you and Straughan.…”
“I can’t move from here,” refused Straughan. “There’s got to be a coordinator. I’m keeping the line permanently open to Paris. And I’m still waiting to speak to Jacobson.”
“Bland’s already telephoned twice: Aubrey Smith’s been on once,” picked up Rebecca, the smile widening. “You’re to make contact with Bland as soon as I’ve located you. I need to stay here, where everything’s being channeled, to field it all.”
“Jacobson!” seized the man. “Where’s Jacobson and Radtsic!”
“The plane’s just landed: it’s still taxiing,” said Straughan. “I got a message through during the flight, telling Jacobson to ring me the moment he gets off.”
“Jacobson’s to stay with Radtsic: that was always the plan. Jacobson and the others are to bring Radtsic here. I’m leaving right now.”
“What shall I tell Bland or Palmer or Smith?” asked Rebecca.
“Don’t tell anyone anything!” The words came out in a near shout, which Monsford realized. More controlled, he went on: “Tell them you got me but I’m in a bad cell-phone-reception area but that I’m on my way back. I want everything up-to-date and waiting for me on my desk.”
“Everything will be ready.”
“‘This was an ill beginning of the night,’” quoted Monsford, at last.
“He’s shitting himself,” Rebecca told Straughan, when the call ended.
“With every reason,” said Straughan.
“But we’re ring fenced.” She smiled, picking up Straughan’s five-pound note as well as crumpling her wager note. “I think I should have what’s recorded so far.”
“I’ll run it through, make sure it’s all okay,” said Straughan. And after making his copy, ensure he took out additional insurance, he decided.
In Moscow, Charlie Muffin was surprised at the quickness of Natalia’s response until she said: “Something’s broken. I can’t talk now.”
“Eight tonight at the restaurant we used in the beginning, behind the gardens,” Charlie managed, before Natalia put the phone down. He’d have to wait for at least six hours to discover what it was, Charlie estimated. It wouldn’t take him that long to complete the shopping he needed.
24
As it was, Charlie didn’t have to wait that long at all.
He checked out of the Mira hotel, moving south to the student transient anonymity of the Moscow university district with the Komsomolskaya Metro and its pursuit-evading convenience of two major subway routes. The Galaxy Hotel was a considerable improvement upon the Mira, due chiefly to the bedroom television with a CNN channel upon which, within half an hour, he saw the breaking-news flash of the French autoroute arrests and Orly plane impoundment. Charlie sat unmoving through two repeats, the last update of which confirmed that the alleged kidnap victims were Russian and that documentation upon the two detained Britons indicated diplomatic connections.
Charlie’s immediate speculation was the extent to which he could stretch what little there was to gain more from David Halliday. Not much, was the objective conclusion: scarcely anything at all, under the closest examination. His best, maybe only, hope was to lure Halliday into conjuring more ghosts from his fear-clouded mind. Charlie was encouraged by the audible uncertainty in Halliday’s voice as the man grabbed up the rezidentura phone. To increase it, Charlie said: “Not such a clean job after all, was it, David?”
“I’m not responsible for any of it! How could I be!” gabbled Halliday.
The satisfaction moved through Charlie. “You tell me.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with the French end,” Halliday continued to protest.
“That’s how it is when things fuck up. Don’t forget scapegoats and fall guys.”
“Not this time,” insisted the other man, in weak defiance. “They try to stitch me into this, I’m going to demand an internal inquiry to prove I can’t be held responsible.”
So far, so good, judged Charlie: not just good, 100 percent better than he’d expected. But it would take only one misplaced word. “How can they stitch you into it, if you didn’t know about France?”
“That’s the question I asked Straughan.”
“What was his answer it?”
“He couldn’t answer it, not properly. Said he wasn’t accusing me of anything: that he just wanted to know how much Jacobson told me about Radtsic.”
Who the fuck was Radtsic? Wrong question, Charlie instantly corrected himself. It was obvious who Radtsic was. And even more obvious, from Natalia’s telephone reaction, was the man’s occupation if not his actual rank within it until the departure of British Airways 9:30 flight that morning to London. And Halliday had lied, insisting he didn’t know the defector’s identity. What more was there to squeeze out of the man? “How much did Jacobson tell you about Radtsic?”
There was an abrupt silence. After what Charlie estimated was minutes, Halliday said: “You’re part of the stitch-up, now it’s all gone wrong. You just referred to Radtsic by name! Earlier you told me you didn’t know who we were getting out!”
“I didn’t know until you mentioned it less than five minutes ago.”
“I didn’t mention a name,” rejected Halliday.
“‘He just wanted to know how much Jacobson told me about Radtsic,’” quoted Charlie. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”
Once more Halliday didn’t reply. Charlie didn’t prompt.
“I don’t trust you,” eventually declared the MI6 man, close to his usual petulance.
“I never asked nor expected you to trust me,” reminded Charlie. “You proved that, not telling me until now that Radtsic was the extraction.”
“I didn’t know the name, not until London began the inquest,” implored Halliday.
Professionally the man was a disaster, Charlie decided once more. If Halliday had ever undergone hostile interrogation he would within minutes have disclosed the identities of every agent and every secret he’d ever known, up to and including the color of his grandfather’s underwear. “Tell me about Radtsic,” Charlie demanded.
“All I now know is that the extraction from here worked perfectly and that he’s already arrived in London. I don’t know if he’s been told about his wife and son.”
Halliday probably didn’t real
ize the amount of information he imparted every time he opened his mouth, for which, Charlie supposed, he should be grateful. “What is Radtsic within the FSB?”
“The number two.”
Charlie said: “You know, don’t you, that the seizure’s public: been officially announced by the French.”
“How could I know, chained here in the rezidentura! It makes it easier to understand London’s panic.”
Don’t lose him, Charlie warned himself. “And should make it easier for you to understand the scapegoat hunt.”
“I told you they can’t blame me!”
“Chained to a desk in the rezidentura,” echoed Charlie. “Where Straughan didn’t even bother to tell you everything’s unraveling. What chance do you think you’ve got to prevent your balls being turned into a necklace?”
“I’ll insist on an official internal investigation if they try that!” repeated Halliday,
“Which they can refuse if they choose,” dismissed Charlie. “Don’t forget I was brought in as Radtsic’s diversion, which I refused to be and beat them. I’m still your best chance of beating them again if they try to set you up.”
“I won’t forget,” promised Halliday, dutifully. “And I’m sorry what I said about not trusting you.”
“Don’t be,” refused Charlie. “Just remember who’s your best guide out of this shit.”
“There’s so much I still don’t understand,” protested Halliday.
“There’s still a lot I don’t understand,” admitted Charlie. Chief among them being how, after his anonymous Malcolm Stoat tip that should have put the FSB on the highest alert, its defecting chief deputy passed unimpeded through Sheremetyevo airport while the MI6’s extraction of the man’s wife and son was intercepted by French intelligence.
* * *
“I’ve been trying to update you, but was told you couldn’t be reached,” said Straughan, as Monsford settled himself at his desk.
“My phone’s broken. You got everything ready for me, as I ordered,” said Monsford, leaning sideways to the Record button.
“All there in front of you,” indicated the operations director. “You want to read it or hear the bullet points?”
“Before you decide, there’s been seven more calls between Bland, Palmer, and Smith,” broke in Rebecca Street. “I told them you’d be back at four, which gives you thirty minutes to get updated. You’re to call Bland the moment you arrive here.”
Monsford hadn’t looked at his deputy as she talked but Straughan had and picked up the head shake that told him the Director hadn’t activated the apparatus. Impatiently, ignoring what Rebecca told him, Monsford said: “Give me the bullet points!”
“The French haven’t named Elana or Andrei, just described them as mother and son,” Straughan set out. “They’ve leaked a diplomatic connection for Miller and Abrahams. According to Bland there’s been a French demand for an explanation. The pilot and crew have been taken to Paris. It’s the lead item on every television and radio channel here and in France, as well as the Evening Standard here and every Paris evening newspaper. It’s also included in every television and radio newscast and print media, time differences allowing, throughout the European Union, and across America and Canada.”
“What about Russia?” demanded Monsford, hunched over the unread file.
“Nothing terrestrial or local-print yet: satellite will of course be available, most definitely our BBC World Service and CNN.”
“Bastards!” hissed Monsford, almost incoherently. “Bastards, bastards, bastards.”
At Monsford’s gesture for her to deny his presence, Rebecca picked up the demanding telephone, insisted Monsford still hadn’t returned, and promised the call would be returned the moment he did.
“Geoffrey Palmer,” she identified. “They’ve been told your cell phone is unreachable.”
“The circuit board’s buckled,” dismissed Monsford. “How did it leak to the French?”
“I haven’t been able to find out yet,” admitted the operations director. “Halliday denies Jacobson told him anything. It was a limited conversation with Jacobson, but he’s adamant he didn’t discuss anything with Halliday either. Jacobson thinks Radtsic made the phone call he’d forbidden the man to make to Elana, in Paris. That’s the line he’s going to take with Radtsic, when Radtsic discovers Elana and Andrei aren’t at the safe house. I obviously haven’t been able to talk to anyone in France, apart from Painter, but Andrei’s another potential source. We know the kid didn’t want to be part of it.…” Straughan indicated the ignored Rebecca. “We’ve talked about that possibility. There are several problems with it. It would have been far more likely for Andrei to have gone to his own people at the Russian embassy than to the French, wouldn’t it? It would have been more natural for the girl, Yvette, to do that, if Andrei told her what was going to happen. But that falls down, too. Neither Elana nor Andrei knew precisely where we were flying from: the ambush was in place on the Orly autoroute and there was a squad already at the airport itself, simultaneously, to impound the plane.”
“What about Charlie Muffin?”
Straughan frowned. “He was always the diversion. He didn’t know anything.”
“He’s a double: tricked us all. He’s gone over to the Russians!” Monsford insisted.
“Whether he has or hasn’t doesn’t affect this,” refused Straughan, ignoring Rebecca’s look. “Charlie Muffin didn’t know anything about Radtsic: if he had—and has gone over—the first thing he’d surely have done was stop Radtsic’s defection?”
“Charlie Muffin has to have had something to do with this!” persisted Monsford, his voice rising against their opposition.
“You’re going to be asked for a lot of explanations,” cautioned Rebecca.”They’ll need logical answers. It not logical to include Charlie Muffin in whatever’s gone wrong.”
“Whose side are you on!”
“That question isn’t logical, either,” rejected the woman. “We’re confronting a disaster from which we’re not going to escape with illogical accusations.”
Monsford looked between the two. “Other people knew.”
Rebecca broke the silence that followed. “I don’t understand that remark.”
“Who, outside this room, have either of you discussed Radtsic’s extraction with?”
“I have discussed the Radtsic extraction with no one outside this room and every discussion I have had within this room has been recorded on your personal system specifically installed for that purpose,” replied Rebecca, with stilted formality.
“Every discussion about the Radtsic extraction in which I have been involved within this room is on the same system,” matched Straughan. “Every discussion I have had outside this room, either from my own office or from the communication supervisor’s office, is similarly held on the equipment specifically installed for such purposes.”
“I hope I can believe you,” said Monsford.
“I hope you can believe me, too,” said Rebecca.
“As I also hope you can believe me,” said Straughan.
The jarring telephone broke this next silence and for several moments Monsfsord looked at it, once starting to look toward the woman. He finally lifted it, briefly listened, and said: “I have just this minute come into the building. I’ll be with you on time.”
“Do you want us to come with you?” asked Rebecca, as Monsford rose.
“No,” said the man.
“You’ve forgotten your briefing papers,” said Straughan.
“I don’t need them.”
Rebecca waited for several minutes after the door closed before saying: “He forgot his recording machine, too. But then he’d already done that by not turning it on.”
* * *
Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic physically rose from his chair as Jacobson talked. He remained standing, hunched forward as if worried at missing a single word, shaking his lowered head in disbelief.
“How…? You told me it was all arranged…
? Foolproof…”
“That’s what we’ve got to speak about. Sit down, Maxim Mikhailovich.”
Radtsic slumped down and looking questioningly from Jacobson to the three other escorts in the room. “A drink. I need a drink. Vodka.”
One of the unnamed men left the room. Radtsic pulled himself forward in his chair, making a physical effort to recover. “Tell me everything that happened.”
“You’ve heard all I know,” insisted Jacobson. “Now you’ve got to help us.”
“What can I tell you?” demanded the Russian, reaching out for the escort-offered vodka from a tray laden with ice and the remaining bottle. “You know it all: you’re supposed to be looking after me; after Elana and Andrei as well. That was our agreement.”
“In Moscow you told me you wanted to telephone Elana: tell her it was all finalized,” Jacobson spelled out, cautiously, his mind functioning on two levels. “And I—”
“Warned me against doing so,” interrupted Radtsic, holding out his empty glass.
“But did you?” demanded Jacobson, hoping for a startled admission.
Instead, Radtsic stretched out unseeingly for the new drink, but with his concentration entirely upon Jacobson. “Of course I didn’t!” he said, his voice no longer uncertain. “What you told me made obvious sense. The risk was too great.”
Unspeaking, Jacobson in turn held his concentration on the man, trying to prevent his mental focus going sideways to the nagging concern at his personal expectations.
“You don’t believe me!” accused Radtsic when Jacobson didn’t speak, his normal peremptory tone completely restored. “I did everything as you wanted: never allowed the slightest risk, not taking any chances. You’re the one, you and your people, who fucked up … who’ve got to sort it out … make it work as you assured me you would.”
Red Star Burning: A Thriller (Charlie Muffin Thrillers) Page 26
