Red Star Falling: A Thriller

by Brian Freemantle

  Radtsic was dressed as he’d invariably been from the moment of his defection approach to Jacobson at a French embassy reception. The heavy serge three-piece suit was complete with a collar and tie. Today, for the first time since that initial Moscow encounter, Radtsic was smoking a pipe instead of the chain-lighted cigarettes he’d favoured during their Moscow meetings and which now, with the thick, greying hair and moustache almost as fulsome as Jacobson’s, heightened the Russian’s uncanny resemblance to Stalin. Radtsic was slumped in a solitary easy chair carefully positioned to prevent anyone sitting close to him. Within reach from his chair was a substantial side table upon which were full bottles of whisky and vodka, with ice, water, and tumblers. One glass was separated from the others, near enough for Radtsic to reach without stretching. It was empty, with no obvious residue from it already having been used.

  ‘Good morning, Maxim Mikhailovich,’ greeted Jacobson. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘As well as I was yesterday and the day before that,’ awkwardly responded the Russian. The pipe’s pungency was overwhelming the scent from the flowers.

  Jacobson decided his association with the other man was sufficiently established for him not to suffer the shit the Russian was dumping on everyone else. It would also be satisfying to appear on sound-tracked film giving a better performance than Gerald Monsford. ‘We can provide anything Elena wants to eat, you know.’

  ‘What?’ Radtsic frowned, confused by the opening.

  ‘She hasn’t eaten breakfast.’

  ‘She doesn’t want breakfast: she wants Andrei,’ recovered the other man.

  ‘We’re making every diplomatic effort to get him here with you,’ insisted Jacobson, who had no idea what efforts were being made. ‘It’s Andrei who’s refusing to come: we can’t do anything about that.’

  ‘Arrange another two-way television conference so that I can persuade him.’

  ‘Persuade him or rant at him as you did the first time, so uncontrolled that the French cut the link? Which they now won’t restore.’ Jacobson tensed for an outburst to his bullying.

  ‘Why am I dealing with you, an underling? Where’s Monsford? I was promised I’d be dealing personally with the Director.’

  ‘No you weren’t,’ rejected Jacobson, surprised Radtsic had deferred to him. ‘You were promised you’d be personally welcomed by the Director. Which you were. Now you’re dealing with me, the underling who saved you from being purged by a country who’d decided you’d failed them. That failure wasn’t a factor then; getting you out was. But we can talk about it now, now that you’re safe. Why were you going to be purged as people were in the old days, Maxim Mikhailovich?’

  ‘I’ll co-operate, tell you all you want to know, when you get Andrei here. But not until then,’ avoided Radtsic, no longer dismissive.

  ‘You know what I’m really curious about, Maxim Mikhailovich?’ continued Jacobson, conversationally, satisfied with how the encounter was going. ‘I’m curious about that day on the Moskva River cruise when we were making your escape preparations: the time you told me you’d had nothing whatsoever to do with the FSB plan to get Stepan Lvov elected president and make a plaything of America, imagining he was the best spy they’d ever cultivated. How much did the Lvov affair have to do with your being purged?’

  ‘It’s exactly what I told you then,’ refused Radtsic, loudly. ‘I had no active part in the Lvov operation.’

  ‘That’s my point. All we’d ever talked about, up to that point, was getting you, Elena, and Andrei here. We hadn’t spoken about anything operational. Why, after a lifetime at the very top of Russian intelligence, did you suddenly deny involvement in an operation that had never been discussed between us?’

  ‘I didn’t—don’t—want to waste time upon things I don’t know about when I start co-operating.’

  ‘I want you to think very seriously indeed about co-operation. And I’d like us to start that co-operation as early as tomorrow,’ said Jacobson, on his way to the door, wondering how it looked on the television monitor.

  * * *

  Rebecca sensed the tension in Gerald Monsford, turning when she knew he was no longer looking at her. His head was bowed over the table, both hands outstretched before him but flat, not clenched. He withdrew them as he came up to stare directly across the table at Aubrey Smith.

  ‘It is going to be extremely difficult for me to respond to the situation we’re confronting,’ began the MI6 Director, inwardly fuming at the immediate smiling, head-bent exchange between Jane Ambersom and the MI5 Director-General. ‘At best I can only offer my briefest suggestion of what might have contributed to the airport tragedy. What I am going to tell you now might substantially change. It might even prove entirely unfounded.…’ He paused. ‘And you’ll understand, after what little I have to say, how much I’d welcome it being entirely unfounded: welcome being completely wrong.’

  The room was completely silent, unmoving.

  Monsford gestured farther along the table, to Bland and Palmer. ‘Omitted from the eloquently presented background to the activities of the last few weeks was something I now want to introduce.’

  Monsford cleared his throat, sipped some water. Rebecca no longer sensed the man’s earlier tension.

  ‘You’ve already been told of Muffin’s Vauxhall flat being burgled by three FSB agents,’ resumed Monsford. ‘Neither my MI5 colleagues opposite, nor ourselves at MI6, could understand how that was possible. There is no publicly available documentation from which an identity can be discovered.…’ The pause was longer this time. ‘There is, in fact, only one way Muffin’s correct name and address could have been obtained by the Russians: one that as Director of MI6 I am reluctant even now to confront but cannot ignore.…’

  Aubrey Smith was engaged in a hurried, note-shuffling exchange between Jane on one side and John Passmore on the other.

  Monsford’s gesture this time was to the empty chair beside him. ‘I imagine many of you are curious at this empty seat and of the identity of James Straughan, who should have been occupying it.…’ Monsford raised the nameplate, displaying it more visibly. ‘Until a week ago, James Straughan was the operations director of MI6, a man of outstanding ability and loyalty…’ there was a pause, ‘a man I believed, still want to believe, genuinely was someone of outstanding loyalty.’

  Across the table, Jane Ambersom was no longer scribbling notes. She was rigid with emotion in her chair, her eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Monsford.

  ‘A week ago James Straughan committed suicide,’ declared Monsford. ‘There was no note of explanation or excuse, no reason of which I am aware why he should have done such a thing. Because of the sensitivity of his function within MI6, coupled with an as-yet-unsubstantiated, anonymous allegation that MI6 contains a mole, a complete root and branch security sweep is currently under way within the service I head. Before coming here today I advised the head of that investigation of a conversation I had in the middle of last night with Stephan Briddle. He had no knowledge of the mole allegation or of the current investigation: he’d been in Moscow as part of Charles Muffin’s support team for almost three weeks.…’

  Monsford drank some water, gazing around the table, an actor’s preparation for his denouement speech. ‘In that conversation Briddle told me James Straughan was unsafe: that he had evidence of a disloyal cell to which David Halliday was also linked. Briddle believed Muffin, who’d spent long periods in Moscow and is, as you’ve been told, married to a high-ranking officer in the FSB, had some information pertinent to it. Briddle wanted to speak to Muffin before he left the country to find out what that information was. He said he’d call me within hours. We all know why he wasn’t able to—’

  ‘This is preposterous nonsense, all of it!’ exploded Jane Ambersom.

  ‘No-one would be happier, more relieved, than me for it all to be dismissed as exactly that, absolute and preposterous nonsense,’ said Monsford, finally turning to look at Rebecca, who was thinking that nothing would make her happier
, either, because she knew that what Monsford had told everyone in the room was precisely that, absolute and preposterous nonsense.

  * * *

  Monsford was sure he’d pushed back the immediate confrontation. Maybe not for long, maybe only for today, but the ceiling and walls were no longer crushing in on him, giving him more time to think. And to listen. That’s what he had to do now, listen and sift everything possible from the settling dust for specks that might strengthen the story he was trying to build.

  ‘Why are you rejecting the Director’s account so vehemently?’ Sir Archibald Bland demanded of Jane Ambersom.

  The woman was flushed, a combination of anger at Monsford’s accusation and embarrassment at losing control. ‘Until a comparatively short time ago I was the deputy director of MI6. As such I came to know James Straughan extremely well. He was someone of extraordinary ability. He was also someone of outstanding integrity and above all else of total loyalty who had become extremely concerned with the management and manner of operations within MI6. That was James Straughan’s burden: that and the strain of personally caring for a seriously ill mother. To suggest he was guilty of the slightest disloyalty, a spy, is not just nonsense, it is a total travesty.’

  Monsford was the first to fill the following silence. ‘It’s gratifying to hear one colleague defend another in such a spirited manner. But I would remind all of us here that the defence used a moment ago is virtually an historical echo of that used to dismiss the initial accusations of treason against Kim Philby and his deeply embedded cell of KGB spies—also within MI6—responsible for the assassinations of dozens of MI6 and CIA officers.’

  ‘Can we bring ourselves to the present and not dwell upon earlier MI6 failures, disastrous though they were,’ hurried in Aubrey Smith, anxious to subdue his deputy. ‘I do not believe at this stage, little more than hours after what’s happened in Moscow, that we can do more than formally open this enquiry, urgent though it is to provide some response to government demands.…’ Smith looked towards the secretariat. ‘To that end I want listed that I will call an MI5 eyewitness to the events at Vnukovo Airport. And also produce all audio, filmed, and written communication between MI5 and its officers in Moscow during this entire operation.…’ The pause now was more determined: concentrating totally upon Monsford, Smith said; ‘I would welcome the positive commitment from the MI6 Director that a full and matching disclosure will be provided by them.…’

  Monsford jerked up almost too theatrically, as if startled by the demand. ‘Of course I give that assurance. But there’s a difficulty. Regulations officially put materiel-release authority beyond me, resting during the internal security examination with those conducting it. That’s why I’ve already consulted with them about Straughan, instead of beginning the enquiry myself. It’s to the internal investigators that this committee has to make release requests.’

  Jane Ambersom thrust herself exasperatedly back in her seat, holding herself against another outburst.

  John Passmore said, ‘Without a cross-referencing overview from within MI6, that could take months and even then not assemble it all!’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ agreed Monsford, turning once more to Sir Archibald Bland. ‘I am meeting the investigators later today, though. Another recourse could be to suspend the regulations for me to provide that overview.’

  ‘Or me?’

  There was a further familiar silence. Monsford’s head snap was the first to bring the concentration upon Rebecca Street, who for the first time met the man’s gaze, smiling up. Monsford remained expressionless, going back to the room, ‘Or, of course, by my very able deputy.’

  Which she’d guarantee included Straughan’s protectively unedited digitally recorded version detailing the intended MI6 assassination of Charlie Muffin, Rebecca thought: the version Straughan had left for her to find. She’d be walking a fraying tightrope, revealing herself to have been present at that discussion. But hopefully she could pre-empt accusations of complicity by manoeuvring a personal appearance before the enquiry to produce it.

  ‘The extraction of Maxim Radtsic was not a shared operation,’ qualified Smith, quickly. ‘But the MI5 dossier should provide a template from which a great deal of MI6 traffic can be traced.’

  ‘It would greatly speed up this enquiry if a full schedule of possible witnesses and materiel were provided in advance by our two services, allowing us to have whatever’s called upon to be instantly available,’ attempted Monsford.

  ‘Surely in an enquiry of this importance the requirement has to be for raw intelligence that Director Monsford and I are here to provide, not material prepared to be immediately comprehensible. Which, officially precluded as you are, neither you nor your deputy could provide anyway. It has to be produced as it is.’

  I could still include my stratosphere bomb, thought Rebecca, desperately; it wouldn’t take longer than a second: a split second even.

  ‘I agree,’ said Bland. ‘My co-chairman and I want the full, raw intelligence dossier made available.’

  ‘As we appear to be formulating an agenda, I’d like it registered that I intend consulting our legal attaché at the Moscow embassy, as well as getting advice from within my department here,’ said Sir Peter Pickering. ‘We have made repeated demands for diplomatic access to the detained Manchester tourists. I think that additionally we should strenuously press the Russians to establish if Muffin is being held on legal grounds or simply being treated for injuries sustained in the airport shooting. As far as I can see the only legal offence might be an entry irregularity, which is pretty low on the scale of things.’ The man went to the Foreign Office group, ‘I’m assuming we’ve already made the formal application for consular access to Muffin?’

  ‘Delivered two hours ago,’ confirmed a balding man, after a sideways glance to the woman next to him.

  ‘I’d like—’ started Smith, but Pickering talked over him.

  ‘I’m well aware of the accustomed practice,’ anticipated the attorney-general. ‘And I can’t imagine a situation more essential than this to include one of your people.’

  ‘Two MI6 officers died and two more are missing,’ reminded Monsford, anxiously. ‘I think it’s even more essential that I also have representation on the delegation.’

  ‘Two would be too many,’ objected Smith. ‘The entire MI5 dossier will be made available. That complete disclosure will obviously include everything we get if our man gains access.’

  ‘I’m satisfied with that undertaking. We’ll restrict it to MI5,’ decided Bland, collecting up his papers. ‘I don’t think there’s anything further to be achieved today.…’

  ‘We haven’t decided who’ll guide the collation of MI6 materiel,’ reminded Rebecca.

  Bland stopped his tidying. ‘No decision is necessary upon that until after the Director’s initial meeting today with the security officers.’

  Shit, thought Rebecca, acknowledging a lost opportunity.

  Monsford was thinking the same thing, although that wasn’t his complete focus. That was upon Rome and the sudden realization how he could greatly add to the story he’d just fabricated.

  * * *

  So deep had the animosity between the FBI and the CIA become—and the petulant need to show who, currently, held the whip-cracking hand—that the Agency’s deputy director had to travel into the city from Langley to the Bureau headquarters for the meeting he’d requested. The Bureau deputy, Mort Bering, rose at the entry of his CIA counterpart, Larry Stern, for the mandatory, forced-smile handshake.

  ‘You got more problems?’ demanded Bering at once, settling to face the other man across the small conference table. No record was being kept.

  ‘You know damned well we have,’ immediately admitted Stern, who affected a Louisiana country-boy persona, complete with pronounced accent, wide-buckle belts, and occasionally even hand-tooled boots; today he wore tasselled moccasins. ‘The Lvov business double fucked us, information-wise, from ambassador downwards in both Moscow and
London. Now we’ve got MI6 re-creating the gunfight at the OK Corral, with bodies all over the airport concourse in Moscow.’

  ‘You think there’s a connection?’ asked Bering, intentionally awkward.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Mort! One of the guys put down at the airport was Charlie Muffin, who broke the Lvov thing apart. Of course there’s a connection.’

  ‘What else?’ pressed the FBI deputy, knowing there was more.

  ‘Irena Novikov, whom we hoped to be some sort of compensation for all that we lost with Lvov. She’s stringing us out. We had the plastic surgery done, which was the deal agreed by Charlie, and the surgeon says she’s fit enough to be debriefed. But she’s still stonewalling, insisting on more time to recuperate. We want something to undermine her: get the bitch to understand she’s not on a free ride and to start talking.’

  ‘My guy is pretty tight with his liaison, MI5’s deputy,’ disclosed Bering.

  ‘Who’s a gal,’ identified Stern at once. ‘How tight is tight?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ said Bering, unhelpfully.

  * * *

  ‘What do you think Pennsylvania Avenue would say if they knew this was happening?’ said Jane.

  ‘That I was properly fulfilling my liaison function between our services,’ said Barry Elliott. It had been his idea that she cook dinner that night at his Chelsea Embankment apartment: they’d carried their wine with them into the bedroom and were drinking it now after the lovemaking. ‘What do you think your people would say?’

  ‘I don’t know and don’t care.’

  ‘I’m glad you were able to make it,’ gently embarked the American. She’d cancelled their previous date.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what’s happening.’

  ‘I’d try, if you told me.’

  Jane sipped her wine reflectively, sitting naked with her back against the headboard. ‘It’s a full-blown, official enquiry. A lot of it involves the MI6 penetration I told you about.’