Red Star Falling: A Thriller

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘You had no idea what he was doing?’

  The goading bastard was playing with her, like a sadistic child pulling the wings off butterflies. ‘No. None.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ said Monsford, unctuously. ‘Irrespective of anything else that might be uncovered, what Straughan’s done is a blatant breach of the Official Secrets Act, clear proof of hostile espionage. Anyone working with him, complicit in any way, would be equally guilty. That’s a lock-the-cell-door-and-throw-away-the-key sort of punishment.’

  ‘Nothing’s been found?’ questioned Rebecca, forcing a recovery. Monsford was staging the performance of his mentally uncertain life, she decided, reminding herself of her earlier committee-room conclusion. In whatever reality remained in that twisted mind, Monsford would be shitting himself at what the scientific investigators might find. But then, confronting her own reality, Rebecca accepted that she was, too, although unless a medical examination was forced upon her—which there couldn’t be, because that would be criminal assault—no digitalized recordings would be found.

  ‘No,’ said Monsford, convinced he knew what she was thinking. ‘And don’t bother getting back to the local police investigating the suicide. Timpson’s already taken that over, lock, stock and barrel. As Shakespeare put it, “with as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio.”’

  More applicable to himself than to her, whoever Cassio was, thought Rebecca. But the bastard was closing every avenue against her. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Get all you can from the embassy about Denning and Beckindale. Their man, Preston, too, if you can. As far as the embassy is concerned it remains a joint operation. Get into official contact with whoever’s organizing the diplomatic access to get one of our people aboard.…’ He smiled what was supposed to be a just-between-ourselves smile. ‘Wait for me to get back from Hertfordshire. We’ve both worked far too hard these last few days. Let’s go out to dinner: enjoy ourselves.’

  She’d have to endure it that night and for as long as it took afterwards until she found her way out. But when she did, Rebecca vowed, the final time she fucked Monsford wouldn’t be physical and she’d enjoy it far more than he would. At least for tonight—and for those that necessarily had to follow—she could amuse herself at the thought that he’d never know what she had hidden in the tampon she’d have so carefully to withdraw and, even more carefully, and quickly, reinsert while he lay gasping and groaning.

  * * *

  ‘I didn’t mean to get you out of a meeting,’ apologized Ethel, the moment Jane came on the line. While she’d waited for the connection Ethel had watched Natalia and Sasha on the drawing-room monitor, curled foetal-like together in an encompassing easy chair.

  ‘The message said it could be important,’ said Jane.

  ‘I hope it is,’ said Ethel. ‘I think I’m getting Natalia to trust me. It began with something small involving Sasha. Natalia’s actually asked me to help her with the child.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ enthused the other woman.

  ‘Did we know Natalia was part of an investigation into Radtsic’s background: that the Russians believe he was part of a long-term spying operation they’ve got to uncover?’

  ‘Not precisely. There was a message from Charlie about a committee-type scrutiny and that it had something to do with Radtsic: that it was important.’ Jane paused. ‘My understanding with her was that we wouldn’t talk about it yet, only about whatever might affect Charlie.’

  ‘It happened naturally, almost without my initially becoming aware of it,’ said Ethel. ‘I certainly didn’t set out to move things forward and at this moment I haven’t. I’m analyzing her reactions, without knowing their significance. I’m sure there’s something about Radtsic. I thought, for a moment, that she was actually going to tell me. But at the last moment she drew back.’

  ‘You think you could take her that close again?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ethel answered, honestly. ‘I could try.’

  ‘Try,’ urged Jane.

  ‘The thing with Sasha: she’d packed her baby’s things and told me she was going home. Natalia’s agreed to my helping Sasha adjust.’

  ‘You have become friends,’ congratulated Jane.

  ‘Too early to say yet but it could be,’ cautioned Ethel. ‘But before we go any further I want some guidance. Do I do things overtly or covertly?’

  There was no instant response from the other end of the line. Ethel waited. On the monitor, Natalia and Sasha were still intricately entwined. Finally Jane said, ‘It’s a difficult call. If she thinks we’re cheating, we’ll have lost her.’

  ‘That’s why I asked the question,’ said Ethel, faintly impatient.

  ‘We’ll go on as we are, at least for another few days,’ decided Jane. ‘The moment you become unsure, you back off: it’s important you’re the first to withdraw to prevent Natalia closing the door against us.’

  Why was there a moment of disappointment at the professional practicality? wondered Ethel. Nothing could ever be personal, came the immediate answer. ‘There’s something more and it’s my instinct, nothing more. Over the lost week, Natalia and Charlie communicated through pay-as-you-go Russian cell phones, discarding them after single use. She’s suggesting he used the same channel with his embassy source, which she still insists has to be MI6. I’m just floating a former-field-operative thought here. Could it be that whoever that inside source was, he or she might not have discarded their phone: that somewhere lying about inside the MI6 rezidentura there might still be a throwaway phone with things on it that we could find very useful?’

  ‘You’ve done well,’ congratulated Jane. ‘You’ve gotten a damned sight closer than I came within a million miles of achieving.’

  ‘It’s not difficult to be Natalia’s friend.…’

  ‘You’re not thinking of…?’

  ‘No,’ halted Ethel. ‘I’m not thinking of late-night confessions over brandy snifters about my knowing Charlie. And I haven’t finished. She’s terrified, like they’re all terrified in the early stages, of being found by the FSB. I’m to tell you, as positively as I’m able, that she will not see a diplomatic representation from the Russian embassy.’

  ‘Moscow could use that refusal to block our access to any of our people,’ recognized Jane, at once.

  ‘That’s what she’s insisting: wants you to know,’ said Ethel, glad to have moved the decision on.

  * * *

  Harry Jacobson was obediently waiting at Monsford’s designated spot, virtually out of sight of the main Hertfordshire house, close to the garage complex. It would have been equally difficult for Monsford to be seen from the house getting from his car, which pulled in even closer to the buildings. Monsford led the way through the concealing stand of trees deeper into the wooded area, not speaking until he reached it.

  ‘Just ground sensors here? No audio equipment?’

  ‘Not until about another four metres,’ assured Jacobson.

  ‘You missed Radtsic’s reference to a diversion,’ accused the Director, at once.

  ‘Yesterday was my rest day.’ Where was the usual irrational anger at any mistake? wondered Jacobson.

  ‘Who was monitoring?’

  ‘Bullen?’

  ‘You replaced him?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jacobson, glad he’d anticipated the dismissal demand, even though it had created an atmosphere with the rest of the protection squad.

  ‘What did you tell Radtsic in Moscow?’

  ‘Exactly what he told Elena on film. At one of our meetings, before any plan had been formulated, I told him we might introduce a diversion into his extraction.…’ Jacobson hesitated, believing he was beginning to understand, a swell of hopeful satisfaction moving through him. The assassination instructions would have been transferred to Stephan Briddle, he guessed. And Stephan Briddle was dead. ‘… Then the idea got dropped. I never discussed it in any way whatsoever with Radtsic … or with anyone else.’ Come on, thought Jaco
bson, enjoying himself: nibble at the bait for me to be sure.

  ‘The committee are attaching importance to the remark, after what happened at Vnukovo.’

  Getting there, thought Jacobson. He had to be careful, though. He needed to gain every benefit while remaining as distanced as possible from this unnaturally subdued bully. ‘I can understand that, after what happened.’

  ‘You’re to appear before them, to explain the remark.’

  Savouring how perfect the analogy fitted the huge man, Jacobson recognized this to be the moment the subjugated bull was on its knees, the sword upraised for the killing thrust. ‘There’s surely nothing more for them to hear or understand beyond what they’ve already seen and heard on film.’

  ‘They’ll want to know what the intended diversion was to be.’

  Jacobson hesitated, wanting the words to be right. Monsford even had his head lowered, as if in readiness for the kill. ‘I actually find it difficult to remember the details of our conversation.’

  Monsford’s head came up, restoring his full bull-like stature, smiling briefly. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this conversation.’

  Oh no you don’t, Jacobson thought at once. Could he take the chance: risk everything with just a few misplaced words? But it wasn’t his risk, he reminded himself. ‘We haven’t talked of my next posting, now I quite obviously can’t return to Moscow.’

  ‘That has to be resolved,’ allowed Monsford, tightly.

  ‘I did put forward some preferences.’

  ‘Washington, wasn’t it?’

  ‘And Paris.’ The ballet wouldn’t be as good as it had been in Moscow but on balance it would be better than America. And Covent Garden had been a total disappointment the night before.

  ‘Yes, Paris,’ accepted Monsford, reflectively.

  ‘As head of station,’ pressed Jacobson, knowing it all had to be finalized at this moment, with nothing left as a vague promise.

  ‘Which do you want?’

  ‘Paris.’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘As head of station.’

  ‘As head of station,’ echoed Monsford. His face was mask-like.

  ‘And potentially deputy director after that.’

  ‘That’ll be yours, too, when the time comes.’ Which it never would, determined Monsford, furious at the humiliation.

  ‘When do you want me in London for the committee hearing?’

  ‘Be on standby from tomorrow. Anything I need to know before seeing Radtsic?’ That would be an easy encounter, Monsford knew, his survival-enhancing approach already determined.

  ‘There’s been a reconciliation of sorts with Elena: they’re eating together, spending most of their day together, mostly watching television for anything more from Moscow. But she’s still not sleeping with him.’

  ‘What about the drinking.’

  Jacobson looked unnecessarily at his watch. ‘There’ll be less than a quarter of a bottle left by now.’

  * * *

  It took almost four hours for Ian Flood to go minutely through the Vnukovo Airport shooting in preparation for MI5’s enquiry presentation.

  At the finish, Aubrey Smith said, ‘I want to establish a movement pattern. The MI6 back-up split the moment they enter the terminal: Denning and Beckindale stay to one side, Briddle goes at once, on his own, towards Charlie, who’s in the Cyprus flight check-in line, unaware of their arrival?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Flood, an athletically bodied, controlled man.

  ‘How long before Halliday entered?’

  ‘A minute, no longer than two.’

  ‘Was Halliday with the others?’ came in Passmore. ‘Did you get the impression all four arrived together, in the same car? Or might Halliday have followed separately?’

  Flood nodded at the significance. ‘I was only suspicious of one car following us from Natalia’s apartment and assumed they were all in the same vehicle. Halliday could have travelled separately but it would have needed to be directly behind, in which case I think I would have isolated the second pursuit, too.’

  ‘How long did it take Halliday to orientate himself?’ picked up Smith.

  ‘Again, minutes. He seemed immediately to see Briddle and simultaneously to locate Charlie from the direction in which Briddle was moving.’

  ‘Or could he have expected Charlie to be in that particular check-in line?’ asked Jane.

  The question, again significant, briefly silenced the Director-General’s Thames House suite. Flood said, ‘Meeting there separately, by agreement, you mean? It would have been a hell of a coincidence for them to have been meeting by prior arrangement at the same time as a separate MI6 discovery of Charlie, wouldn’t?’

  ‘What did Denning and Beckindale do?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Flood, shortly. ‘I had them in my eyeline the entire time. They had Briddle, one of their own, as a marker. But they didn’t appear to see Halliday. Or, if they did, they’d been ordered against intrusion.’

  ‘If indeed it was an MI6 operation that had gone wrong,’ qualified Smith.

  ‘That’s what you identified it to be, an operation?’ followed up Jane.

  Once more Flood paused, for thought. ‘Charlie met me the previous night at the Savoy. That’s when he gave me the very specific order against interfering if anything endangered Natalia and Sasha’s extraction.’

  ‘That previous night,’ seized Jane. ‘Tell us everything about that, in as much detail as you can!’

  ‘He didn’t give me any details of the Lvov assignment, but he said he’d appeared publicly on Russian television during it and that there’d been a security alert out for him: that he risked being picked up on official CCTV.…’ Flood hesitated, shaking his head.

  ‘What is it?’ pressed Jane, curious at the man’s gesture.

  ‘Something I’d forgotten, until this moment. I don’t know if it contributes anything—’

  ‘Everything and anything contributes,’ persisted the woman.

  ‘That night, in the hotel bar, when he was talking of being identified, he said it would have been all right if he hadn’t made the Amsterdam switch and got the Manchester people arrested. That none of it had been necessary.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ questioned Passmore.

  ‘He didn’t explain. The inference was that it would have been all right if he’d stayed on the original flight. That he’d created his own risk of identification.’

  ‘He said that! That he staged that diversion because he thought he was going to be picked up the moment he arrived!’ came in Smith.

  Flood looked uncertainly at Jane before saying, ‘His exact words were, “I fucked it up all by myself but it was fucked up before it ever started to get where we are now. Which has got to be done right.”’

  There was a digesting silence.

  ‘Okay,’ resumed Jane, cautiously. ‘He’d created his own identification problem but the operation was fucked up before it started out from here. Did he explain that?’

  ‘He said it had never been to extract Natalia, which everyone here thought. He’d suspected it wasn’t right but couldn’t work out why until he learned that Radtsic had defected. But that it was ongoing—’

  ‘What was ongoing?’ said Smith.

  ‘MI6’s determination to screw Natalia’s extraction, even though they’d got Radtsic safely away. I said that didn’t make sense. Charlie said he thought it went right back to the Lvov investigation but he didn’t understand how or why.’

  ‘We’ve gotten away from the movement pattern,’ complained the Director-General. ‘How were Halliday and Briddle moving towards Charlie—quietly, calmly, together or separately?’

  Flood toyed with his long-empty coffee cup. ‘Moving quickly, but they weren’t together. Again, it’s an impression but at first I didn’t think Briddle was aware of Halliday behind him, trying to catch up.’

  ‘That’s what you believe Halliday was trying to do, catch up with Briddle?’ asked Passmore.

 
‘I’m not sure,’ replied the man, awkwardly. ‘That was my initial thought. I saw Halliday shout, although he was too far away for me to hear what he said. I thought it was to attract Briddle’s attention but Charlie turned as well.’

  ‘Distances,’ demanded Jane. ‘How far apart were they at this stage: Charlie’s in the queue, then comes Briddle and after him Halliday. How far apart were they?’

  Again Flood paused, considering. ‘Charlie just stood there. At Halliday’s shout, Briddle was about eighteen metres away. Halliday was about two metres behind him. It was then that Briddle turned and saw Halliday.’

  ‘What did Briddle do, after looking around?’ seized Passmore.

  ‘Started to run towards Charlie,’ replied Flood, again understanding the significance of the question. ‘It was at this point that I heard the first shot. No-one else reacted. Both Briddle and Halliday were running by now—’

  ‘Was it Briddle’s shot?’ demanded Smith.

  There was no hesitation this time. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see a gun. Briddle was running peculiarly, arms around himself, hugging his jacket around his body. At last people became aware two men were running across the concourse … moved to let them through. Then I did see Briddle with a gun in his hand, a Makarov … saw him fire—’

  ‘Stop!’ insisted Smith. ‘This is pivotal: at whom did Briddle shoot?’

  ‘At Charlie,’ replied Flood, again without hesitation. ‘Charlie Muffin was unquestionably Briddle’s target. Everything erupted then: it was pandemonium, gunfire, screaming, people running everywhere. I saw Charlie go down and decided it was time to get out.’

  ‘And I think it’s time for us to stop and analyze what we’ve got,’ decided the Director-General.

  * * *

  Gerald Monsford strode determinedly through the safe house, more confident than he’d been for days, actually bemused at how perfectly the pieces were fitting together, knowing before he started how perfectly he could slot Maxim Radtsic into his survival frame. Both Radtsic and Elena were in the favoured conservatory, the television turned to the permanent BBC news channel as Jacobson had predicted. The vodka bottle was still a quarter full.