Red Star Falling: A Thriller

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Did you have, or get, any indication of MI6 working upon something quite separate from what you understood to be the MI5 extraction?’

  ‘London lifted the restriction upon our leaving the embassy after Charlie surfaced, which very clearly activated MI6. Whenever we left, they attempted to follow. On the day I finally met Charlie there was a near-farcical situation, but for its unknown, underlying seriousness. I realized later that Charlie was setting his own safety test. He had us move around the Moscow Metro, to his direction, before he and I met. And he monitored it all. From the moment of our going underground, we were followed by MI6. Charlie was communicating on one of the cell phones issued from here. From wherever it was he concealed himself, Charlie had my two officers lead MI6 in the wrong direction all over the underground system.’

  There was a shift of irritation from Gerald Monsford and another scribbled note. Caught by the movement, Smith paused again, looking to the other director. Unmoving again, Monsford gazed back, saying nothing.

  ‘Your two colleagues led MI6 all over Moscow,’ picked up Smith. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘What they were doing was for my benefit: for me to meet Charlie undetected as he demanded. It was to exchange passports, to enable Natalia Fedova and her daughter to fly out.’

  ‘Which you succeeded in doing?’

  ‘Which I thought I’d succeeded in doing,’ qualified Wilkinson. ‘Charlie didn’t trust anyone, even his own colleagues. I didn’t know where he was living, what he was doing. He knew I’d try to follow him when we finished: my instructions from London were to bring him back into the extraction as it had been planned. To prevent my following he personally escorted me back into the underground—we’d actually gone up to street level, to a park, to talk—and remained on the platform to ensure I left. The following day he told me he’d seen Stephan Briddle two carriages behind the one in which I was sitting. Charlie believed Briddle had been with us all the time, apart from in the park, and had boarded the train ahead of us, expecting Charlie to be with me.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Charlie believed he was in physical danger that might even go as far as an attempt upon his life.’

  * * *

  He’d missed something, Charlie acknowledged. Probably missed several things, because nothing was ever totally understood in the wilderness of intelligence, but there’d been one all-important, pivotal mistake and because of it he’d been thinking wrongly, assessing and judging wrongly, ever since.

  What was it? How far back had it occurred? Could he recover: do anything to reverse or correct it? Most important of all, did it endanger Natalia and Sasha, whose escape from Moscow still wasn’t positively confirmed? And could he really be so confident that there was no risk of his being shuttled off to oblivion in a Siberian gulag?

  His first demand, inextricably linked to the second, was the core to everything, and the answers to that weren’t going to come, if they came at all, like divine guidance on the road to Damascus. He had to go back, to the very beginning, to the moment he’d stood at the side of an autopsy slab in a Moscow mortuary looking down at the faceless, tortured body of a man who’d imagined himself capable of walking away from the CIA and the FSB with a bagful of money for keeping the secret of the Lvov penetration.

  What about recovery, reversing any potential damage? He was hardly in a physical position to recover or reverse anything. But he didn’t need to be, came another, quick contradiction. His physical situation wasn’t relevant. What he needed was to know. Knowing, or believing he knew, where he’d gone wrong could provide the guide he so desperately needed to so much else.

  Which brought him to Natalia and Sasha. He had to be right about their getting to England! It was inconceivable that Mikhail Guzov, who believed bullying to be an interrogation technique, would not have used their interception as a weapon, a mentally crushing club with which to beat him, if they’d been seized at Vnukovo airport. It remained unconfirmed but with so much else to resolve it had to stay an outstanding uncertainty, not a forefront concern.

  As did, Charlie objectively conceded, his growing conviction that whatever transpired in the coming weeks, maybe even months, it was no longer an automatic outcome that he’d be transferred to some distant gulag.

  He’d have to continue with his own experiments, Charlie reluctantly concluded, even if they did threaten an encounter with the spetsnaz, which he very much wanted to avoid.

  * * *

  ‘I don’t understand why there had to be a suspension,’ complained John Passmore, as they settled back into the Director-General’s Thames House suite. ‘No statement the Russians issue this afternoon can affect what we were producing.…’ He extended a cupped right hand. ‘We had the room like that! Monsford was squirming.’

  Aubrey Smith smiled at the ex-soldier’s military exasperation. ‘For all their esoteric titles and pretensions to understand intelligence workings, we’re dealing with very senior Whitehall civil servants, the ruling mandarins, dealing in turn with Westminster politicians each and both of whom prefer their lives to run in straight lines, unhindered or derailed by the unexpected. To them, Moscow’s advance announcement is a worrying uncertainty, a diversion from the straight line. Until they’ve heard what Moscow’s going to say or do, Bland and Palmer—and all their little backroom dwarfs—are disconnected, slowed if not actually paralyzed by the uncertainty of the unknown.’ The man smiled again. ‘Which, I agree—and hope—could be close to how Gerald Monsford feels despite our losing our momentum. But we really have done well with Wilkinson and I believe this adjournment is to our advantage: it gives time for what Wilkinson said to be properly absorbed. There’s less chance now of it being confused by whatever challenges Monsford makes or by Flood’s account of the actual shooting.’

  ‘I couldn’t be happier at the interruption,’ declared Jane, impatiently. ‘I’ve got a lot to tell you about Irena Novikov in America and of the conversation I had with Rebecca Street during this morning’s break.’

  She recounted both in sequence, taking a full half hour to ensure she omitted nothing, conscious of the growing reaction from both men towards the end.

  ‘America will cheat: keep a lot back for themselves,’ assessed Passmore, at once.

  ‘Of course they will: so will we,’ accepted Smith, pragmatically. ‘But again I think whatever we get will be to our benefit. It sounds as if Irena is opening up far more than she did to Charlie—’

  ‘And let’s not forget Natalia’s feeling about that,’ reminded Jane.

  ‘You think we should pick up Washington’s offer?’ questioned Passmore.

  ‘Absolutely,’ enthused the Director-General. ‘We’ve got everything to gain and at this moment I can’t see what we’ve got to lose.’ Looking to Jane, he said, ‘What’s Elliott think they’re going to get through us?’

  ‘Everything there was between Charlie and Irena: not just the confrontation but everything that happened between them in Moscow, before he brought her here,’ set out the woman. ‘And what Radtsic gives us.’

  ‘So you’ve told him about Radtsic?’ seized Smith, sharply.

  ‘I wanted to reciprocate the offer of getting everything from Irena Novikov,’ replied Jane, twisting the truth against the criticism. ‘As you said, we stand to get more from them than they can get from us.’

  ‘Particularly as Radtsic isn’t telling us anything,’ Passmore pointed out.

  ‘He won’t be telling us anything anyway, will he?’ said Smith. ‘Monsford’s got Radtsic, when he eventually starts to talk. It’s the enquiry decision we have to assess at the moment, but that doesn’t extend to our sharing with America.’

  ‘And the CIA have Irena,’ added Passmore. ‘The logic’s surely that they’ll go direct to Monsford.’

  She shouldn’t have expected they’d accept the American offer without considering the potential difficulties, acknowledged Jane. ‘The liaison was established through the FBI because so many in the CIA hierarchy got bu
rned in the aftermath of the Lvov exposure,’ reminded Jane. ‘I’ve worked hard maintaining that conduit, which has come good with Elliott’s offer. As far as he’s concerned, the co-operation with both FBI and CIA continues through us.’

  ‘So what are you proposing?’ pressed Smith.

  ‘What I thought you’d already decided,’ hurried Jane, anxious to avoid further difficult questioning. ‘We take the offer, reciprocate the exchange as much and as best we can.…’ She hesitated, momentarily undecided. ‘In the circumstances in which we’re currently embroiled with MI6—and already having told you about this morning, with Rebecca Street—I didn’t think we were considering the finer niceties of inter-agency behaviour?’

  Aubrey Smith looked up quickly at the remark, went as if to speak but by not doing so created an awkward silence that Passmore hurried to fill. ‘You really believe Rebecca’s got what Straughan bugged?’

  ‘Without the slightest doubt, after this morning,’ said Jane, relieved to move on. ‘It’s Straughan’s provable contact with Vasili Okulov that’s spooked her.’

  ‘You think Wilkinson’s evidence, with Flood’s to follow, might persuade her?’ asked Smith.

  Jane shook her head, uncertainly. ‘I don’t think it’s Monsford’s manoeuvring she’s worried about. And I don’t think she seriously doubts Jamie’s loyalty for a moment, either. I think she’s using Rome as an excuse, an escape, from making the final commitment.’

  ‘Where does that leave us?’ asked Passmore.

  ‘Where we’ve always been with Rebecca, knowing—knowing without doubt now—that she’s got what we need to bring Monsford down but having to wait until she comes to us,’ said Jane. ‘Which she will, eventually.’

  John Passmore responded at once to his pager, looking up as he read it. ‘Moscow is milking every last drop from this. Their statement’s being released in an hour, our time, according to TASS.’

  ‘Time enough for me to have a moment, alone, with Jane,’ said Aubrey Smith.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jane apologized at once. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken as I did.’

  ‘That’s not what I want to talk to you about, although it fits in with what you had to tell us,’ said Aubrey Smith. ‘I’ve had a lengthy internal security report, telling me about you and Barry Elliott.’ He raised a hand against an interruption. ‘It was nothing targeted: just routine.’

  ‘It’s a private, personal situation.’

  ‘It can’t be, from what you told John and me minutes ago.’

  ‘There’s a separation between what I told you minutes ago and what’s happening between Barry and me,’ insisted Jane.

  ‘Did he tell you that’s how it is for him?’

  ‘He’s not using me: wouldn’t use me.’ She couldn’t be more positive of anything, thought Jane.

  ‘Aren’t you using him?’

  ‘I don’t think I am.’

  ‘I think it’s indivisible, for both of you. And I think it’s a hell of a weapon for Monsford to use against you, both personally and professionally, if he ever learned what’s going on.’

  ‘I do not want to stop it personally. And I don’t believe I can stop it professionally, either,’ said Jane.

  ‘Which, very succinctly, encompasses the problem.’

  ‘I’m not conceding that at the moment there is a problem, although I admit Monsford could turn it into one.’

  ‘Be very careful, far more careful than you’ve been so far,’ urged Smith.

  ‘Do I have your support?’ Jane asked directly.

  Smith hesitated. ‘I will professionally support you for as long as I can if things go wrong.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jane. It was, she accepted, the most she could expect: maybe more than she could have expected. Having freed herself of him, it was unsettling to confront the thought that she was providing a weapon that Monsford would use, given the slightest chance.

  12

  Judged as a theatrical performance, which was how Russia staged the repatriation of the Manchester tourists, the production was of Oscar–winning proportions.

  The announcement of their release, by a smiling, strikingly attractive Interior Ministry spokeswoman, began from a brightly backdropped studio but in less than a minute the picture dissolved into live, outside coverage of the event itself, with the voice-over commentary switched to English. The group was filmed emerging, mostly smiling, from an unnamed Moscow hotel, their clothes very obviously freshly cleaned and pressed, all the women professionally coiffured; two of the men and one woman were in wheelchairs pushed by uniformed nurses. They were greeted in the hotel forecourt by a waiting delegation of six, two men and four women, from the Moscow tourist board. As ferried-forward bouquets were presented to each of the English women—with vodka for the men—the delegation leader referred to the tourists as totally innocent, manipulated victims dismissively used as pawns by uncaring British intelligence agencies engaged in hostile activities against the Russian Federation.

  The perpetrator of their deception was in Russian custody, as were others involved in associated espionage acts for which they would all face appropriate Russian justice. The tourists were being returned to their homes and to their families with every good wish from the Russian authorities, with a warm invitation to return to Moscow as guests of the city, the authorities of which sympathized with their initial ordeal, as they sympathized with the family of the one member of the group whose premature death, from a heart attack, was the obvious result of the incident. A heavy-busted girl wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Manchester tour company and identified in a caption as the group leader, Muriel Simpson, thanked the Russian authorities for their care, kindness, and help after it was established none of her group was in any way involved in activities against the country. They had been disgracefully deceived and used by intelligence organizations of the British government, which she hoped, upon her return to Britain, to find the subject of legal action by her company.

  It was past six in the evening before the committee reassembled and there was no preamble from the co-chairmen. Sir Archibald Bland announced at once, ‘The plane’s arriving at Heathrow, not Manchester, in an hour. The company have arranged an immediate press conference. The Mail and the Express are offering contracts for exclusive personal stories.’ As he spoke he looked accusingly between the two intelligence chairmen.

  Aubrey Smith said, ‘It’s a good thing they’re free. It can’t have been pleasant for them. At least now all the others detained are professionals, with some idea of what to expect.’

  There were isolated stirrings around the table. Geoffrey Palmer said, ‘Is that really all you’ve got to say!’

  Smith frowned, curiously. ‘What else would you have me say? They were wrongly used, by one of my officers, which was unfortunate. I regret whatever treatment and hardship to which they were subjected. It’ll have been a bad experience, upon which the Russians—and now they—are capitalizing. But there’s nothing practicable we can do to defuse what’s happened.’

  ‘Except endure yet another publicity circus!’ said Bland. ‘Downing Street is furious.’

  Smith went to continue but before he could Gerald Monsford said, ‘We should announce the defection of Maxim Radtsic, which I’ve argued for days now. The sensation of that would overwhelm whatever fuss these tourists are going to make.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t: it would hugely escalate the whole thing, making the tourists appear far more important than they are,’ rejected the MI5 Director-General. ‘Do nothing and the media interest will fade. Associate them with the defection of the second-most-important man in Russian intelligence and it’ll be a sensation that’ll go on for weeks.’

  ‘That reflects the initial feeling elsewhere,’ disclosed the Cabinet Secretary. ‘We’ll return to the remit with which we were convened and only officially consider this if we’re called upon to do so.’ Turning to Monsford, he said, ‘We adjourned at the moment of your examining of Mr W
ilkinson.’

  ‘Which created the opportunity for me very thoroughly to consider everything that Mr Wilkinson told this enquiry,’ responded Monsford, his voice thick with disdain. ‘Every word of which was totally unsubstantiated by any factual evidence or documentation from someone who—which is substantiated by him and his colleagues being replaced—was considered to be incapable of fulfilling the purpose for which they were sent to Moscow. I don’t believe this enquiry would be usefully served by anything further from Mr Wilkinson.’

  * * *

  Monsford’s move seriously disconcerted Aubrey Smith, who’d so confidently expected that day’s hearing to conclude with Wilkinson’s cross-examination that he’d considered not including Ian Flood in their return that evening. Their pre-hearing preparation—along with their professionalism—prevented its being obvious.

  In what appeared an instant rebuttal to Monsford’s dismissal, Flood at once isolated Charlie Muffin’s fear—‘more a positive expectation’—of physical intervention within minutes of their meeting at the Savoy Hotel the night before Natalia and Sasha’s extraction. Because of that conversation, recounted Flood, he was particularly alert for surveillance the following morning and became aware of a following car just before clearing the city on their way to Vnukovo Airport. He warned Charlie when they met, as arranged, outside the departure terminal. Charlie refused an offered gun, for protection, and abandoned his original intention to leave on the same plane as Natalia and the child. Instead he switched to a Cyprus-bound flight to draw attention from the extraction route. Charlie was third in the Cyprus check-in queue when three MI6 officers—Stephan Briddle, Jeremy Beckindale, and Robert Denning—entered the terminal. Briddle separated from the two others and headed directly towards Charlie Muffin, who was initially unaware of what was happening. Beckindale and Denning remained by a perimeter wall, giving no reaction to David Halliday’s arrival several moments after the first three MI6 men. Halliday appeared to see Charlie and Briddle, breaking into a run in their directions. Flood believed, from the man’s facial expression, that Halliday shouted, although he was unable to hear what the man yelled. Briddle heard, though, at the same time as Charlie, and both turned in Halliday’s direction. Briddle began to run too but awkwardly, holding his jacket around him. Charlie did not move, just watched. Flood saw a pistol in Briddle’s hand when the man was about eighteen metres from Charlie. There was the sound of a shot—Flood did not see who fired it—and a militia officer fell. Flood then very clearly saw the gun in Briddle’s hand, thrust out from beneath his jacket.