Red Star Falling: A Thriller

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Tonight, yes, but we might need to be a little more circumspect for a while.’

  Jane’s chill was immediate, like ice water thrown into her face. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The Bureau’s deputy, Mort Bering, is coming in on tonight’s plane with Irena. And staying until at least after her access meeting. Everything will be the same, apart from the sleepovers.’

  ‘Is that all it is, Bering being here?’

  Elliott frowned. ‘What’s that mean?’

  Idiot! screamed through Jane’s head: why’d she said it, shown her insecurity to be so close to the surface! She had to go on, smooth it down. ‘Everything’s so good, with us I mean.’

  ‘You’re being silly.’

  I know! ‘I don’t mean to be.’

  ‘You have no cause to doubt me in any way. That’s what I mean.’

  ‘So you don’t want me to pack my things when I go back tonight?’

  ‘No, I don’t want you to pack your things. And I won’t want you to go on being unsure anymore, either.’

  Why was it difficult to believe anything any longer? wondered Jane, relieved.

  21

  The emergency committee wasn’t totally disbanded but greatly reduced. The remaining inner core was made up of the two government mandarins, Sir Peter Pickering with a scaled-down support staff of two and the MI5 three. The secretariat remained the same but the venue was switched to the annexe previously utilized for refreshments no longer judged necessary. An amplified sound system wasn’t required, either. The opening session was chaired by Geoffrey Palmer, at whose invitation the attorney-general disclosed that no legal action was to be taken against Harry Jacobson. He was being dismissed under a provision of the Official Secrets Act that amounted to what in open criminal court would be a suspended sentence. As in such sentencing, the relevant Secrets Act section enabled Jacobson’s immediate arrest and in camera prosecution if he made any media approach or took any action whatsoever to attract public awareness. There was to be a period of surveillance to guard against that eventuality.

  ‘This would seem to be the appropriate moment to raise another MI6 situation,’ came in Jane Ambersom. ‘As her liaison to this committee, I’ve told Rebecca Street the result of yesterday’s hearing. She made the point that as MI6’s official deputy director, she should be present at these reduced sessions, as well as returning to Vauxhall Cross, which is now without effective headquarters leadership.’

  ‘She called me this morning, making the same point,’ said Sir Archibald Bland.

  ‘She’s established a rapport with Radtsic,’ Pickering pointed out.

  ‘Which was my first thought during our conversation,’ said Bland. ‘It’s a situation that has to be resolved.’

  ‘I don’t think we should risk the relationship she appears to have established with Radtsic by assigning another interrogator,’ argued Palmer, unnecessarily confirming Aubrey Smith’s belief of a prior discussion between the co-chairmen, glad he had forbidden in advance any contribution other than that already made by Jane. He responded blankly to the expectant looks from both civil servants.

  ‘Surely MI6 can’t remain rudderless, after all that’s happened,’ Pickering finally said. ‘There should at least be some temporary arrangement.’

  ‘Which you are more than adequately qualified to fulfil, having once been MI6 deputy,’ Palmer was forced to say, directly addressing Jane. ‘A great deal has already been made of your previous experience in that position.’

  ‘Which is a perfect illustration of how invaluable Jane is to me in a number of other matters,’ said Smith, choosing his moment. ‘She’s the established liaison here with the FBI, who last night flew in Irena Novikov. She was—and still remains, I presume—our conduit with Rebecca Street’s dealings with Radtsic and she’s also monitoring Natalia Fedova’s analysis of what the Novikov woman has so far told the Americans.’

  ‘We’re not suggesting more than a token presence, until a proper situation can be re-established at Vauxhall Cross,’ assured Bland.

  ‘A guaranteed, strictly limited, temporary assignment?’ pressed Smith, heavily, determined not to be out of step with two expert exponents of the diplomatic soft-shoe shuffle.

  There was a pause, each mandarin waiting for the other to make the commitment.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Palmer eventually promised.

  Smith turned at last to Jane. ‘Yours is the final choice.’

  ‘Guaranteed to be a strictly limited, temporary position?’ echoed Jane, as distrustful as the Director-General.

  ‘That’s the undertaking,’ agreed Bland.

  ‘I also think it important that the appointment, with all its qualifications, is made clear to Rebecca Street when you return her call,’ said Jane.

  ‘Is that what this back-and-forth nonsense is all about, assuaging someone’s delicate feelings!’ demanded a too obviously offended Palmer.

  ‘We’re still in the middle of a monumental crisis we don’t know how to get out of, instigated by a man—admittedly mentally unwell from every indication—harbouring a promotional grudge,’ reminded Aubrey Smith. ‘It’s reasonable for Rebecca Street, who’s not mentally unwell, to believe she’s Monsford’s logical successor but whose current function is too important for that promotion to be considered. With how much dedication and determination do you imagine she’ll perform that function if she thinks she’s been passed over for something she believes to be rightfully hers?’

  ‘Aren’t you overlooking professionalism?’ demanded Palmer, stiffly.

  ‘Not for a moment,’ rejected Smith. ‘Nor am I overlooking human nature.’

  ‘I will make the situation quite clear to her,’ undertook Bland. ‘It’s by no means automatic, of course, that the directorship will be offered to her.’

  ‘It might be better not to include that in what you make quite clear to her,’ said Smith.

  * * *

  ‘You could probably get the permanent appointment if you wanted it,’ said Aubrey Smith, when they returned to Thames House.

  ‘I told you before this morning’s charade that I don’t want it. I’m happy where I am. If I could I wouldn’t even move offices.’

  ‘But that would defeat the point,’ said Smith. ‘You think you can handle everything else, as well?’

  ‘Maybe we could share Irena? I’ll stay with Natalia’s analysis but you could help with the questioning.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ agreed Smith at once. ‘I’ve assigned Joe Goody.’

  ‘I’m sorry now that I agreed to share,’ joked Jane.

  ‘There’ll still be the films.’

  ‘The comparison with America will be interesting.’

  ‘Apart from the physical separation of different buildings, we’ll be working together as closely as we have been doing up until now.’

  Jane laughed, unexpectedly. ‘Do you realize you’re in the position that Monsford tried to get for himself, spanning both services?’

  ‘Let’s hope I make a better job of it than he did.’ Which so far, after a late start, he believed himself to be doing.

  * * *

  ‘I’m too jetlagged for anything: I just want to rest,’ immediately announced Irena Novikov, making an instant assessment of the man’s timid entry into the library of the house to which she’d been brought the preceding night. ‘And I’m not here to be interrogated. I’m here to meet diplomats from my embassy.’

  ‘I always suffer badly from jetlag myself, ma’am,’ sympathized Joe Goody. He was a plump, balding, overwhelmingly polite man whose interrogation technique had been perfected during fifteen year’s service as a psychologist in Britain’s SAS Special Forces.

  Irena sniggered at being addressed as ma’am, which in Russian is a term of particular deference. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Quite safe. You’re not in any danger, ma’am.’

  ‘I meant what part of England. I came here in the dark, in a closed van.’

  ‘In the south: the whe
reabouts wouldn’t mean anything to you. It’s very nice at this time of the year. A lot of flowers are in season. Do you like flowers, ma’am?’

  She sniggered again, bemused. Curious at what his reaction might be, she said, ‘I couldn’t give a shit about flowers.’

  ‘Such a pity, ma’am,’ responded Goody, without the disapproving shock she’d expected. ‘We could have walked together in the grounds. A former owner was a horticulturalist of some renown. Why don’t you sit in the window recess from where the beds can be seen to particular advantage?’

  Irena shrugged, content for the man to amuse her, taking the seat he indicated and looking out at the patchwork displays, which really were spectacular if a little too regimented by their different-colour arrangement.

  ‘Would you mind if I sat with you, ma’am?’ asked Goody, already lowering himself into a matching chair at the other side of the window bay. ‘I particularly like the hyacinths, don’t you? That blue merging into purple is quite magnificent, isn’t it?’

  Irena looked back into the room, smiling. ‘Who or what are you?’

  ‘Did you get on well with Edwin Birkitt? Such an amenable man, I’ve always thought.’

  ‘Ah!’ acknowledged Irena. ‘Don’t waste your time. I told you I’m tired and I’m not talking about anything until I’ve met my embassy people.’

  ‘Probably best, ma’am,’ agreed the man, solicitously. ‘What you’d have always been trained to do, not knowing what else we have to challenge you. I don’t believe there’s been a proper response to the access request to you yet. The plastic surgery is very good, isn’t it, ma’am? You must be very pleased how it turned out.’

  Irena’s hand went instinctively towards her repaired face before she became aware of the gesture and she felt stupid, stopping halfway before dropping it back into her lap. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Our surgeons think it’s very good, from the pictures they’ve seen and the talks they’ve had with the Americans. But they’re curious about the original scarring being caused from brandy flambé blown into your face when you were with Stepan Lvov. That’s how you told Charlie you got the injury, wasn’t it, ma’am?’

  Irena began to concentrate, which she hadn’t been bothering to do until now. ‘That’s how it happened.’

  ‘Our surgeons thought a flambé burn wouldn’t have caused such original damage. In their opinion it looked more like a petrol burn.’

  Irena shrugged, to cover her unease. ‘It was caused by too much brandy being added to a flambé pan. I’m very glad it’s been removed so well.’

  ‘Oh you would be, ma’am,’ again agreed Goody, as if worried at having caused offence. ‘And we’re arranging for it to be checked, along with the other medical examination.’

  ‘What medical examination?’ demanded Irena, irritably. ‘I don’t need a medical examination: won’t have one!’

  ‘It’s part of the asylum, the defection, process. Maxim Mikhailovich is undergoing his tomorrow. So’s his wife. He’s asked after you, incidentally.’

  Irena was confused by the man’s disjointed, jumbled way of talking. ‘I’m not part of any defection process! What did Maxim Mikhailovich say? Is he unwell? Has something happened to him?’

  ‘You went through our defection-protection procedure when you got here with Charlie. We’ve an obligation to look after you now, ma’am.’

  ‘I didn’t know then that I was going to be offered to America, like a sacrifice!’

  ‘Oh dear, ma’am, that must have been most distressing. I can so easily understand you’re upset. But now you’re back here, safe as I told you earlier.’

  ‘It makes no difference that I’m back here: things might have changed.’ Why was this fucking man, with his mixed-up sentences, annoying her so much! He couldn’t know: none of them could know.

  ‘Oh but it does, ma’am. We didn’t know the full extent to which you’d insinuated Stepan Lvov into the CIA’s confidence until you told us. There’s some discrepancies there, incidentally: easily explained, I’m sure. But there are things we should talk about, when you’re not so jetlagged.’

  ‘What discrepancies! Let’s talk about them now!’

  ‘That would be unthinkable, ma’am. You must rest. Maxim Mikhailovich’s embassy encounter is coming first.’

  ‘You told me he asked about me. What did he say?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really have told you that and now it’s on record.’ Goody gestured generally around the room to unseen cameras and microphones. ‘I’ll probably be reprimanded. Are you quite comfortable here? Is there anything you want?’

  I want some idea of what you’re talking about, thought Irena. ‘When’s my meeting with the embassy?’

  ‘I’m really not sure at what stage the negotiations are, your being in America. Maybe I could make an enquiry from someone about how it works.’

  ‘There’s no maybe about it: it’s established practice. What I want is you to find out and let me know, today!’

  ‘Oh I don’t think I’ll be able to get around to that today, ma’am.’

  ‘Stop fucking me about! I want to know when I’m meeting diplomats from the Russian embassy!’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, ma’am.’ Goody smiled.

  Irena’s mouth was a tight line, refusing to say or do anything, her hands gripped together in her lap.

  Still smiling, Goody said, ‘Thank you very much, ma’am. I’m going to enjoy our conversations.’

  * * *

  Jane Ambersom didn’t think of which office she’d occupy until she got to Vauxhall Cross, realizing as she entered to a welcome-back greeting from the front-hall security officers that with her old office now officially that of Rebecca Street, she would have to use Gerald Monsford’s suite. Knowing that Monsford had been detained at the conclusion of the Official Secrets hearing, she’d expected it to be in the haphazard disarray in which the man customarily worked. Instead it was immaculate to the point of clinical sterility, the neatness at once drawing her attention to the personally addressed envelope on the pristine desk.

  The memo from Matthew Timpson guaranteed that the office and all its ancillary rooms, including the directly adjoining apartment, was completely free from illicit listening devices. The manually operated recording facility James Straughan had installed had been removed, along with the illegal secondary system Straughan had attached. All Monsford’s personal affects, including clothes from the apartment, had been removed. Timpson did not foresee any further need for contact between them but assumed Jane knew the procedure if she had any outstanding queries. Beside the envelope were labelled keys to every drawer, cabinet, and cupboard in the suite.

  Monsford’s personally designed wingback chair had been comfortably big for him, making it physically impossible for Jane to occupy: she couldn’t reach either arm if she sat in its centre, and if she leaned against the back the seat was too big for her to bend her legs, which protruded uncomfortably straight out in front of her. Despite Timpson’s assurances, Jane filled the time waiting for its replacement by a standard office chair by carefully working her way through every key on the itemized list, seeking one overlooked snippet left by its former occupant. There was nothing: no drawers or closets had so much as lining paper, and the blotter and jotting pads and pens and even toilet rolls were still sealed in their wrappers. The refrigerator was empty, its freezer ice trays unfilled.

  There was no trace of Gerald Monsford ever having existed.

  Jane’s search was broken by the electronic entry request from the chief of staff, who came echoing the earlier welcome-back greeting of the vestibule security.

  ‘Temporary,’ contradicted Jane. ‘Only very temporary.’

  * * *

  Aubrey Smith intentionally let his concentration switch between the relayed confrontation with Irena Novikov and the two FBI men with him in the purpose-built control barracks set apart from the main house, which was on the edge of the Sussex Downs, close to Petworth. Mort Bering was the most visibl
y perplexed, constantly frowning sideways for guidance from Barry Elliott, who answered the bewilderment with matching disbelief. It was Elliott who asked the expected question before the end of Joe Goody’s initial session.

  ‘Is this guy for real!’

  ‘Very real.’ Smith smiled back. ‘He’s the best I’ve got.’

  ‘He’s like a…’ groped the deputy FBI director, ‘like an English butler. No! An under-servant from a bad movie.’

  ‘Would you believe he was once seconded, at their request, to your Green Berets from our SAS?’

  ‘No,’ refused Mort Bering. ‘I don’t believe it. And I won’t believe it.’

  ‘He didn’t learn diddly-squat: got nothing,’ judged Elliott.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a little too much to expect from a first debriefing?’ rhetorically asked Smith. He’d never before met Elliott and was more intently studying the younger American than his older superior, curious at the relationship with Jane Ambersom, hoping that it was genuine, not professionally motivated.

  The entry demand took them to the TV monitor showing Joe Goody waiting tentatively outside, not looking directly at the camera he knew to be upon him. He entered hesitantly and addressed both Americans as sir when he was introduced.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Smith.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ declared the psychologist, at once. ‘I don’t know what it is yet. She’s frightened, but not in the way she should be. For someone who did what she did—created the Lvov infiltration but then destroyed it when Charlie confronted her—she’s too anxious to see people from her embassy.’ He smiled, shyly, towards Bering and Elliott. ‘And she thinks I’m stupid but she’s not sure. It won’t take long to convince her she’s right: that she can take advantage of me.’

  Just over a hundred miles to the north, Natalia Fedova finished watching all the American filmed recordings of Irena Novikov’s questioning in one single, uninterrupted session, just in time to read a bedtime story to Sasha, whom she’d left for the first time for an entire day in Ethel Jackson’s care. Ethel had wine poured by the time Natalia returned from the child’s bedroom.