Run Around (42 page)

Anderson ushered both women ahead of him on to the aircraft, personally ensuring that they were seated and telling both that if there was anything they wanted, anything at all, they just had to ask.

The President was in the rear of the aircraft before it cleared Swiss air space, giving unattributable briefings to selected correspondents about a renewed American commitment to combat international terrorism and the unquestionable Soviet links with that terrorism. He also gave the
New York Times
and
Newsweek
front page and cover stories on his regret that a settlement to the Palestinian problem in the Middle East appeared impossible to resolve, despite every effort he had made.

In the front of the plane Martha Bell turned to the woman alongside and said: ‘Don't you just love Air Force One!'

Barbara looked back and said, dully: ‘What?'

‘This plane, Air Force One? Isn't it magnificent?'

‘Yes,' agreed Barbara, disinterested. ‘Very nice.'

Chapter Thirty-nine

Harry Johnson had taken over the rear room of the Brace of Pheasants for his farewell party, which had been going for an hour before Charlie arrived. The place was full of noise and smoke and men few of whom knew each other and were too professional to propose introductions. Johnson's wife was with him, a wisp-haired, sharp-featured woman wearing a hat decorated with cherries and a confused expression, never before having met her husband's friends and seeming surprised he had so many.

Charlie insinuated himself to the bar and was told they were still drinking off Johnson's kitty so he chose a pint of beer, not wanting to deplete it too much too quickly.

The retiring Watcher saw Charlie as he turned back into the room and shouldered his way forward, beaming.

‘You made it!' said Johnson. ‘That's great.'

‘Promised I would,' reminded Charlie.

‘All over now,' announced Johnson. ‘No more leaking doorways or aching haemorrhoids from sitting too long on cold seats.'

‘Looking forward to it?'

‘Can't wait,' said Johnson. ‘I got a rotavator as a farewell present.'

‘A what?'

‘It's kind of a digging machine: I've taken over more allotment.'

‘No more peas out of a tin, eh?'

‘What about you, Charlie? You looking forward to retirement?'

‘Long time yet,' said Charlie, uncomfortably. No, he thought, he wasn't looking forward to retirement. Harry had a wife with a funny hat and a smallholding to grow his own vegetables. What did he have to look forward to, when it was time to go? Nothing, he thought. There was a huge difference between working alone and being alone.

‘Still feel bad about that last bit of business,' said Johnson.

‘Water under the bridge now.'

‘I know you can't tell me but I'd like to know it worked out.'

‘It worked out,' assured Charlie.

‘I'm glad, really glad,' said Johnson. ‘Not a lot in our line of work ever really works out, does it?'

‘Not a lot,' agreed Charlie.

‘Get down to Broadstairs at all?'

‘Broadstairs?' queried Charlie, bewildered.

‘That's where we're going to be living most of the time …' Johnson turned, gesturing to the woman in the hat. ‘That's the wife, Beryl. We'll be in the book so if you're ever down that way give me a bell. Don't want to lose touch completely with the old crowd.'

‘Sure,' promised Charlie, emptily. Johnson didn't want to go, Charlie realized. Funny how it was always the same, everyone bitching and moaning for years, counting days and weeks off the calender until the time came and when it did they nearly all wanted to hang on.

‘Don't forget now,' urged Johnson, knowing Charlie would never come.

‘I won't,' promised Charlie.

‘I'd better get back to the missus.'

‘Sure.'

‘Keep safe, Charlie.'

‘Always.'

Charlie got himself another pint and was edging away from the bar to make room for someone else when he felt a hand on his arm and a voice said: ‘Wondered if I'd see you here.'

Charlie turned, smiling in immediate recognition. ‘How are you doing, Sam?'

‘Fine,' said Donnelly. ‘You?'

‘Can't complain.'

‘Looks like being a good party?'

‘With luck,' said Charlie. ‘You do it, Sam?'

The man who had searched Charlie's apartment nodded and said: ‘Did you pass?'

‘Kisses on both cheeks,' said Charlie. ‘Thanks for the warning, though.'

‘Couldn't make it too obvious,' said Donnelly. ‘Junior kid picked the lock to leave the scratch.'

‘It was pretty clumsy.'

‘He's still learning,' assured the other man. ‘He'll get better.'

‘He needs to.'

‘I took over inside,' disclosed Donnelly. ‘How did I do?'

‘Failed,' declared Charlie.

‘I can't have done!' disputed Donnelly.

‘The bathroom cabinet,' said Charlie. ‘After you searched it you closed it: people always do. It was ajar when I left.'

‘Shit!' said the Searcher.

‘It wasn't much,' said Charlie, encouragingly.

‘It hasn't got to be, has it?'

‘Hope your young trainee wasn't offended by the place.'

‘He thought it was a pigsty.'

‘Did you tell him why?'

‘I tried to.'

‘Tell him again, so he doesn't forget.'

There was a commotion at the door at the entry of the kiss-o-gram girl. She wore a long black cloak which she discarded as soon as she was inside. She was quite naked apart from a minuscule G-string and a suspender belt supporting fishnet stockings. She arranged herself on Johnson's lap with her breasts thrust into his face and there was raucous cheering and explosions of camera flashes. Beryl blushed and looked away.

‘I think her tits are bigger than that October centrefold you've got,' said Donnelly, contemplatively. ‘Not much. Just slightly.'

‘Prefer the centrefold, though,' said Charlie.

‘Younger,' agreed Donnelly. ‘Certainly firmer. Have you really read all those books you've got?'

‘Most of them,' said Charlie.

‘What about another drink?'

‘One for the road,' agreed Charlie.

‘Not staying long then?'

‘Got to be up early in the morning,' said Charlie. ‘Plane to catch.'

‘You lot lead a marvellous bloody life in your division, don't you?' said Donnelly. ‘Bet you haven't had a shitty job for years.'

‘Can't remember the last time,' said Charlie.

All the arrangements had been made between London and Washington at Director-to-Director level, even to the timing of the appointment. Charlie caught a flight that got him into Dulles airport by noon, determined against being late. He actually drove past the CIA headquarters at Langley on his way into the city, curious if his re-acceptance by the Americans would ever be complete enough for him to be received there. He doubted it. There would still be a long way to go.

He had been at the Hay Adams for thirty minutes when his telephone sounded, precisely on time.

‘Jesse Willard,' said a strong Southern voice. ‘I'm downstairs in the lobby.'

‘Shall I come down?' asked Charlie.

‘I'll come up,' said Willard.

The hotel had been the CIA choice, Charlie knew: his room would have been swept for electronic surveillance, then bugged again. The CIA officer was a tall, bony man whose handshake hurt. ‘Can I offer you anything?' invited Charlie.

‘Just what you came here to tell us,' said Willard, briskly.

Charlie considered it almost overly melodramatic. When in Rome do – or art – as the Romans do, he thought. He said: ‘Did you know Giles?'

‘I'm in charge of the division he worked in,' said the American.

The Agency were definitely taking it seriously, realized Charlie. Which was good. He said: ‘He was sacrificed. Your Secretary of State, too.' Dramatic enough? he thought.

Willard made no outward reaction, except to pause. Then he said: ‘Do you know what you're saying?'

‘Of course.'

‘Can you prove it?'

‘Not sufficiently.'

‘How much?'

Instead of directly replying Charlie said: ‘You can manipulate a lot of media outlets, can't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you've got receptive Congressmen on Capitol Hill?'

‘Some.'

‘Then enough,' said Charlie. From his briefcase he took the Israeli folder and said: ‘You'll need this. The Novikov stuff, too.'

The
Washington Post
led with the first story a week later. It was picked up by the
New York Times
and all the major television networks by the following day, when the outcry erupted in both the Senate and the House of Representatives.

David Levy was summoned to the Israeli Foreign Minister's office on the day the Israeli government were forced into issuing a public apology, admitting mistakes. And promising an investigation.

There had been nothing, Berenkov acknowledged. The bugging devices in the apartment of Natalia Nikandrova Fedova had recorded the perfectly innocent activities of a divorced woman with a teenage son who telephoned regularly from college and the round-the-clock visual surveillance had failed to discover anything at all suspicious about her behaviour. And her KGB work as a debriefer was beyond criticism.

She still had to be the key. Berenkov was convinced of it.

Chapter Forty

There was a table at the side of Mordechai Cohen's office, with newspapers and magazines in several languages heaped upon it, disordered where they had been read and discarded.

‘Have you seen them!' demanded the Israeli Foreign Minister.

‘Nearly all,' said Levy. He guessed it was politics time.

Cohen picked up one at random,
France Soir
, and said: ‘Look at that headline! The Shambles of Israeli Security.' The man snatched up another, the current edition of
Newsweek
. ‘The Slaughter that Could and Should have been Avoided,' he read aloud.

‘It's very bad,' conceded Levy, going along with the charade.

‘Do you know how bad?' asked Cohen, rhetorically. ‘At best we're being made to look an incompetent laughing-stock. At worst there are private demands being made from the American State Department for a full explanation. According to our Washington embassy a lot of Congressmen are openly doubting that it was a mistake at all. There's a groundswell growing to block any further aid. At this morning's Cabinet meeting the conclusion was that the whole thing has backfired. Disastrously.'

‘I'm very sorry,' said the intelligence chief.

‘Are you sure it was the Englishman?'

‘It has to be,' said Levy. ‘I gave him the phoney biography.'

‘Why!'

‘To deflect him,' said Levy. ‘I wanted to bury him in paper.'

‘Why didn't you get the damned thing back!'

‘I never thought he'd use it; certainly not like this,' admitted Levy. Sadly he remembered: ‘And he said I'd made him look a fool.'

‘Now it's been reversed,' said the Foreign Minister. Pointedly he added: ‘In your case, publicly.'

‘Yes,' accepted Levy, tightly.

‘Has there been any count of the number of times you have been openly named?'

‘Quite a lot,' said Levy. ‘About thirty, worldwide.'

‘Israeli intelligence personnel are expected always to remain anonymous.'

Levy did not reply.

Cohen said: ‘I'm sorry.'

Still Levy did not speak.

‘The Cabinet meeting also decided that a gesture was necessary beyond the formal expression of regret,' disclosed the Foreign Minister. ‘Something to placate the Americans.' Cohen paused and said: ‘I know it was my instruction but if I go it will be confirmation that there
was
prior government awareness: make everything worse rather than better.'

At last Levy responded. He said: ‘I would like it to be a resignation, not a dismissal.'

‘Of course,' accepted the Foreign Minister.

‘Thank you,' said Levy.

‘I really am sorry,' said Cohen.

‘When?'

‘Immediately.'

‘Ironic, isn't it?' said Levy. ‘Charlie Muffin actually called me the bastard!'

Epilogue

Natalia Nikandrova Fedova came with just the slightest hesitancy into Berenkov's office, surprised at his standing politely to greet her, which was a Western courtesy, not Russian. At first Charlie embarrassed her by doing it.

‘I was told to report to you, Comrade Berenkov?'

‘Natalia Nikandrova,' smiled the man. ‘I am evolving a mission, a very special mission. One in which you are to be involved.'

‘Yes?'

‘Concerning an Englishman,' said Berenkov, intent upon her. ‘Someone you once knew.'

‘Someone I knew?'

‘Charlie Muffin.'

She blushed, just slightly but enough. It had been there all the time and he hadn't realized it, thought Berenkov. But he did now. He knew the way to make it all work, too.

A Biography of Brian Freemantle

Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain's most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.

Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the
Daily Mail
, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city's orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.