“You seem well informed about certain things.”
A full minute, Charlie noted. It would be a mistake to disclose too much tradecraft. He didn’t try to speak over the loudspeaker announcement of a southbound train terminating at the Oval, which would be automatically recorded by the specially equipped telephone and mislead them to the Northern Line. “And about Lieutenant Norrington in particular.”
“I think we need to meet.”
“So did I.” They might just alert a local police station-the transport police, even-for him to be held without explanation until they arrived. He’d allow himself another thirty seconds.
“Shall I come to you?”
“No. I’ll come to you.” They’d imagine he’d made a mistake.
“Where?”
“Somewhere open, obviously.”
“How about Waterloo station?”
“That’s convenient,” said Charlie, for them to imagine another slip.
“How shall I recognize you?”
“Tell me how to recognize you.”
There was a pause. “I’ll wear a light fawn raincoat, unbelted. And I carry a closed umbrella as well as a copy of the Evening Standard in the same hand, the left.”
The old ways were still the best, reflected Charlie, nostalgic again. “Whereabouts on the station?”
“Directly opposite platform fifteen.”
“Time?”
“One o’clock.”
“I won’t be late,” lied Charlie.
“Neither will I.”
Charlie cleaned the receiver, which was sure to be checked for fingerprints, with the handkerchief with which he’d been careful toinsert the coins before briefly returning to ground level to cross to Euston Square for the Circle Line. He made it before his feet began to protest. One o’clock gave them two and a half hours to get into position, which was a lot. A big team, then. A high-alert designation. They’d already be swamping the Nothern Line, imagining from his convenience remark that he would use it to reach Waterloo from Euston.
It was immaterial in which direction he went; the only need now to get away from Euston as quickly as possible. The first train to arrive was heading east and he got on, settling himself for the long, circuitous loop to the south. It was only the beginning, but Charlie was pleased with the way it had gone. He would, obviously, go through it entirely, although he was already sure he’d been speaking to an MI6 section controller. He hoped things were going as well at his own headquarters building on the other side of the Thames. Sir Rupert Dean had promised a team and there were only five obvious Britons from their uniforms in the Berlin photograph. Hopefully it would not be difficult to trace any who might still be alive. Charlie would still have preferred to do it himself-trusting no one but himself to do anything properly-but had deferred to the director-general’s argument that the search and the sources were routine and that this had priority. He checked his watch as the train turned south at Liverpool Street: a third of the way in twelve minutes, faster than he’d estimated. Some would already be at Waterloo by now, getting into position, gaining vantage points, borrowing uniforms, parking off-duty taxis that would never ply for hire. How many more, Charlie wondered, were doomed to a day’s travel up and down the Northern Line? And how many more than that would spend an even more frustrating day sitting on each of the intermediary stations between Edgeware and Morden, mentally promising themselves, if they ever discovered his name, the pleasure of slowly castrating with a blunt and rusty penknife the bastard who’d caused them such misery?
Even with the necessary change at the Embankment, Charlie still reached Waterloo with an hour and three- quarters to spare before the appointment he had no intention of keeping. He ambled easily along the concourse, establishing from the indicator board that trains from platform 15 served local suburban stations. Equally casually he bought himself a ticket to Windsor and on his way to the first-floorstation bar purchased a selection of that day’s newspapers. He had to drink standing at the bar for fifteen minutes before a table became vacant at the panoramic window overlooking the concourse itself, immediately checking adjoining tables with the same view for anyone as prepared as himself for a long wait. There wasn’t anyone.
Charlie worked his way through three disappointingly blended scotches, four newspapers-all of which kept the mystery Russian announcement on their front pages-and was sure he’d definitely identified a yellow-jacketed cleaner sweeping the same stretch of the concourse, a station attendant who didn’t seem to know the answer to anyone’s question and a shuffling, bottle-clutching wino as the immediate watchers by twelve forty-five, when the fawn-raincoated man with the
The waiting man’s impatience showed almost at once in constant attention to his watch and head-twisted checks to the station clock. Charlie remained where he was until one-fifteen, abandoning his newspapers when he moved. As he went across to the designated platform, he wondered if the easily spotted group had ever learned the old adage that the most successful way to follow was to be in front. He went on to platform 15 without pausing, settling himself in the rear car to see each person coming onto the platform to board the train after him. Neither the man in the fawn raincoat nor the others he’d isolated did, which he hadn’t really expected so soon. At Vauxhall he explained to the ticket collector he’d changed his mind about going to Windsor and made his way unhurriedly toward the antennae-haired edifice by the river at Vauxhall Cross to get into position himself. He had to wait two hours on an embankment bench, sympathizing afresh with those who would still be buried underground, before he saw the raincoated man coming from the direction of the station. The Waterloo sweeper was with him, but they weren’t talking. Neither looked happy. The two others he’d identified were in the first of two returning taxis.
“So our colleagues across the river are running a rival operation,”accepted Sir Rupert Dean, an hour later. “And you were right. Well done.”
“There’s certainly an operation,” agreed Charlie. “I’d like to know what its purpose is.”
“It’s another blank wall with your names,” said the director-general. “Norrington’s unit was nominally military police: all of your five were, in fact, seconded from civilian forces. Every one of them is dead ….” He paused. “And as far as we know are in their proper graves. I guess that only leaves you with your Americans: and we know that one of them is dead, too, don’t we?”
Charlie felt a sink of disappointment, which almost at once became embarrassment, at his having to concede an oversight so quickly after being congratulated. “Maybe not,” he said. “I left one out. John Parnell wasn’t on my list. He was Norrington’s commanding officer who wrote the letter of condolence. A colonel.”
It took two hours to locate a Colonel John Wesley Parnell on the retired officers’ list, with an address in Rye, in Sussex. The quivering-voiced man answered the phone himself and said if it was important of course he’d see Charlie that night. He’d enjoy the company but apologized for not being able to offer dinner. Charlie said he wouldn’t think of imposing.
As Charlie headed south across the river yet again, this time in the rented car and slowed by evening rush- hour traffic, he thought happily that when you’re on a roll you’re on a roll and it was one of the better feelings. He probably wouldn’t have time to call Natalia, but she’d know there was a working reason, would be pleased to hear tomorrow that at long last there seemed to be some movement. As he had going to and from Sir Matthew Norrington’s Hampshire estate, Charlie drove constantly checking his rearview mirror for any obviously following cars. There weren’t any. Would Henry Packer have been replaced in Moscow? Charlie’s being in London meant Natalia and Sasha were safe, he realized, relieved.
It was a small house, its only attribute, in daylight, a partial view of the distant sea from what had to be the last road from which it would have been possible, the final stop of a lonely widower to genteel poverty. Charlie guessed the grandfather clock with the sticky, heartbeat tick in the hall and a few pieces of silver and engraved glass inthe open-fronted cabinet were all there was left to sell and thought of Fyodor Belous in Moscow. Charlie guessed, too, that the rugs that covered most of the furniture were to hide the splits and escape of their stuffing. It wouldn’t have been difficult to make a prosecution for gross indecency against the anally intrusive chair upon which he was sitting, with some twisted difficulty. Charlie was taking only token sips of the supermarket sherry retired
