Red Star Burning

Monsford concluded: “This isn’t a proposal even in its broadest sense. It’s a starting point, a basis for the sort of material they’ll need when they make their break.”

Charlie fought against openly showing his dismay, feeling no satisfaction at being right about the planning vacuum before his inclusion. This echelon was too high: obviously none of them had ever worked in the field, trained in operational practicalities, trusting nothing and no one, winning if you’re lucky-or ruthless enough-dying if you’re not. Carefully, initially rephrasing his words to avoid humiliating them, Charlie said: “We won’t get them out disguised as British tourists wearing British clothes on British passports, no matter how good our forgeries and fake documentation. Russian entry visas are stamped and retained upon arrival, to be numerically matched with their departure counterfoils. There’s no way we could introduce forged entry sections into the bureaucratic system.”

“Is that your only comment?” quickly pressed Smith, guessing that it wasn’t.

These posturing four weren’t properly-professionally-working to evolve a rescue operation. Other, better professionals, who knew the smell of shit and what blood tasted like, should have been doing that. These figurehead bureaucrats were playacting to score off one another. But the charade was the best he could hope for at this moment: the only hope he had. “The embassy can be as much a prison as a haven, which links-” he cautiously began once more.

“Indivisible from the paramount problem of getting Natalia and the child under our safekeeping and away from Russian surveillance,” Jane impatiently intruded, unable to hold back from the discussion any longer, seemingly unperturbed by the annoyed looks from both men.

Charlie’s intention had been to continue talking about precisely that but the interruption gave him a moment to reconsider. He was, he belatedly recognized, in a far stronger and definitely more influential position than he’d realized, maybe even able to make Natalia and Sasha’s escape his own, although always insinuating his suggestions to appear those of Monsford or Smith. It would all, of course, go through the pragmatic scrutiny, but the rejecting mesh sifting would be far more widely set with the proposals coming down from the gods. “Which you have obviously talked about before I joined you?”

“You were cut off before you finished what you were saying?” questioned Rebecca, in return.

After a momentary hesitation, Charlie said: “I was also going to suggest that it wasn’t advisable to issue Natalia and Sasha British passports: to involve our embassy, quite apart from the problem of making contact with Natalia without FSB interception. It’s what they’d expect and be most prepared for.”

“The documentation we’ve prepared isn’t British, for that obvious reason,” said Aubrey Smith, ahead of the other Director. “What languages, apart from her own Russian and English, does Natalia speak?”

“German, fluently: she was assigned for a period to East Germany,” replied Charlie, taking his time now, seeking his openings.

“East Germany!” picked up Rebecca, at once. “Was she there the same time as Vladimir Putin?”

Charlie came within a whisker of trying further to enhance Natalia’s value by claiming she had been a contemporary of the Russian president turned premier. “I’ve already told you we never discussed our professional lives. But I think there’s a strong possibility she was in Potsdam at the same time.”

There was a moment’s pause before Smith said: “Just Russian, English, and German?”

“And Polish,” added Charlie. “She has some Polish, although she’s not fluent.”

“Well enough to communicate in Polish: not draw unnecessary attention?” pressed Smith.

“Well enough to debrief in the language,” confirmed Charlie, feeling the first spurt of renewed hope. “Sasha obviously only has limited Russian.”

“We’ve prepared Polish documentation,” disclosed the MI5 Director. “There’s no matching entry to exit visa regulations for rail or road crossings. Once they’re across the Polish border, they’re safe. Actually in the European Union.”

“Yes,” agreed Charlie. “Once in Poland they’d be safe.”

“Which brings us back to how to reach Natalia,” said Rebecca, directly addressing Aubrey Smith. “Tell us how your diversions are going to achieve that?”

“Diversions?” queried Charlie, the feeling of satisfaction growing.

“The initial phone call can be easily managed,” insisted the MI5 Director-General, his entire concentration upon Charlie. “What we need from you is a way or a method-hopefully both-to make that contact with Natalia: the whole extraction stands or falls by our achieving that. And yours is the detailed knowledge upon which it depends.”

Exactly as he wanted it, Charlie recognized, the final satisfaction engulfing him. Don’t overplay it, came the balancing warning. “I understand.”

“But can you provide it?” demanded Rebecca.

“I’m sure I can,” said Charlie, maintaining the low-key reaction.

“How soon?” persisted Monsford.

“I need to think it through. I’ll have enough to discuss by tomorrow.”

“Sufficient for us to start moving by tomorrow?” picked up Smith.

“Definitely,” promised Charlie, tightly. “Sufficient to start tomorrow.”

Monsford and Rebecca sat tightly together in the rear of the car returning them to London, the soundproof glass screen fully raised between them and their driver.

Monsford said: “I didn’t enjoy playing the complete idiot back there.”

“You played it as it had to be played,” flattered the woman. “The recordings will show Smith forcing the pace, initiating the moves that will go wrong.”

“You think the woman might really have been in Potsdam with Putin?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Charlie says it’s possible. Who knows?”

“If she was-as well as being as high as she’s clearly been in the KGB as well as the FSB-she really would be a hell of a catch, wouldn’t she?” mused the MI6 Director.

“Maxim Radtsic became the senior deputy to the KGB chairman for the last year of its existence and still has that position today,” reminded Rebecca. “Getting him across, which we know we’re going to do, is the higher prize.”

“Getting both across would be the biggest coup of all,” said Monsford. “Coming so soon after the Lvov affair, it would reduce Russian intelligence-and Putin’s well-established Cold War determination-to a pile of dust.”

“If we tried to do both we’d end up with one extraction getting in the way of the other and risk finishing up with neither,” Rebecca warned. “Natalia and the child are our diversion to get Radtsic out. That’s enough.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Monsford sighed, as the car headed up the embankment toward Cheyne Walk. “Do you want to eat in or out?”

“It’s been a long day and will probably be longer tomorrow,” said Rebecca. “Let’s go straight home. After that lunch, all I feel like eating is you.” And that, she reflected, was an exaggeration.

Jane Ambersom flustered into the Mount Street restaurant, irritated at her second delay that day, searching anxiously around and smiling in relieved recognition at the wave from Barry Elliott, rising to meet her.

“You got my message that I’d be late?” she said, as the American reached her.

“Just as I was leaving the office: cleared my decks in the extra hour you gave me,” said her FBI liaison, leading her back to their table. “Something unexpected delay you?”

Jane nodded to the offered chardonnay. “An out-of-town meeting overran.”

“Anything of mutual interest?”

“Mutual to you? Or the CIA?”

“I don’t understand the question?” The man frowned.

“I’m supposed to act as MI5 liaison to both. I haven’t heard from the CIA.”

Elliott smiled, with schoolboy shyness. “I guess they’re nervous of you guys. They got their fingers badly burned the last time.”

“So it’s just you and I?” said Jane, risking the flirtation.

“Just you and I,” confirmed the American. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Nothing that’s emerged so far: no really useful chatter,” avoided the woman, although carefully allowing the uncertainty.