those still visible for professionally telltale attitudes or recognizable London faces. Finding neither, Charlie switched his concentration to the hotel outside, almost at once isolating Neil Preston from the London introductory session, wincing critically at the man occupying the same porch that Patrick Wilkinson had the day before but with even less concealment. There was no one obviously watching from where he’d picked out the man with the straggled mustache.
Charlie realistically accepted the Malcolm Stoat name would have had far wider disclosure than in the two media references he’d found. The name had already been available from the aircraft passenger manifest for more than forty-eight hours now, and from his previous day’s hotel observation, London had definitely discovered the location of the holiday group among which he’d hidden. But they’d had the name-and known of his vanishing act- from the outset. Moscow hadn’t. Neither had it been on the block-visa documentation submitted by Manchester to the Russian embassy in London, only on the hotel registration here and at Sheremetyevo airport. Certainly not available for as long as forty-eight hours then. But he was still surprised the Rossiya wasn’t swarmed by FSB, which it obviously wasn’t, from Neil Preston being patiently, if amateurishly, on duty.
Noon, Charlie saw from the bar clock, as he gestured for another drink. The itinerary scheduled a twelve- forty-five return. He’d wait, he decided. He had no intention of trying to reconnect with the Manchester group but it was important he get some indication of what had happened to them. The FSB knew that he was coming, just not when and how. But they’d have made the connection from his Amsterdam disappearance. What happened-and when-to Muriel Simpson and her band of travelers would trigger the positive start of the FSB’s hunt for him.
He hadn’t tried the marked telephone in the botanical gardens for more than an hour, Charlie reminded himself. Now, midday, might be a good time. There was a phone on the far side of the bar but it was open fronted and the place was noisily crowded with lunchtime customers. He’d have to speak loudly, shout even, if there was a reply and probably have difficulty hearing himself. It was hardly likely Natalia would be there to pick up the receiver, anyway. His best-probably only-chance was to continue the nighttime vigils, as surreptitiously as he was professionally able.
Abruptly he saw the tourist coach.
Charlie was gesturing for a third drink, momentarily looking toward the bartender, and when he looked back to the window Charlie at once recognized the vehicle from the journey from the airport, stopped at that moment by a car emerging through the forecourt-entry gap. The coach impatiently edged forward as the car almost imperceptibly eased out, stopping altogether as it more positively obstructed the skewed coach. At the same time, the car horn blared an obvious signal for three closed, military-style vehicles to tire-scream from both directions down the suddenly emptied, sealed road to form a complete encirclement. At the same time, the scene was flooded by lights, brightly illuminating the arrival of two more slower and bigger military vehicles that disgorged helmeted, body-armored men in camouflage uniforms who at once began herding at jabbing gunpoint the bewildered, stumbling Manchester tourists, four of the women crying hysterically, from their coach into the larger vans. Briefly a white-faced Muriel Simpson appeared to stare directly into the bar at the watching Charlie.
The traffic-clearing military-convoy sirens momentarily overwhelmed the astonished uproar inside the bar, but neither conflicting noises prevented Charlie’s very clearly hearing an English voice say, whisper-close to his ear: “Why aren’t I surprised to find you here, Charlie?”
The MI6 Director stared up from the transcript James Straughan had protectively printed verbatim of his conversation with their Moscow station chief an hour earlier, Monsford’s mouth forming the words but not able to utter them. Finally he managed: “Cairo! Radtsic very definitely identified Cairo!”
“I specifically took Jacobson over that three times. He’s adamant Radtsic stipulated Cairo because the significance of Cairo didn’t mean anything to him: still doesn’t, because I didn’t explain it.”
“And Radtsic has consistently denied knowing anything but the vaguest circumstances of the Lvov case?” echoed Monsford, going back to the transcript.
“Radtsic claims he wasn’t even in the KGB’s Lubyanka headquarters when it began: that he was a serving officer in St. Petersburg,” confirmed Straughan, irritated at the other man’s repeating his point-by-point memorandum.
“It’s not right,” declared Monsford. “Something’s definitely not right.”
“Let’s not overinterpret it,” cautioned Rebecca Street. “According to what we know of Radtsic’s history he
“Most of what’s available of Radtsic’s career was provided by Radtsic himself, after he made his approach to us,” reminded Straughan. “We’ve no independent confirmation of anything he’s told us.”
“So what?” dismissed the woman. “He’d still have been involved in the review of the Lvov disaster and learned before then how Cairo figured.”
“Why’s he told Jacobson he knows virtually nothing about it?” persisted Monsford, his mind locked on the inconsistency.
Rebecca shrugged, conscious that Monsford hadn’t activated his personal recording apparatus. “He knows he’s got to sing loud and clear for his supper once he gets here. Jacobson’s the facilitator, not the one he’s got to impress by what he knows. My guess is he let Cairo slip as a taster.”
“I don’t rely on guesses,” rejected Monsford, stiffly.
“Fifty percent of our decisions begin largely from guesswork,” Rebecca argued. “Or intuition, at least. Okay, Radtsic’s provided his own legend. But we know, from our independent identification, that he
Instead of answering, Monsford turned to the operations director, fluttering his printout. “Is this everything Jacobson had to say?”
“It’s planned as a front-faced extraction,” set out Straughan, determined to establish his personal safeguards. “We’re providing a genuine Russian passport, with Radtsic’s genuine photograph, describing him as a chemical engineer. The British entry visas are genuine, embassy issued, with all the necessary supporting documentation and accreditations for a trade visit here. It contains all the necessary Russian exit visas. He’ll be accompanied by three of our people I’ve already sent, independently and unknown to each other, to wait in separate Moscow hotels. The Moscow departure of Radtsic’s plane will be signaled to those in place at Heathrow. We’ll disembark him first, holding everyone else onboard, bypass all entry formalities, and take him direct to the safe house for his reunion with his Elana and Andrei.”
Monsford’s frown had deepened during Straughan’s presentation. “Why are you telling me what we’ve already planned?”
“Because I believe there needs to be reexamination and maybe replanning. Currently it’s a failsafe extraction, already set up and rehearsed, except for two exceptions.”
“Which are?” questioned Rebecca, aligning herself with the operations director’s doubts.
“The absence of Radtsic himself from that rehearsal, which nevertheless isn’t the main problem: all the man’s got to do is go through an embarkation procedure. What’s most likely to go wrong is the Charlie Muffin diversion.”
“Your point?” demanded Monsford, angry at being confronted.
“According to Radtsic, Elana’s exit visa will show up in a matter of days. When it does, Radtsic’s extraction isn’t any longer failsafe. It’s too heavily compromised. And we don’t know where the hell Charlie Muffin is, let alone have any idea how to inveigle him. We don’t need the complication.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” rejected Monsford. “I asked what else Jacobson said.”
“I don’t think we should wait, either,” intruded Rebecca, joining the objection. “We couldn’t even guarantee Charlie Muffin reaching Moscow with Jacobson on the same bloody plane! We need Muffin under programmed surveillance, which we don’t have.”
Monsford studiously ignored the woman, focused upon Straughan. Who risked an exasperated sigh at the obduracy of the other man. “Jacobson thinks it’s safer to restrict his contact with Radtsic to cell phone, until we move.”
“I thought Radtsic believed all his telephones to be tapped?” challenged Rebecca.
