Red Star Burning

Through a mouthpiece muffled by his handkerchief Charlie said, first in Russian and then, hopefully, in American-accented English: “Malcolm Stoat is leaving through Sheremetyevo Airport in the next twelve hours.”

22

None slept well. All were up before their respective dawns, allowing for the time difference between Moscow and Paris and the disparity between Moscow and London. Harry Jacobson, in the last of a series of hired Toyotas used throughout in place of the identifying diplomatic registration of his embassy Ford, was outside the north Moscow apartment thirty minutes before Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic’s departure. Jacobson did not try to locate the separate, independent escorts in other vehicles parked hood to trunk in the square or its offshoot streets. David Halliday responded at once to Jacobson’s cell-phone-check call to the British embassy on Smolenskaya Naberezhnaya. Not trusting the reliability of the skeletal early-morning train services, James Straughan had himself collected by an MI6 car from his Berkhamsted home, in which his mother’s caregiver slept overnight. Rebecca Street stayed at Cheyne Walk to make the short journey from Monsford’s apartment to Vauxhall Cross with the MI6 Director. Jonathan Miller and Albert Abrahams met for coffee and croissants at an all-night-workers’ cafe close to the British embassy on rue d’Anjou before crossing to their rezidentura. Elana Radtsic was already in the kitchen, brewing black tea, when Andrei walked in. Answering her question, Andrei said he’d told Yvette he was skipping class that day to show his mother some Paris sights before her return to Moscow. There, seemingly immune now to the bed-bug attacks, Charlie Muffin lay awake but unmoving, frustrated at his isolation from a situation he knew to be happening, although without the slightest knowledge of whose extraction he hoped to have sabotaged: hoping even more that its wrecking would reverberate throughout the highest echelons of British intelligence for the utmost humiliation and career disaster for those who’d tried to destroy him, Natalia, and Sasha.

In Moscow it was raining heavily. London and Paris were overcast, with rain forecast later in the day.

Maxim Radtsic emerged precisely on time. He wore a gray trench coat, its collar turned up to a wide- brimmed, dark gray fedora he’d not worn before to meet Jacobson. The Russian carried a strap-secured briefcase in one hand and a small, weekend bag in the other. He looked neither left nor right getting into a small, unmarked Mercedes parked directly outside his apartment. Although there was no moving traffic in the street or those surrounding it, Radtsic put on his turn signal before pulling away. Jacobson allowed a gap of almost thirty meters before following. As he did so, Jacobson saw in his rearview mirror a Renault emerge from a line of parked vehicles behind but on the other side of the street. Both rigidly conformed to the speed limit.

Straughan had commandeered the mezzanine-level overview eerie normally occupied by the communications supervisor, who was that day relegated to the far side of the room and a secondary desk to which all satellite television, telephone, e-mail, and telex traffic had been transferred, with the exception of the dedicated, permanently open lines to the Moscow and Paris rezidenturas. Also from the overview room there was direct, two-way audio relay to the Director’s suite for simultaneous exchange between Straughan and Monsford. The separately installed CCTV did not have a conference connection, preventing Straughan seeing into Monsford’s office. Rebecca Street confirmed her presence there, inquiring about technical difficulties. Straughan assured her there were none: there were duplicated, already opened lines for such eventualities. He told Monsford he’d spoken to David Halliday in Moscow and that Millar and Abrahams were already at their rezidentura: it was still too early for their intended backup to be mobilized under Paul Painter’s supervision.

“London, as ever, driving from the backseat,” remarked Miller, putting his phone down.

“Without a map or sat-nav to tell them in which direction they’re going,” agreed Abrahams. “We’ll be superfluous to requirements once we land at Northolt. I’ve got a girlfriend in London who’s got a similarly uninhibited and free-spirited friend.”

“Why not give her a call, fix it up, before everything kicks off?” suggested Miller. “We’re not likely to get into London proper until early evening.”

“Good idea,” accepted Abrahams.

Maxim Radtsic still led when they joined the multi-lane inner beltway from the Olimpijskaka ploscad link, the cars passing with an irony no one was ever to learn within a crow’s-flight mile from where the resentful Charlie Muffin still lay at the Mira hotel. By now the rain had eased and the rush-hour traffic built up, which slowed them while at the same time providing protectively intervening vehicles between Radtsic and his MI6 escorts. Jacobson’s ever-hovering fear of entrapment diminished in parallel with the rain, although he refused to let his confidence stretch to a triumphant liftoff from Sheremetyevo and positive, irreversible success. What little he did allow evaporated at their approach to the CCTV-festooned Lubyanka headquarters of the Russian intelligence apparatus, the detection risk here potentially greater than at the airport. Forewarned by Radtsic of constantly patrolling plainclothes guards and perpetually staffed live television sweeps of the entire surrounding area-warnings passed on through Straughan to the separate car-the closeness of the escort was abandoned before they reached the square. Jacobson parked on a side street with a view of the side exit through which Radtsic intended to leave, on foot, abandoning the Mercedes in its reserved bay as further indication of his remaining somewhere in the building. The Renault found a space in another side road. David Halliday responded on the first ring to Jacobson’s call: he’d already spoken to Straughan to establish the voice relays were operating perfectly.

At London’s Vauxhall Cross, Straughan closed off his permanent Moscow link and into his connection to the Director’s suite said: “Radtsic’s arrived at the Lubyanka, two minutes ahead of schedule: everything’s going to plan.”

“How do you know that!” demanded Monsford, at once.

Straughan didn’t care if his frowned grimace was obvious on the penthouse TV. “Halliday just reported in from the embassy: Jacobson made contact from outside: he’s waiting for Radtsic to come out for the airport.”

“I told you Halliday was only to be used between the airport and you.”

“And after I personally gave you the general outline of the extraction I left on your desk, the minute-by- minute, stage-by-stage route. Which clearly lists Lubyanka as the first to be reported to me: no geographical identification, stage one. And that’s all Halliday passed on: ‘Stage one completed, two minutes ahead of schedule.’ It’s essential I tell Paris now, to keep them in the loop. The Paris collection is also set out in your detailed dossier.”

“So the Northolt departure stays on time?” queried Jonathan Miller, listening to what Straughan told him.

“That’s the update I’m going to give them as soon as I’ve finished talking to you.”

“Our backup will be in place on Avenue George V and the embankment in fifteen minutes. I’ve already spoken to Paul Painter. He’ll give the alert if any problems arise when we’re under way. We’ll contact Elana and Andrei once you tell me Radtsic’s airborne.”

“Painter knows what to do if you get into difficulty?” queried Straughan.

“Just the sort of question I needed after I’d finally convinced myself nothing can go wrong!” complained Miller, in mock rebuke.

“So what’s the answer?” persisted Straughan, humorlessly.

“If there’s a problem it won’t be compounded by their intervention,” assured the station chief, putting his telephone down in unison with Abrahams at his opposite desk.

Abrahams said: “The girls want to meet in the Claridge’s bar.”

“You pay the best, you get the best,” remarked Miller.

“I hope you’re right.” Abrahams smiled back.

Charlie Muffin’s cut-off disgruntlement finally drove him out of bed and worsened when the hiccupping shower shuddered to a stop while he was still covered in soap lather. It refused to start again despite his angrily jerking at the controls. It took him ten minutes fully to splash off the soap from the sink tap, the deluge seeping wetly out into the bedroom. He should, Charlie criticized, have moved on from the Mira to a hotel with television or radio in his room, although there were no breaking-news stations matching those of London. It would be psychologically wrong to call Halliday this early, betraying an uncertainty he didn’t want the man to suspect. Too early as well, and for the same reason, to attempt contact with Natalia: she wouldn’t yet have left the Pecatnikov apartment, which she