Red Star Burning

“Eight tonight at the restaurant we used in the beginning, behind the gardens,” Charlie managed, before Natalia put the phone down. He’d have to wait for at least six hours to discover what it was, Charlie estimated. It wouldn’t take him that long to complete the shopping he needed.

24

As it was, Charlie didn’t have to wait that long at all.

He checked out of the Mira hotel, moving south to the student transient anonymity of the Moscow university district with the Komsomolskaya Metro and its pursuit-evading convenience of two major subway routes. The Galaxy Hotel was a considerable improvement upon the Mira, due chiefly to the bedroom television with a CNN channel upon which, within half an hour, he saw the breaking-news flash of the French autoroute arrests and Orly plane impoundment. Charlie sat unmoving through two repeats, the last update of which confirmed that the alleged kidnap victims were Russian and that documentation upon the two detained Britons indicated diplomatic connections.

Charlie’s immediate speculation was the extent to which he could stretch what little there was to gain more from David Halliday. Not much, was the objective conclusion: scarcely anything at all, under the closest examination. His best, maybe only, hope was to lure Halliday into conjuring more ghosts from his fear-clouded mind. Charlie was encouraged by the audible uncertainty in Halliday’s voice as the man grabbed up the rezidentura phone. To increase it, Charlie said: “Not such a clean job after all, was it, David?”

“I’m not responsible for any of it! How could I be!” gabbled Halliday.

The satisfaction moved through Charlie. “You tell me.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with the French end,” Halliday continued to protest.

“That’s how it is when things fuck up. Don’t forget scapegoats and fall guys.”

“Not this time,” insisted the other man, in weak defiance. “They try to stitch me into this, I’m going to demand an internal inquiry to prove I can’t be held responsible.”

So far, so good, judged Charlie: not just good, 100 percent better than he’d expected. But it would take only one misplaced word. “How can they stitch you into it, if you didn’t know about France?”

“That’s the question I asked Straughan.”

“What was his answer it?”

“He couldn’t answer it, not properly. Said he wasn’t accusing me of anything: that he just wanted to know how much Jacobson told me about Radtsic.”

Who the fuck was Radtsic? Wrong question, Charlie instantly corrected himself. It was obvious who Radtsic was. And even more obvious, from Natalia’s telephone reaction, was the man’s occupation if not his actual rank within it until the departure of British Airways 9:30 flight that morning to London. And Halliday had lied, insisting he didn’t know the defector’s identity. What more was there to squeeze out of the man? “How much did Jacobson tell you about Radtsic?”

There was an abrupt silence. After what Charlie estimated was minutes, Halliday said: “You’re part of the stitch-up, now it’s all gone wrong. You just referred to Radtsic by name! Earlier you told me you didn’t know who we were getting out!”

“I didn’t know until you mentioned it less than five minutes ago.”

“I didn’t mention a name,” rejected Halliday.

“‘He just wanted to know how much Jacobson told me about Radtsic,’” quoted Charlie. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”

Once more Halliday didn’t reply. Charlie didn’t prompt.

“I don’t trust you,” eventually declared the MI6 man, close to his usual petulance.

“I never asked nor expected you to trust me,” reminded Charlie. “You proved that, not telling me until now that Radtsic was the extraction.”

“I didn’t know the name, not until London began the inquest,” implored Halliday.

Professionally the man was a disaster, Charlie decided once more. If Halliday had ever undergone hostile interrogation he would within minutes have disclosed the identities of every agent and every secret he’d ever known, up to and including the color of his grandfather’s underwear. “Tell me about Radtsic,” Charlie demanded.

“All I now know is that the extraction from here worked perfectly and that he’s already arrived in London. I don’t know if he’s been told about his wife and son.”

Halliday probably didn’t realize the amount of information he imparted every time he opened his mouth, for which, Charlie supposed, he should be grateful. “What is Radtsic within the FSB?”

“The number two.”

Charlie said: “You know, don’t you, that the seizure’s public: been officially announced by the French.”

“How could I know, chained here in the rezidentura! It makes it easier to understand London’s panic.”

Don’t lose him, Charlie warned himself. “And should make it easier for you to understand the scapegoat hunt.”

“I told you they can’t blame me!”

“Chained to a desk in the rezidentura,” echoed Charlie. “Where Straughan didn’t even bother to tell you everything’s unraveling. What chance do you think you’ve got to prevent your balls being turned into a necklace?”

“I’ll insist on an official internal investigation if they try that!” repeated Halliday,

“Which they can refuse if they choose,” dismissed Charlie. “Don’t forget I was brought in as Radtsic’s diversion, which I refused to be and beat them. I’m still your best chance of beating them again if they try to set you up.”

“I won’t forget,” promised Halliday, dutifully. “And I’m sorry what I said about not trusting you.”

“Don’t be,” refused Charlie. “Just remember who’s your best guide out of this shit.”

“There’s so much I still don’t understand,” protested Halliday.

“There’s still a lot I don’t understand,” admitted Charlie. Chief among them being how, after his anonymous Malcolm Stoat tip that should have put the FSB on the highest alert, its defecting chief deputy passed unimpeded through Sheremetyevo airport while the MI6’s extraction of the man’s wife and son was intercepted by French intelligence.

“I’ve been trying to update you, but was told you couldn’t be reached,” said Straughan, as Monsford settled himself at his desk.

“My phone’s broken. You got everything ready for me, as I ordered,” said Monsford, leaning sideways to the Record button.

“All there in front of you,” indicated the operations director. “You want to read it or hear the bullet points?”

“Before you decide, there’s been seven more calls between Bland, Palmer, and Smith,” broke in Rebecca Street. “I told them you’d be back at four, which gives you thirty minutes to get updated. You’re to call Bland the moment you arrive here.”

Monsford hadn’t looked at his deputy as she talked but Straughan had and picked up the head shake that told him the Director hadn’t activated the apparatus. Impatiently, ignoring what Rebecca told him, Monsford said: “Give me the bullet points!”

“The French haven’t named Elana or Andrei, just described them as mother and son,” Straughan set out. “They’ve leaked a diplomatic connection for Miller and Abrahams. According to Bland there’s been a French demand for an explanation. The pilot and crew have been taken to Paris. It’s the lead item on every television and radio channel here and in France, as well as the Evening Standard here and every Paris evening newspaper. It’s also included in every television and radio newscast and print media, time differences allowing,