The fair-haired, overweight man was close to the top of the farthest downward escalator, tightly clutching the hand support to prevent himself being forced down the stairs by the crush behind, anxiously scanning the crowded platform below from his diminishing elevation. Preston hesitated at platform level, pulling himself out of the current of people. Briefly, for no more than seconds, Preston appeared to look directly at Charlie, who tensed, ready to retreat. But then the man looked away and moved in the opposite direction and positioned his back to another of the major support pillars. From the inside pocket of his unbuttoned raincoat Preston took an unidentifiable newspaper already cleverly folded smaller than its tabloid size for commuter-crowded reading, which he gave the impression of doing without obscuring his platform view.
Robert Denning appeared at the top of the escalator exactly four minutes later but pulled himself into a small recess at its top to stare down at the human sea below. Charlie knew he was totally concealed from above from the tall, balding MI6 officer, who also wore a raincoat, although unlike Preston tightly buttoned and belted. Charlie was also sure that from his vantage point Denning wouldn’t be able to locate Preston, whom he’d presumably followed. Denning’s head moved from side to side as he scanned the platform, straining forward at the arrival and departure of trains. After at least ten minutes Denning took from his pocket what Charlie at once recognized to be one of the special Vauxhall-issued Russian cell phones. It was a brief conversation, after which Denning turned back against the crowd, disappearing toward street level.
Charlie kept his concentration on the upper level, at the same time keeping Preston in sight. Preston, in turn, maintained his constant vigil from behind his newspaper screen. Preston had obviously been followed by Denning, whose telephone alert had most likely been to Briddle or Beckindale, but not both: he’d appeared to dial only once and the conversation hadn’t been long enough to involve more than one person. Why hadn’t Denning come down to platform level? To avoid his descent being visible to Preston, Charlie guessed. He hoped it indicated that London had accepted his message to exclude M16.
Nine forty-five, Charlie saw, from the platform clock. Where was Wilkinson? If Wilkinson was going to keep to the timetable, the man should have been here by now. But only if he was joining the merry-go-round from Smolenskaya, Charlie qualified. It would have been wiser, more professional, for Wilkinson to evade pursuit by boarding at a different station, using Preston and Warren to lay false trails. But they hadn’t, came another qualification. Preston had led Denning to the underground system and Denning had doubtless alerted the other M16 men. So even if Warren and Wilkinson were using different stations, the intended encounter was compromised.
Which it definitely was, Charlie accepted, as Patrick Wilkinson appeared at the top of the escalator. By now the rush hour had thinned and as he descended Wilkinson expectantly swept the platform below, seeking Preston, whose head jerk of recognition was even more obvious. Preston left his pillar as Wilkinson reached the platform and for a moment Charlie thought the two were actually going to link up. They didn’t, but Preston stopped close enough for both to enter the same carriage. Charlie’s distraction from the escalator was only seconds but when he looked back Denning was halfway down, using a group of uniformed soldiers for cover, and as the man reached the bottom, Beckindale got on at the top and descended with even less concealment behind a fur-hatted, fur-coated woman. Neither Wilkinson nor Preston looked behind him to check his trail.
Charlie replaced the battery in his adapted cell phone before Beckindale got to the bottom, his attention wholly upon the two MI6 officers hurrying to board the second and third carriage of the incoming train behind that of Wilkinson and Preston. With the carriage doors still open, Charlie texted Denning: WOMAN IN FUR HAT AND COAT, TWO SEATS IN FRONT, IS FSB, and saw Denning’s grab at his pocket as he went back to the mobile phone. Charlie texted Wilkinson: GET RID OF PRESTON. STAY WHERE YOU ARE. DENNING AND BECKINDALE IN CARRIAGES BEHIND. The train pulling away from the station prevented Charlie’s catching the second reaction.
Charlie waited ten minutes to guard against Warren or Briddle arriving late before using the underpass to the opposite platform for counterclockwise trains, knowing from his previous day’s reconnaissance that he would be at Paveletsky long before Wilkinson’s train, the numbered designation of which was 986. It hadn’t started well, Charlie acknowledged, objectively.
“You know where he is!” interrupted Gerald Monsford, hunched forward over the telephone in his empty office.
“I said there’s positive movement,” refused Briddle. “Wilkinson’s told me they’ve been ordered to break from us. I’m guessing there’s a link-up with Charlie-”
“When!” broke in Monsford again.
Briddle sighed, audibly. “After the Wilkinson confrontation we started monitoring. This morning Denning followed Preston to Smolenskakaya Metro. Preston established observation. Just short of an hour later, Beckindale followed Wilkinson to the same station. Wilkinson and Preston got on the same train, but not together. Our guys are with them, although not together, on the same train as the other two-”
“It’s a meeting!”
“Please let me finish!” protested Briddle, whose only professional contact with the Director had been during his private assassination briefing. “Before their train pulled out, Denning got a text from Charlie, telling him that a woman in front of him was FSB.” Briddle stopped expectantly, but for the first time Monsford didn’t break in. “Denning got off at the next station. The woman didn’t follow.”
“She wouldn’t have been alone: there would have been a switch,” said the M16 Director, filling in the exchange while he composed his intended story to the other man.
“Or it was a trick to screw our surveillance,” suggested Briddle. “Whatever, it means that Charlie was watching everything: my guess is that he was on the train.”
“Is Beckindale searching for him?”
“Of course he is. But he can only risk the carriages behind his own. If he goes forward he’ll be seen by Wilkinson or Preston. I’ve told him to do his best to get some view into Wilkinson’s carriage, to establish if Charlie’s there. If the meeting’s there, he’s to follow Charlie when he gets off.”
“You haven’t forgotten our private meeting, have you?” said Monsford, everything clear in his mind.
“Of course not.”
“What have you been told by Straughan?”
“Little more than that the French business is our operation.”
“It’s the wife and son of Maxim Radtsic, the executive deputy of the FSB.”
“Jesus!” exclaimed Briddle.
“And we’ve got Radtsic, safely here in England. I’m working to extract the family here, too: expect to initiate it today. That’s background information, for you to understand the echelon at which we’re working: the three of you won’t have any active involvement in that. Your undivided concentration is to be on Charlie Muffin, whose message to Denning definitely wasn’t a trick: the trick was all that crap about his having to get his wife and daughter out of Russia. Radtsic’s confirmed Charlie Muffin is a double, but M15 won’t accept it: that’s why they’ve ordered their people to block you out. And I’m giving you the same order. There’s to be no further liaison with MI5. I want them watched until Charlie Muffin is located. But you are not to tell Denning or Beckindale
“Work against our own people!” questioned Briddle, uneasily.
“Charlie Muffin isn’t our people: Radtsic insists he was turned years ago in the old KGB days and that he’s been responsible for the deaths of at least eight loyal officers, four of them ours.”
“If he’s gone over he’s here, safe,” said Briddle. “If he’s got away, why’s he apparently got into contact with Wilkinson and the others?”
“Three and eight make eleven,” said Monsford. “And if he identifies you three, that eleven could come up to fourteen. I’m not going to let him have that final count as his swan song.”
Briddle lapsed into silence and this time Monsford didn’t prompt, content to wait. Eventually Briddle said: “There’s no way the three of us can detain him, get him out of the country, even if the others lead us to him.”
“I know,” said Monsford, shortly.
“What do you want us to do?”
“
“Are you authorizing me with the direct and specific order?”
“Yes. There will be no paper trail. That direct order, under a classified seal, will be logged with your
