“Our only link to Charlie is through Flood,” said Smith.
“We don’t have secure communication,” insisted Passmore.
“Route it through one of our European relays,” decided Smith. “We’ve got to warn Charlie.”
“Tell me where.” Sasha giggled.
“It’s a surprise,” insisted Natalia.
“Hot or cold?”
“Sometimes hot, sometimes cold.”
“You’re holding my hand too tightly,” protested the girl. “Mountains or flat?”
“Small mountains.”
“But we can swim: you packed my costume.”
“I hope we can swim. Do lots of things.”
“I wish you’d tell me where we’re going,” Sasha complained.
Natalia started forward at the sound of the mobile telephone. “We’re on our way.”
“I’m already at the terminal, waiting,” said Charlie.
“About thirty minutes.”
“No problems?”
“No.”
“I told you there wouldn’t be.”
“Who was that?” demanded the child.
“Someone from the airline, wanting to know we were on our way.”
“Vnukovo,” declared Halliday. “This is the road to Vnukovo.”
“Can they get to London from Vnukovo?”
“Direct and via a lot of other links,” confirmed Halliday.
“How far is the airport?”
“Maybe two miles.”
“We’ve got to be careful,” said Briddle. “Charlie might already be there, waiting. Drop us off at the approach to the terminal, before you park the car.”
Behind them, Denning broke wind.
Halliday said: “I won’t drive back with you. I’ll catch an airport bus.”
Charlie saw them before their taxi stopped, sure Natalia wouldn’t be able to locate him on the farthest side of the booth from which the baggage handlers and traffic supervisors operated. Natalia got out first, at once searching, and Charlie stepped out, saw from her facial reaction that she’d seen him, and withdrew. He had the briefest sight of Sasha before the booth blocked his view of their entering the building. Charlie hoped the unknown escort had picked them up inside. He’d failed to isolate any professional indicators earlier, getting his boarding pass from the prebooked electronic dispenser, and been reassured because it proved the expertise of whoever Flood had put there ahead of their arrival.
Charlie’s replaced contact emerged from the passage connecting to the parking and rental-car return, moving surely but unhurriedly, and slowed at the main entrance when Charlie stepped out for the second identification, pushing a previously withdrawn luggage trolley back into its line. Flood understood at once, offering Charlie the release coin to avoid the procedure with those already locked and said: “Briddle and the others can’t be found.”
“You think they’ve picked you up?”
“Possibly. At least one car stayed all the way from Pecatnikov.”
“You take over,” Charlie ordered, taking the man with him as they entered the terminal. “You give London the arrival details, make sure Natalia and Sasha get there. If there’s a challenge, I’ll distract.”
“London’s orders-”
“Get Natalia and Sasha out!” stopped Charlie, splitting away from the other man. How could it be blown! There’d been no link to the embassy: no way the extraction could be compromised. Natalia had physically to see him to know nothing was wrong. The terminal was far more crowded than it had been earlier, making it difficult to isolate anyone. Earlier! echoed in his mind, like a warning bell. He had a boarding pass, a ticket record, in his pocket identifying the flight they’d be on. Charlie transferred the boarding pass from his jacket to his trouser pocket, keeping his hand on it. He had to get rid of it at the first hint of trouble.
Charlie saw her. Natalia was at the edge although not positively part of the line of people straggled into the departure area. Imperceptibly her face relaxed as she saw Charlie. She turned at once, properly joining the line to move forward. Charlie couldn’t see Flood. The red boarding message was flashing on the departures board.
He’d fall back to the Cyprus flight, Charlie decided, discarding the Finnair boarding pass in a rubbish bin on his way to the MEA desk, this time ignoring the automatic boarding machine, knowing Flood and the other escorts would realize what he was doing as he got into the MEA check-in line, his back to the main hall.
David Halliday saw Charlie as he entered after parking the rental car. He saw Briddle, too, and then Denning and Beckindale by a wall. Briddle was walking strangely, both arms across himself as if he was in pain. Halliday continued on, his concentration upon the oddly hunched Stephan Briddle. And because of that concentration glimpsed the gun. It was the briefest sight, an open-and-closed gap in Briddle’s jacket from the contorted way the man was holding himself, but Halliday knew it was a gun, a Makarov, and then he saw it more properly as Briddle took it from beneath his jacket and without any conscious thought Halliday yelled: “Charlie!”
Who didn’t hear. Briddle did, though, jerking toward the sound, still bringing the gun out, and Halliday shouted again and this time Charlie did hear, turning back into the hall to see Briddle and Halliday, one in front of the other.
The shot sounded very loud, a reverberating echo, and very quickly there was another and the screaming began and people ran and Charlie ran, too, blindly, pushing against other running people crashing into him. There seemed a lot of shooting now, echo after echo, and in the first seconds Charlie thought the numbness was somebody running into him harder than before but then there was more numbness and he knew he was falling although he didn’t want to fall, he wanted to keep running. It didn’t hurt when he hit the ground, but he knew it should have done. Charlie’s last, conscious thought was that the lights had been turned off, which he couldn’t understand.
33
Charlie’s first awareness was of sound, not voices, and he hoped his eyes hadn’t flickered: weren’t flickering, now he was consciously keeping them closed. There was some pain, probably where he’d fallen, but not a lot: mostly he still felt numbed and didn’t know why. Didn’t understand much at all, although he could remember what had happened: Briddle with a gun in his hand, Halliday behind, arms outstretched as he ran forward, the shots-a lot of shots, impossible to count because of the echoing reverberations, falling-falling, although he hadn’t wanted to fall, not able to save himself because he was so numb. He could distinguish voices now; Russian, but he couldn’t properly determine the words. It was as if they were talking softly, whispering even: couldn’t understand why they were doing that, either. He tried to tense his body but not visibly move, to discover if he was restrained, but the numbness wouldn’t let him. Please don’t let me be paralyzed. Why should he be paralyzed?
“Why don’t you open your eyes?” came a voice, loud now, which strangely Charlie believed he recognized.
Charlie did but couldn’t focus: several people, some in uniforms, a small room, a bed. He was in a hospital. His vision cleared, intermittently. Mikhail Guzov, the FSB colonel he’d outwitted and beaten to expose the Lvov plot, was at the end of the bed, smiling down at him.
“We’re going to be together for a long time, you and I,” said Guzov. “Let’s start properly, shall we? How shall I call you? Malcolm Stoat, as you were listed on the Amsterdam plane? David Merryweather, as you were booked on the Finnair and MEA flights? Or Charlie Muffin?”
