from, when it came to calculating the opposition he was facing. ‘What if they’re telling?’ pressed Charlie.
‘Not easy,’ said Cartright, quickly again.
Which made the Kozlov operation like he imagined it to be, bloody difficult. He said: ‘Any other names, apart from Fredericks?’
‘Harry Fish and Winslow Elliott,’ said Cartright. ‘Fish is a nice enough guy but Elliott seems upset he was too late to wear a six gun and ride off into the Wild West sunset.’
‘So the Agency is the next best thing?’ said Charlie. Like Cartright, Charlie liked knowing as much as he could about competition, friendly or otherwise.
‘Something like that,’ said Cartright. ‘They going to be with you or against you?’
It was another intelligent if rather obvious question, after the passport request, but Charlie had the impression it was more than a surface query. He said: ‘At the moment, I’m not quite sure.’
‘Joint operation: something big then?’
The persistence definitely showed the knowledge of some pre-briefing, Charlie decided. Wilson or Harkness? Despite the attempt at fairness, Charlie reckoned the answer was obvious. If he could prove that, after the security classification, he’d have some ammunition in the battle against the polished and buffed asshole. ‘Too soon to judge yet,’ he said, generally. He wondered if Cartright would withhold messages and keep a time sheet on him.
‘How about the traffic?’ offered Cartright.
‘Thanks,’ said Charlie, accepting the dossier.
The London transmissions were very brief, which was hardly surprising at this stage, just the original and strictly formal notification of his coming, the instruction that any local assistance had first to be cleared by either the Director or deputy and a query whether or not he had reported in, upon arrival. The messages about London authorization and the arrival query were both signed by Harkness. Charlie wondered where the second batch of messages was, briefing Cartright on what to do.
‘That the lot?’ asked Charlie.
‘Everything,’ promised Cartright. ‘Were you expecting more?’
‘Nothing separate, to you?’ pressed Charlie. It would be wrong to let the other man think he was a prick, even if he’d been a bit of one last night. He’d also expected something about the empty boast to Fredericks that he had power to abort. Charlie accepted that if the American had checked and London reacted wrongly he’d be in the shit, right up to his neck. Fredericks’ cleverness had gone beyond putting him under immediate surveillance; making the direct approach at the hotel had wrong-footed him into having to improvise.
‘That’s all there is,’ lied Cartright. Hurrying on in his discomfort, he said: ‘Do you want the code room?’
‘Not yet,’ said Charlie. ‘You can tell them I’ve arrived, OK?’
Cartright looked doubtful. ‘I rather think they are expecting to hear from you,’ he said.
I bet they are, thought Charlie: Harkness first in line, bleating about authority. He needed something to fight back with, before there was any contact. He was pretty sure Cartright had been appointed watchdog and regretted it: the man seemed nice enough and Charlie wanted friends, not enemies. He said: ‘Things to do first. It’s only a formality, after all. And you will check about the passport, won’t you?’
‘Certainly? Sure that’s all?’
‘There are telephones, in the code room?’ Let him work that out.
‘Of course.’
Charlie recognized the standard design, trying to remember the first time he’d ever enclosed himself inside a secure capsule like this: certainly he’d been younger than Cartright. An inner, sealed chamber was supported by four metal struts he knew were tested weekly against electronic interception. The chamber was reached across a small walkway which lifted, separating it from the outer shell and isolating the occupant completely. The door had a system operated from the inside which displayed on the outer part a colour code designation, indicating the degree of sensitivity of the material being transmitted or received inside the sanctum, pink for the lowest through a varied rainbow to purple, the highest. Charlie itemised red, which was an exaggeration, and direct-dialled Hong Kong: Harry Lu’s telephone would not be secure, of course, but the electronic gadgetry in the code room prevented any trace of source if the conversation were intercepted.
Harry Lu answered on the third ring, gruff-voiced from the sixty cigarettes a day. Charlie identified himself at once and then without pausing said: ‘You clear your end?’
‘No,’ confirmed Lu, aware at once from the query that it was an official call. ‘You?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie, telling the other man he was in an embassy somewhere.
It was still difficult for Lu to contain himself. ‘Charlie! For Christ’s sake, Charlie! I thought you were dead!’
‘Almost was,’ said Charlie. ‘Very much like it at least.’
‘Somewhere local, Charlie?’ asked Lu, guardedly.
‘Nearby,’ said Charlie, with equal caution.
‘Near enough for a meeting?’
‘No.’
‘Pity, I’d have liked that. Talk over old times.’
Charlie smiled at the cue: the man was bloody good. ‘Maybe new times as well,’ he said.
‘Not a lot of contact with head office,’ warned Lu.
‘Accountants are out to rule the world,’ guided Charlie.
‘Always a problem,’ said Lu, understanding.
‘Doing anything else?’ probed Charlie.
‘Things are very quiet,’ said Lu.
‘Maybe possible to put something your way.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Lu. ‘Be good to meet, too.’
‘Not going anywhere?’ asked Charlie, an important question. He wanted Lu instantly available if the need arose, as it might if he decided Kozlov’s defection were genuine: certainly now he wasn’t sure that he and Cartright held tickets for the same performance.
‘Best time of the year in Hong Kong,’ said Lu. Still searching, the man said: ‘What’s the weather like where you are?’
Charlie grinned at the most frequently asked question during any long distance call, admiring again Lu’s expertise. He said: ‘About the same as yours, I would think.’
‘We’ll keep in touch then?’
‘Definitely,’ said Charlie.
‘Soon?’
‘Difficult to say, at the moment,’ cautioned Charlie. ‘Lot of clients to meet.’
‘Hope it goes well,’ said Lu, played the part.
‘Me too,’ said Charlie. ‘Might be some sticking points over the contract.’
‘Contracts can sometimes be difficult.’
‘This one might be particularly so.’
‘Good luck then, Charlie.’
Hong Kong didn’t become part of China until 1997, and as a British possession it was certainly the best transit point in the area through which to smuggle something (or someone) Britain didn’t want the world to know (or see) was happening. Alerting Harry Lu was wise insurance, then: and it would be bloody good to see and work with the man again. Maybe even sort out the nonsense of making a few quid on his expenses. He said: ‘We’ll be in touch.’
‘I hope so, Charlie,’ said the other man. ‘I really hope so.’
Charlie replaced the telephone, warmed by the contact. It was a comforting thought to have a consummate professional just down the road: well, practically, anyway. Other things were still uncertain. He had definitely expected some indication from London whether or not the Americans had called his bluff. And hadn’t got it. So there was no alternative but to continue bluffing. If the Americans had caught him out, he’d discover it soon enough.
Fredericks answered at once and said: ‘I know this is a secure call.’
Too anxious to recover, judged Charlie. He said: ‘You can train monkeys to watch embassies. What happened to your guy on the train this morning?’
‘Aren’t you the smart-ass!’ said Fredericks.
