‘You’d never get a visa.’
Charlie turned, to the huge figure of Art Fredericks, putting the booklet back into the rack. ‘Got some good references.’
‘Soviet or British?’
Fuck you, thought Charlie. Take your pick,’ he said.
Charlie walked deeper into the embassy alongside the CIA Resident, grinning at the Marine as he passed and thinking what an incongruous couple they must look; Charlie realized he scarcely reached the other man’s shoulders. There was a further identity check from more Marines at the actual entrance to the intelligence section of the embassy, and Fredericks signed his personal authority for Charlie’s admission. Beyond the desk, the corridors were blank walled and the doorways contained no glass, so that the offices beyond were completely concealed. Charlie looked up expectantly, found the camera monitor and winked.
Fredericks’ office was large, because he was the CIA officer in charge, but it still didn’t seem big enough for the man. Charlie guessed the enormous enveloping chair had been specially imported. There was the obligatory US flag in the corner and the nameplate on the front of the desk, and behind, on a low cabinet, an array of sports pictures and pennants. Charlie identified the boxing prints and thought there was also a photograph of Fredericks in American football kit. It would, thought Charlie, have been a sight to see. On the desk itself was a family photograph of a pretty blonde-haired woman and two blonde-haired girls, faces of both dominated by freckles and a foundry’s supply of steel that always seemed to go into American teeth braces.
‘So we’re going to work together?’ said Charlie.
‘That was always the plan.’
‘You’re setting up the meeting for me, with Kozlov?’
Fredericks hesitated, glad he’d given the undertaking the previous night and was not being forced into an open capitulation or admission of how he’d tried to screw the scruffy son-of-a-bitch. Harry Fish was right; the bag women on 42nd Street were in better shape. He said: ‘I’ve started things off. Like I said, it’ll take a while.’
‘You also said you thought Kozlov was genuine. Why?’
There was another pause from the American. He’d worked his butt off, regarding this as probably the most important case he was likely to encounter in a dozen years, and now this guy was coming in and expecting to be fed it all on a plate. ‘Everything he’s said checks out.’
Charlie sighed, conscious of the attitude. Openly to challenge would make things worse. He said: ‘OK, let’s start at the beginning. Anything known, in your records?’
Fredericks shook his head. ‘We’ve run the name – and his wife’s – through every computer there is: ours, FBI, NSA and military and navy. FBI have two Kozlovs, both who served in Washington at one time or another. One is now in the Soviet embassy in Ankara, the other in Paris …’
‘Photo-comparisons, to make sure they’re the same people?’ interrupted Charlie.
‘Of course we made photo checks!’ said Fredericks, irritably. ‘The Kozlovs who are in Ankara and Paris are the guys who were in Washington. Neither of the wives’ names were Irena, either. Kozlov’s clean.’
‘Sure that’s his real name?’
‘We’ve no way of telling.’
Charlie frowned openly at the evasion. ‘You want me to believe you haven’t taken a photograph, during one of your four meetings!’
Fredericks smiled, in reluctant admission. He said: ‘Twice. We freighted the pictures back to Washington. He’s not on any mug file we or any other agency have.’
‘Born?’
‘Leningrad, 1940.’
‘Age seem right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything unusual?’
‘Unusual?’ queried Fredericks.
The man knew what he meant, for Christ’s sake! Charlie said: ‘Facial hair. Or lack of hair. Scars. A limp. Missing fingers. Jewellery. Odd-shaped rings. That kind of unusual.’
Fredericks decided that Charlie’s mind was sharper than his suit. He said: ‘No.’
‘No what?’ pressed Charlie, determinedly.
‘Nothing unusual whatsoever. No facial hair. He’s not losing it up top, either. Full head. No scars or limps. Doesn’t wear any jewellery at all, not even a ring,’ itemized the American.
‘Full head?’ isolated Charlie. ‘Do you mean he’s got more than you’d expect, for a man of his age?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Colour?’
‘Lightish brown.’
‘Lightish brown? Or a tendency to greyness?’
Fredericks paused and then said: ‘I’m sorry. Would you like a coffee or a drink or something?’
‘Nothing,’ said Charlie, refusing a deflecting interruption. ‘Genuine light brown or greying?’
Beneath the desk, Fredericks gripped and ungripped his hands in frustration. Why this guy, of all people? ‘Genuine brown.’
‘You said light brown,’ reminded Charlie. ‘So what is it, light brown? Or brown?’
‘What the hell is this, a fucking inquisition!’ erupted the American, at last.
‘If you like,’ agreed Charlie, unperturbed by the outburst. ‘You’ve already told me it’s my ass. And it is. And I’ve already told you that I’m not risking it until I’m satisfied. Which I’m not … not by a long way. If I don’t get it all, then we both get nothing…’ He hesitated, wondering if he should take the risk, and thought shit, why not? He said: ‘London confirmed my authority to abort, didn’t they?’
‘Wouldn’t you have checked?’ said Fredericks, defensively.
‘Of course I would. That’s what I’m doing now,’ said Charlie. No doubt about it: General Sir Alistair Wilson was a bloody good man to have watching your back. Or ass, which seemed the buzzword.
‘Light brown,’ capitulated the American. ‘His hair is definitely light bown, without any grey.’
‘Eyes?’
‘Blue.’
‘Light blue or dark blue?’
‘Dark blue.’
‘Spectacles?’
‘Yes.’
Charlie came forward slightly in his chair. ‘Don’t you regard that as an unusual feature?’
‘No,’ said Fredericks.
‘Of course it is,’ disputed Charlie. ‘Heavy framed, light frame, metal frame or frameless?’
‘Heavy,’ replied Fredericks. There was very little he was going to be able to hold back, for themselves.
‘Heavy what?’
‘Plastic, I guess. Black.’
‘Thick lens?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘So they could be false, some sort of minimal disguise?’
‘It would be minimal, wouldn’t it?’
‘That’s all it’s got to be, in most cases,’ lectured Charlie. ‘People, even trained people, respond to immediate impressions, not careful studies. Heavy black glasses are a feature, and if they are missing when you expect them the immediate impression might be that it’s the wrong person … the sort of hair you’ve described can easily be tinted, to heighten the change …’ Charlie stopped, annoyed at an oversight of his own. ‘Is it parted?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Fredericks.
Charlie noted the hesitation. ‘Which side?’ he said.
‘Left,’ said the American. The hesitation was still there.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Fredericks, doubtfully.
Charlie hoped the photographs were good: they were a bonus he shouldn’t forget. He said: ‘And if Kozlov
