See Charlie Run

That’s what the Director had said, during the briefing, remembered Charlie. ‘He’s right about one thing,’ said Charlie, pointedly and from personal experience. ‘Defectors are always traitors, to whichever side: they’re usually shat on, once their usefulness is over. Did he explain how the splitting of the defections gave him protection?’

‘He talked of going public, in England and America.’

Autobiographies and lecture tours had made a few crossovers rich, reflected Charlie. The thought continued, worryingly: lecture tours in America, not England. It was a remark to remember and pass on to London. He said: ‘The figure was $500,000?’

‘We’d pay more,’ said Fredericks.

And had probably offered it, for the double package, guessed Charlie. Throwing out the lure, he said: ‘You just talked in generalities?’

‘That’s all,’ said Fredericks.

Too quick, judged Charlie. ‘No specifics?’

‘No specifics.’

Charlie decided to let Fredericks run awhile and believe he was getting away with the bullshit: there was plenty of time to open the trap and let the man fall in. He said: ‘How was he?’

‘How was he?’

‘Demeanour?’

Fredericks appeared to consider the question, sure he was conning the bastard. ‘Strangely calm,’ he said. ‘It’s been something very obvious, from that first occasion in the theatre.’

‘And that doesn’t strike you as unusual?’

Fredericks’ caution returned. ‘I don’t follow?’

‘He’s wants to quit being a murderer: presumably sickened and revulsed by it,’ challenged Charlie. ‘He wouldn’t be calm, surely? Particularly with the additional tension of planning as complicated a defection as this?’

‘He’s a trained man,’ argued Fredericks.

‘Who’s going against that training,’ said the Charlie. ‘Further cause to be nervous.’

‘He is nervous!’ insisted the American. ‘I’ve told you about all the crap of separate meeting places and only he being the person able to make the contact.’

‘That’s not nervousness,’ disputed Charlie. ‘That’s trained, professional caution. The opposite of nervousness, in fact.’

‘I think you’re making too much of it.’

‘I’m not making too much of anything,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m just trying to separate facts from impressions.’

‘You’re getting all the facts,’ said Fredericks.

Almost time for the drop, thought Charlie. He said: ‘How long has he been here, in Tokyo?’

‘He said he arrived in late ‘83. It checks out with the diplomatic registration at the Japanese Foreign Ministry,’ said Fredericks.

‘Before that?’

‘He talked of London. And Bonn,’ said Fredericks, intent for an obvious reaction from the Englishman.

There was none. Charlie remained quite unmoved and expressionless. He said: ‘What came from the checks of the diplomatic lists in both places?’

‘Nothing,’ said Fredericks, disappointed. ‘No Kozlov listed in either place.’

Inwardly Charlie was churning with excitement. If Kozlov had been posted – and killed – in London, then they and not the American had to have the man. And they would, Charlie determined. He determined something else, too. It had been right not to challenge the American until now. He said: ‘Is that it?’

‘That’s it,’ said Fredericks. There was even a look of satisfaction.

Charlie sighed, loudly, wanting the other man to hear. ‘Do you know what I think?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I think we should decide something, you and I,’ said Charlie. ‘I think I should stop regarding you as stupid and I certainly think you should stop regarding me as stupid. Which is what we’re both doing at the moment. Like it or not – and I don’t like it any more than you do – we’re going to have to work together on this. Those are my instructions from London and yours from Washington …’ He paused, for the point to register. Then he took up: ‘You told me he’s genuine. You told me everything he said checks out … and you know what you’ve got so far, from what you’ve told me? You’ve got fuck all: absolutely fuck all. Nothing from what you’ve told me could check out, because there’s no independent corroboration. No photographs, no confirmation of posting, just the name on a Japanese Foreign Ministry register: you don’t even have proof that the man who’s met you four times, has the name of a few CIA agents and speaks in accented English, really is Yuri Kozlov …’ Charlie stopped again. ‘Now you know and I know that isn’t right. And you know and I know that a Boy Scouts’ group wouldn’t accept him on what you’ve so far told me. And although it’s sometimes debatable whether they actually succeed, the CIA try to do better than the Boys Scouts. So why don’t you stop buggering about and imagining you’re conning an idiot, and tell me how the man in the Hitachi roundabout theatre proved he was genuine?’

Charlie was intent upon the other man, pleased at the obvious reaction. Fredericks shifted in the chair, appearing to find it constricting despite its size. Then he sighed, for a different reason than Charlie earlier, and said: ‘On the second meeting, he gave us a name. It was one we didn’t have: we checked it out and it was right.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That won’t do.’

‘The name was Rodgers, William Rodgers,’ conceded the American. ‘Kozlov said he was an illegal, infiltrated into America from Canada five years ago. His real name is Anatoli Ogurtsov. He’s settled in San Francisco: runs an importexpor t business there. Deep cover. We’ve liaised with the FBI, of course; it’s their responsibility. They’ve so far identified four others that he’s suborned. Silicon Valley stuff, all hi-tech.’

‘You said it was a name you didn’t have?’ insisted Charlie.

‘The FBI either,’ expanded Fredericks. ‘Rodgers – or Ogurtsov – wasn’t on any file. And he’s been getting a lot of stuff out. It means we’re able to block a damned great hole.’

There was more, Charlie knew. He said: ‘OK, so illegals are run through the First Chief Directorate. But they’re trained by a completely closed off Directorate: just like Department V – Kozlov’s supposed division – is closed off. Because they both have to be. There is never any liaison or link-up, to prevent what’s just happened, identification from someone who’s become disaffected. So how come Yuri Kozlov knows that William Rodgers is really Anatoli Ogurtsov?’

The goddamned man really did want to know about sparrows pissing in adjoining fields, thought Fredericks. He said: ‘The routing. The major conduit for the hi-tech stuff that Ogurtsov has been getting into the Soviet Union has been through here, Tokyo. It’s been a known throughway for years.’

‘He told you that?’ said Charlie. ‘That he discovered Ogurtsov’s name because they were the onward shippers?’

‘Irena’s the source,’ said Fredericks. ‘She’s the Control, apparently.’

Bingo, jackpot and all the other winning words, thought Charlie. If Irena Kozlov had masterminded technology espionage into the Soviet Union from America – and maybe elsewhere – since the couple’s posting to Japan in 1983, she was a potentially bigger catch than her husband. Because she would know the identities of other illegals and other technology smugglers running operations, throughout the world. Who was it who had said this could be spectacular, Wilson or Harkness? Charlie couldn’t remember. It had been a pretty accurate assessment, though. Charlie’s mind ran on, objectively honest: if he’d been Fredericks, he’d have been as difficult and tried to hold as much back as he could. No, not as difficult; more so. He hoped he would have done better. Charlie said: ‘That’s the sort of bait that catches the fish.’

‘The Kozlovs are the fish,’ said Fredericks. ‘Prize-winners.’

‘Can the FBI bring Ogurtsov in without any suspicion coming back here?’ asked Charlie.

‘Easily,’ said Fredericks, confidently. ‘There are others, don’t forget. All the evidence will be that the Bureau found out through crooked American businessmen, out to make big bucks. There’ll be a plea-bargaining deal, lesser sentences for full confessions. All the usual stuff. Japan won’t even enter into it.’

‘All nicely topped and tailed,’ accepted Charlie.

‘Well?’ asked Fredericks.