Charlie went in, to use the people for concealment, while Fredericks remained outside, slightly to the right of the shopfront and its lights. Charlie wondered if Fredericks’ protector were inside or outside the shop. Charlie was lucky with an English language rack which gave him perfect observation of the waiting American. He pretended to browse, aware of the developing discomfort in his feet. If the run-around went its full course he’d be standing for practically three hours: it was going to be bloody agony.
No it wasn’t!
Fredericks started moving before the anonymous, silver-coloured Toyota came completely to a halt at the pavement edge. Charlie moved, too, as soon as he felt it was safe to do so without attracting any sort of attention. The very brightness which enabled him perfectly to see Fredericks became an immediate disadvantage because it blurred his vision into the darkened Toyota, reducing the driver to a grey, indistinguishable mass. At the doorway he paused, holding to the arrangement he’d made with Fredericks, letting the American prepare Kozlov. Charlie was alert not just to the car but everything around, nerves tuned for the first indication of anything wrong. The bookshop customers swirled around him and there were a lot of people on the pavements and everything appeared perfectly normal. Charlie didn’t relax: in his bruised experience things always looked perfectly normal seconds before the steel-shod boot came up to catch him right in the balls. Come on! come on! thought Charlie, impatient now: things had actually moved remarkably quickly, but he had the impression of having hung around, too long. The passenger door of the silver car opened and Fredericks started to enter and Charlie shifted again. They were in Kozlov’s hands but there was no planning for his being left behind: was he expected to wait here or move on, to the Yasukuni shrine? And what, after that, if Kozlov went on playing follow-my-leader?
Charlie decided he’d spent too much time in word games with Fredericks and not enough on the elementary who-does-what-and-where-and-how planning for this encounter. So he had the advantage of the London identification: apart from which, Charlie decided, in sudden frustration, he was still being held very much on the outside of this sodding affair. Tonight was when it stopped. Which meant not being left standing on the pavement like a runny-nosed kid who hadn’t been invited to the party. Charlie’s uncertain movement became positive, and he was actually making towards the vehicle – prepared to run to it if Fredericks’ door started to close in positive abandonment – when instead the American turned, looking for him.
‘What the …!’ began the man.
‘If I’m in, I’m in,’ announced Charlie. And he was.
Winslow Elliott, who had been the bookshop observer, was at the pavement edge before the Russian’s car properly entered the traffic stream. He stood momentarily uncertain and then hurried to his own car, congratulating himself on having parked it so conveniently close. He pulled out in pursuit, with the Toyota comfortably in view.
Still in the bookshop, Irena Kozlov watched the American take off, shaking her head at the obviousness of it. That hurried entry into Yuri’s car of the man she assumed to be the Englishman had been too abrupt, as well. Useful, though. He’d hidden himself well and until he’d moved she’d had difficulty in isolating him. Which had, after, all been an additional – actually the main – reason for her monitoring the meeting place tonight. She hoped Yuri’s encounter would be as successful.
Filiatov looked across his desk at Olga Balan, the apprehension obvious.
‘You can’t be serious!’ he said.
‘There is a pattern,’ insisted the woman. She nodded to the documentation she had assembled. ‘Everything is there. As a matter of courtesy I felt I should show you, before communicating directly with Moscow.’
Filiatov swallowed, the sweat bubbled on his forehead. ‘It’s a courtesy I appreciate. Very much indeed,’ he said. Maybe the rumours about Olga Balan’s single-minded pursuit of personal success were misplaced.
An odd – almost embarrassed – silence developed inside the car, each man awaiting the lead from someone else. It was the Russian who spoke. With barely a movement of his head towards Charlie in the rear, Kozlov said: ‘I appreciate your coming.’
‘Hardly likely we wouldn’t,’ said Charlie. The man’s English was very good, as Fredericks had said.
There was a small lift of the shoulders. ‘One can never be sure.’
Charlie was conscious of Kozlov’s eyes upon him, in the rear view mirror, and also of the Russian’s alertness to the traffic following and around him. Charlie said: ‘Always important, being sure.’
Kozlov’s mirrored attention was briefly concentrated and for a moment their gaze met and held. Although the impression was distorted by the lights of passing vehicles and street illuminations, Charlie saw clear, untroubled eyes – maybe blue, as Fredericks had reported – and an open, unlined face. Being a killer didn’t seem a strain.
‘Everything has been explained?’ questioned the Russian.
Charlie saw Kozlov had abandoned the circular route and was driving away from the centre of the city. He said: ‘Yes. Which is why I am surprised.’
‘Surprised?’ Kozlov’s full attention was on Charlie.
‘Why are we all together?’ demanded Charlie. He saw Kozlov’s half smile as Fredericks turned in the seat in front and began ‘What the …?’ but Charlie talked on: ‘I understood your wife was coming separately, to the British?’
‘Now wait a minute …’ tried the American again, realizing what was happening. ‘We arranged …’
‘Nothing beyond this introduction,’ stopped Charlie, maintaining the pressure. ‘From here on, British involvement is a matter between the two of us. America has no part.’
A filter road came up on the right and Kozlov drove off Hongodori Avenue and abruptly took two more quick turns, until the traffic quietened about them. He pulled into the side of the road and said to Fredericks: ‘He’s right. You must leave now.’
‘I think we should talk about it …’ Fredericks tried to persist but Charlie overrode him yet again. He said: ‘OK! Fine! You going to involve me in all the discussions and planning on your side?’
Although it was semi-dark inside the car, the American’s look was obvious and Charlie thought I don’t like your guts either. The hesitation continued for a few moments and then Fredericks felt behind him, releasing the door catch.
‘I’d like you in the front,’ Kozlov said to Charlie.
The effect of the transfer was to have Fredericks holding the door open for Charlie. Fredericks said: ‘Remember it’s your ass.’
As Kozlov drove off, leaving the American at the kerbside, the Russian said: ‘I was worried, briefly.’
‘Worried?’
‘I wasn’t sure you were going to protest: that it might have been some sort of complicated double cross, your pretending to be British but in reality working with them, so that they’d get myself and Irena together, with a trick.’
Kozlov was good, thought Charlie. ‘It still could be,’ he said.
There was another brief smile from the man. Kozlov said: ‘I don’t think so. I don’t believe Fredericks is a good enough actor to feign the dislike he just showed.’
Having proved himself once, Charlie continued: ‘I have nothing to do with the surveillances the Americans are imposing.’
‘I accept that,’ said Kozlov. They’re really quite silly …’ He looked fleetingly at Charlie. ‘Fredericks has already been picked up,’ he said. ‘Their car is about three vehicles behind.’
‘Why do you want to come across?’ said Charlie, abruptly.
The intention was to off-balance the man into a flustered reply. It failed. Kozlov rejoined Hongodori but in the
