See Charlie Run

‘There’ll be everything you want, once you’ve decided it’s absolutely genuine,’ said Wilson. ‘Until then, you’re on your own.’

Charlie worked to rules – his rules, not anything written in triplicate in manuals marked Eyes Only – and an absolutely essential rule was to have someone to hold the shielding umbrella if the shit hit the fan. Which in his experience it nearly always did and this time looked inevitable. He said: ‘I quite understand about embassy embarrassment but I know someone in Asia on contract …’

‘Not Harry Lu,’ refused Harkness, at once. ‘He’s on the suspect list.’

‘Why?’

‘Auditors found he was charging for informants in the communist Chinese office in Hong Kong who didn’t exist,’ said Harkness.

Bloody accountant, Charlie thought again. He said: ‘Everyone does that.’

Harkness winced at the admission. The deputy director said: ‘It makes him someone who has the potential for being bought. This operation has got to remain absolutely secure.’

What about his security? wondered Charlie. He’d have to make his own arrangements. He said: ‘We’ve got the positive guarantee of cooperation from the Americans?’

Wilson looked briefly down at the papers in front of him. ‘The promise came from the CIA headquarters at Langley; the Director himself. Your liaison at the US embassy in Tokyo is Art Fredericks.’

Not a name Charlie knew. But then it had been a long time. He said: ‘Do they know it’s going to be me?’

‘I cabled them last night,’ said Wilson.

So all the enquiries about the progress of the Jeremy Knott defection were so much bullshit: nothing changed. Ever. He said: ‘No reaction?’

‘Getting the Kozlovs out, where they’re ours, is the only consideration,’ said the Director. ‘What happened a long time ago is just that – history.’

If Wilson believed that then he believed in Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy and that the cheque was always in the post, decided Charlie. He said: ‘You’ll want me to go right away?’

‘There’s a direct flight tomorrow night. That gives you a day to hand over the other thing,’ said Harkness.

Remembering, Charlie said: ‘Jeremy Knott was at Cambridge: read history at King’s. Another undergraduate was Herbert Bell, who’s now an Under Secretary here at the Foreign Office. They were both friends, at Cambridge; members of the debating society. I found a photograph of them, together. Bell was in Brussels, at the same time as Knott. And there was a six-months overlap in Rome.’

‘So?’ asked Wilson.

‘In the assessment survey afterwards I found a statement from Bell that Jeremy Knott was only a casual acquaintance: that they had not met or had contact after Cambridge,’ said Charlie. ‘Foreign Office background reports record them occupying the same house at Cambridge and Bell’s father actually provided Knott with a character reference, for his Foreign Office entry.’

‘I can understand a permanent government official wanting to avoid the public embarrassment of known association with a traitor,’ said Harkness, reasonably.

‘Bell had access to most of the NATO stuff that Knott was convicted of passing over,’ said Charlie. ‘I checked. It smells wrong.’

‘You mean that Knott was just the conduit, who happened to get caught?’ demanded Wilson. ‘And then kept quiet, to allow Bell to stay in place?’

Maybe the man didn’t believe in Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy, after all. Charlie said: ‘I mean I think it would be a good idea to put some surveillance on Bell; maybe channel something through him and keep a watch to see if it surfaces somewhere.’

Wilson nodded the instruction to his deputy and said to Charlie: ‘Pass the files over to Witherspoon, to continue the assessment …’ He hesitated, briefly. ‘But don’t tell him about the Knott and Bell connection. Let’s see if he comes up with it.’

The sort of thing he’d that morning suspected Witherspoon was doing to him, recalled Charlie. The snotty little prick deserved it. He said: ‘I’ll do that …’ Charlie allowed just the right degree of pause and then went on: ‘I’m afraid there might be a problem making tomorrow night’s plane.’

‘Why?’ frowned Wilson.

‘Seems accounts want my expenses brought up to date and won’t advance me any more money until they are,’ said Charlie, intentionally avoiding Harkness’s look. ‘And I’m going to need quite an advance, going to Japan. Expensive place.’

The Director made an impatient gesture and said to Harkness: ‘For God’s sake get it fixed, on my authority. Bloody men with adding machines!’

‘It’s regulations,’ tried Harkness.

‘Bugger regulations!’ said Wilson. ‘We haven’t got time to waste, not now.’

Charlie looked expressionlessly at the deputy director, registering the man’s flush of anger. He’d known that Harkness had initiated the expenses purge. That would teach the prissy fart: and there was still that nitpicking security difficulty. Charlie said: ‘There could be another delay: there’s some sort of security enquiry. I retained the files last night, so I could be sure of the connection between Knott and Bell. I know it was wrong but I was only out for about thirty minutes, for a late supper.’

‘Nonsense to expect you to return them, while you were still working on them,’ judged Wilson, impatiently. To Harkness he said again: ‘Sort that out as well, will you?’

The colour of Harkness’s face deepened to match the desktop roses and Charlie decided that it was game, set and match.

‘Be careful in Japan, Charlie,’ warned Wilson. ‘I want the Kozlovs but I don’t want it blowing up in my face.’

I’m more interested in my face than in yours, thought Charlie. And nothing is going to blow up into it if I can help it. He said: ‘I have authority to abort?’

‘Not without consultation,’ qualified Wilson. ‘And well done about the Knott defection.’

Which, compared to what he was now having to do, suddenly seemed an attractive assignment. Charlie said: ‘I’ll need to be completely satisfied. I still don’t like the feel of it.’

‘That’s what I want you to be,’ insisted Wilson. ‘Completely satisfied.’

The transfer order had come down from upstairs by the time Charlie collected all the Knott files and carried them from one cell to the other, to pass the assessment over to Hubert Witherspoon. Pedantically Charlie had Witherspoon sign a receipt and Witherspoon said smugly: ‘On suspension?’

‘Nope,’ said Charlie. ‘Reassigned.’

The regulations-department, not personal-by which Witherspoon also ran his life – prevented the man making any sort of enquiry, and for once Charlie was grateful for them, aware of Witherspoon’s impotent irritation. Trying to increase it, Charlie added: ‘Feeling was that you could sort out the last bits and pieces of this: I’ve already submitted a provisional report.’

‘What am I expected to do?’ asked Witherspoon, concerned.

‘Find out what I missed,’ said Charlie.

‘Anything I should particularly watch out for?’ pressed the man.

Charlie hesitated and then said: ‘Yes. Be careful of the meat pies.’

‘The confounded man is intentionally insubordinate,’ protested Harkness. ‘You didn’t believe that rubbish about slipping out for a late supper, did you?’

‘Of course not,’ said the Director, who was standing against the radiator again. Through the window he saw the Ministry of Works gardeners were working in St James’s Park rosebeds and made a mental note to stop on his way home to see what they were planting.

‘And the accounts will be in a hopeless mess, by the time he gets back from the Far East,’ persisted Harkness.

‘If he gets back from the Far East,’ qualified Wilson, turning back into the room.

‘I’m not discounting the difficulties,’ said Harkness, detecting the criticism.

‘I’m prepared to tolerate the insubordination and the expenses fiddling and even some minimal security