See Charlie Run

Cosmopolitan in readiness for further concealment, if Irena suddenly appeared. She was appallingly exposed, Olga recognized, professionally: transgressing just about every instruction and lesson she’d ever learned. And badly placed, in addition. The lounge in which she sat was in an awkward part of the L-shaped floor design. At least half the immediate foyer area and the elevators from which Irena might emerge were virtually hidden from her view. And sitting where she was – minimally concealed – it was impossible to see beyond the bar, into the formal dining room. From either direction, Irena Kozlov could be upon her in seconds. The awareness brought a fresh burst of nerves, and Olga had to grip one hand over the other to quieten the shaking.

She sipped her drink, hoping it would help, striving to bring some rationale into her thinking. So she was here, in the hotel where Yuri three hours before had assured her Irena was hiding. Now what? She had to carry out some sort of survey – one more detailed than she had so far – but sitting for hours in a bar lounge wasn’t going to get done what she had to do: another way of hiding, in fact, like walking further than any precaution required into Macao. Room 525, Yuri said. Was that the way: stop hiding behind sagging pot-plants, go to the room with the special gun prepared for the moment Irena answered the door and fire, just once? All that was necessary, with the ricin capsule in the bullet tip, according to Yuri. One wound, anywhere, and the poison would kill her. What if it wasn’t Irena who came to the door? Panicked stupidity to expect her to be the one. There could be other people, an enclosing guard: so she could shoot her way in with the advantage of surprise, maybe take out one or two others but that was the maximum because the air pressure quickly dissipated from the gun, which was designed for the assassination of unsuspecting, unguarded victims. Which left her empty-handed, facing the rest of the protectors, and possibly with Irena safely bundled into another, unreachable room. Stupidity, she thought once more. The inner chant came again: no reconnaissance, no plan, no reconnaissance, no plan … What then? She didn’t know, Olga acknowledged, in a further sink of despair. She was sitting there with an assassin’s gun in the bag tightly held in front of her, intent to murder, but without the slightest idea how to go about it. Not wanting to go about it … Olga stifled the mental drift, bringing herself rigidly upright, as if a proper physical attitude would strengthen her weakening, inner resolve. She had to find a way: find a way to kill Irena and get back to Tokyo and Yuri and the life she knew they were going to have together.

In her room above, Irena Kozlov frowned at Charlie Muffin and said, in a now familiar demand: ‘When?’

‘Not today,’ said Charlie. ‘I thought you wanted to rest.’

‘Tomorrow?’ she said, ignoring the reminder.

‘Tomorrow,’ promised Charlie. With luck and a following wind, he thought: awkward bitch.

Relax, you’re safe: Yuri’s assurance. Irena said: ‘I don’t want to stay cooped up here that long. Can’t we go out?’

The summons from Boris Filiatov was waiting when Kozlov arrived at the embassy and Kozlov felt a flicker of unease: he’d forgotten momentarily how Olga had involved the Rezident and wished he’d had time to prepare. He actually considered delaying, to prepare a story, but he was already late and decided against it, not wanting to exacerbate any problem.

‘I have had difficulty locating you: and your wife.’ The challenge came without any preliminaries, as soon as Kozlov entered the office.

‘The surveillance upon the Americans. And the British,’ said Kozlov, cautiously. ‘It’s recorded in the log.’

‘I know what’s recorded in the log,’ said the Rezident. ‘It appears to have become a lengthy operation.’

‘Moscow considers it important,’ said Kozlov, falling back on the rehearsed defence. Filiatov didn’t appear to be impressed.

‘Where is your wife?’ asked the Rezident.

‘She made her own log entry,’ said Kozlov, uncomfortably.

‘Where do you believe her to be?’

‘Conducting surveillance upon the British.’

‘Where?’

Kozlov shrugged, needing time. Seeking safety, Kozlov said: ‘My wife and I are working separately … like the log says. I have remained with the American surveillance … my wife has transferred to the British observation. I do not know her specific whereabouts in the city.’ He would have liked it to have sounded better but maybe the vague uncertainty was more convincing.

‘You’ve not discussed the British operation in detail, then?’

‘No,’ said Kozlov, restricting his answer. He would have to be very careful: the doubts of the stupid, fat slob were obvious.

Throwing out a lure, in the hope of discovering what she might have already transmitted to Moscow, Filiatov said: ‘Have you discussed these operations with Comrade Balan?’

‘Orders do not allow me to discuss elsewhere any conversation I might have had with Comrade Balan,’ said Kozlov, formally.

Filiatov’s face went taut. He said: ‘Comrade Balan also appears absent from the embassy.’

‘I am unaware of anything involving Comrade Balan’s movements,’ said Kozlov, still formal. That might be difficult to explain later, but it was safer than trying to improvise.

‘From today surveillance will be suspended, upon both the Americans and the British,’ said Filiatov. It was a positive decision he could make, without committing himself too far if Olga Balan’s doubts proved unfounded.

Kozlov was about to acquiese, because it didn’t matter any longer, but then realized it would be a mistake. ‘It had the direct approval of Moscow,’ he said, the other familiar defence.

‘I have the power, as Rezident,’ announced Filiatov.

Pompous fool, thought Kozlov: the fact that Filiatov was prepared to invoke the authority showed how well Olga had sowed the seeds. He said: ‘As you wish.’

‘And I would like the fullest report on what’s been achieved,’ insisted Filiatov.

Which meant that so far the man hadn’t communicated with Moscow, gauged Kozlov: nor would he, until he had the file, because Filiatov was a man who used bureaucracy like protective armour. ‘It will take me some time,’ said Kozlov, seeing a way of holding the other man off from becoming an additional difficulty.

‘As soon as possible,’ insisted Filiatov.

Hurry, Olga, hurry, thought Kozlov.

‘It’s only circumstantial,’ insisted Harkness.

‘Dovetails with everything Charlie said,’ argued the Director, reading from the account that had arrived from Germany. ‘Messy … in Bonn … and the date’s right …’ He looked up. ‘Harry Bales, one of the toughest hawks in the American Senate, touring NATO installations and making a lot of waves about increasing troop strength to confront the Warsaw Pact. That dovetails, too.’

‘I think it’s circumstantial,’ repeated the deputy.

‘I think Charlie’s working well,’ said Wilson.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Charlie considered the inevitable delays – for any aircraft to arrive and for Cartright to get from Tokyo and for Wilson to discover if there were a British naval vessel in the vicinity – and accepted that someone as seemingly impatient and difficult as Irena Kozlov was going to get very pissed off indeed, like he was. Which made a monotony-breaking outing not a bad idea for all of them. It took an hour for Harry Lu to carry out the precautionary checks. Lu extended the checks to the High Commission, who confirmed London’s instructions to issue his entry documents. Three of the calls confirmed the CIA concentration on people working exclusively for the British.

‘It was the obvious short cut,’ pointed out Lu, objectively. ‘We knew they were doing it, before you