lapses,’ said Wilson. ‘This is Charlie’s sort of job.’
‘Do you think he’s actually done it?’ demanded Harkness, obtusely.
‘Done what?’ said the Director.
‘Invented informants, to pad his expenses?’
‘Not for a moment,’ said Wilson. Harkness was an excellent deputy but there were irritations.
‘They’re a type, you know, he and that man Lu,’ said Harkness. He’d initiate an audit on Charlie Muffin, just in case.
‘Harry Lu’s a good freelance: deniable, too, if something goes wrong,’ said Wilson. ‘I don’t really want to lose him, over a few pounds.’
‘It’s more than a few pounds,’ argued Harkness, stiffly.
‘Let’s not do anything final, until after this is over,’ ordered Wilson. He felt out, enjoying the touch of the flowers.
‘It’s not just Charlie Muffin’s insubordination that is intentional,’ said Harkness, ‘Everything about the man … the way he dresses … all that, is calculated to irritate, for no other reason than for his own amusement.’
‘I’m not sure that’s the only reason,’ said Wilson.
‘The Americans won’t like it being him,’ insisted the deputy. ‘They won’t have forgotten he brought their Director down as well as ours in that ridiculous retribution business.’
‘They’ll accept him, to get Kozlov,’ said Wilson. He paused, then said: ‘Don’t forget our predecessors planned to dump Charlie Muffin.’
‘I don’t agree with the method but sometimes I think they had a point of view,’ said Harkness. The secretary was waiting, when the deputy got back to his own office.
‘Accounts want to speak to you,’ she said. ‘Charlie Muffin is indenting for ?1000.’
‘Confounded man!’ said Harkness, whose limit of outrage was restricted because he never swore, considering obscenity a careless use of words and he was a man careless about nothing.
‘I thought he is on the stop list,’ said the woman.
Jun Hayashi did not consider he had betrayed the failed revolution of the Japanese Red Army; rather they had betrayed themselves, allowing the authorities to defeat them. Hayashi had not been defeated. Now it was a private revolution. He parked the Toyota coupe the Russian money had already provided and went – early as always – into Haneda Control Tower, the youngest supervisor there.
Art Fredericks disembarked from the train on to the miniscule platform, momentarily drawing back from the crush of people filing obediently in the direction of the first of the shrines at Kamakura, admiring Kozlov’s choice and recognizing, reluctantly, that the Russian was a clever bastard. And recognizing, pleased, that he’d been cleverer.
Kozlov had chosen the location, which he had always done since establishing contact, and Kamakura was perfect. Wherever the Russian was – and Fredericks knew he would be watching from somewhere – the tiny station and the single exit from it allowed the man complete surveillance, to determine if Fredericks were alone or accompanied by minders: or worse, snatch squads. Fredericks joined the crush, thinking as he had a dozen times since coming to Japan that everything would have been a goddamned sight easier if he weren’t a round-eye, so easily distinguishable from all the other tourists. By the same token, he accepted realistically, it should make Kozlov easier to identify. Fredericks didn’t bother to search, knowing by now of Kozlov’s expertise and that to try to locate him, wherever he was, would be pointless: another of Kozlov’s insistences was that as well as selecting the meeting places he should always initiate the contact, never giving any indication where or how it might be. Clever bastard, thought Fredericks again, conscious of attention from the Japanese immediately around him. Fredericks was a tall, heavy man, fighting a losing battle to prevent the muscle of his college heavyweight boxing days turning to fat, but he knew, unoffended, that it was not his size which intrigued them. It was the hair. Not only was it tightly curled and thick on his head but thatched on his chest and obvious today because he wore an open sports shirt, and matted, too, down from his arms, to cover the backs of his hands. His Japanese wasn’t good enough to overhear if they were calling him monkey: he knew it was a frequently used word. One day, he thought, he would have to ask somebody why the Japanese never had any body hair.
The American went, according to the Russian’s instructions, towards the Meigetsu-In temple. An expert himself, the CIA agent carried a camera and went into his tourist cover, stopping several times to photograph the foam of hydrangeas through which he had to climb to reach the building. He lingered at the main building and then stopped to photograph the smouldering fire upon which the students burned their wood-inscribed prayers for examination success, all the time alert for the approach. Which never came. Ten minutes had been the time limit.
As Fredericks turned and started to descend the long walkway, he saw Harry Fish, at one of the side shrines. The other CIA man whom Fredericks had sent in advance, with the rest of the team, showed no recognition and neither, of course, did Fredericks.
The next designated spot was very close. Fredericks walked easily back towards the railway tracks, wondering if the whole business were going to be a waste of time. Langley were insisting he try and so he would, but Fredericks thought he’d reached a pretty sound judgment about the Russian on their three previous encounters and guessed Kozlov would tell him to go to hell. The American hoped that was the man’s only reaction; Fredericks’ feeling was that Kozlov was too valuable a catch to risk challenging the arrangements at this stage. The time to change everything was when they got the man across, when it would be too late for him to do anything about it. At this stage it was still possible for Kozlov to back away from the whole thing.
Fredericks entered the Enno-Ji temple, privately amused at his thoughts of Kozlov telling them to go to hell when he saw the ten kings of Hades grimacing down from their places. He hoped it wasn’t an omen. He took more photographs, isolating Hank Levine near a side door, apparently engrossed in an English-language guidebook about the temple. Fredericks bought a book of his own, to fill in the stipulated time limit, wondering if Kozlov would make him complete the entire route. It was possible. For the first time this was a meeting requested by the Americans, not by the man himself. So Kozlov would be nervous, unsure of the reason and taking every precaution.
The American paused outside the second temple, looking at the guidebook he’d just bought. There was a map of the tourist spots just inside the cover and Fredericks decided that Daibutsu was too far away to walk. He had to return almost to the railway station to get a cab and as he settled into the back he hoped he didn’t have to make every point Kozlov had listed. At the entrance to the third spot the cab driver said: ‘I wait?’ and the American hesitated, momentarily, attracted by the thought of permanent transport. Reluctantly he shook his head.
Beyond the narrow entrance the Kotoku-In temple ballooned out, dominated by the enormous figure of the open-air Buddha, with its curious head-down stare. At least, reflected Fredericks, going into his routine, his parents in Little Rock were due quite a range of holiday pictures. In the tourist shop to the right Jimmy Dale, who hadn’t bothered with a camera of his own, was sifting through the professionally taken selection. Fredericks hoped that Kozlov’s caution wouldn’t prevent his making any sort of meeting at all. The guys were pretty pissed off losing an entire Saturday as it was.
‘Interesting, isn’t it?’
Fredericks managed – just – to prevent the jump of surprise. He’d been tensed, waiting, and he’d still missed the goddamned man until he was right alongside. The irritation, at the thought of Kozlov’s expertise being better
