demanded Charlie. ‘So who the hell did?’
‘Jesus!’ said Fredericks. He looked sideways at Yamada’s return. The man said: ‘Pakistan Airways confirm that a Rose Adams and a Richard Cartright were on the London flight. And it was scheduled to land at the time he said.’
Charlie decided Yamada’s re-entry had come precisely at the right moment, one truth coming right on top of another accepted truth. He said: ‘I can make him come across to you.’
Fredericks sat regarding him cautiously. ‘How?’
‘How is my business,’ refused Charlie. ‘You want him or not?’
‘Why?’ said Fredericks, the suspicion more open now. ‘If you’ve got some way of making Kozlov cross over, why not keep him for yourself?’
The American had isolated the weakest part of the whole proposition, accepted Charlie: he hoped he’d prepared a strong enough reply. Greatly exaggerating but knowing there was no risk in being caught out, Charlie began: ‘He doesn’t want England. We’ve got Irena.’
‘There’d be no reason for them ever to get together,’ persisted Fredericks.
The man wasn’t stupid, Charlie decided. He was glad he’d started as he had. He said: ‘I told you about Bill Paul, one of your guys, when Kozlov was in England. And Valeri Solomatin?’
Fredericks nodded, remembering the reverberations the information had brought from Langley.
‘That wasn’t the only killing,’ said Charlie. ‘There was an anti-Soviet politician named Harold McFairlane, who was expected to become our Prime Minister. Kozlov knows we’ve the proof that it was him and thinks we’d charge him, once we’d debriefed him.’
‘What about Paul? And Solomatin?’ questioned Fredericks, at once.
‘He doesn’t have any idea that you know,’ said Charlie, honestly.
‘Would your people charge him?’
‘Probably,’ said Charlie, the cynicism prepared like everything else. ‘Can you imagine the uproar in Parliament if they found out we were protecting someone who’d assassinated a government minister! And if we’d got all we wanted from Kozlov, a public trial would be a hell of a propaganda coup against the Russians, wouldn’t it? Your people will arraign him, if there’s a benefit in it. You know they will.’
Fredericks was nodding, agreeing the amoral logic of an amoral business, and Charlie wondered if the same argument would work when he used it later, but in reverse. Fredericks smiled, the briefest of insincere expressions, and said: ‘I think we’ve got a deal.’
Directly regarding Elliott, Charlie said: ‘Straight play: no fucking about?’
‘Straight play,’ agreed the CIA supervisor.
‘I can make him cross. Or I can make him stay, by letting him know I’ve told you about the CIA magazine people,’ insisted Charlie, unhappy with the quick assurance. ‘If I pick up any surveillance … anything I don’t like …’ He gave himself the necessary pause. ‘If I get the slightest impression that I’m not safe, he stays. And you’re all drawing Welfare. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ said Fredericks, with difficulty. ‘How we going to play it?’
‘Same as before,’ said Charlie. ‘Set up a room at the Imperial. I’ll make him contact you there.’
‘You seem very sure,’ said Fredericks.
‘Would I have openly met you here today, if I hadn’t been?’ said Charlie.
‘How long is it going to take?’ demanded Fredericks.
‘Just days,’ promised Charlie. ‘He’ll have to move quickly, now that he’s lost Irena.’
‘I agree the ground rules: everything your way,’ conceded Fredericks. ‘Straight play, all the way … He allowed himself the hesitation. ‘This time.’
‘As long as we both understand each other,’ said Charlie. He wondered if Fredericks would remember and try to invoke the threat if everything worked as he intended? Something to worry about then, not now.
‘You wouldn’t believe how much I understand you!’ said Fredericks. ‘You just wouldn’t believe!’
Must be nice to be liked, just occasionally, thought Charlie. He wondered if his mother had liked him; she’d never said. ‘Everything’s agreed, then?’
‘It had better be.’
‘I’m going back immediately,’ said Charlie. ‘Could you be in position at the Imperial by tonight.’
‘Of course,’ said Fredericks, nodding to Yamada again to start making the arrangements immediately.
‘You know what’s going to happen?’ said Charlie.
‘What?’
‘It’s all going to work out like it was supposed to, from the beginning. You get him and I get the woman.’
‘We’d better,’ said Fredericks, another threat. ‘Believe me, we’d better.’
Kozlov stood aside for Olga to enter the apartment, startled by her appearance. She was bedraggled, her hair lank and her clothes crumpled where she hadn’t bothered to undress, to sleep. Closer, he didn’t think she’d bothered to wash, either: there was a smell. He reached out for her, uncertainly, and just as uncertainly she regarded the gesture, unsure whether to accept it, and when she did, finally, she merely stood in his embrace, making no effort to respond and embrace him in return. Kozlov decided the smell was definitely from her.
‘How are you?’ he said, which he knew was a ridiculous question but all he could think of saying in his surprise.
‘Do you know what you made me do!’
‘You already told me.’
‘He just sat there, like he was asleep!’
Kozlov moved from the ridiculous way they were standing. He poured from what remained of their supposed celebration bottle of vodka – how many millions of years ago had they talked about their own private, secret party! – and offered it to her. Olga looked at the glass as if she had never seen one before and then took it but didn’t drink. Kozlov swallowed half his glass in one, topping it up at once. Because she appeared to have no motivation of her own, Kozlov led her to a seat by the window, pushing her down into it, and said: ‘I’m sorry. So very sorry. It was a mistake.’
Olga snorted a laugh, cynical now. ‘That’s what it was!’ she said bitterly. ‘A mistake: one big, huge mistake.’
Kozlov had been unsure how to tell her but decided now that it was the way to break Olga out of her crushed and beaten lethargy. He said: ‘She knows. Irena knows about us. I’ve no idea how she discovered it but she knows.’
It worked. Olga blinked, as if she were coming awake, and said: ‘But how do you …!’
Kozlov gestured towards the telephone. ‘The Englishman, Charlie Muffin. He used the system: called me. Talked about everything.’
‘Oh my God!’ said Olga, not even consciously aware of the invocation any more.
‘And then he said I was to see what happened to Filiatov because they had a disinformation source and could do whatever they wanted.’
Olga’s lassitude was completely gone. She was tensed forward, the glass in two hands before her. ‘And Filiatov …?’
‘They came for him. A squad. They got here quickly, from Sakhalin …’ said Kozlov.
‘They’re still here!’ she demanded, the fear immediate.
He shook his head. ‘Took everything with them … files, cable records, everything. Drugged Filiatov, of course. And had a closed off section on an Aeroflot flight.’
Olga brought her hand up against her mouth to prevent the mew of despair, but didn’t quite succeed. ‘What’s going to happen to us!’
‘He said – the Englishman said – I had to stay here. Wait for him to come,’ said Kozlov, practically as listless now as Olga had earlier been.
‘What’s going to happen to us?’ she repeated, her mind blocked by only one thought.
‘He’s proved it,’ said Kozlov. ‘He can do anything to us he wants: we’ve got to wait, like he says.’
Olga gulped at her drink, heavily. ‘I was right, wasn’t I?’ she said. ‘We
‘Yes,’ admitted Kozlov. ‘Absolutely trapped.’
