‘I’m glad,’ said Charlie. ‘I was late for this morning’s meeting because I’ve ordered from every British embassy in every European capital a complete list and breakdown of major political happenings in their countries throughout December as well as November just to be sure. I designated it maximum priority, with a copy in each case to the ambassador.’
‘In whose name?’ asked Wilson, expectantly.
‘Yours,’ said Charlie.
Harry Johnson was pissed off, right up to the back teeth: five weeks to go before retirement, the lump sum he’d decided to take from his pension already deposited on the holiday bungalow in Broadstairs, the extra plot negotiated to his allotment and this had to happen, a hands-over-your-bum, watch-everything-that-moves red alert. It wasn’t fair: certainly the assignment wasn’t fair because the buggers had manoeuvred it so he got the worst surveillance of the lot, the one most likely to go wrong. And the last thing he could afford was anything going wrong: until the gold watch that had already been selected and the insincere speeches and the booze-up in the Brace of Pheasants. All he’d wanted – could surely have expected! – was a quiet, easy life, so that he could quit the service with a reasonably good record. Not this, something that was so obviously important and even more obviously dangerous.
Johnson, a plump man who wore braces as well as a belt and who puffed a lot when he breathed, because of a tendency to bronchitis, saw the departure of Yuri Koretsky first, because Johnson was one of the most senior Watchers on the squad and only ever needed the sight of a quarry once. And Koretsky, who was the KGB
‘There’s our man,’ he said, alerting them for the first time.
Koretsky was in a car with a driver, which Johnson recognized at once to be significant. He said, in a further warning: ‘This could be it.’
‘Why?’ asked Kemp.
‘Watch and learn,’ said Johnson. He wondered what ‘it’ was? Throughout the majority of his MI5 career as a professional surveillance merchant he had followed and bugged and burgled and pried, rarely knowing the complete reason of any assignment, like he didn’t know the full purpose of this one. He frequently wondered whether any of it mattered.
The Soviet car went up the Bayswater Road – ironically within a mile of the hotel Vasili Zenin was preparing to leave within the hour, to make the collection – and went to the right at Marble Arch, clogging at once in the Park Lane traffic. Their vehicle was two cars behind and Johnson said: ‘Don’t lose him! Close up.’
The Soviet vehicle turned into Upper Brook Street to go past the American embassy but stayed to the left of Grosvenor Square, going in front of the Dorchester and then crossing Bond Street to the next square. There the car went immediately left, to cross Oxford Street and Johnson said: ‘Wrong! It would have been quicker to have gone north up the Edgware Road.’
‘Maybe the driver made a mistake,’ said Burn, who frequently did.
‘Maybe Santa Claus drives a Snowmobile,’ said Johnson. He had the seniority and certainly enough reasons to depute the younger man but instead he said to Kemp: ‘If he jumps, I’ll follow.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the younger man.
‘Stay with the car,’ ordered Johnson. ‘And don’t, for Christ’s sake, lose it!’
‘What do we look for!’ asked Burn.
‘Everything there is to see.’
Koretsky made his move actually in Oxford Street and Johnson was only yards behind him. The Russian went directly into the underground system, using the ticket queue to check for pursuit. Johnson got his ticket from the dispensing machine, paying the maximum fare, and was only five people behind the Russian on the downward escalator. Koretsky went to the east bound platform and Johnson let more people come between them, to provide the buffer. He tensed at the Oxford Circus station, because of its link with the Bakerloo Line, but the Russian remained just inside the door, standing as Johnson was standing, ready for an instant departure. Koretsky darted off at the Tottenham Court Road junction, timing it practically at the moment of the doors closing, so that Johnson was only just able to get out to continue the pursuit. Koretsky pretended to check the indicator map in order to make another surveillance check, so Johnson had to go by and fumble for change for a guitar-playing busker. Koretsky overtook him and he picked up the Russian’s trail on to the northbound Northern Line. Johnson managed the adjoining carriage again, discarding his topcoat and turning it so that the colouring was hidden, the only change possible in his appearance. Johnson was ready at Euston, because of the interconnecting lines, but Koretsky didn’t move, seemingly relaxed now in a seat alongside the door. Too complacent, boyo, thought the Watcher. He actually moved ahead of Koretsky at Camden Town, alighting first and ascending to street level ahead of the man although keeping him constantly in view behind, in case he doubled back. He didn’t. Johnson got to the exit hoping that Burns had kept close to the Soviet car if this were a pick-up, feeling the jump of alarm when he failed at once to recognize their car and then relief when he couldn’t see the Russian vehicle either.
Johnson let people intrude between them as much as he felt it safe to do so as they walked down Camden High Street but was almost caught out at the bus stop at which Koretsky stopped without warning. Fortunately the 74 bus was actually approaching, so there was no time for the Russian to make a proper search behind. Once again, with no idea how far they were going, Johnson took the maximum fare, more tense now than at any time because of their closeness. He was on the rear bench and Koretsky sat on the first cross seat next to it, close enough for Johnson to have reached out and touched him.
Alert as he was, Johnson saw the Russian begin to move as they approached Primrose Hill, so he was able to get up and away from the bus before Koretsky actually disembarked. The Russian immediately crossed the road into Albert Terrace, striding on the side where the railings edged the grassed park. Johnson followed as far back as possible and on the opposite side of the road, where the houses were. In the last house before the terrace connected with Regent’s Park Road Johnson dropped his topcoat behind a low garden wall, once more trying to alter his appearance as much as possible. As he did so, he saw Koretsky enter the park through the corner gate.
It had been a mistake not to bring Kemp with him, to alternate the tail to reduce being detected by the Russian: it would be just the way his luck was going for Koretsky to pick him up and abort, making the whole business a complete waste of time. The Russian’s entry into the park provided at least some minimal cover: it meant Johnson could walk parallel up Regent’s Park Road, keeping him in sight but not directly behind. Had he been, Johnson realized he would have been spotted, because twice Koretsky turned, making an obvious check. But even this was a mixed advantage, because the road began to bend away from the park, actually now putting too much distance between them, so that when it happened Johnson almost missed it. Had he not been as experienced as he was, he would have done.
The dead-letter drop was almost at the end of the avenue along which Koretsky was walking, by a refuse bin against the sixth lamp-post from the commencement of the path. At the moment of approach, Koretsky flicked something to his left, not into the bin but alongside it. Then the Russian paused, as if troubled with the lace of his shoe and Johnson saw the man mark the post with a smear of yellow chalk which would have looked like some failed graffiti to anyone but himself.
Johnson had already decided to abandon Koretsky, even before the Soviet car swept down Primrose Hill Road for the pick-up, because Koretsky was simply part of a chain and the necessity now was to discover the next link. Then Johnson saw the car in which he had earlier travelled, grimacing as he did. The stupid bastards were far too close. If he tried to stop it, to get back-up from Kemp, Johnson knew he’d be identified by association.
‘Stupid sods!’ he said, bitterly and aloud.
As the cars convoyed back down Regent’s Park Road, Johnson entered the enclosure. There were thickly leafed trees all along the pathway along which Koretsky had walked, with occasional benches. He chose the one furthest away from the drop, eyes focused on what Koretsky had delivered. It was impossible to be sure from this distance but it appeared to be a manila envelope but bigger than that for a normal letter, maybe five inches across and 8 inches deep: he wished he were able to judge its thickness but that was impossible.
Johnson shivered, wanting the discarded topcoat but unable to risk going back even the short distance to get it. Expert that he was, Johnson knew he was observing what is called in the trade an open letterbox, a deposit
