The Run Around

nine, in the last hours of the 1973 Six Day War, Sulafeh had seen her grandfather shot in one by the Israelis, as a spy for Syria, which he had been. Four years later her mother and older brother had been blown up – accidentally said the later contemptuous report – when the Jews destroyed their house in retribution for a grenade attack upon a passing Israeli patrol. And she’d been raped in one. It had happened when she was fifteen and still a virgin. Her attacker had been one of the smirking clowns in a tiger uniform, like those smirking clowns in the audience in front of her, applauding and cheering every lie being told them. She’d fought as hard as she could, gouging at his face with her nails, and he’d punched her almost senseless and so finally she pretended to be unconscious when he tore at her pants and then drove himself into her, splitting her. And while he grunted and pumped above her she’d taken his own knife from his belt, halfway down his thighs, and put her arms around him in what he’d thought to be belated passion to be better able to stab him to death, plunging the knife into his back again and again like he’d plunged into her.

Sulafeh had an orgasm, doing it. She’d never had one since: certainly never during the countless couplings that had been necessary for her to insinuate and manoeuvre herself into the favour of the senior hierarchy to achieve the role she now occupied. She wondered if she might know the sensation again, at the moment of what was going to happen in Geneva. It was an often longed-for feeling.

Chapter Seven

Four of Johnson’s exposures had been developable but the face of the jogger who picked up the drop was only shown on one of them and then indistinctly, as the man half-turned to run on from snatching up the package. Two others showed his back view, as he went towards Primrose Hill Road – in one the name was actually visible – and the fourth at the moment of his mounting the bicycle but again completely turned away.

‘Bungled!’ complained Harkness. ‘How the hell could it have happened!’

‘Easily,’ said Charlie at once, in defence of a friend. ‘It was a brilliantly carried-out collection.’

The Director was wedged as usual against the window-sill, with his back to the depressing view. The roses today were yellow-hearted Piccadilly, with pink edging, and Wilson wore one in the buttonhole of his jacket to match those arranged in the window vase. Charlie decided that the Director’s tweed suit was as bagged and shapeless as his. Funny how clothes collapsed like that.

‘Tell me why you think this is significant: the sort of thing you’ve been looking for,’ demanded the Director. ‘Why couldn’t whoever it is have been an English contact of the Russians that MI5 haven’t yet got on to?’

‘It was brilliant, like I said,’ insisted Charlie. ‘So the man is a complete professional. No amateur – and an Englishman would have been an amateur suborned by the Russians, not properly trained – would have done it like this.’

‘What’s so completely professional?’ persisted Harkness.

‘Becoming a jogger in the first place,’ set out Charlie. ‘The first essential is becoming invisible, which is exactly what he did. Johnson openly admits that he’d accepted the joggers in the park that afternoon: wasn’t really seeing them any more. But think of the other advantages it gave the man. He was entitled to run, because he was dressed for it. So having made the pick-up he did run, like hell Johnson says. But that would not have looked unusual to any passer-by because joggers do sprint. What it did mean is that the man could literally run away and any Watcher would have disclosed himself, setting out in open pursuit: so it was an abort-or-continue test as well. He was actually looking for us!’

‘I hardly consider using a bicycle professional,’ argued the deputy.

‘It was absolutely professional,’ refuted Charlie. ‘The distance from the drop to where the bicycle was parked is just over half a mile: Johnson later carried out a positive measurement. So he would have begun to flag, after sprinting so far. But on the bicycle he could carry on running – but remain invisible to anyone he passed because he was dressed exactly for riding as he was for jogging – and outpace anyone trying to follow on foot.’

‘What about anyone in a car?’ seized Wilson.

‘Possibly the cleverest part,’ said Charlie. ‘Elsworthy Road runs into The Avenue. And that joins Prince Albert Road, at a junction controlled by traffic lights. The change gives preferences to Prince Albert Road, which means there is always a back-up of traffic in The Avenue. And I know it is always blocked because Johnson checked it and the Metropolitan Police confirmed it when I asked them. On a bicycle he could overtake the lot, dismount and even ignore the lights if they were red against him, while any following car was stuck hundreds of yards back up the road, helpless to follow.’

‘I think you’re making a lot of assumptions,’ said the Director, doubtfully.

‘Look at the picture,’ urged Charlie. ‘Not just the one half-showing his face but all the rest. What – beyond the running gear – is common to them all in the disguise?’

Harkness went to the Director’s side, so they could study the prints together. Both did so without any sign of recognition.

‘What?’ asked Harkness, at last.

‘There’s one thing always impossible to alter in a disguise, other than by plastic surgery,’ reminded Charlie. ‘Ears. The ears always remain the same shape and size and are a marker for a trained observer. But he managed it and not just with the headset but additionally with the sweatband. It would not be obvious unless you were looking for it – which we are – but people don’t usually wear a band like that, not completely encompassing the ears. But he did. And he even arranged it to disarrange his hair, so that we can’t be sure of any positive style.’

Wilson was nodding, in growing acceptance. He said: ‘Do we have any identifying marks at all?’

‘None,’ said Charlie, gesturing towards the pictures again. ‘I’ve had them blown up to the greatest possible enlargement. There’s no jewellery, like a ring or a neck chain. And not one visible scar or blemish.’

‘What about the jogging clothes he wore?’ said Harkness.

‘I’ve had all the photographs professionally analysed,’ said Charlie. ‘The assessment is that all the clothes were brand-new, freshly bought. It’s possible to detect the crease lines from the packaging in the larger pictures and to pick out the absolutely unworn tread on the soles of the shoes. We can isolate the maker’s name every time but it’s no advantage. My guess is that he bought each piece separately, all from different shops. We could never run a trace in a hundred years because it would have been cash every time.’

‘And the bicycle?’

‘A standard Raleigh, blue, with a three-speed attachment,’ said Charlie. ‘From the photograph the company say they think it could have been manufactured about two years ago but they’d need actually to examine the machine to be sure. They say it’s the sort of model most popular among hirers.’

‘We haven’t got a thing, have we?’ said Harkness, showing his earlier anger.

‘Quite a lot,’ disputed Charlie. ‘Like I said, all the shots have been professionally analysed. Which means a complete description. He’s precisely five feet ten inches tall and from the physique that’s clearly visible is obviously extremely fit: that was also Johnson’s impression from the way and the speed with which he ran, after picking up the package. And from the style that’s clear on the photographs – the way he holds himself and the measured paces – he’s someone accustomed to running. The physique is confirmed by his measurements: his waist measures twenty-nine inches against a chest of thirty-eight inches. He weighs ten stone eleven pounds, so equating his height against his measurements – and we’ve got biceps and calf and thigh readings, as well – he’s practically all muscle. He takes a size eight shoe, slim fitting.’

‘We still lack any facial description,’ complained Harkness.

‘Not entirely,’ said Charlie. ‘And what we do have might be important. He’s absolutely clean-shaven but although the sweatband and the headset make any hairstyle impossible to establish it can’t conceal the colour. It’s completely black. Like his eyes, black as well or certainly deep brown. And there’s the very definite complexion. He’s dark-skinned.’

‘Meaning?’ queried Wilson.

‘Combined with another indicator that he’s definitely not English, disregarding the professionalism,’ said