The Run Around

‘There is, isn’t there? It’s as good a word as any to describe him.’

‘But is there?’ came back the brigadier. ‘You’ve got the word of a defector, OK. But what proof, positive, unquestionable proof, have you got that this is a photograph of the man?’

‘What if I’m wrong!’ said Charlie. ‘It still doesn’t matter. We photographed him making a pick-up from a Soviet drop, so he’s got dirty hands. Let’s use him: publish his picture whether it’s the right man or not. The purpose, surely, is to stop a killing taking place on Swiss soil!’

‘But what if you are wrong! That the killing isn’t going to be in Switzerland at all!’ argued Blom. ‘You’ve admitted yourself there are other possible international gatherings in six European cities. Publishing the photograph here would not cause the Russians to cancel, if it were in one of those other countries.’

This man wasn’t an intelligence expert, thought Charlie, dismayed. Brigadier Rene Blom was a politician in make-believe land. Forcing his patience, Charlie said: ‘I accept that you don’t want unnecessarily to focus this sort of spotlight on Switzerland. But what sort of spotlight will be focused if there is an assassination here – an assassination we haven’t been able to stop?’

Blom shifted, uncomfortably. ‘Do you imagine I haven’t been considering that from the beginning of this conversation?’

‘I don’t think you are considering it enough,’ said Charlie. Damn the impertinence: something had to get Blom’s hands from between his knees, before he pissed all over them in nervousness.

‘I think you should remember your position!’ said Blom.

‘I’m trying to avoid someone getting killed!’ fought back Charlie. What the hell was wrong with the man!

‘I concede there are grounds for some investigation,’ said the security chief.

A breakthrough! thought Charlie. As politely as possible he said: ‘So what do you propose, sir?’

‘I regard this as so important that I need to discuss it with others,’ announced Blom.

Buck-passer, thought Charlie, disgusted. The prat was at about the level to give out parking tickets and impose penalties for not having a dog licence but when it came to an initiative on something important it had to be dumped on to some higher authority so the shit wouldn’t be on his shoes if anything went wrong. Resigned, Charlie said: ‘I think it would be a mistake to allow any delay.’

‘So do I,’ agreed Blom.

Determined to remain part of it, Charlie exaggerated and said: ‘There will doubtless be more from Novikov.’

‘I would expect you to be involved throughout,’ accepted the counter-intelligence chief.

Blom was the sort of man who would cheat on that undertaking if it suited him, recognized Charlie. But then so was he. Charlie said: ‘I am staying at the Beau-Rivage, in Geneva.’

‘That is a very good hotel.’

Soon the man would be recommending the best half-day tours and whether or not to take a packed lunch, thought Charlie, exasperated. He said: ‘When do you imagine we will be able to talk again?’

‘How about tomorrow? Say ten?’

At least Blom was concerned enough to demand immediate access to whomever he was going to shift the responsibility, Charlie decided. He said: ‘I’ll be ready, at ten.’ And hope to Christ you will be, too, he thought.

Charlie wanted physically to shed his irritation at Blom’s attitude so he set out to walk to Thunstrasse, accepting the mistake by the time he crossed the Kirchenfeld bridge and his feet started demanding to know what the hell was going on. He found a bench, just beyond, and sat down to apologize, loosening his laces for a moment. Charlie Muffin was a man of hunches, of feelings in his water, and his instincts told him that as circumstantial as the facts so far were, the unknown jogger with the body of Mr Atlas was definitely the man he was seeking. It felt right: the way things felt, like hunches, was something else which influenced Charlie. So how was he going to follow his hunches and his feelings? By doing nothing until ten o’clock tomorrow morning, he accepted, frustrating though it might be to sit around with his finger up his bum. It would be wrong – and worse, possibly counter-productive – to start working independently and risk antagonizing the Swiss service before he’d allowed Blom the opportunity to show whether or not the co-operation would be as the man promised. And what was he going to do if the promised co-operation was not forthcoming? At the moment Charlie didn’t have an answer but he was sure he would have if Blom started to jerk him around.

Charlie re-tied the Hush Puppies but looser than before but was still walking with difficulty by the time he reached the British embassy, where his acceptance and accreditation were already waiting, authorized by a Director’s cable from London. Charlie was immediately given access to a secure telephone in the ambassador’s cipher room and connected without any delay to Wilson in London: the scrambler at both ends gave a vaguely disconcerting electronic echo, like shouting into an empty tin can.

‘How’s it look?’ demanded Wilson, at once.

‘Reluctant,’ said Charlie.

‘Explain that.’

Charlie did and the Director said: ‘I don’t think you could have expected anything different. Some of us have to live with political overlords, you know.’

‘Blom’s nervous.’

‘So would I be, if I were him,’ said Wilson. ‘Remember we’re there by invitation, Charlie. No one-man vigilante stuff.’

‘The possibility is that it’s a British passport, remember?’

‘I don’t need reminding of the embarrassment potential,’ insisted the Director. ‘I’m actually trying to minimize it, by warning you.’

Had anyone else said it he would have been offended, Charlie realized. He said: ‘Anything further from the aircrews?’

‘Witherspoon is handling it,’ disclosed the Director. ‘He hasn’t come up with a thing.’

If Witherspoon were involved there wouldn’t be a lot of point in asking in future, thought Charlie. He wondered who had taken over the debriefing of Novikov and whether he could play chess. Charlie said: ‘What about the passenger manifest?’

‘Too vague,’ said the Director. ‘We’ve been able to trace those who booked through companies or paid by credit card or cheque. Comes to forty-three of the likely English-sounding people and every one of them can be verified. The other seventeen are just names on a piece of paper. You don’t need addresses or even a true identity buying an aircraft ticket, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Charlie. ‘Makes it easy, doesn’t it? What about picking up Koretsky? Make out that we know more about Primrose Hill than we do and sweat the bastard?’

‘I suggested it to the Joint Intelligence Committee,’ admitted Wilson. ‘The word came back that it was politically unacceptable.’

‘I’ve always thought killing someone was pretty unacceptable,’ said Charlie.

‘That doesn’t look like being on our patch any more, does it, Charlie? Out of sight, out of mind.’

‘What about the passport?’

‘Deniable, if it ever comes out. It’s obviously a forgery or feloniously obtained, isn’t it?’

‘Has there been a change of heart over this?’

‘Let’s call it rationalization.’

‘Blom has promised to include me,’ reminded Charlie. ‘What’s my response if he doesn’t?’

‘Come home,’ ordered Wilson.

‘Come home!’ Ask a silly question, get a silly answer, Charlie thought: he wasn’t going to leave things in limbo, like this.

‘Like I said, it’s not our patch any more.’

‘I don’t like leaving things half done.’

‘It’s not a question of what you like or don’t like,’ said the Director. ‘It’s a question of following orders.’

‘Sure,’ said Charlie.

‘I mean it,’ insisted Wilson. ‘Positively no one-man vigilante stuff. And that’s an order.’

Charlie realized he was getting boxed in, with insufficient room to plead misunderstanding. He said: ‘I recognize my position here. I won’t upset anyone.’

‘I’m determined that you won’t,’ said the Director.