‘Every piece?’ enquired Berenkov.
‘Everything,’ said Kalenin. ‘All returned.’
The burly, white-haired Russian stood up and went to the window of Kalenin’s office. The central heating was keeping the windows free from ice, but the snow was pouched on the roof-tops, like dirty white caps.
‘That would mean they’ve finished with Charlie, then?’
‘Yes,’ agreed the K.G.B. officer.
‘There haven’t been any more leaks?’
‘Not yet’
‘There would have been, surely?’ said Berenkov, hopefully.
‘Alexei,’ said Kalenin, kindly. ‘He must be dead.’
‘Yes,’ Berenkov agreed. ‘He must be.’
He turned into the room.
‘At least the agony will be over for him,’ he said.
TWENTY-SIX
Before assuming overall command of the Agency, Onslow Smith had been administrative director and it was with organisation that he felt happiest. He worked quickly and incisively in the room that had been set aside for him in the American embassy, the master set of papers immediately before him and the subsidiary files in an orderly arrangement at the top of the desk. Braley had arranged it all and done it well, considered Smith. If he could, he’d salvage Braley, he decided. He’d just have to be circumspect about it. And that was exactly what he was going to be about everything, thought Smith. Circumspect. Within twenty-four hours, every single operative involved in the Charlie Muffin fiasco would have been safely airlifted back to the protective anonymity of the C.I.A. headquarters in Virginia.
He looked up from the papers, stopped by a thought. And not one of them compromised. He looked back at the list of names before him, frowning at the number of operatives. All those men operating in the field, he thought. Damned near a miracle, he accepted. He extended the reflection, leaning back in his chair. One lucky; another one unlucky. Poor Wilberforce. He’d been so sure of himself. And in the beginning, the idea had looked pretty good, conceded the American honestly. Dangerous, but still good. They’d just underestimated the victim.
He reached out, pulling a file nearer and then opened it at a picture of Charlie Muffin. He stared down at the image, running his finger along the edge of the photograph. Once, he remembered, the idea had been half-formed in his mind that perhaps he might possibly meet the man who had caused so much damage. But now it would never happen; Charlie would always remain a slightly out of focus impression and a bad memory. A very bad memory.
The telephone jarred into the room. The American Air Force transporter had arrived at London airport from Mildenhall; as they were being processed under diplomatic passports, bypassing completely the main passenger section and all the usual formalities, departure for Washington was scheduled within three hours.
Smith sighed, replacing the receiver. With a flourish betraying his rising confidence, he drew a line through the main list of operatives. Perfect, he decided. Like everything he organised.
Smith watched the seconds flicker by on the digital clock on the desk, waiting for ten o’clock to register. When it did, he put another line through the team that had been operatin Zürich. Because there were only five men, he’d felt it safe for them to fly direct from Switzerland to America on a scheduled flight: it was leaving on time, he knew from the confirmation he’d already received. So, too, were the couriers he had sent by road to ensure the withdrawal from the Brighton house and the Crawley hotel.
Charlie, who had been watching the George since just after dawn and had actually caught sight of Edith’s drawn, unsmiling face through the breakfast room window, saw the messenger arrive and the trained attention to detail marked the significance.
‘How many Ivy League suits are there in Crawley at this time of the year?’ Charlie asked himself.
Quite a few, he thought, watching the sudden exodus of men. The newcomer urged them into various cars, then pushed towards the driver of each an apparent written sheet of instructions. The newcomer left first, heading north. The other cars followed at five-minute intervals, to avoid attracting attention. Charlie waited until the last vehicle pulled out and then started his own engine.
‘Better make sure,’ he advised himself.
Once clear of the town, the cars had slowed, so by the time they reached the motorway, they were travelling in loose convoy. Charlie kept them comfortably in sight, glad of the flow of traffic he knew would conceal his pursuit.
It was not until they had continued past Gatwick airport’ but then looped off, on to the Leatherhead road, to avoid the congestion of London to join the M-4, that Charlie realised they were heading for London airport, not the city. So the clothes had identified them as Americans. It had been a joint operation, he guessed, an operation being abandoned with all the panic that Willoughby had inferred at the strained meeting between the Russians and the government officials when the Fabergé collection had been returned. Now it was all over, the underwriter’s attitude was changing again to friendship, he reflected.
Because of the increased volume of cars as they neared London airport, Charlie had to move closer than he really wanted, but it meant he was close enough not to be confused when, instead of becoming part of the crocodile slowly funnelling beneath the tunnel into the airport complex, the cavalcade swung off the roundabout and picked up one of the roads skirting the airport.
In a greater hurry than he had imagined, decided Charlie, slowing in recognition. They were going towards the north side of the airport, to the private section. The arrival had obviously been communicated ahead by radio in one of the cars. From the buildings swarmed not only airport security men, but American marines as well. They patterned out, sealing the area for a radius of three hundred yards.
Charlie pulled quickly into a car park reserved for the airport staff, then got out of the car, straining to focus the aircraft in the distance. He got final confirmation of the thoughts that had begun when he had seen the men move out of the hotel from the U.S. military plane drawn up close to one of the V.I.P. buildings, its dirty-khaki colouring merging with the surroundings.
He saw the cars stop and the occupants start to emerge, filing into one of the buildings. American military staff began loading the baggage directly into the aircraft hold.
‘Complete diplomatic clearance,’ mused Charlie, then stopped, identifying the figure in apparent command of the aircraft boarding.
So William Braley had been involved, as well as Snare. He smiled at the realisation; everyone who had had reason to hate him most. Good motivation, Charlie accepted.
He’d admired Braley, Charlie remembered. A complete and thorough professional. He was one of the people about whom Charlie felt most regret at what had happened in Vienna.
He sighed. A necessary casualty of survival, he decided. But still sad.
He got back into the mini and started back towards the roundabout from which he could rejoin the motorway.
‘You did it, Charlie,’ he congratulated himself. ‘You beat them.’
Superintendent Law would seize the credit, realised Hardiman. And it had really been his idea. But when the time came for the commendations and the celebration drinks, the poor sod who’d had all the work would be forgotten.
Law looked up enquiringly as the sergeant entered the room.
‘Well?’ he asked.
Hardiman smiled down at the seated man.
‘Remember you told me to check that financier’s passport?’
‘Of course.’
‘Nothing wrong with it … at first glance.’
‘Then what?’
‘So I looked further. Checked out the birth certificate, with government records …’