Charlie’s determination to avoid attracting attention to the contents of the briefcase overwhelmed his preference for comfort and directly after hearing Aubrey Smith’s decision-a telephone message from Robertson’s inquiry clerk, not personally from the man himself-Charlie quit the compound apartment and its too attentive telephone supervisors, and descended to his original rabbit hutch, employing the door wedges to ensure there was no unexpected intrusion. There was less room here than he’d had the previous night in his hotel suite and it was particularly difficult setting out the stolen KGB material, forcing him to spill over onto the floor.
During his first rereading, Charlie factored in every addition he’d learned that morning from London, more fully realizing the importance the Russians were attaching to the hunt for their traitor by its stalled progress being personally controlled by the chairman, first of the KGB and now the FSB, an echelon he’d never before encountered, not even in anecdotal reference in training or instructional lectures. An asset remaining undetected for so long-even one put into inactive hibernation-was unquestionably of major importance but Charlie found it difficult to accept that the chairman himself would participate. His own Director-General was participating in this operation, Charlie reminded himself. But Aubrey Smith had a personal survival interest as well as the initial circumstances of Ivan Oskin’s murder having potential political ramifications, heightened by the bugging of the embassy, and maintained by the huge international media spotlight. Having a CIA informant within the Russian intelligence apparatus, although serious, was far more straightforward and capable, Charlie would have thought, of being handled at a lower operational level. The most obvious and logical conclusion had to be that there were additional reasons-further electronic interceptions not being included in the material he had topping the list-to add to all the other competing unknowns.
Charlie read and reread for another two hours without adding anything more to his list of unanswerable questions and had just, fortunately, packed the envelopes away in his briefcase when there was a knock as well as an unsuccessful attempt to open his blocked door. He pocketed the wedges before he noisily unlocked it for Paula-Jane Venables.
“You make a hermit look like a party animal!” she said, smirking, with her usual coquettishness. Today’s designer creation was beige, the top button of the cream shirt beneath the pipe-edged jacket predictably unfastened.
“Needed a quiet time and place to think,” dismissed Charlie.
“I tried the compound apartment first.”
“I checked your office earlier, too.”
“I know. You’re on my CCTV. That’s why I came looking for you, to see what you wanted.”
Charlie hadn’t known there was an internal television security system: it certainly wasn’t openly visible. “I was just passing.”
“Why don’t you buy me lunch? Or I’ll buy you lunch. We could even arm wrestle for the bill.”
He had more than enough time before speaking again to London and possibly Irena if Smith offered anything further to justify talking to the Russian woman. What about endangering her by association? Wasn’t it the association with him that had crippled Jack Hopkins? “I don’t want to appear ungallant-and I will stand treat-but why should I pay?”
“Because I’ve got something to tell you that I think you should know. And maybe you’ll have something to tell me.”
“Your choice of restaurant, as long as it’s not the American Cafe,” said Charlie, his curiosity piqued.
“The Pekin, off the ring road: it’s a favorite of yours, isn’t it?”
The embankment episode still in mind, Charlie insisted they travel separately, checking his own journey for pursuit-which he didn’t detect-and glad that if there were a reason to talk to Irena about anything from London, he could do it by telephone and not dance around the Moscow Metro system. Charlie intentionally arrived first at the Chinese restaurant and limited himself to one vodka-clear, not home-brewed yellow-from the aperitif carafe, intrigued by the woman’s surprising approach but determinedly refusing any preconceptions. She arrived earlier than they’d arranged, too, at once locating their table and as she crossed toward it, aware of the sexual fantasy of at least five separate male diners, Charlie thought again how similar he found her to Svetlana Modin. Who, he supposed, would expect contact sometime that day.
Paula-Jane accepted vodka, touched glasses, and said, “I’ll let you order for me.”
Charlie did, and chose Georgian white instead of its heavier red or rice wine. “What makes you think this is one of my favorite Moscow restaurants?”
“You introduced Bill Bundy to it, didn’t you?”
Charlie’s recollection was that it had been the American’s choice. “I don’t think he liked it very much.”
“He’s an all-American steak-and-salad guy, light on the mayo, and I’ll open my own mineral water, thank you,” she mocked. “He does remind me of you in some ways, though.”
“Which ways?”
“Certainly not the mineral water! But you’re both always looking to see who’s behind you.”
“Perhaps I’ve got more reason for caution than he has.”
“You changed your mind about it being a coincidence?”
“Not really.”
“I’d still like to think it was.”
“You seem to know Bundy quite well?” probed Charlie, wanting to move her on.
“Shouldn’t a girl know her own godfather well?”
“Bill Bundy’s your godfather?” exclaimed Charlie, in genuine surprise.
“He and my dad went way back, as far as Vietnam: before he met my mother even. We’ve only really got together here. I couldn’t believe it when I heard he was getting a tour here that overlapped with me.”
Charlie found it difficult, too, remembering what David Halliday had briefly told him about Paula-Jane’s father and wondering why the MI6 man hadn’t mentioned the godfather connection. “Is this what you wanted to tell me?”
Paula-Jane laughed. “Heavens, no! I thought everyone knew about Bill and me. I’d even told London, fortunately, before Paul-Asshole-Robertson.”
“Why fortunately?”
“Robertson described it as a conflict of interest, which is bullshit: we’re both too professional to let work overlap. I think Robertson was made to look stupid by London already knowing about it. He’s been made to look even more stupid after his run-ins with you, hasn’t he?”
Their food arrived. Charlie shook his head against tasting the wine before they’d finished the vodka. “How’d you know about that?”
“He might be their division director but the guys monitoring your telephones think Robertson’s an asshole, too.”
If they’d gossiped about that they would have gossiped about the incoming calls, too. And that would have included Irena’s. “An informant is hardly necessary in that damned embassy is he: the place is like a twenty-four-hour public address system.”
Paula-Jane stopped with a gingered prawn between her chopsticks. “This is terrific! I’m glad I left the ordering to you.” She became serious. “And our embassy leak is what I want to talk to you about.”
“Talk then,” encouraged Charlie.
“I don’t believe Robertson is any closer to finding who it is now than he was on the day he first arrived here. I think he’s casting around for a way out and you could be it.”
“You want to spell that out a little more clearly?”
“He had me in front of his panel yesterday, for the second time since he got sent back. The questioning was concentrated on what I knew of you and Svetlana Modin and disinformation.”
“What did you tell them?”
“There was nothing I could tell them, was there?” demanded Paula-Jane, rhetorically. “I didn’t know-not until then at least-anything about you and Svetlana and disinformation. Which is what I told them and why Robertson pulled what he thought to be the ace from up his sleeve but which proved instead to be up his ass, about Bundy being my godfather.”