When they got out, it was the first time they had faced each other. Lu gave another of his hesitant smiles and said: ‘No hard feelings?’
‘No hard feelings,’ assured Charlie. He remembered the last time he’d agreed that had been to Fredericks, and a few hours later a plane had blown up. He said: ‘Let’s keep everything clean: you settle the bill and I’ll get the woman.’
‘Why is it called Cockfosters?’ asked Lu.
‘Maybe a lot of cock-ups happened there sometime, too,’ said Charlie, leading the way into the hotel.
General Sir Alistair Wilson held the message towards his deputy, shaking his head in uncertainty. He said: ‘Why should the American Director — the Director himself, don’t forget — initiate a cable to me to say there appears to be a delay with Kozlov’s crossing and making it clear, in a roundabout way admittedly, that they had nothing to do with the explosion!’
‘Distancing themselves?’ suggested Harkness at once. ‘That’s what we’d do.’
Wilson nodded, but immediately came in with the qualification. ‘At division level,’ he pointed out. ‘The Director himself would not risk later being exposed as a liar in a signed message. I certainly wouldn’t.’
‘What then?’
‘I just don’t know,’ conceded Wilson. ‘Everything about their approach is wrong.’
‘Unless they’re telling the truth,’ suggested Harkness.
‘That’s a novel idea,’ said Wilson, disbelievingly. ‘No contact to Cartright, from Charlie?’
‘Not as of an hour ago,’ said the deputy.
‘I wish to hell I knew whether or not we had the woman,’ said Wilson.
As he spoke, 8000 miles away in Hong Kong, Irena Kozlov opened the door to Charlie Muffin and said: ‘It’s all gone wrong, hasn’t it?’
‘Not yet,’ said Charlie. But almost, he thought.
It would have been ludicrous to regard the approach from Olga Balan as anything like friendship, but Boris Filiatov looked upon it as a gesture of cooperation at least. And certainly, from the material she had made available, there was strong circumstantial evidence that Irena Kozlov had orchestrated the American surveillance for a personal advantage. His immediate — and lasting — reaction was nothing as facile as a concern for any damage to the State: Boris Filiatov’s concern was for Boris Filiatov. And he was well aware that other material was available from which it could be construed that he had supported the operation. Which he had, knowing of Moscow’s approval and always quick to jump on to a safely rolling bandwagon: a bandwagon, he reflected bitterly, showing all the signs of running away down a very rocky road to an appalling disaster. Filiatov recognized at once that he had to disassociate himself: it didn’t matter if the suspicions about the woman were later shown to be unfounded, the only consideration now was to get out before Moscow discovered what was happening, realized its own culpability, and moved to apportion the blame.
Filiatov sighed, replacing the telephone that had remained unanswered in four earlier attempts to contact Olga Balan. He intended his approach to appear reciprocal, a courtesy returned for a courtesy given, but in reality he was desperately anxious to know if the woman had already despatched her reports to Dzerzhinsky Square.
The movements of all Soviet personnel attached to overseas embassies are strictly monitored, travel-logs existing to record every exit from or re-entry to the diplomatic compound, against the reasons for those journeys. Filiatov checked the duty clerk, frowning at there being no listing against the Security Officer’s name to account for her absence. Of all people, Filiatov supposed, Olga Balan could risk scorning regulations, but he hadn’t been aware of her doing so ever before.
Filiatov decided to wait. But not for long: he’d already decided he couldn’t wait long.
Chapter Eighteen
The silence lasted a long time, building into a division between them — a barrier neither had known before — Olga Balan all the while staring fixedly at him, wanting Kozlov to say more. When he didn’t, the woman said: This isn’t how it was planned; how we planned it.’
‘You said then that you’d do anything I wanted,’ reminded Kozlov. He hadn’t expected her to agree at once.
‘Not kill her.’
‘You’ve been trained.’
Olga shook her head, a positive denial. ‘For the State. This is different.’
Kozlov indicated the just-replaced telephone upon which he’d burned with discomfort assuring his wife he loved her with Olga looking at him, stony-faced. ‘I told you what she said: that they’re moving her on, but she doesn’t know where. That telephone is our only link. So it can’t be me, not now. I’ve got to stay here.’
Olga stood abruptly, breaking the tension between them. She looked at her empty glass and the nearby bottle, then appeared to change her mind, going instead to the window. Tokyo was quite outside, so late; a lot of the neon illumination was temporarily resting and the streets briefly empty, until another day. With her back to him, she said: ‘You’d already decided it had to be me, before she called, hadn’t you?’
Kozlov swallowed, glad she wasn’t able to see. He was surprised she’d guessed. He said: ‘Think of another way! Anything!’
Still not looking at him, Olga said hopefully: ‘Maybe Moscow wouldn’t recall you if we just let her go?’
‘You prepared the tapes … conducted the interviews and sent them to Moscow and involved Filiatov …’ reminded Kozlov. ‘Do you really believe that!’
She turned back into the room. There were only sidelights on, so it was difficult to see if she were near tears but he thought she was. She said: ‘We’re trapped, aren’t we?’
‘With a way out!’ he said, urgently.
‘How long!’ she demanded, suddenly angry. ‘How long before Irena becomes suspicious at your still being here in this apartment or Moscow starts demanding answers or Filiatov does something; we’ve prepared him, don’t forget!’
‘You can do it,’ coaxed Kozlov. ‘It could all be over this time tomorrow. So there’s no risk of anything from Moscow or Filiatov. Irena either. You’d even be doing your job, as far as Moscow is concerned.’
‘You never told me about the other time,’ she said, ignoring the assurance with another abrupt change of direction.
‘Other time?’
‘You said in Moscow Irena told you she’d never be a rejected woman. Why did she say that?’
Kozlov poured himself more vodka, not wanting the drink but needing the break from her demanding stare. ‘There was a woman. A choreographer at the Bolshoi. I told Irena I wanted a divorce. That’s when she said it.’
‘So what happened!’ The anger was obvious again.
‘It was just before I came to London: met you. Irena stayed in Moscow, as you know. Used all the power she had in Dzerzhinsky Square — which was a lot — to hurt her. I didn’t know, of course. Didn’t discover it until I went back, between London and Bonn …’
‘You tried to see her again … this other woman …?’
‘Valentina,’ supplied Kozlov.
‘You tried to see Valentina after our affair had already started … when you were telling me that you loved me!’
Kozlov brought his eyes to hers, knowing the suspicion and wanting to convince her. ‘No!’ he said. ‘Not like that. Irena boasted what she’d done: taken care of your whore, she said. She actually arranged criticism of the choreography in Pravda and Tass. Valentina had been dismissed, by the time I got back to Moscow. Unsatisfactory had been registered in her workbook and you know that makes her unemployable.’
‘You met her again?’
Kozlov shook his head. ‘I think she went back to her home, to Kiev. I couldn’t find out, not definitely. I’d have had to enquire through Irena’s directorate and she would have learned about it: made it even more difficult for Valentina.’