Remembering the fears that prompted their split defection, Charlie said: ‘You will be well treated, in England. I can promise you that.’
‘I’m afraid it might be a problem,’ she said.
‘There’s bound to be uncertainty, a period of adjustment …’ began Charlie, but she talked across him.
‘Not that,’ she said. ‘I know what will be expected of me … the cooperation. I think that’s what I will find difficult …’ The smile came once more, a sad expression this time. ‘I’m well aware of what I’ve done but I still regard myself as a loyal Russian. Does that surprise you?’
‘Utterly,’ admitted Charlie. Weren’t there enough ambiguities, without this!
‘I did it because of Yuri,’ disclosed Irena. ‘It was he who wanted to come over, not me.’
More guidance for Wilson; or rather for the debriefer who would eventually handle Irena, if he managed to get her out. It meant the woman would have to be treated quite differently from how they might have envisioned: not as someone hostile but certainly as someone who would be reluctant to impart what she knew. Charlie thought back to his earlier reflection about how defectors usually embroidered, to enhance their value; Irena Kozlov was going to be the reverse. One reflection prompted another: now he definitely hoped he wasn’t going to be the unlucky sod appointed her case officer. Get her out first, Charlie reminded himself, soberly. Unable to think of anything better, he said again: ‘Believe me, things will be fine.’
‘I’d like to think so,’ she said. ‘So much has happened, so quickly, that I’m not finding it easy.’
Neither am I, love; neither am I, thought Charlie. He was spared the search for further echoing assurances by Cartright’s knock, a hard sound, just once. Irena started up from the bed and went to the wall by the window again, the furthest point from the door. She remained there after the Tokyo Resident identified himself and was admitted by Charlie who said to her: ‘It’s OK.’
Cartright offered his hand, which she took hesitantly, and then the man looked doubtfully around the room.
‘It’s what the brochures call unchanged,’ said Charlie.
‘What’s happened?’
Charlie gave an edited account in front of the woman, avoiding any reference to Chung Hom Kok or the pressure Harry Lu had imposed, for the cooperation that cost the man his life. Throughout Cartright stood nodding, and when Charlie finished he said: ‘I never knew Harry Lu.’
‘He was all right,’ said Charlie. It didn’t seem much of an epitaph for someone who’d worked his balls off for the service since he’d literally been a kid. Charlie was glad Cartright didn’t waste time asking questions to which he didn’t have answers.
Cartright looked at the woman, recognizing the difficulty of full conversation in front of her. ‘London want to talk. Urgently,’ was all he allowed himself.
Charlie wanted to talk to them, but not yet: postponing confrontations seemed to be a growing habit, he thought, remembering his initial reluctance in Tokyo. He said: ‘More important things to do first. We’ve got to stay clean, as far as local law is concerned. We ran out on the Hyatt, in Macao, and that’s going to show up when the investigation starts and puts Harry there, as well. I want you to go back and settle the account: just ours, of course. There was no obvious contact between Harry and us — only in our rooms — and I don’t want any connection established. Cash, no traceable credit cards.’
‘They’ll still have names, from registration records.’
‘Along with a hundred others,’ said Charlie. ‘They won’t mean a thing as long as there’s nothing suspicious like skipping out on a bill.’
Cartright nodded and said: ‘London was very insistent.’
‘I’ll let them know you passed the message on,’ promised Charlie.
Cartright looked uncertain, but didn’t press the argument. ‘What after Macao?’ he said.
Christ knows, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Back here. And be careful. There’ve been enough casualties.’
After Cartright left, Irena said: ‘He seems very young.’
‘I always think that about policemen in the street. Must be age,’ said Charlie. He’d meant it as a remark against himself but it didn’t come out as he intended. She didn’t seem offended. He wondered how old she was: late thirties perhaps, forty top whack.
‘Thank you, for what you’ve done.’
‘You already thanked me,’ reminded Charlie.
‘I mean you don’t have to go on looking after me so closely. I’m feeling much better now. I’ll be all right.’
Was she worried about both of them sharing the same room? She hadn’t seemed to mind the reference to age and Charlie wondered if she’d be upset by the assurance that the last thing he had in mind was making any sort of sexual approach: the handholding had been part of the job, nothing else. He said: ‘I wasn’t strictly honest with you, that first night at the Mandarin, when you asked me if everything had gone wrong and I said no. Everything hadn’t gone wrong: but too much had. It still is going wrong. And like I say, I don’t know why. I’ve got to get you safely to England and I am going to do it. And after what happened today I’ve decided that means not leaving you alone, for a moment.’
‘He said London wanted you, urgently.’
‘They want you more urgently,’ said Charlie. ‘Cartright won’t be long. When it’s not me, it’ll be him.’
In fact he took longer than Charlie expected, so that it was already genuinely dark by the time the man got back to the Kowloon hoteclass="underline" the single lamp was like a match in a coalmine.
‘Any problems?’ asked Charlie. There were enough, surely.
‘None at all,’ said Cartright. He handed Charlie the hotel receipt and said: ‘London will want this.’
Harkness really had the poor bugger trained, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Too late to speak to them now.’
‘The time difference is in our favour,’ disputed Cartright.
‘I meant too late from this end,’ said Charlie, still avoiding any mention of Chung Hom Kok: avoiding London, too. To Irena he said: ‘Sure you’re feeling better?’
‘Positive,’ she said at once, brightly.
‘Good,’ said Charlie. ‘Then we can go out to eat.’
They went to the restaurant Charlie had already identified, just across the road from the hotel. It was bare-floored and the tables were formica-topped, and Charlie recognized a Chinese restaurant that Chinese used and decided they’d scored, which they had. It was Sichuan: Charlie had Governor’s Chicken and Cartright chose Ma-Pa Do Fu. Irena only picked at her fish, the brightness no longer there. Any normal conversation was practically impossible, although Cartright tried and Charlie did his best, and there were still long periods of echoing silence between them. But then, reflected Charlie, it was hardly a social event. They went directly back to the hotel, where Cartright had a room on the floor above theirs. At the door to their room, Irena stopped and said: ‘I really don’t think this is necessary.’
‘I do,’ insisted Charlie. He opened the door and went in, refusing a corridor argument.
Irena followed and said: ‘Richard’s room is just one floor up.’
Cartright stood uncertainly at the door, looking between the two of them, unsure what — if any — contribution to make.
‘Irena,’ said Charlie, with forced patience, ‘I’m sharing your room, not your bed. An aeroplane you should have been on was blown out of the sky and this morning someone I liked a lot was killed, not more than a foot from where you stood …’ If it made her frightened, so what: frightened she was more malleable. He picked up: ‘I told you this afternoon I was going to keep you safe; and that means my staying in your room so let’s cut the shit. In shit, I’m an expert.’
She looked down at herself, smoothing her hands over her pink-patterned suit. ‘I don’t have anything to change into.’
Charlie sighed: on top of everything else, he had to get the KGB’s original Vestal Virgin. He’d been sure there weren’t any. He said: ‘I’ll stay outside, while you get into bed.’