Even frightened and running again — almost literally — Kozlov was an expert professional. Charlie was late seeing him because the Russian was so good at merging into his surroundings, a weaving little minnow of a man in a sea of bigger fish, coming from the direction of Constitution Avenue and cleverly on the same side of M-Street as the hotel, so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself even crossing the road. Closer, Charlie was conscious of how intent Kozlov was, head swivelling as he moved, alert to everything about him and with everything to be alert about. Charlie, who had chosen the hotel because Kozlov would have to approach this way if the restaurant ploy worked, had tested the same approach twice, the previous day, and was sure that where he sat was concealed by the larger of the trees on the tiny green arrow.
Nearer the hotel, Kozlov slowed further, actually stopping at the bookshop at the very junction and feigning interest in the miniscule window, using its reflection and the opportunity to pause to ensure it was safe.
Although he was still a comparatively long way away, Charlie thought he discerned a shoulder lift of relief at Kozlov’s decision. Certainly the man moved off towards the final two hundred yards to the hotel with more apparent confidence, a head-up stride of an ultimate winner.
The seizure was very good.
There were two cars, a boxed arrangement, one behind the other and stationary, and a third actually moving, able because of the confluence of the streets to go in either direction if Kozlov succeeded in getting away from the first two. He didn’t, because they were stretch wheel-based, black-windowed American limousines that fitted so well outside of the premier hotel and Charlie admired the choice. Kozlov passed the first unaware of its rear doors opening behind him, and when he jerked to a stop, at those of the leading car suddenly blocking his path, it was too late because men behind were already encircling him, thrusting him into the open-mouthed vehicle.
The people in halter-tops and shorts promenaded on and the joggers jogged, no one realizing what had happened virtually in front of their eyes.
Charlie decided he really would try a pair of those training shoes: Reebok seemed a popular make. Maybe black, so with a bit of luck he could get away with wearing them with a suit.
‘All wrapped up,’ praised the Director. ‘Three out of three: we get the goodies and the Americans get the embarrassment.’
Strike while the iron is making sizzling noises, thought Charlie. He said: ‘I’ve been a long time at this grade. Just one up would be another?2000 a year.’ Maybe a bigger carpet, too: could sell that to Witherspoon to impress all the secretaries he was trying to get a leg over.
The Director breathed in, a sucking sound. ‘Permanently desk-bound administration, Charlie. Didn’t think you liked that.’
‘Like it better than exploding aeroplanes,’ tried Charlie. This must be how King Canute felt telling the tide to come back tomorrow.
‘Why don’t I think about it? No rush, after all.’
He’d tried, decided Charlie, resigned. He said: ‘Told either of the women yet?’
‘The indications are that the Russians are going to give one of their press conferences: the admissions of a mistaken defector,’ said Wilson. ‘We’ll wait. If it happens, we’ll let them both watch the television coverage.’
‘That should unblock Irena,’ said Charlie.
‘Olga, too, in a different way,’ said Wilson. ‘The realization that she’s lost everything.’
‘What about Herbert Bell?’
‘Too good to arrest, for a long time yet,’ said the Director. ‘Bell’s established his credibility for years, providing the KGB with the time and date of Yuri Kozlov’s double defection, from the Americans to the British. We can use him for all sorts of disinformation now. Of it all, settling things this way was your best idea, Charlie. Inspired!’
‘Think they will put Kozlov in front of a press conference?’
‘It seems to be the formula, at the moment,’ said Wilson.
‘Difficult, despite everything he did, not to feel sorry for the poor bastard, isn’t it?’ said Charlie. ‘Knowing what they’ll do to him, I mean.’
‘An innocent family on a motorway,’ Wilson listed. ‘A Permanent Secretary and his secretary. A crippled driver. Harold McFairlane. A division technician at Fylingdales. Harry Albert. Bill Paul. Valeri Solomatin. A group of British soldiers. And a friend of yours, Harry Lu.’
‘No,’ agreed Charlie, changing his mind. ‘It is difficult. Impossible, in fact.’
‘Those different shoes you’re wearing?’ asked the Director, suddenly.
‘Bought them in America,’ said Charlie.
‘Very smart.’
‘Comfortable, too.’