‘Me!’ demanded Elliott, with sudden urgency. ‘When it happens, I want to be the one who fixes the son of a bitch: who teaches him a lesson!’
Fredericks recognized that Elliott was a worrying weakness, someone whose objective balance could not be trusted in a moment of absolute crisis. ‘We’ll see,’ he said, avoiding any sort of commitment. ‘There’s so much that’s more important, initially, before we start concerning ourselves with side issues.’
‘I don’t regard settling things with Charlie Muffin as a side issue,’ disputed Elliott, who saw retribution as the surest way to impress those grey-suited, anonymous men at Langley upon whom promotion always depended. ‘We lost a lot of face and a lot of people over that man. He can’t be allowed to escape, not a second time.’
‘We’ll see,’ reiterated Fredericks. He would have to take care that this man did not become a difficulty. There were already too many uncertainties as it was.
The Shiba Park is conveniently close to the Soviet embassy so the contact was arranged there. Although the meeting was flexible, for Irena’s benefit, she was still later than the time they had estimated. Kozlov showed no impatience, either while he waited near the Tokyo Tower, with its added radio mast to make it taller (and therefore marginally better) than the Paris Eiffel Towel of which it is an exact copy, or when she actually entered the recreation area. He did not approach her even then, and she made no attempt to make directly for him, either. Instead she walked with apparent casualness along a perimeter pathway intentionally chosen to take her a long time to reach him, enabling Kozlov to seek any pursuit for which he knew she would have already checked, at least six times since leaving the Soviet enclave. Kozlov was actually against one of the struts of the tower, confident he was completely concealed, because they had rehearsed and ensured that, too. It was a hot evening and the park was crowded — another advantage — but Kozlov was sure no one who came in after his wife was following her. Still he waited, not breaking the arranged pattern, remaining intent upon those behind her in case the followers — either American or fellow Russian — were as professional as he considered himself to be. It was unlikely but still possible. Still nothing. Waiting for Irena to complete the prepared route, Kozlov allowed himself a brief, satisfied smile. Today had been unsettling, a minor hiccup, but he was still absolutely in charge and in control of everything. It was a comforting feeling. It was going to work brilliantly, as he’d always planned that it should.
Irena showed no recognition when she reached the base of the tower, waiting for Kozlov’s approach to signal they weren’t under any observation, and positioning herself against a concealing strut as an added precaution. When he eventually approached she said, unsmiling: ‘Well?’
‘You’re clear,’ he said.
‘I already knew that,’ she said, the confidence obvious. Irena Kozlov was altogether a big woman, prominent nosed, large featured, big busted, wide hipped and much taller than her husband. She wore her hair strained back in a severe bun, and because of her size it was difficult for her to buy clothes in small-statured Japan. Those she had on today had been bought during their first posting together, in Bonn, and were worn in preference to anything Russian against the unlikely but still remote possibility of their being identified as coming from the Soviet Union.
‘Was I monitored?’ he said.
‘Every time,’ confirmed Irena, who had been her husband’s protector in the three meeting places at Kamakura that Art Fredericks visited that day. ‘They weren’t very impressive, any of them. I took photographs of all three and compared them for confirmation back at the embassy, against the picture files we have of American diplomatic personnel. The man at Meigetsu-In is named Harry Fish, at Enno-Ji it was someone called Levine and during the meeting it was Samuel Dale …’ The woman paused. ‘We didn’t have Dale positively identified as CIA, incidentally. So everything can be justified to Moscow quite properly. Is everything arranged?’
Kozlov shook his head, abbreviating the purpose of Fredericks’ summons, looking not at his wife but beyond her, still checking the park.
‘Today it was to be settled!’ complained Irena, at once.
‘I threatened to call everything off, to withdraw.’ Kozlov looked toward her. ‘Frightened the silly man to death.’
‘They are trying to trick us!’ she insisted.
Kozlov shook his head again. ‘I was expecting it,’ he said. ‘It was something they had to attempt.’
‘Why didn’t they take you seriously, from the beginning!’
‘They do now,’ insisted Kozlov. ‘It’s good they only put one man in each place, to protect Fredericks. I was nervous of a commando squad.’
‘There’s been no warning, from Hayashi at the airport.’
‘They could have arrived by commercial airline, not necessarily military.’
‘You’ve briefed Hayashi?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anything military, British or American.’
‘We always chose public places, to avoid a snatch,’ she reminded him.
‘Did the man Dale take any photographs?’
‘No,’ said Irena. ‘Pure surveillance. Not particularly good, either.’
‘He couldn’t have identified you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said, annoyed at the suggestion. ‘I tagged on to a party of Americans, as if I needed the translation. Dale actually spoke to two men, within a few feet of me.’
‘No one followed me out,’ said Kozlov. The statement was faintly questioning, because he had been alert.
‘He left with me, while you were in the souvenir shop!’
Kozlov shook his head in disbelief and then, reminded, said: ‘I bought you a present. There’ll be something better, later.’
Irena took the key-ring, smiling down at her husband for the first time. ‘There’s a lot I want, when we get to the West.’
‘There won’t be any more stupidity, like today,’ promised Kozlov. ‘Fredericks was really frightened.’
‘I wonder if the British will be more professional?’ said the woman.
At that moment Charlie Muffin approached the bar in the departure lounge of London airport,?800 of travellers’ cheques comfortably fat in his wallet and?200 in cash even more comfortably bulging his trouser pocket. There wasn’t any Islay Malt so he chose Glenlivet, peeling off the first of the notes that Harkness had failed to stop him getting and knowing the drink would taste all the better because of it. And not just because of the?1000. Aware of how the clerks gossiped-despite the supposed restriction of the Official Secrets Act — Charlie had allowed exactly twelve hours for the word to circulate before demanding a First Class ticket. And got it because the permanent mandarins had been too shit-scared to query the authority.
‘Going far, sir?’ asked the barman, the perpetually polite question.
‘As far as I can go,’ said Charlie.
Chapter Three
Adapting the When in Rome principle, Charlie took a Suntory whisky from the room bar and carried it to the window, gazing out over Tokyo. He was high in the tower block of the New Otani and he decided it was a pretty good pub: a vast, sprawling place with a concealing people-packed shopping complex and more entrances and exits than he’d so far had time to work out. Which he would, of course. First of the Charlie Muffin Survival Rules was always secure an escape route, before discovering what it was necessary to escape from. The early evening lights were coming on and ironically using as a landmark the Tokyo Tower beneath which the Kozlovs had earlier met, Charlie worked out the positioning of the port and then, closer, the embassy section of the Japanese capital. Minimal use, Charlie remembered. OK, so if it were important to protect the embassy, it was important to protect himself. Doubly so. The CIA would have moved a bloody army in by now, tanks, rocket boosters and all. Naive then to expect him to operate without someone watching his back. On a suspect list for charging for non-existent informants! Charlie snorted, in loud derision. Harry Lu was a damned good agent who’d worked Asia for twenty years as a contract freelance without even the scant protection of a Foreign Office or embassy: probably forgotten more about intelligence than Harkness had ever learned. Bloody daft, not to use him: too late to call Hong Kong, but he’d do it first thing tomorrow, to open up a line of communication. Be good to see Harry again: good drinker, Harry Lu. Reminded, Charlie helped himself to another miniature bottle of local whisky, coming to more immediate considerations. Getting literally to know the ins and outs of the hotel was the initial priority. See what the bars looked like, maybe. Then an early night, for tomorrow’s meeting with an American named Art Fredericks: certainly didn’t want to eat again, after all that First Class grub on the plane. Charlie smiled happily at the thought of Harkness’s reaction. Serve the parsimonious bugger right.