It had been a mistake not to bring Kemp with him, to alternate the tail to reduce being detected by the Russian: it would be just the way his luck was going for Koretsky to pick him up and abort, making the whole business a complete waste of time. The Russian’s entry into the park provided at least some minimal cover: it meant Johnson could walk parallel up Regent’s Park Road, keeping him in sight but not directly behind. Had he been, Johnson realized he would have been spotted, because twice Koretsky turned, making an obvious check. But even this was a mixed advantage, because the road began to bend away from the park, actually now putting too much distance between them, so that when it happened Johnson almost missed it. Had he not been as experienced as he was, he would have done.
The dead-letter drop was almost at the end of the avenue along which Koretsky was walking, by a refuse bin against the sixth lamp-post from the commencement of the path. At the moment of approach, Koretsky flicked something to his left, not into the bin but alongside it. Then the Russian paused, as if troubled with the lace of his shoe and Johnson saw the man mark the post with a smear of yellow chalk which would have looked like some failed graffiti to anyone but himself.
Johnson had already decided to abandon Koretsky, even before the Soviet car swept down Primrose Hill Road for the pick-up, because Koretsky was simply part of a chain and the necessity now was to discover the next link. Then Johnson saw the car in which he had earlier travelled, grimacing as he did. The stupid bastards were far too close. If he tried to stop it, to get back-up from Kemp, Johnson knew he’d be identified by association.
‘Stupid sods!’ he said, bitterly and aloud.
As the cars convoyed back down Regent’s Park Road, Johnson entered the enclosure. There were thickly leafed trees all along the pathway along which Koretsky had walked, with occasional benches. He chose the one furthest away from the drop, eyes focused on what Koretsky had delivered. It was impossible to be sure from this distance but it appeared to be a manila envelope but bigger than that for a normal letter, maybe five inches across and 8 inches deep: he wished he were able to judge its thickness but that was impossible.
Johnson shivered, wanting the discarded topcoat but unable to risk going back even the short distance to get it. Expert that he was, Johnson knew he was observing what is called in the trade an open letterbox, a deposit arrangement from which the recipient was expected to collect very quickly what had been left, to prevent its accidental discovery by some casual stranger. So close to a rubbish bin, Johnson decided that the larger-than-normal envelope was very vulnerable, from a foraging tramp or a conscientious rubbish collector.
He focused the camera on to the bin, guaranteeing the range, and then settled back to wait. How long, he wondered.
The specific request from Alexei Berenkov in Moscow, demanding immediate warning of increased surveillance, was waiting for Koretsky when he got back to Kensington Palace Gardens. He quickly encoded a reply, assuring Berenkov that he had remained clean that day and that the Watchers had gone on a wild goose chase behind the car, which had been the intention.
Chapter Six
Vasili Zenin realized there was a risk in leaving the bicycle he had rented from the Camden hirers without enclosing the wheels in the anti-thief chain they had demonstrated but decided it was necessary because he couldn’t waste time later unlocking it. He hoped it was the biggest risk he was going to have to take that day.
He parked it at the junction of Elsworthy Road with Primrose Hill Road, preparing himself carefully. He positioned the earphones of the Walkman precisely in place, switching on the Tchaikovsky tape, and then fixed the sweatband with even more precision, wishing he had a mirror to ensure both were as he wanted. He had been very particular over the fit of the running shoes, pleased at how comfortable they felt as he started jogging towards the park, breathing easily, arms pumping steadily as he moved: personal fitness is naturally a priority for Balashikha graduates and Zenin had always enjoyed running. It was the exercise sessions there and the lectured awareness of the popularity of jogging in the West that had given him the idea in the first place.
Zenin paced into the park near the top of the hill from which it gets its name, picking up the perimeter path furthest away from where the drop should have been made, wanting before he ventured anywhere near the marked place to make a far more thorough reconnaissance than he had on the previous occasion. There were actually three other joggers plodding around the lanes like he was, in shorts and singlet, and one was even wearing a Walkman. Zenin smiled, humming in time to the concerto, concentrating beyond them. It was emptier than he had expected from his earlier visit: a few people exercising their dogs, one or two sitting on benches and a couple lying prostrate upon the grass practically having sexual intercourse. Maybe, he thought, it heightened the pleasure to fuck in public. He turned left where the path veered to go parallel with Albert Terrace and past the sign from which he had learned bicycling was forbidden, finally with a frontal view, although slightly to his left, of the post and the bin. There was a man sitting on a bench about twenty feet away from the drop and a woman with a labrador actually at the spot: as he looked the animal cocked its leg against the lamp and Zenin’s face twisted in disgust at the thought that it might be fouling what he had to collect.
Johnson’s concentration was entirely upon the dead-letter box and it was Zenin’s snatching down immediately after the dog had urinated there – an unthinkable action because the man would have seen the animal do it – that alerted the Watcher. He hadn’t thought the pick-up would be made by a jogger and had let Zenin merge into the background of his consciousness as the Russian went by. Johnson grabbed the camera from its concealment beneath his jacket and managed three panicked exposures and then a more sharply focused shot of Zenin spurting away before getting up himself, stumbling in pursuit. Zenin left the park through the same exit Koretsky had used, running hard now up Primrose Hill Road.
Johnson hurried as fast as he considered he was safely able, slowing twice at Zenin’s obvious backward checks, gasping because of his weak chest by the time he got to the top of the hill. He did so just in time to see Zenin mount the bicycle in Elsworthy Road, jerking the camera up for one last attempt.
‘Fuck it!’ said Johnson. He’d known it was going to go badly like this: just known it! ‘Oh fuck it!’ he said again.
Elsworthy Road is a twisting, winding thoroughfare, so by the time Johnson reached it his quarry was completely out of sight. Expert that he was, the Watcher walked its entire length, wet with the perspiration of effort and annoyance by the time he reached the junction with Avenue Road. He saw the traffic jam backed up for several hundred yards and shook his head, in bitter awareness: the fact that he had been out-professionalized by a professional did bugger all to help.
A combination of normal bureaucratic delay and top level irritation – and therefore face-satisfying obstructiveness – at what MI5 considered arrogant and high-handed surveillance demands meant it was the following day before Charlie Muffin received Johnson’s report and the developed photographs. It took him only an hour to arrange the meeting with the about-to-retire Watcher.