Were they good, were they expert, those who followed him? Were they the best, or just those who had been available and dragged out of the duty pool? They were on a wide terrace and the rain had slackened, but the wind still blew in thumping gusts against the brick walls topped by the walkway platform. In the half-light, a young man flew a kite. Reuven Weissberg paused and studied him, then looked for the kite, high in the growing dark of the clouds, and he found it. Carrick’s sleeve was tugged and it was pointed out to him. He had to strain his eyes to see it. The kite was a scarlet speck, and the young man gave it more line. Carrick estimated, loose and without a vestige of proof, that the line might have stretched a quarter of a mile or more. The kite speck was over the river … the goddam river.
He assumed that, at the end of the game, Reuven Weissberg would lead him towards the river — where better? — and by then the darkness would have gathered tighter on them. Mikhail and Viktor would sidle from the shadows and whisper in the big player’s ear. Carrick would not know what they said. Would not know whether he had won or lost. He could see, from the elevation of the platform on the old walls, big branches going down the river and the swans, small and bright in the closing dusk, kept to the gentler eddies in bays at the far bank. Shadows lengthened on the near grassed areas, their side of the Vistula river. Maybe he would be in a cone of shadow, and unable to sprint, run, get up on to his damn toes and flee because he wouldn’t know what was said.
Who could save him?
Carrick bit his lip. He had lost sight of the scarlet speck. Again, he followed. Would Reuven Weissberg save him? If the tail was seen, showed out, if the whisper in the ear was of a tail confirmed, would Reuven Weissberg help him? No damn chance. He could look into Weissberg’s face, study the eyes and their depth, the expression at the mouth, and learn nothing.
Had to believe in Reuven Weissberg. They had turned away from the kite-flier and the view of the river, and walked back into the Stare Miasto and were among narrow alleyways. In front of them was a low arch. Without warning, Reuven Weissberg stopped and Carrick cannoned into him. He wondered if Weissberg sought to remember which way he should go, right or left or under the arch, which route should he be led on.
It was rare for Carrick to speak without reason but he was badly stressed. He said, and tried hard to lose the quaver, ‘It’s very beautiful, sir. It’s a fascinating piece of history.’
Reuven Weissberg, almost startled, looked at Carrick, took a fold of Carrick’s cheek in his fingers and squeezed the flesh. ‘It is not old, not from history. It is a fraud. All of it was destroyed in the war, every building that was here, the year after the ghetto uprising. It was rebuilt, stone for stone and brick for brick. It is a sham. Nothing is as it seems.’
For Adrian and Dennis, there had been confusion. It had not lasted. Dennis was ahead, and Adrian trailed his colleague. From Adrian’s view there was a shallow arch across the road. The earpiece he wore had been moulded for him and fitted exactly. The days of cables trailing under his collar were long gone. The earpiece had the double function of receiver and transmitter, but he — and Dennis — preferred the wrist microphone attached to the cuff of the anorak and the discipline of raising the hand across the mouth to mask the movement of the lips when talking. He wasn’t a bloody ventriloquist and needed to move his lips when speaking for clarity. They were encrypted.
‘To A One. Are you reckoning this is a choke-point? D One, out.’
The answer came back into his ear, soft and murmured: ‘To D One. I’m reckoning it’s a choke-point. Can’t see any other reason for this bloody caper. You got one? A One, out.’
‘To A One. You still have an eyeball? D One, out.’
‘To D One. Target Two going under the arch with November — yes, still have an eyeball. A One, out.’
Adrian lit a cigarette, which brought his hands over his mouth, and a tourist couple, might have been Germans, smiled warmly at him. A cigarette was the best reason to have a hand in front of the mouth when he transmitted.
‘To A One. Assuming it’s a choke-point routine, don’t have another answer. Think you should leap-frog? D One, out.’
‘To D One. Going for a leap-frog. Yes, I’ll buy it as a choke-point. A One out.’
He didn’t throw away his cigarette. Adrian hated them, had a printed sticker on the front door at home that said, ‘No Smoking’, but he kept it in his hand. To have thrown it down on to the clean-swept cobbles would have attracted attention, the great sin of his trade. He had ground to cover, to catch up on, and that made a difficulty in itself. Nobody noticed a man who sauntered and had time. Everybody remembered a man who hurried. He was able to dump the cigarette in a litter bin and felt better for getting shot of the damn thing. He went after the target and into what was reckoned a choke-point.
In Adrian’s world of surveillance there were three stages that were common practice. They had seen the men get into the two cars, with attention focused on the target’s, and that was the ‘lift’. A journey had started. When it reached its end, that had the name ‘housing’. Mid-journey, between start and end, was known to him, and the guys and girls he worked with, as the ‘control’. But was not, quite, control. Was not ‘control’ because, right now, Adrian was going — fast — up to do a leap-frog, and pass Dennis to take over the eyeball of the target. In doing so he would have to funnel himself through a choke-point. ‘Choke-point’ was when a target led the way through a narrow entrance, or across a bridge, or into a subway, and the surveillance had to follow or lose out on the eyeball, and the entrance, bridge or subway was under close observation. Not likely that he or Adrian would show out at the first choke-point, but there would be a second and third.
But they had to follow where they were led. Couldn’t pack it in, just call it quits, because then the target was lost.
He was coming up close behind Dennis and passed him in the shadow of the arch. Fag in the mouth, hand up with the lighter, he strode past Dennis, saw his colleague’s little gesture, so slight, of a hand over the hip pocket and one extended finger pointing right. He did as he was directed, swung to the right, and the alleyway was darker. He didn’t look left. If this was a choke-point it was most likely where the guys were, the Russians. Had become passably familiar with the Russians these last few days, since the bridge and the Wannsee lakes in Berlin, but he didn’t look for them … He kept on going and then he saw the shoulders of the target and November.
He lit his cigarette again. It had been burning well enough, but he needed his fist up again and over his lips. Adrian said, ‘To D One. OK, I have the eyeball. It’s not right to have a chit-chat, but we’ve a problem. A One, out.’
‘To A One. Only one problem? Spill it. D One, out.’
‘To D One. Bloody funny, yeah, yeah. Problem is, we’re doing caravan and trailer, and we should be doing the box. A One, out.’
‘To A One. Hear you. Leave it with me. D One, out.’
Saw a bin, and dumped his cigarette. Caravans and trailers were towed along. ‘Caravans and trailers’ was the old way of doing foot surveillance when resources were short and the perceived wisdom was to follow a joker along the street, keep back, have a newspaper ready and a packet of fags, let the joker lead. That technique of surveillance was now considered flawed because of what he had just been obliged to do, shift himself and hurry to do the leap-frog past Dennis. How many times, he liked to demand of recruits, was a guy ever seen running down a street or up a pavement? Wasn’t that guy always remembered if he was seen? New thinking, modern practice — which he and Dennis taught on the courses — was to use the box formation, and that slotted, in the exercises they laid on for the rookies, for the ‘control’ stage. When the box was formed there was no need for an eyeball; the target walked on a street and the box was far ahead and far behind him, in the next street to the right and the next to the left. The box was brilliant, but Adrian didn’t have it.