As the flight crew began their acrobatics of emergency flight evacuation, Charlie was mentally evaluating the potential success against the possible failure of what he had to achieve. He was encouraged by the briefing assertion of no expenditure limit. Realistically there was no way he could have got back to Jersey to retrieve what was left of the already committed money, which was why, at the final departure session with Straughan and Passmore, he’d argued up the initially proposed, personally carried working float to ten thousand pounds by quoting the irrefutable statistics that Moscow had become the most expensive city in the world. But potentially he’d need considerably more. The fine line he had to follow was obtaining sufficient additional money without arousing suspicion that he wasn’t going to utilize any more bullshit backup than was minimally necessary, which anyway might be difficult after what he planned so soon to do.
Charlie halted the instinctive half turn behind him practically as it began at the expectation of there being one if not more puppet-watchers monitoring his every movement, curious if his intended actions would be accepted as proving his professional caution. Which was more than Passmore and Straughan had illustrated with their insistence that he was being allowed operational autonomy. Charlie was glad he’d managed the brief, private conversation with John Passmore before he’d left the MI6 meeting, impressed with the man’s reaction.
Jacobson had been prepared for Charlie’s backward look, the face-concealing in-flight magazine ready at the first indication, which turned out to be unnecessary when Charlie didn’t continue, easing his seat back as the plane attained its cruising height. He would, Jacobson decided, deserve recognition, positive promotion, after this if Radtsic did turn up at the emergency rendezvous: he’d been disappointed at the Director’s vagueness at the hints he’d risked, every innuendo hedged with a caveat.
Charlie put his hand to his jacket pocket, feeling the hardness of the Russian cell phone, one of the dozen air-freighted from Moscow to be technically tweaked before being returned for distribution to the backup squad upon their arrival. He’d retain it as an insurance, but always turned off as it was now, and buy himself another when he got to Moscow. What other personal adaptations did he need? He’d covered the passport changes during that brief, private meeting with Passmore, hoping Wilkinson had been properly briefed just as privately afterward. And he was carrying sufficient money for his immediate needs. Too early to think about anything more, he decided, at the copilot’s announcement of the impending en route landing at Amsterdam’s Schipol airport.
Charlie stood out into the aisle for his window-seated companion to get out, resuming his seat at once for other disembarking passengers behind him to follow, flicking through his own seat pocket sales magazine, his concentration entirely upon the departing line. He timed his move as the last figure disappeared from the plane, standing, stretching, and setting off unhurriedly toward the restrooms, relieved the indicator showed the farthest cubicle to be unoccupied. He started to hurry only when he reached it, partially opening the door but releasing it to continue on to the disembarkation pier, his feet at once protesting as he bustled past those ahead of him.
Still in his seat, Jacobson had craned around the business-class-curtain separation to see Charlie approach the toilet door just before his view was blocked again by a steward moving to greet arriving Dutch passengers who filled the aisle for several minutes, locating their seats and stowing their baggage. By the time they had finished, Jacobson was standing awkwardly between the seats, looking to the toilets. The occupancy indicator showed the farthest to be the only one in use. Several more minutes passed before the door opened for a woman to emerge.
At that moment, the aircraft doors thumped closed.
Hampered as they were by not knowing precisely what time of day or night they would be making the journey, Jonathan Miller stretched the reconnaissance-car journeys from Paris to Orly airport over a forty-eight-hour time frame into which he fitted six trips to establish an average, driving himself back to the city on their final run.
Albert Abrahams, hunched over his clipboard in the passenger seat, said without looking up: “Never exceeding the speed limit to ensure against traffic violations and building in an additional thirty minutes for unanticipated problems, it gives us two and a half hours during the day, two at night.”
“We’ll include a backup car, against engine breakdown,” decided Miller.
“When’s Straughan going to give us Andrei’s pickup schedule? From all the guidance we’re getting from London, they’re expecting us to snatch the guy off the street.”
“Straughan told me we’ll get it all in good time.”
“Including personal contact with the kid himself? He’ll need to meet us, know us, in advance, won’t he?”
“I’ve made the point. Straughan says it’s all in hand.”
“You been involved in an extraction before?”
“Once, ten years ago in Rome. His cover was third secretary at the Russian embassy. Turned out he was abandoning his wife for his mistress. He backed off confronting embassy diplomats at a consular-access negotiation and went back to his wife without telling us anything whatsoever of value.”
“Let’s hope this one goes better.”
“That’s all we can ever do, hope it all works out,” said the MI6 station chief. “You fancy the Brassiere Lipp for lunch?”
“After two days and nights of sandwiches we deserve nothing less,” agreed Abrahams. “Apart, that is, from a hell of a lot more information.”
12
“What!”
There was close to physical pain as well as disbelief in Gerald Monsford’s voice, and Straughan hoped the Director had been engaged in a difficult athletic performance with Rebecca to cause it. “Charlie slipped Jacobson in Amsterdam. Simply walked off the plane.”
“That’s not possible!”
“That’s what happened.”
“Why didn’t you patch Jacobson through to me from Moscow!”
“The Moscow embassy is secure but we don’t transfer calls to your home.” Straughan paused, savoring the exchange. “Your specific instructions.”
“Tell me exactly what happened,” demanded Monsford, the loudness lessening.
“Charlie was as unpredictable as ever,” began Straughan, stringing out the pleasure although acknowledging there was an endangering hole in his own protection. “Charlie specified a seat, and Jacobson managed to get just a couple of rows behind: from there he had the perfect physical identification. Charlie stowed his suit carrier, and appeared to settle for the flight to Moscow. He didn’t make a move until after the Amsterdam passengers got off and only then appeared to go to the toilet. Jacobson lost sight for just a few seconds, as new passengers got on. The toilet light stayed on. In the confusion of people getting on-and there’s a separating curtain between business and economy-Jacobson missed Charlie leaving the toilet and someone else going in.…”
“Jacobson stayed in his fucking seat: didn’t get out to walk up and down the aisle, exercising, like everyone does?”
So far, so good, judged Straughan, hopefully. “Charlie left his luggage in an overhead locker!”
“And you didn’t have a backstop established in Amsterdam airport precisely to ensure that something like this didn’t happen!”
“No,” admitted Straughan, the paper-thin defense ready.
“Why not?”
“You and Jacobson watched and heard me warn him against doing anything like this, trying to show how clever he is,” struggled the operations director. “That’s all he’s doing, trying to prove his streetwise independence. But he can’t. He’s got to get to Moscow, which means using the cover-name passport we’ve provided. And he’s got to contact the embassy, sooner or later, to get the phoney passports for Natalia and the child. He’s just getting his rocks off, like a schoolboy masturbating for the first time.”