“Why didn’t the cabin crew realize they were a passenger short?”
“I don’t know and can’t ask,” said Straughan. “Charlie gambled and won.”
After the briefest silence Monsford, his voice loud again, said: “You haven’t finished the story!”
“I don’t follow,” protested Straughan, glad his own voice didn’t waver.
“What did Jacobson do, when he realized he’d lost Charlie?”
“There was nothing he could do: the aircraft doors had closed,” tried Straughan, weakly.
“What about the suit carrier?”
Now the silence was Straughan’s, as he sought an escape. Not finding one, he said: “Raising an alarm would have compromised Jacobson’s connection with Charlie.”
“The suit carrier will have been found upon arrival at Moscow, which will alert the airline and the Russian authorities that the plane arrived short of a passenger,” set out Monsford, his voice rising even further. “The obvious backwards check will be at Amsterdam, who’ll cooperate with the Russians because they’ve no reason not to and with whom we can’t intercede. The flight will have had a named-passenger manifest and the boarding pass will have recorded a seat number, from which the Russians will learn the cover name we allocated the stupid motherfucker. Which, additionally, will be publicly disclosed in the inevitable publicity of a disappearing passenger from a Moscow-bound flight.…” Monsford paused, a torturer practicing his art. “You spotted anything I’ve missed out so far?”
“He’s attracting attention to himself, which is madness!” argued Straughan. “It makes no sense the way you’re analyzing it.”
“It makes each and every sense,” rejected Monsford. “The FSB are expecting him to come: he’s actually told them, for Christ’s sake, with the telephone calls!”
“Which he’s supposed to be, a distraction,” broke in Straughan.
“I hadn’t finished,” threatened Monsford. “By creating his own diversion he’s making it quite clear that he doesn’t trust anything we’ve put in place as backup. At the moment he’s not working against the Russians! He’s working against us!”
As we’re working against him, thought Straughan, amazed at the other man’s total hypocrisy. “He can’t get his wife and daughter out without us.”
“And we don’t have our diversion to get Radtsic and his wife out! Tell Jacobson to call me at noon our time tomorrow.”
“He’s got a meeting with Radtsic at noon tomorrow.”
“As soon as possible afterwards,” allowed Monsford. “I won’t have this fall apart.”
“Monsford says Charlie’s telling us our planning is crap,” said Aubrey Smith.
“He caught me by myself after yesterday’s meeting,” said Passmore. “Asked me to prepare Russian passports for Natalia and Sasha, with Russian exit visas as well as British entry documentation covering the next month. He wants them sent covertly to Wilkinson at the embassy, cutting out MI6. I briefed Wilkinson to expect the package.”
“Charlie doesn’t trust his own shadow.”
“He tries hard not even to cast one,” guessed Passmore.
“I’ve read your memo complaining at not being included in the early planning,” said Aubrey Smith.
“Why wasn’t I?”
“It’s a stuck-together operation. I opposed our ever going into Moscow, until I couldn’t prevent it becoming exclusively MI6, with Charlie seconded to them.”
“So you agreed to it being joint?”
Smith hesitated. “I couldn’t let it go to Monsford, could I?”
“I’ve never controlled Charlie on an operation,” said Passmore, an objective rather than a responsibility-avoiding remark. “What do you expect him to do?”
Smith shrugged. “God only knows. He’ll go, of course. But the cover name will be blown to the Russians from the flight information, even if it doesn’t become public through the media.”
“I’ve already checked the news wires, as well as the Amsterdam and Moscow newspapers,” said Passmore. “It’s not public so far.”
“It’s too early. There’ll be something by tonight.”
“So he’s got another passport,” accepted Passmore.
“Probably connected with the trip to Jersey,” agreed Smith. “The bit he didn’t tell us about.”
“He was taken straight to the Buckinghamshire lodge the morning he reappeared after Jersey?”
“Yes.” Smith frowned, questioningly.
“Was he searched?”
“As the first safe house in Chelsea was searched,” confirmed Smith, understanding the question. “He didn’t have a passport with him. Nor was there one in Buckinghamshire.…”
“And direct from Buckinghamshire he was brought here to London for the briefings and after that immediately taken to the Moscow flight.…”
“Yes,” said Smith.
“What about luggage?”
“His suit carrier left on the plane. We brought everything up to the lodge from Chelsea.”
“He’s got to get back here, to England,” predicted the former SAS man. “And to do that he’ll have to use the cover passport, until he can make the switch to whatever else he’s got. I want to issue a passport watch on the cover name.”
“Extend it to Jersey,” ordered Smith. “That’s where he could have it.”
“What do we do when we pick him up?”
“I’ll decide that when we get him.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then we can’t do anything other than follow his lead.”
“And the Russian passport he asked for?”
Smith hesitated. “Prepare it as Charlie wants. I don’t trust Monsford either.”
All Harry Jacobson’s fragile reassurances had gone, compounded by the breach of tradecraft that he hadn’t properly taken into account until now, when he was actually making his way to the failsafe rendezvous with Maxim Radtsic. It was an inviolable rule in defector extractions that no target meetings should ever be at the same place twice and they’d already met once before at the river-cruise terminaclass="underline" Jacobson had agreed to its emergency use only because, unprofessionally, he’d never expected it to be necessary. Jacobson’s most obvious fear was that he was walking blindly into an FSB entrapment, almost equaled by the apprehension that Radtsic had lost his already overstretched nerve and wouldn’t turn up a second time. Which, added to his infantile airplane loss of Charlie Muffin, would inevitably mean his dismissal from the service.
Jacobson arrived almost an hour early at the Klenovy Boulevard terminal, scouring every approach as he had at the previous failed meeting place for the slightest indication of an ambush. Having failed to find one, he positioned himself at the highest possible vantage point above the pier, his concentration upon the throng of embarking and disembarking passengers, seeking close-together groups or gatherings of people who did not fit the tourist profile. And failed again to locate anything that triggered his suspicion.
Jacobson rigidly followed Radtsic’s trail-clearing insistence of boarding fifteen minutes ahead of the Russian, stationing himself at the rail overlooking the gangway to ensure Radtsic wasn’t followed. So tensed was Jacobson that the skin of his arms tingled at the slight pressure of his leaning against the rail and he was overly aware of people close to him, twitching away from the briefest contact.
Ten minutes until departure, Jacobson saw. Where the hell was Radtsic! He should have been here by now, visible on the pier to ensure there was no surveillance. So why wasn’t he? Because he wasn’t going to show, Jacobson answered himself. He’d panicked or been found out or lost his nerve, all or any of which could mean his arrest or an attack and then God knows …
There he was, snatched Jacobson, at the first sighting. And making no effort to merge into his tourist surroundings. The barrel-chested, swarthy Maxim Radtsic was wearing a collar and tie with his three-piece business suit, shouldering his way through the last-minute boarders, and Jacobson’s relief was tempered by the thought of the other, still unresolved danger. Jacobson continued to observe the Russian’s precautions, delaying an approach for fifteen minutes after departure for the Russian to complete the same check on him as he moved around the boat and even then not until Radtsic gave the signal that he was satisfied they were both clear.