“And Palmer and Bland were a blink away from tears of gratitude at the hope of a balancing embarrassment for the Russians,” boasted Monsford, ending his account of the Foreign Office encounter.
“You didn’t take the hint about Radtsic any further than that?” asked Straughan. Once more he ignored the woman as Monsford activated the recording equipment, glad he’d postponed their intended conversation after the earlier morning session.
“Only the merest wisp of hope,” said Monsford, smiling: he’d omitted Bland’s edict against counterbalancing the Russian maneuvering. “They’ll recognize what I was talking about by this time tomorrow: that we weren’t just sitting around on our hands. Aubrey Smith was practically whimpering, like an abandoned dog.”
“Isn’t there a risk of our being criticized for keeping it to ourselves?” suggested Rebecca.
“Palmer and Bland are sitting on their hands as well, shit scared of anything else going wrong,” dismissed Monsford. “I wasn’t going to risk a last-minute abandonment.”
Working through Monsford’s mixed metaphor was like wading through mud, thought Rebecca. “You don’t sound very impressed by any of them?”
“Unlike Janus, they’re only looking in one direction: over their shoulders to protect their backs.” Monsford sneered, juggling his responses. “You made it clear to Jacobson he’s got to rein in Radtsic?”
Straughan nodded. “I didn’t just reinforce it to Jacobson. I personally spoke to Halliday. There can’t be the slightest misunderstanding.”
“How did Halliday take it?” asked Rebecca.
“He complained at being sidelined: not being treated as a senior operative.”
“Did he now!” mocked Monsford. “What did you tell him?”
“That being a senior officer he knew the golden espionage rule that operational security dictates that agents are only told what it’s individually essential for them to know for their part of an assignment.”
“Did he accept that?” questioned Rebecca.
“What he accepted was that he didn’t have an alternative,” qualified Straughan. “What he did say was that he should have been given more responsibility.”
“I definitely shouldn’t have left him in Moscow after the last clear-out,” said Monsford. “Bring him out the moment this is all over.”
“Which brings us to a connected situation,” seized Straughan. “Jacobson pointed out that he’ll obviously be identified by the FSB as Radtsic’s escape Control. There’s no way he can return to Moscow.”
Monsford shrugged, frowning. “What’s the relevance of that, right now?”
“Bringing Radtsic in is going to be a hell of a coup not just for the service but for Jacobson, personally. And give the government the recovery it needs. Jacobson is staking his claim early for a fitting recognition.”
Monsford sniggered, derisively. “He’s doing what!”
“Putting himself forward to be station chief in Washington, D.C., or Paris. His preference is Paris.”
Monsford sniggered again. “If we weren’t as close as we are I’d consider abandoning the extraction, seriously concerned that Harry Jacobson had suffered a mental problem. I’d diagnose inflated grandeur. Harry Jacobson’s future is one of the furthest thoughts from my mind and will probably stay that way for a long time to come. If he mentions it again, tell him there’s absolutely no reason for him to take a French-language course or learn the words of the ‘Star Spangled Banner.’”
“I’ll let you tell him when he gets here,” said Straughan, sighing.
“When’s he handing over the passport and tickets to Radtsic?” Monsford pressed on, unaware of the other man’s contempt.
“Now,” replied Straughan, ready for the demand.
“We’ll reconvene this afternoon,” decided Monsford.
As they walked together from the Director’s office, Rebecca said: “It’s turning out to be a crowded day?”
“Productive, though,” agreed Straughan.
The deputy director waited until they were in the outside corridor before saying: “Shall we wait until after the final meeting?”
“Probably best,” Straughan agreed once more. “Could you see?”
“Yes,” said Rebecca. “We’re doing the right thing.”
“I hope so,” said the man.
“Trust me,” said Rebecca.
That was his problem, acknowledged Straughan. He didn’t trust her any more than he trusted Gerald Monsfod, in whom he had no trust whatsoever.
He’d been overconfident, Charlie Muffin admitted to himself. He’d swung from overcaution to overconfidence instilled by overanalyzing the overly suspicious to end up where he was now, overwhelmed by discrepancies. By far the worst had been his mistakenly imagining Natalia’s fear-prompted telephone calls connected to the provable FSB burglary and staged the Amsterdam deception to evade an imagined entrapment. And by so doing provided the Russians with the propaganda field day they were utilizing to their fullest advantage. But from what Halliday told him Charlie was sure he’d correctly judged that the rescue extraction for Natalia and Sasha had all along been a sacrificial diversion for something entirely separate. Would he have compromised, destroyed even, that separate operation as he’d now so badly endangered his chances of getting Natalia and Sasha out? It would be a fitting retribution if he had, inadvertent though it would have been.
But that wasn’t his major concentration. More immediate was covering his self-dug pitfalls safely. His hopes of doing that had soared after establishing contact with David Halliday and then so quickly afterward with Natalia. Both had leaked away during the near-sleepless, self-analyzing night and flattened even more with the first of his arranged contacts with Natalia.
While acknowledging it to be understandable, Charlie was still disappointed that Natalia’s previous-day deflation hadn’t lifted. His overnight thinking had concluded that while his mistakes made Natalia and Sasha’s rescue hugely more difficult, it was possible as long as he remained undetected. Natalia, in total contrast, appeared to have sunk into acceptance of inevitable disaster. She’d dismissed the misconceptions as being his, not her, fault and heaped further remorse on herself for not having anything to offer from the Lubyanka. Trying to break her mood, Charlie actually accused her of self-defeat and self-pity and now, entering another kiosk for his second arranged call of the day, was unsure if he hadn’t been too severe on her.
“Can you talk?” Charlie opened, without identifying himself when Halliday answered.
“I’m not sure, not anymore.”
Charlie’e stomach dipped. “Why not?”
“I’m back on board, which I know you’re not. It’s different now.”
If Halliday completely believed he’d been reintegrated, he’d have put down the telephone the moment he’d recognized his voice. “I believed in London that I was on board too, remember?”
“That’s your problem to sort out.”
“I did, by realizing in time that I was the chosen fall guy,” hurried Charlie, sure he was keeping the anxiety from his voice. “Remember that, too? You really believe you’re fully back in the loop? That’s what you’ve got to be absolutely convinced of: that and something equally important. That you’re absolutely safe. That’s the magic word, safety. You got the absolute guarantee of that, David? Or aren’t you suspicious that having been excluded from everything until now, you’ve been picked out as the sacrificial fall guy now they don’t have me for the job?” Bite, you squirming bastard, Charlie thought: swallow the fucking hook!
“I can look after myself.”
He was unsure! “That wasn’t the impression I got yesterday.”
“Nothing can go wrong inside an embassy.”
Halliday was the point man, seized Charlie. And didn’t know enough of his last Moscow assignment to identify a manipulation. “Of course nothing can go wrong inside an embassy! You know what? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that wasn’t the thinking of that poor sod for whose murder I was last here. You know, the one killed in the embassy grounds?”