“You must consider this a hell of an important extraction,” said Flood, head bent for the third time, covering the preceding two by holding his spectacles up to the light as if there were a blemish he couldn’t clean off.
The man wouldn’t have been told of the personal relationship, Charlie realized. “If it weren’t important, it wouldn’t have been initiated. You come with any guidance from the Director-General?”
“There’s an internal war between us and MI6,” said Flood. “He knows we were used as dummies to get Radtsic out. But Smith’s convinced, without knowing why, that there’s also an order out for you to be eliminated.”
“I’ve already been warned.”
“Smith wants you warned again: wants you to believe it,” said Flood. “And why I was also told getting you out was as essential as extracting Natalia and the girl. My orders are to follow your instructions, without question. But whatever those instructions are, that you’ve got to be brought out too.”
“Which gives you a problem,” said Charlie.
“Which gives us both a problem,” agreed Flood. “You got a God you can trust that it’ll all go to plan?”
“No,” said Charlie.
“That’s another problem,” said Flood. “Neither have I.”
It was inevitable that he should think about Charlie Muffin as he approached the Savoy Hotel, supposed David Halliday: it was where he and Charlie had spent a lot of time during Charlie’s previous assignment and because of which it had become a favorite watering hole of his. It was, reflected Halliday, about the only benefit he’d gained from his association with the man. It had been a mistake not to have held back the day the FSB picked up the Rossiya tourist party. And made an even bigger mistake imagining an advantage in cooperating with Charlie instead of maintaining the monitor that others in the MI6 rezidentura had been ordered to keep to locate the man. But he’d got away with it, Halliday reassured himself: broken the contact until finally Charlie had stopped trying to reach him. He wasn’t being ostracized as much after his inclusion in the last stage of the Radtsic extraction and wasn’t being blamed for the French fiasco. Now he reverted to the trusted practice of avoiding each and every difficulty.
It was initially only a fleeting image, as Halliday pushed through the hotel entrance, looking instinctively to his left, into the bar, but he was sure it was Charlie getting off his accustomed bar stool, another man beside him. The door leading from the lobby to the baroque dining room was heavily engraved but there were sufficient gaps in the etching for Halliday, hurriedly concealed on its far side, to confirm the sighting and to see Charlie pass something to the other man before turning to leave.
Halliday left, too, after five minutes, crossing the square to the Metropole, relieved the shaking had gone when he lifted the brandy snifter for the first recovering sip. It was, he decided, his chance to be completely rehabilitated: of not being kept out any longer.
32
He’d got everything wrong, acknowledged David Halliday: done it all by the book, except perhaps insisting he speak personally to the Director, but instead of getting the congratulations and gratitude he deserved for finding Charlie Muffin he’d been berated by Gerald Monsford for not following the man and relegated to being duty driver for Stephan Briddle and Robert Denning outside the Savoy Hotel at three o’clock in the fucking morning! Briddle was openly mocking him and Denning was an unapologetic farter who’d already stunk the car up.
“You know what they say about life?” reminded Briddle, to whom Halliday had complained of the Director’s tirade. “It isn’t ever fair.”
“You come across Flood before? asked Denning, from the rear gas chamber.
“No,” said Halliday, who’d gone with Briddle into the hotel because his Russian was better with a fifty-dollar bribe to the night porter to identity the replacement MI5 officer.
“You absolutely sure Flood’s still in his room: didn’t leave separately after Charlie?” pressed Denning.
“I already told you he ate dinner in the restaurant, has a wake-up call booked for five thirty, and a Hertz car’s being delivered at seven,” said Halliday, irritably.
“I really would like to know what’s in that package you saw Charlie pass over,” came in Briddle.
“It’s passport-and-ticket size,” snapped Halliday. “They’re moving.”
“And it’s happening early,” said Briddle, reflectively. “There’s two direct London flights from Sheremetyetevo before eleven and three transfer connections by one P.M.”
“It’ll be direct,” predicted Denning. “Transfers risk interception wherever they stop.”
“If it’s Sheremetyetevo,” cautioned Briddle. “Charlie Muffin’s a sneaky fucker.”
Would it have been better if he’d stayed with Charlie? wondered Halliday. Hardly, except for being spared Monsford’s wrath and this ignominy. Certainly not professionally. Was there any point in staying in the service, apart from the final pension entitlement? He didn’t stand a chance of promotion. Even if Monsford was replaced, he was the sort of vindictive bastard who’d poison all the personnel files. And why should he be replaced, after the Radtsic coup? The man’s directorship was set in stone.
“Here’s Beckindale with breakfast!” announced Denning, as the second anonymous rental car came down the street. He farted as he spoke, and Halliday knew he wouldn’t be able to eat anything Beckindale had bought.
Charlie finally abandoned the idea of sleep at five and was showered and dressed by five thirty. Charlie wished he could have started out with Natalia, be with them all the way from Pecatnikov, as unrealistic and unprofessional as that would have been. He was confident of Flood: didn’t doubt the man’s professionalism. Natalia had recognized the risk of Sasha’s doing or saying something unexpected and would guard against it. Six fifteen, Charlie saw, checking his watch. Too early to call even though she’d already be awake: probably hadn’t slept at all, as he hadn’t. He’d give her a little longer.
Peter Warren was the last decoy to arrive in the embassy cafeteria, at six thirty. As he joined the other two, coffee spilling as he maneuvered his self-service tray onto the cluttered table. “You sure it’s necessary for us to be up this early?”
“I wouldn’t have set the time if I hadn’t been sure,” said Patrick Wilkinson, tetchily. “Or booked the six o’clock wake-up call for them to find on the internal personnel computer, which I discovered they were monitoring.”
“You hear any movement?” Neil Preston asked Warren, whose compound apartment was on the same floor as Briddle’s and Denning’s.
Warren shook his head, heaping scrambled eggs and sausage onto his fork. “Quiet as a grave when I passed both doors. I stopped to listen outside both.”
“Let’s decide who’s going to go where,” demanded Wilkinson. “I’ll ride the Metro: call Charlie’s phone for the tracker to be picked up. They’ll think that significant, after the last time.”
“What about my doing a river cruise?” suggested Warren. “If I get one to follow me on a steamer he’ll be out of action for two or three hours.”
“I’ll go to the Metropole and con my way onto a tourist coach: there’s always spare seats and guides with their hands out for beer money. I’ll pick out the following car after a few blocks.”
“We’ll all keep in touch on cell phones to add to the tracker confusion,” declared Wilkinson. “It’ll convince them something’s happening.”
“But where the fuck are they?” demanded Warren, looking toward the entrance.
“You’ve spilled egg down your tie,” said Preston.
“Here’s the rental car,” identified Halliday. The coffee had been disgusting and he hadn’t bothered to drink it. He felt physically sick.
“I guess the Hertz sticker gave you the clue,” Briddle continued to mock.