“You think Jeremy will have realized it?” questioned Denning, jerking his head toward the side street in which Beckindale was parked.
“Stay where you are!” ordered Briddle, hurriedly. “Flood and the other MI5 replacements will have photographs of us all.”
“I was going to phone.” Denning sighed.
“Let me see the photographs of Natalia and the kid again,” said Halliday and wished he hadn’t when it was the odorous Denning who offered them.
“Hello!” exclaimed Briddle, bringing Halliday’s concentration up from the prints at the arrival of another Hertz car.
“And that’s Flood,” identified Halliday, as the man emerged from the hotel with the delivery driver of the first vehicle and continued on toward the second car. Together the two MI5 men went back into the Savoy.
“Jeremy says he’s already clocked both of them,” reported Denning, the cell phone to his ear. “Any change from simply following them?”
“He’s to stick to the second car, leaving Flood to us,” ordered Briddle. “And to make sure he’s not seen to be following.”
“Jeremy says thanks for the lesson and to go fuck yourself,” relayed Denning.
Gerald Monsford had slept overnight, and alone, in the studio-apartment extension to his office suite and in which he’d established Rebecca Street as his gratefully rewarding mistress a month after securing her as his deputy. He wished now that she had stayed that night, even though he didn’t completely trust her any longer. Right not to have trusted Straughan, either: dangerous, deceptive motherfucker. Wished he didn’t have to rely on Rebecca for the Straughan business. Didn’t have to, Monsford decided. As soon as he sorted Radtsic out he’d take Straughan off her hands: important he personally ensured Straughan hadn’t left anything dangerous behind. He had to concentrate on Moscow for the moment. Not that there was anything to do at this predawn moment. Except wait. His insistence upon total one-to-one control with Briddle to guard against a later, evidence-providing intermediary meant he couldn’t risk Russian scanner interception of cell-phone communication with the man now outside the hotel at which new MI5 support had been discovered. Halliday’s name threatened an outburst of pointless anger. Why the fuck hadn’t the man followed Charlie Muffin to wherever he’d been hiding? Right now Briddle could have been there carrying out the disposal that so easily could have been accepted as an FSB assassination. The fallout from which, compounded by all the preceding publicity, would have brought about Aubrey Smith’s dismissal not just as MI5 Director-General but as a threatening professional adversary. Now there was too much uncertainty, particularly involving the plausible denial of any personal involvement: what Shakespeare had so rightly described as right perfection wrongfully disgraced.
The summons on his personal line broke into Monsford’s reflection, making him physically jump, despite his expectation of Briddle’s call. “Director Monsford?”
It wasn’t Briddle’s voice: one he didn’t recognize. “Who is this?”
“Matthew Timpson.”
“Who?”
“Matthew Timpson, head of internal security. When I didn’t find you at home I checked in-house registration and discovered you were already here, which is fortunate. I’m already in the building. I need to see you immediately, of course. It’s a matter of urgency.”
“What’s a matter of urgency?”
“The reason I need to see you immediately.”
“It’s not convenient,” refused Monsford. “Arrange a meeting through my appointments secretary in two or three days.”
“I insist it’s now, sir: immediately, as I’ve said.”
“You must insist! I’m the Director!”
“Which is why it must be now. I shall be with you in five minutes, with my support staff.”
“You will…” began Monsford, outraged, but the line was already dead.
It was, in fact, three minutes. With Timpson were a woman and two men. Timpson was a round-faced, rotund, balding man in a bank manager black, three-piece suit complete with chain-linked fob watch in the waistcoat pocket. The other two men were dressed identically, except for the pocket watch. The woman was in black, too.
“What the hell is this?” demanded Monsford.
“I’m confident of your complete cooperation.” Timpson smiled. “We have information, the reliability and source of which is unquestionable, that there’s been a hostile penetration.…” The man indicated those behind him. “This is my advanced group: team leaders. My full investigatory staff will be here by midmorning. The first essential will be to install independent listening and monitoring facilities upon all incoming and outgoing electronic lines. It’s a comparatively simple procedure: I expect that to be largely established by midafternoon. We require complete and total access to all files, recordings-electronic, audio, written, or printed-initially for the preceding and current year. It may, of course, be necessary to extend that over a longer period. Our inquiries will, inevitably, go beyond the building to encompass the homes of officers and employees…” There was another quick smile, “including, of course, your own.…” The security head reached behind, for documents held in readiness by the woman. “Here’s our necessary documented authority.”
“No!” objected Monsford, loudly. His mind blanked, refusing orderly words, and all he could again manage was “No.” It was a physical strain to recover, to pull himself up to confront them. “Why haven’t I been told? Properly informed … I mean…”
“You are being informed now, sir.”
“What’s the reliable source?”
“I can’t disclose that at this stage,” refused Timpson. “Our investigation has to be total, from the very top to the absolute bottom, until proper safeguards are established.”
“You can’t suspect me!” insisted Monsford, new outrage hovering.
“You could be compromised,” Timpson pointed out, calmly. He indicated those behind him. “Initially, until those safeguards are in place, you’ll have one of my senior officers with you at all times, as will your deputy and division directors.”
“This is absurd: ridiculous!” persisted Monsford. “I can’t have … won’t allow … people wandering about the building, looking wherever they choose. Have you forgotten where we are?”
“People will not wander unsupervised around the building, looking wherever they choose,” corrected Timpson. “I and those with me have the same level of security clearance as yourself and your deputy.”
“It’s the Straughan business…” started Monsford but was stopped by the ringing of his personal phone. Briddle, from Moscow! he thought at once, staring down at the receiver, which blinked its red light as well as rang.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?” suggested Timpson.
Monsford did so tentatively, said: “Yes?” and held the receiver tightly to his ear so that only he could hear.
“Glad I caught you before you left,” said Harry Jacobson. “Radtsic doesn’t want to see you or those you were bringing down until you’ve got something about Andrei.”
“Here we go!” announced Briddle, as Flood and the other man emerged from the Savoy. To Halliday he said: “Your job is to make sure he doesn’t see us behind him.”
“Go fuck yourself,” echoed Halliday. To Denning, who’d pulled forward to look through the windshield, he said: “Get back. You’re in the way of my rearview mirror.”
Halliday waited until the second Hertz car turned in line behind Flood and allowed two vehicles to intervene before following. Beckindale came directly behind.
As Flood took a left turn Briddle twisted to the rear of their vehicle and said to Denning: “You following the route on the map?”
Denning broke wind but didn’t reply. Halliday said: “East, maybe. The beltway would be better for Sheremetyevo.”
“They’ve got pickups to make, haven’t they?” said Briddle.
“You all right?” asked Charlie.
“Yes,” said Natalia, tightly.
“Sasha?”