‘It’s unfortunate, about Filiatov.’
‘You’re talking riddles,’ Kozlov openly complained.
‘That’s what Filiatov is going to imagine: riddles,’ said Charlie. ‘He isn’t going to understand his arrest or what he is accused of, and because he won’t be able to understand any of it – because he hasn’t done anything, has he? – his interrogation will be a disaster: a disaster for him, that is. Because Dzerzhinsky Square will know it’s true.’
‘What!’ shouted the befuddled Kozlov, exasperated.
‘That he’s an enemy of the State: someone to be punished.’
The awareness – at least Kozlov thought it was awareness – came at last. And desperately Kozlov tried to fight back, conscious of how much he had lost in the exchanges so far. ‘You’re too confident!’ he said, half-confident himself. ‘So you’ve got a double – a source – who’s proven himself to Moscow: but by telling me, I know he’s controlled by London.’
‘So fucking what!’ Charlie now felt able openly to jeer – obviously to jeer – determined utterly to subjugate Kozlov into knowing just how powerless he was to do anything, anything at all, to control his own future. Charlie got no satisfaction from the bullying, just the mental image of Harry Lu, dead against the wall of an equally dead church. He said: ‘How are you going to tell Moscow you know, Yuri? Going to mention my name, Charlie Muffin? Let them know our connection. That wouldn’t make you very popular: they know that name. Believe me, they know that name.’ Charlie stopped short of telling the other man why, knowing that before they brought Yuri in for the scopolamine-induced questioning and the electrodes to the testes if the truth drug didn’t work and a straight pummelling kick in the bollocks if he still stuck out, they would offer the man forgiveness and rehabilitation, by blowing him away. Deciding-like the survivor he was-on the need for insurance, Charlie added: ‘You know what that would do? That would convince them you’re an enemy of the State, just like Boris Filiatov. Poor bastard!’
‘Go on,’ said Kozlov, dully, beaten again.
‘He’s a hell of a source, the man we’ve got,’ said Charlie, intentionally patronizing. ‘And he’s not a double. He’s your man and Moscow believes everything he tells them. If he said Gorbachev was a paid-up member of the British Conservative Party, your people would investigate it …’ Charlie hoped he wasn’t going over the top. He took up: ‘You understand what I’m saying, Yuri?’
‘Tell me,’ said the Russian.
‘That’s it,’ said Charlie, unable to imagine a better response from the other man. After the grenade came the bomb, not atomic but devastating enough: he hoped. Charlie said: ‘That’s all I’m telling you. We’re tradesmen, you and I: we’ve done our apprenticeship in a very special craft, so we can recognize other people’s work, like tradesmen can. So I recognize – know – how you’re thinking now. You’re still trying to work out how I learned about Olga when Irena didn’t know and how I discovered it was Olga who killed the wrong person … I know you didn’t have any alternative, but you shouldn’t have entrusted something like that to anyone but an expert, no matter what the Soviet training covers, incidently … just as I know that within an hour of this conversation ending, you’ll be evolving some way of recovering. Of surviving. Like I would do, if I were in your position. Which is why I’m not setting out all the demands, not yet. Because I don’t want to give you the opportunity of anticipating and beating me …’ Charlie stopped, needing the breath. ‘Given you a lot to think about though, haven’t I, Yuri? And there’s one last thing, the most important thing to remember: I can do what I promise. To you …’ The pause this time was for a different reason. ‘Or to Olga.’
There must be something?’
‘Of course there’s something,’ agreed Charlie. ‘We’re going to meet, you and I.’
‘Meet!’
‘Of course,’ said Charlie, patronizing still. ‘I’ve got the address. Shinbashi, isn’t it?’
‘You know it is,’ said Kozlov. He felt entangled, like someone in the straight-jackets of the mental hospitals in which the KGB put the Soviet dissidents, treating them as mad to make them mad.
‘Wait for me there.’
‘You’re in Tokyo?’
‘No.’
‘When should I wait then?’
‘Just wait, every night, until I come. Irena told me how it works.’ Kozlov had to be demeaned, in everything. Angry he would think less clearly, and Charlie didn’t want the tricky bastard coming up with anything he hadn’t anticipated. ‘And Yuri …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t, whatever you do, think of something as stupid as killing me when I get there,’ warned Charlie, always a believer in insurance. ‘That would automatically activate the source: watch what happens to Filiatov, won’t you?’
‘Irena’s out?’
‘Absolutely safe,’ exaggerated Charlie, who knew that at the moment the woman would only be in Canton. ‘Let’s face it, Yuri. You’re fucked, without so much as a kiss. You, of all people!’
‘No disciplinary action whatsoever!’ Harkness made no attempt to keep the outrage from his voice.
‘How can there be any disciplinary action?’ pointed out the Director, reasonably. ‘We sent the man to effect the defection of a KGB operative and that’s exactly what he’s done.’ Wilson paused and said: ‘Maybe he’ll succeed in doing even more.’
‘He broke every regulation that exists!’
Wilson, who was anxious to get to the Chelsea Flower Show where he had a floribunda on exhibition, sighed and decided it was time to bring the matter to a head. He said: ‘Do you really think street operations can work to a strict set of rules?’
‘They are laid down,’ insisted Harkness.
‘By my predecessors,’ qualified the Director.
‘A long and respected line of predecessors, all of whom considered them necessary,’ said Harkness, in unaccustomed sustained opposition.
As irritating as Harkness was, the Director believed the man made a genuinely worthwhile contribution to the department, like being there to run it when he went to flower shows, and he had no intention of shifting him sideways. Gently Wilson said: ‘I think I’ll make a new rule, to go with all the others of my respected predecessors.’
Harkness looked at him in hopeful curiosity. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘Whatever works, works,’ said Wilson.
‘I don’t even believe that’s original,’ dismissed Harkness, in continued, determined argument.
‘Whatever works, works,’ repeated Wilson. ‘I like it. Let’s add it to the list, wherever the hell that is. I don’t care whether it’s original or not.’
Geographically positioned where it is – on a clear day literally within sight of Wakkanai on Japan’s northernmost province of Hokkaido, and literally again within flying minutes from the Chinese mainland – Sakhalin is one of the Soviet Union’s most strategic islands, a top secret concentration of listening posts and monitoring stations and rocket installations and front line defence units. One of the biggest concentrations of all is the KGB Rezidentura, and again because of its geographical positioning it was from here that the arrest group came to seize Boris Filiatov. There was no attempt at finesse or subterfuge. A group of five men arrived, unannounced, and while two held Filiatov – physically – in his office, the remainder seized all his files for transportation to Moscow, rather than bothering to remain at the embassy to make any sort of investigation there.
‘Come back,’ Kozlov said, when Olga made her now pointless telephone call, subdued but more controlled this time.