At the Hertz office on the Rue de Bern he hired for three weeks a medium-sized Peugeot on the English driving licence issued in the name of Henry Smale, paying the deposit in sterling. With time to spare he drove around the immediate border towns, uncertain whether eventually to abandon it for later discovery in Switzerland or France. Perly, in the south, was a possibility. Or Meryin, further north.
He got back into the city by early evening and reconnoitred by road this time the area he had that morning explored on foot, at once conscious of the road-blocked restrictions, even though the heaviest traffic of the day was over. The car could certainly be parked nearby but the first and subsequent meeting places needed to be somewhere where he had easier freedom of movement to dodge. It was a pity the jogging and bicycle routine could not be repeated: it had worked very well in London, despite being so unnecessary.
Zenin finished the initial reconnaissance earlier than he’d anticipated, realizing it would be possible for him to drive to Bern to establish himself as he should have done the previous day. And at once abandoned the idea. It would mean checking out unexpectedly from the auberge where he had reserved for two nights and any unexpected and identifying action had to be avoided.
Instead, because it was a cuisine with which he was not familiar, he ate Chinese at the Auberge des Trois Bonheurs, after which he attempted a walk along the shore of the lake but found it too cold, so he went back to the auberge. The clerk who had registered him was on duty again and Zenin reminded the man that he was booking out the following morning.
‘A short stay, Herr Schmidt?’ said the man.
‘Off to New York in the morning,’ said Zenin, completing the carefully prepared false trail.
The relationship between the KGB chief Kalenin and Alexei Berenkov went beyond that of Dzerzhinsky Square to that of long friendship. It had become their custom to alternate dinner invitations and that night it had been Kalenin’s turn, at his bachelor Kutuzovsky apartment. He’d served roasted venison with red cabbage and Georgian wine. He knew nothing about wine and had taken Berenkov’s advice that it was good: during his London posting the man had become the connoisseur his cover required. Afterwards they had French brandy with coffee and then Valentina, Berenkov’s wife, cleared the table and busied herself tidying and washing up in the kitchen, because that was customary too. The men always talked and having been married to Berenkov for twenty years Valentina knew precisely when to absent herself.
‘There is definitely increased surveillance in London?’ asked Kalenin.
‘No doubt about it.’
‘London was identifiable in the communications Novikov handled,’ said Kalenin. ‘It was to be expected.’
‘Not of this intensity,’ insisted Berenkov.
‘But the embassy in Bern are adamant there is no increase there,’ reminded Kalenin. ‘There surely would have been if Novikov knew more than we believe and had been able to identify Switzerland. And if the drop had been picked up.’
‘I don’t want to take anything for granted.’
‘At the moment it is insufficient to consider cancellation.’
‘Are you using it for some other purposes I don’t know about?’ challenged Berenkov, openly.
‘If I’m protected then so are you,’ replied Kalenin, obtusely.
Berenkov allowed the pause, hoping the other man would continue but he did not. Berenkov said: ‘Is that your promise?’
‘What else would it be?’ demanded Kalenin.
‘Let’s build up at the Bern embassy!’ urged Berenkov. ‘Blanket the place with additional people of our own, so that we’ll detect the moment anything changes there.’
‘That would probably be wise,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘What about the British communication codes to their embassy here?’
‘We can decipher all of them.’
‘Let’s order a concentration on that: build up the intercepts as well.’
‘Have there been any further protests from Lvov?’ asked Berenkov.
‘Not to me,’ said Kalenin.
‘What about elsewhere?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He could be a dangerous man,’ said Berenkov.
‘So could I,’ said Kalenin.
Chapter Nine
Charlie Muffin was irritated, for more than one reason. The most obvious cause was the forthcoming encounter with Harkness but the greater feeling came from the frustration of not being able to do anything but sit and wait and rely on others. Charlie didn’t like sitting and waiting: most definitely not on an operation like this, one with a time limit. And he never liked relying on others because it was far too easy to slip on their dropped banana skins. Which was perhaps an unfair reflection on this particular job. He’d had re-run the one half-face picture of Primrose Hill through all the physiognomy checks possible, trying for comparisons with all known Eastern bloc agents going back for three years, using the computer system as well as human analysis. And come up with a blank, like the first time. So objectively it was unlikely that any immigration officer or Special Branch man, despite their training, was going to do any better. It was a bastard, a right bastard. Maybe, ultimately, they would have to pick up Harkness’s suggestion and sound a general alarm, impractical though it had seemed during the meeting with the Director. Which was further cause for irritation. Charlie didn’t like being unable to come up with a better idea than that prick of a deputy.
Sighing, he left his cubby-hole office in good time for the appointment, reluctant to provide the man with more grounds for complaint than he already had. Charlie was ten minutes early and was told by the stiffly coiffeured secretary that he had to wait. He did so patiently, refusing to be riled any more than he already was, knowing damned well there was no reason for Harkness to delay the interview and that the man was playing his usual silly buggers. Charlie bet that Harkness had been one of those snotty little kids who take their bats home if they weren’t allowed to have first crack at the ball.
Harkness’s office was lower than the Director’s and further to one side, so the vibration from the underground trains hummed up from the foundations. The man was waiting neatly behind his desk: the suit today was blue-striped, the colour-coded accessories pastel-blue. The office was antiseptically clean, as it always was.
‘Anything come in since yesterday?’ said Harkness.
‘Nothing,’ said Charlie. The man knew damned well that if there had been anything he would have been informed.
‘You drew a Mercedes from the pool,’ announced Harkness.
‘What?’ said Charlie. If Harkness could play silly buggers, then so could he. In fact Charlie reckoned he was better at it than the other man.
‘For the Novikov debriefing you drew a Mercedes from the pool,’ repeated Harkness, pedantically.
The deputy’s pink cheeks were pinker than usual and Charlie hoped it was anger. He said: ‘That was the debriefing you didn’t think was any good.’
‘It was returned damaged,’ said Harkness.
‘Was it?’ said Charlie, in blank-faced innocence.
‘The motif was torn away.’
‘Wonder how that happened,’ said Charlie.
‘You didn’t notice it?’
‘No.’ He wondered if the man ever farted: probably not.
‘It’s directly in front of you, when you drive, man!’
Temper, temper, thought Charlie. He said, ‘Never noticed it. Honest.’