None of the groups were told the reason for their surveillance, of course, and one ironically established itself only two streets away from the Wyttenbackstrasse, where Zenin had a room at the back, away from the street, in the Marthahaus.
It took him a day to locate and to rent in the name of Henry Smale a lock-up garage in which to hide the rented Peugeot. During that search – and afterwards—he went to great lengths to avoid the Soviet embassy, only wanting to be linked with it once and then briefly. With time to spare he explored the old part of town, Spitalgasse and Marktgasse and Kramgasse and Gerechtigkeitsgasse, actually considering – and then rejecting – the idea of an early trip to the Bernese Oberland. More important to make the reconnaissance back in Geneva, from which he was intentionally distancing himself. The Oberland could wait until later, when there was a real reason. He had wondered how he’d feel as it got closer, pleased at the moment there was no nervousness. If there were a sensation at all it was one of anticipation, eager anticipation.
Chapter Ten
Charlie chose a Mercedes again, just for the hell of it, disappointed the build-up of early rush-hour traffic on the M4 made it difficult to drive as fast as he had on his way down to Sussex. And then there had been less need for speed than there was now.
Charlie was too old and too wise to become excited ahead of time but according to the Director the sightings at London airport were practically positive. And not just one. Two. Trying to balance the hope, Charlie wondered how two different people were able to be anywhere near positive, on the basis of such an indistinct photograph. Whatever, he thought; don’t knock it, check it. The first indicator looked promising, at least: it was Terminal Two from which, with the exception of British Airways, all flights from Heathrow departed for Europe.
He sought out a parking spot near a protective pillar and used the elevated walkway to get into the building, knowing from past experience that the security offices were at the far end, beyond the banks. On Sir Alistair Wilson’s instructions, the two men were waiting for Charlie in a private, inner room, where the only lighting came from a neon strip: it was a box joined to other boxes all around and Charlie wondered why modern office planners were so stuck on the beehive style of architecture. William Cockson, the Special Branch inspector, was a grey-haired, grey-suited, anonymous sort of man, cautious in movement and manner. Edward Oliver, the immigration official, was much younger, hardly more than twenty-five: he wore a tweed jacket and rigidly pressed trousers and was blinking a lot, as if he were nervous at having committed himself to an opinion.
‘This seems to be important, from the reaction,’ said Cockson, at once.
‘Maybe,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe not.’ The identification was vital so it was important not to influence either man into responding as they imagined he wanted them to.
‘I was supposed to be off duty an hour ago,’ said the policeman, someone sadly accustomed to having his private life constantly disrupted.
From his briefcase Charlie took a bigger enlargement of the Primrose Hill picture than that which had been made available for the port and airport surveillance and said: ‘Look at this again. Take as long as you like. Do you think this was the man?’
It was the more experienced Special Branch officer who looked up first, nodding. ‘I think so,’ he said.
Oliver raised his head soon afterwards. He said: ‘I’m pretty sure.’
Not as positive as the Director had promised, thought Charlie. He said: ‘When?’
‘The thirteenth,’ said Cockson, positively.
The day of the pick-up realized Charlie. Worriedly, he said: ‘What time?’
‘In the evening,’ said the young immigration man.
Johnson had timed the whole episode in Primrose Hill as ending by two in the afternoon, remembered Charlie, relieved: more than long enough to get here. Nodding to the enlargement on the desk between them Charlie said: ‘It’s not a good picture.’
‘No,’ agreed Oliver.
‘And the departure lounge was crowded?’
‘It always is,’ said the younger man, with growing confidence.
‘So how come you think you recognize him, in a crowded departure lounge from a bad photograph?’
Oliver looked sideways, deferring to the older man.
Cockson said: ‘There was an incident … well, hardly an incident. Rather more something that caught the attention of us both …’ The policeman hesitated, imagining a further explanation was necessary. ‘I was on duty at Eddie’s desk that evening. Right beside him. There was this girl, pretty kid, and obviously pregnant. My first thought was that she shouldn’t have been travelling at all, not that far gone. There’s supposed to be a time limit in pregnancy, beyond which airlines won’t accept you for travel, you know?’
‘I know,’ encouraged Charlie. ‘So what happened?’
‘She was practically up to my desk, just one person away, when she fainted,’ picked up Oliver. ‘Went down like a log.’
‘So?’ pressed Charlie, doubtfully.
‘He walked away,’ said Cockson. ‘This man. I was looking at her, like I said. But I was aware of someone directly behind. And when she started to sway, obviously going down, he switched lanes to another desk. If he’d caught her as he easily could have done she wouldn’t have gone down so heavily. She started to haemorrhage, you know? Had to be taken to Middlesex Hospital and there’s still a chance she might lose the baby.’
‘I saw it, too,’ endorsed Oliver. ‘I thought rude bugger and as I thought it Bill said it, right in my ear.’
It was the avoidance of someone trained against getting caught up in the slightest sort of attention-attracting event, Charlie recognized. But also something that a lot of untrained people might have done, not wanting to get involved, either. Wrong to over-interpret. He said: ‘You were really looking at the girl, though?’
‘Yes,’ said Cockson, cautiously.
‘And went to help her?’
‘Of course,’ said Oliver.
‘So you only had the briefest look at the man?’
‘No,’ refused Cockson, positively. ‘She was obviously in a bad way, needing to lie there and not get up. When I was kneeling beside her I looked up at the bastard, intending to say something. That’s when I saw the other funny thing.’
‘What other funny thing?’ said Charlie, patiently.
‘He wasn’t looking,’ said the policeman. ‘A pregnant woman falls down right in front of him, he walks away and then when she’s lying there he doesn’t even look. That wasn’t right; not natural. Everyone else was looking: a lot seeing what they could do. Too many, actually. But he was staring straight ahead’ – he gestured down to the photograph again – ‘rather like he is there, really. That side of his face, certainly.’
‘Did you say anything?’
‘No,’ admitted Cockson. ‘The girl was the important person to worry about: needing comforting. There wasn’t any point in starting an unnecessary argument and distressing her further.’
‘So how long were you looking directly at him?’
‘Maybe a minute,’ said Cockson.
To the immigration man, Charlie said: ‘What about you?’
‘I was looking directly at him, too,’ said Oliver. ‘I couldn’t get over what he’d done. Or rather not done.’
‘But you didn’t check him through? See the passport?’ said Charlie, resigned.
‘It was British,’ announced Oliver.