Red Star Rising (16 page)

Charlie paused at the reentry into the room of the man who’d left after his earlier whispered conversation with Robertson, and didn’t continue until after another hand-shielded exchange between the two men.

“When I returned from that lunch, I confronted Paula-Jane Venables about the disclosure of my telephone number and of the undisclosed location of the bugs. She admitted providing my number but categorically denied passing on anything about the listening devices, insisting she didn’t know where they were placed. I know she has already appeared before you. I consider that from the conversation I have just recounted there is sufficient cause for her recall and reexamination before you.”

An echoing silence descended upon the room. It lasted several full minutes before Robertson said; “You believe Paula-Jane Venables to be the traitorous source within this embassy?”

“I believe the indiscretion that I have personally experienced justifies her being questioned further,” replied Charlie.

“Apart from Harry and me and a very limited number, you were one of the few to know about the devices,” reminded the other man.

The threat churned through Charlie. He said: “Perhaps you should take that remark further.”

“We intend to,” said the same panel member. “You are to go at once to the communications room to speak personally to the Director-General.” The man indicated the recording assembly at the side of the room. “He will instruct you, leaving no doubt of the authority, to return here to undergo a polygraph test to establish the truth of what you have just told this committee and to eliminate you from the investigation in which we are currently engaged—”

“A polygraph test that your colleague, Paula-Jane Venables, underwent yesterday and passed to the complete satisfaction of the technical examiners and the members of this panel,” completed Robertson.

“How the hell can I be involved in things that happened before I even arrived here?” demanded Charlie. So angry was he that Charlie failed to detect the approach of the outside office guardian until the man was behind him.

“Shall we go, sir?”

Charlie Muffin was the foremost exponent of the credo never to panic but he found rational thinking difficult as he was humiliatingly escorted along linking corridors to the basement descent. He managed it—just—precisely because of his need to keep the secret that no one could learn. Charlie knew all about lie detector tests; he hoped that he could remember how to defeat the supposedly undefeatable machine that distinguishes lie from truth by measuring breathing rate, pulse, and perspiration flow.

Robertson’s investigation was restricted solely to uncovering a traitor within the embassy. Which should keep the questioning well away from anything risking Natalia. But would it? Couldn’t he, by the strictest interpretation of the word, be regarded a traitor, secretly married as he was to a senior analyst in the Russian Federation’s internal counterintelligence organization? Not if he were able to argue semantics. But he wouldn’t be, restricted to yes or no. What the fuck were the rules, the protection from being
exposed by the machine? Remain calm, allow no anger or agitation, he remembered. Easy enough advice—easily followed advice—in a simulated situation where there was no anger or agitation, the total opposite from how he felt now. Keep what is not to be disclosed firmly out of mind, Charlie further recalled. He’d thought that particular mantra a complete load of bollocks at the long-ago training school and hadn’t changed his mind since.

The unsympathetic Ross Perrit was waiting expectantly among all his electronic paraphernalia, the door to the first cubicle in the supported box already open. “The DG’s waiting on the line.”

“What the hell’s going on?” demanded Smith, the moment Charlie identified himself.

“I tried to report things I believed relevant to Robertson’s inquiry, things that had no bearing upon what I’m doing here.” From the tone of the Director-General’s unusually harsh voice, Charlie decided that the prevailing political wind was blowing slap into his face.

“What things?” The man listened without interruption to what Charlie had earlier told the inquiry panel and did not speak for several moments after Charlie finished. Then Smith said: “Venables underwent a polygraph examination. There were no difficulties.”

“I know. But at the time the panel was unaware of Bundy’s knowledge of where the listening devices were found. The examiner wouldn’t have been prompted to ask her.”

“She was specifically asked about her associations with the Americans,” disclosed Smith. “A liaison was suspected with a married CIA officer, John Probert.”

Charlie felt the first stirrings of unease. “And?”

“I told you,” said the man, irritably. “She passed the polygraph without any doubts arising.”

“Who suspected the liaison with Probert?”

“You’ve interfered in something from which I categorically barred you,” refused Smith. “All I’ve got so far as the result of your being in Moscow are official complaints from the forensics
and technical divisions being asked to manufacture evidence that can be exposed as fake with a schoolboy science kit.”

“We’ve discussed the need for what I want,” reminded Charlie.

“You cause any more public embarrassment by what you’re doing, this will be your last assignment. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I hear,” said Charlie. “I also hear that I have got to undergo a polygraph myself?”

“It’s been requested.”

“I wasn’t even
in
Moscow when the listening devices were installed and the electrical system was sabotaged!”

“Everyone attached to the embassy has to undergo a polygraph test until the apparent inside source is found; even you, pointless though it will be.”

Another indication that Smith was accepting defeat in his battle to retain the directorship of MI5 from the internal maneuverings of Jeffrey Smale. “If I don’t answer a question honestly—which I might not be able to do if I think it impinges upon my function, which you’ve ordered me not to discuss with anyone, there will be a reading indicating that I am lying,” Charlie resisted, desperately.

“That will be taken into consideration, of course,” assured the other man. “And Robertson’s people have been told that no questions should be phrased that might lead to that particular conflict of interest.”

He had a possible escape, Charlie recognized. But the uncertainties were too many and too great. This was probably going to be the biggest test ever to discover if he were as smart as the smart-ass he’d always prided himself upon being. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Hopefully with something worthwhile from what you’re there to do, for which I seem to be asking every time we talk.”

“Let me explain the procedure—” managed a polygraph technician before Charlie broke in, “I know the procedure. Arm cuff, chest strap and hand-palm sensors, only yes or no answers and the
first question is usually whether I masturbate to which everyone says they don’t and gets a lie reading that proves the machine is working properly, so my answer is I did a lot once, when I was younger, but not so much now.”

The technician didn’t look up from attaching the band around Charlie’s chest. “That comfortable?”

“Fine.”

“It’s better if you relax and don’t let yourself get uptight.”

“I know.” The inquiry panel had all left the room by the time Charlie returned, leaving him alone with the two technicians. The one whom Charlie guessed to be the questioner was sitting facing him, going through a list of questions on a clipboard while his colleague hooked Charlie up to the machine, which was between him and the questioner, positioned so that it would be impossible for Charlie to see any movement or to register from the attached computer-screen tracing its peaks and troughs. Charlie wondered where the film and audio apparatus was, among everything else.

“You ready?” asked the questioner, looking up from his clipboard. He wore a woolen sweater beneath a tightly buttoned jacket and had a spare pen in a special holder on his clipboard.

“When you are.” He had to find a way out, an explanation for the inevitable spike that would show up a lie.

“Is your name Charles Edward Muffin?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an operative of an organization known as MI5, Britain’s internal counterintelligence agency?”

He had reason for the wrong answer, Charlie realized. “No.”

There was a pause from the questioner. “Do you tell lies?”

“Yes.” How would that be recorded? wondered Charlie, the wisp of an idea threading its way into his mind.

“Was your previous answer a lie?”

“No.”

There was another hesitation. “Do you lie to your superiors?”

“Yes.” Charlie believed he could see an escape, actually available to him by the one-word answer restrictions.

“Are you an honest man?”

“No.” That had to show as a truthful response.

“Are you proud of what you do?”

“Yes.” Charlie decided he was confusing the questioner, which was precisely what he wanted to do.

“Have you ever come into contact with or had dealings with members of a foreign intelligence service?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t endangered by the question that could have encompassed Natalia.

“Have you ever cooperated with a member of a foreign intelligence service?”

“Yes.”

The technician shifted awkwardly in his facing chair. “Have you cooperated with a member of a foreign intelligence agency within the last month?”

“Yes.” He hoped to Christ it worked.

“Have you ever betrayed your country to a foreign intelligence service or agent?”

“No.”

“Have you ever accepted money, financial rewards, or any benefit in kind from a member of a foreign intelligence agency?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware of listening devices, bugs, being installed within this embassy?” There was impatience in the man’s voice now.

“Yes.”

“Did you have any prior knowledge of those devices being installed in this embassy before they were discovered?”

“No.”

“Have you any knowledge of how those devices were installed in this embassy?”

“Yes.”

“Have you kept that knowledge from your superiors?”

“No.” The questioner was visibly flushed, suspecting he was being mocked: Charlie was surprised it had been so easy.

“Do you believe there to be an informant to a foreign intelligence agency within this embassy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who that informant is?”

“No.”

“Have you ever served a term of imprisonment?”

“Yes.”

“Were you guilty of the crime for which you served that term of imprisonment?”

“No.”

“Were you subsequently pardoned?”

“No.” The other man’s exasperation was palpable.

“Do you regard this polygraph examination as a joke?”

“No!” What about remaining relaxed and not getting upright? reflected Charlie, noting the frown toward the questioner from the man who’d attached him to the sensors.

“Has every answer you have given been an honest one?” insisted the questioner, close to a repeat of an earlier demand.

He was rattled to buggery, which would show on the tracing replay of the computer tracing, Charlie knew. “Yes.”

“Enough!” decided the questioner, abruptly snapping off the machine, nodding to the other technician to disconnect Charlie from the sensors. “That was ridiculous!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Charlie, in feigned surprise.

“You know damned well what I’m talking about. You were taking the piss, from start to finish.”

“I was doing nothing of the sort!” denied Charlie.

“I can’t wait to hear the reaction of the panel.”

“Neither can I,” said Charlie, which was another honest response.