Run Around (8 page)

‘Maybe the driver made a mistake,' said Burn, who frequently did.

‘Maybe Santa Claus drives a Snowmobile,' said Johnson. He had the seniority and certainly enough reasons to depute the younger man but instead he said to Kemp: ‘If he jumps, I'll follow.'

‘What do you want me to do?' asked the younger man.

‘Stay with the car,' ordered Johnson. ‘And don't, for Christ's sake, lose it!'

‘What do we look for!' asked Burn.

‘Everything there is to see.'

Koretsky made his move actually in Oxford Street and Johnson was only yards behind him. The Russian went directly into the underground system, using the ticket queue to check for pursuit. Johnson got his ticket from the dispensing machine, paying the maximum fare, and was only five people behind the Russian on the downward escalator. Koretsky went to the east bound platform and Johnson let more people come between them, to provide the buffer. He tensed at the Oxford Circus station, because of its link with the Bakerloo Line, but the Russian remained just inside the door, standing as Johnson was standing, ready for an instant departure. Koretsky darted off at the Tottenham Court Road junction, timing it practically at the moment of the doors closing, so that Johnson was only just able to get out to continue the pursuit. Koretsky pretended to check the indicator map in order to make another surveillance check, so Johnson had to go by and fumble for change for a guitar-playing busker. Koretsky overtook him and he picked up the Russian's trail on to the northbound Northern Line. Johnson managed the adjoining carriage again, discarding his topcoat and turning it so that the colouring was hidden, the only change possible in his appearance. Johnson was ready at Euston, because of the interconnecting lines, but Koretsky didn't move, seemingly relaxed now in a seat alongside the door. Too complacent, boyo, thought the Watcher. He actually moved ahead of Koretsky at Camden Town, alighting first and ascending to street level ahead of the man although keeping him constantly in view behind, in case he doubled back. He didn't. Johnson got to the exit hoping that Burns had kept close to the Soviet car if this were a pick-up, feeling the jump of alarm when he failed at once to recognize their car and then relief when he couldn't see the Russian vehicle either.

Johnson let people intrude between them as much as he felt it safe to do so as they walked down Camden High Street but was almost caught out at the bus stop at which Koretsky stopped without warning. Fortunately the 74 bus was actually approaching, so there was no time for the Russian to make a proper search behind. Once again, with no idea how far they were going, Johnson took the maximum fare, more tense now than at any time because of their closeness. He was on the rear bench and Koretsky sat on the first cross seat next to it, close enough for Johnson to have reached out and touched him.

Alert as he was, Johnson saw the Russian begin to move as they approached Primrose Hill, so he was able to get up and away from the bus before Koretsky actually disembarked. The Russian immediately crossed the road into Albert Terrace, striding on the side where the railings edged the grassed park. Johnson followed as far back as possible and on the opposite side of the road, where the houses were. In the last house before the terrace connected with Regent's Park Road Johnson dropped his topcoat behind a low garden wall, once more trying to alter his appearance as much as possible. As he did so, he saw Koretsky enter the park through the corner gate.

It had been a mistake not to bring Kemp with him, to alternate the tail to reduce being detected by the Russian: it would be just the way his luck was going for Koretsky to pick him up and abort, making the whole business a complete waste of time. The Russian's entry into the park provided at least some minimal cover: it meant Johnson could walk parallel up Regent's Park Road, keeping him in sight but not directly behind. Had he been, Johnson realized he would have been spotted, because twice Koretsky turned, making an obvious check. But even this was a mixed advantage, because the road began to bend away from the park, actually now putting too much distance between them, so that when it happened Johnson almost missed it. Had he not been as experienced as he was, he would have done.

The dead-letter drop was almost at the end of the avenue along which Koretsky was walking, by a refuse bin against the sixth lamp-post from the commencement of the path. At the moment of approach, Koretsky flicked something to his left, not into the bin but alongside it. Then the Russian paused, as if troubled with the lace of his shoe and Johnson saw the man mark the post with a smear of yellow chalk which would have looked like some failed graffiti to anyone but himself.

Johnson had already decided to abandon Koretsky, even before the Soviet car swept down Primrose Hill Road for the pick-up, because Koretsky was simply part of a chain and the necessity now was to discover the next link. Then Johnson saw the car in which he had earlier travelled, grimacing as he did. The stupid bastards were far too close. If he tried to stop it, to get back-up from Kemp, Johnson knew he'd be identified by association.

‘Stupid sods!' he said, bitterly and aloud.

As the cars convoyed back down Regent's Park Road, Johnson entered the enclosure. There were thickly leafed trees all along the pathway along which Koretsky had walked, with occasional benches. He chose the one furthest away from the drop, eyes focused on what Koretsky had delivered. It was impossible to be sure from this distance but it appeared to be a manila envelope but bigger than that for a normal letter, maybe five inches across and 8 inches deep: he wished he were able to judge its thickness but that was impossible.

Johnson shivered, wanting the discarded topcoat but unable to risk going back even the short distance to get it. Expert that he was, Johnson knew he was observing what is called in the trade an open letterbox, a deposit arrangement from which the recipient was expected to collect very quickly what had been left, to prevent its accidental discovery by some casual stranger. So close to a rubbish bin, Johnson decided that the larger-than-normal envelope was very vulnerable, from a foraging tramp or a conscientious rubbish collector.

He focused the camera on to the bin, guaranteeing the range, and then settled back to wait. How long, he wondered.

The specific request from Alexei Berenkov in Moscow, demanding immediate warning of increased surveillance, was waiting for Koretsky when he got back to Kensington Palace Gardens. He quickly encoded a reply, assuring Berenkov that he had remained clean that day and that the Watchers had gone on a wild goose chase behind the car, which had been the intention.

Chapter Six

Vasili Zenin realized there was a risk in leaving the bicycle he had rented from the Camden hirers without enclosing the wheels in the anti-thief chain they had demonstrated but decided it was necessary because he couldn't waste time later unlocking it. He hoped it was the biggest risk he was going to have to take that day.

He parked it at the junction of Elsworthy Road with Primrose Hill Road, preparing himself carefully. He positioned the earphones of the Walkman precisely in place, switching on the Tchaikovsky tape, and then fixed the sweatband with even more precision, wishing he had a mirror to ensure both were as he wanted. He had been very particular over the fit of the running shoes, pleased at how comfortable they felt as he started jogging towards the park, breathing easily, arms pumping steadily as he moved: personal fitness is naturally a priority for Balashikha graduates and Zenin had always enjoyed running. It was the exercise sessions there and the lectured awareness of the popularity of jogging in the West that had given him the idea in the first place.

Zenin paced into the park near the top of the hill from which it gets its name, picking up the perimeter path furthest away from where the drop should have been made, wanting before he ventured anywhere near the marked place to make a far more thorough reconnaissance than he had on the previous occasion. There were actually three other joggers plodding around the lanes like he was, in shorts and singlet, and one was even wearing a Walkman. Zenin smiled, humming in time to the concerto, concentrating beyond them. It was emptier than he had expected from his earlier visit: a few people exercising their dogs, one or two sitting on benches and a couple lying prostrate upon the grass practically having sexual intercourse. Maybe, he thought, it heightened the pleasure to fuck in public. He turned left where the path veered to go parallel with Albert Terrace and past the sign from which he had learned bicycling was forbidden, finally with a frontal view, although slightly to his left, of the post and the bin. There was a man sitting on a bench about twenty feet away from the drop and a woman with a labrador actually at the spot: as he looked the animal cocked its leg against the lamp and Zenin's face twisted in disgust at the thought that it might be fouling what he had to collect.

Johnson's concentration was entirely upon the dead-letter box and it was Zenin's snatching down immediately after the dog had urinated there – an unthinkable action because the man would have seen the animal do it – that alerted the Watcher. He hadn't thought the pick-up would be made by a jogger and had let Zenin merge into the background of his consciousness as the Russian went by. Johnson grabbed the camera from its concealment beneath his jacket and managed three panicked exposures and then a more sharply focused shot of Zenin spurting away before getting up himself, stumbling in pursuit. Zenin left the park through the same exit Koretsky had used, running hard now up Primrose Hill Road.

Johnson hurried as fast as he considered he was safely able, slowing twice at Zenin's obvious backward checks, gasping because of his weak chest by the time he got to the top of the hill. He did so just in time to see Zenin mount the bicycle in Elsworthy Road, jerking the camera up for one last attempt.

‘Fuck it!' said Johnson. He'd known it was going to go badly like this: just known it! ‘Oh fuck it!' he said again.

Elsworthy Road is a twisting, winding thoroughfare, so by the time Johnson reached it his quarry was completely out of sight. Expert that he was, the Watcher walked its entire length, wet with the perspiration of effort and annoyance by the time he reached the junction with Avenue Road. He saw the traffic jam backed up for several hundred yards and shook his head, in bitter awareness: the fact that he had been out-professionalized by a professional did bugger all to help.

A combination of normal bureaucratic delay and top level irritation – and therefore face-satisfying obstructiveness – at what MI5 considered arrogant and high-handed surveillance demands meant it was the following day before Charlie Muffin received Johnson's report and the developed photographs. It took him only an hour to arrange the meeting with the about-to-retire Watcher.

‘I made a balls of it, Charlie. You don't know how sorry I am,' said Johnson, after they'd talked through in every way possible what had happened. They'd worked together before, always well. Knowing it was Charlie's operation – which he had not until now – worsened Johnson's remorse.

‘These things happen, mate,' said Charlie, sympathetically.

‘I wanted to go out covered in glory and instead I leave covered in shit.'

‘What you did get confirms a lot: I'm grateful,' said Charlie, sincerely. ‘It could have happened to anyone.'

‘It happened to me,' said Johnson.

‘There have been worse cock-ups already, believe me,' said Charlie. He wondered how many more holes-in-one Witherspoon had managed.

‘Any idea who he is?'

‘Not a clue.'

‘Or what the job is?'

‘Nope.' There'd been eight responses to his embassy requests and none of them had meant a thing. Gale had replied from Moscow, too.

‘Be careful, Charlie. He's good, bloody good.'

‘That's what frightens me,' admitted Charlie.

‘I'm giving the retirement party at the Brace of Pheasants,' said the Watcher. ‘Any chance of your getting along?'

‘Ever known me miss a piss-up?' said Charlie.

‘I am sorry,' said Johnson, again.

‘A pint of beer and we're even,' assured Charlie.

‘I'd like to think it was as easy as that,' said Johnson.

As he spoke Vasili Zenin was entering Terminal Two at London airport with the driving licence and passport which identified him as Henry Smale – and which fortunately the dog had missed peeing over – snug in his inside pocket. His ticket, however, was in the name of Peter Smith: he'd been lucky with the Swissair reservation and had decided it was an omen. He saw the pregnant woman ahead stumble, just before she fainted, and managed easily to switch to another passport line, to avoid becoming involved. Lucky again, he thought.

Because she was a member of the secretariat and therefore part of the official delegation, Sulafeh Nabulsi had a place on the platform but at the rear. The backs of those who were going to Geneva for the conference were against her but beyond she could see the faces of the hundreds of Palestinians gathered to hear what the current speaker was describing as an historic breakthrough in their demands for an independent homeland. Fools, she sneered, mentally. Worse than fools. Cowards. There was no struggle any more; no fight. Just a lot of ageing men posturing in camouflage fatigues, playing at being freedom fighters and using words like the actors they were. Most of the council at whose backs she was staring in well-concealed loathing each had a million dollars discreetly hidden in numbered Swiss bank accounts and would find it difficult to identify the muzzle of a Kalashnikov from its butt. And most definitely didn't give a damn about the trusting idiots here whom they were deceiving at the final Tripoli assembly of the PLO with talk of a conference and a political settlement. Any more than they gave a damn about the Palestinians forgotten and rotting in the refugee camps of the Lebanon, target practice for any Shi'ite or Jew who felt like expending a bullet. None of them had even lived in a refugee camp, not like she had. At the age of nine, in the last hours of the 1973 Six Day War, Sulafeh had seen her grandfather shot in one by the Israelis, as a spy for Syria, which he had been. Four years later her mother and older brother had been blown up – accidentally said the later contemptuous report – when the Jews destroyed their house in retribution for a grenade attack upon a passing Israeli patrol. And she'd been raped in one. It had happened when she was fifteen and still a virgin. Her attacker had been one of the smirking clowns in a tiger uniform, like those smirking clowns in the audience in front of her, applauding and cheering every lie being told them. She'd fought as hard as she could, gouging at his face with her nails, and he'd punched her almost senseless and so finally she pretended to be unconscious when he tore at her pants and then drove himself into her, splitting her. And while he grunted and pumped above her she'd taken his own knife from his belt, halfway down his thighs, and put her arms around him in what he'd thought to be belated passion to be better able to stab him to death, plunging the knife into his back again and again like he'd plunged into her.