Red Star Falling: A Thriller (30 page)

Natalia reached forward, pouring her own wine. ‘You going to tell me it could have been far worse?’

‘No,’ said Ethel. ‘You’ve got to work that out, decide that, for yourself.’

‘I have to
know
!’ Natalia declared, more angry than vehement. ‘It’ll take a lot of me away, hurt me more than I’m hurting now, but I must know what happens to him!’

Ethel hesitated, undecided whether at last to lie. Then she said, ‘We’ll never know that, Natalia. Whatever we’re officially told, criminal charges, court hearings, things like that, won’t even be the truth.’

‘I love him so much!’

‘Yes,’ accepted Ethel, glad Natalia was too enclosed in her own emotion to be aware of hers.

‘But he won’t know that, will he?’

‘He does. I’m sure he does. He came back to get you and Sasha out, knowing full well how badly it could go wrong, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he came back,’ agreed Natalia, distantly. ‘Charlie never ever thought he could lose.’

*   *   *

Which was a belief mixed in among Charlie’s far more muddled reflections, hunched in his log-cabin prison in the Moscow hills, eighteen hundred miles away. It wasn’t, though, in the forefront of his mind, more a lingering self-accusation constantly pinpricking all his other more-relevant considerations, chief among them—consuming them—that he’d again, stupidly, come close to going in another wrong direction, this one more unimaginably worse than any other. Circumstantially the stomach-hollowing possibility could be made to fit all that had happened, but against every indicator that he could, circumstantially again, produce an unarguably innocent explanation.

So he still hadn’t found his all-important mistake.

What then had he positively discovered? That it wasn’t all over but rather that he was part of something, without the slightest idea what that something was, which came down familiarly to his accustomed role as the ass end of the pantomime horse, unable to see what was happening in front of him. Which had to be his focus, the unknown that was in front, not the unfathomable that was behind.

The one thing of which he believed he could be reasonably sure was that he wasn’t eventually destined for a Siberian gulag. Which was a relief. His feet were always at their worst in the cold.

18

Rebecca Street amused herself choosing the Waterside Inn at Bray for their meeting. It was there that Gerald Monsford, determined to impress, had taken her the night they became lovers and she wondered if this encounter would be better: it could scarcely be worse. She even selected the same river-bordering table and was waiting when Jane Ambersom arrived, at once—and unexpectedly—smiling broadly as she crossed the Michelin-bestowed restaurant. The smile stayed as she sat.

‘What?’ demanded Rebecca, knowing there was a significance.

‘Same place, same table. I said no.’

Rebecca laughed outright, glad of the atmosphere breaker. ‘I wish I had.’

‘And now?’ It was far earlier, more direct, than Jane had intended but the opening was unavoidable.

‘Let’s order,’ avoided Rebecca, the initial smile disappearing.

They both accepted that day’s lobster specialty. At once trying to overcome the reservation she’d created, Jane continued their shared reminiscence, asking for Montrachet without consulting the wine list, and Rebecca’s uncertain smile returned. ‘Predictable bastard, isn’t he?’

Taking her time now, Jane tapped the briefcase at her side and said, ‘You’ll have to sign an acceptance-register slip for the Moscow stuff.’

‘Whose idea was it to let Radtsic see it?’

‘Pickering’s. What was Radtsic’s reaction when you told him it was coming?’

‘Snatched at the offer.’

‘You think it’ll change his mind about resuming the debriefing?’

Rebecca shrugged, waiting while their lobster was served. ‘It depends, I suppose, if he likes all the covering material: I’m obviously going to press as hard as I can.’

‘It’s the best argument that could have been made on his behalf.’

‘It’ll be
his
opinion, not ours,’ reminded Rebecca.

Rebecca was more relaxed now, Jane decided, but she’d still have to be cautious. ‘There’s been an incredible response, worldwide, to the defection disclosure.’

‘I’ve watched a lot of it on television,’ said Rebecca. ‘So have Radtsic and Elena.’

‘It was Monsford’s idea to announce it publicly. He’s treating it as a personal triumph.’

Rebecca was only toying with her food, seemingly more interested in her wine. ‘Like I said, predictable.’

‘But we might have caught him out with the disk transcripts.’

Rebecca’s head came up, warily. ‘How?’

She had to indicate that they knew more than they did, Jane knew, but avoid later being accused of lying. Which brought it down to presentation. ‘I know now what you’ve got: how it was made.’

Rebecca remained slightly forward over the table but said nothing to help Jane better understand.

‘He simply stopped and started the recording, editing out anything incriminating as he went along, didn’t he?’ pressed Jane, primed by Passmore’s exchange with Monsford. ‘But Jamie kept everything in full from his wiretap. That’s what you’ve got, isn’t it, Rebecca: the complete discussion and decision to assassinate Charlie?’

Rebecca still didn’t respond, her face immobile.

Say something, for Christ’s sake!
thought Jane. ‘But why, Rebecca? Radtsic was out! You didn’t
need
a diversion. Why did Charlie have to be killed?’

Rebecca’s head was bent reflectively again, too low for Jane properly to see her face, and Jane imagined the other woman might be crying until she looked up, dry eyed. And finally spoke. ‘He never gave a proper reason, not one that made any sense. He just said it was necessary, as if he had a reason he wasn’t disclosing.’

At last!
thought Jane, the satisfaction moving through her; she had to keep the admission going, not give the other woman a reason suddenly to stop. ‘But that’s insane! Jamie—and you—must have argued against it? Asked why? Didn’t Jamie ask why?’

‘It didn’t start out like that, not a positive discussion that led to the decision. I don’t honestly remember Jamie asking why. Or asking myself. It was some time before we realized how Gerald was manipulating the recording. That was when Jamie said we had to protect ourselves: that we didn’t know what Gerald was doing but that he was dangerous. Jamie was very worried, very frightened, about doing what he did. Jamie was actually permanently frightened of Gerald.’

Jane shook her head against the waiter’s intrusion to remove their abandoned plates. ‘Why didn’t you do something when Jamie died! Why did you hold back?’

‘Do what? Approach whom?’ demanded the woman, defensively. ‘I thought of what Jamie had done as protection but it incriminated me, as well: made me complicit.… It was better that I waited, to see what happened if they found Jamie’s copy. And then there was the business with Vasili Okulov in Rome, which didn’t make sense. There was no discussion about that and I didn’t understand—thought there actually might be a mole—and by then it was too late.’

It was all nonsense, Jane thought: nothing in sequence, everything jumbled into excuses for doing nothing. Jane hadn’t formed any personal opinion or feeling about the other woman but now, instantly, she did. Rebecca Street was as vainglorious a self-serving opportunist as Gerald Monsford, differing from the man only in possible mental instability. Each, Jane decided, deserved the other. Which wasn’t a judgement with any bearing upon what she still had to achieve. ‘But now it’s not too late.’

‘How can I produce it this late without being doubly incriminated?’ protested Rebecca.

‘You don’t produce it,’ argued Jane. ‘I do, when you give it to me. Jamie was known to be my friend. I expected from the beginning that he’d leave something for me. The delay’s easily explained away.’

‘I was involved in the discussion: didn’t do anything to oppose or stop it!’ repeated Rebecca. ‘I wouldn’t be allowed to remain where I am. I could face prosecution. Certainly dismissal.’

‘We’ll erase your being on the disk,’ improvised Jane. ‘Monsford will probably claim you were present but there’ll be no proof. It’ll be your word against his and the proof will be against him.’

‘What’s the proof that Gerald stop-started his machine?’ demanded Rebecca, alertly.

Shit!
thought Jane. ‘The blanks when the machine was turned off are detectable when it’s played: there’s complete silence. What you’re going to give me will fill in those blanks.’

‘Erasing me would also be detectable. It won’t work!’

‘Of course it will work!’ Jane continued to improvise. ‘Monsford did it himself, manually, didn’t he? What you’ve got won’t be stopped to create moments of silence. The wiping will be forensic, done by our technical people, as it’s running.’

‘Is that technically possible?’

She was almost there, thought Jane. ‘I wouldn’t have told you how it would be done if I hadn’t already gone into it.’

‘I’m putting my total trust in you.’

‘It’s your way out, home free.’

Rebecca remained motionless for a long time, head bent again. Jane had difficulty hearing when Rebecca finally mumbled, ‘I want to do it.’

It would be a mistake to say anything, Jane knew: Rebecca had to think herself into doing it.

‘I’m never going to put myself in a position like this again,’ declared Rebecca, bringing her head up.

‘I wouldn’t agonize over it if I were in your position.’

‘I need to go to the lavatory.’

She’d lost her: lost the chance, thought Jane, allowing the table to be cleared, automatically agreeing to coffee. She shouldn’t have accused Rebecca of agonizing, even though she clearly had been: virtually crumbling into a collapse. It had been a challenging comparison, stirring a recovery. Definitely a recovery, Jane decided, watching the other woman return across the room, makeup repaired, hair freshly combed.

Rebecca sat and, unspeaking, stretched a closed hand across the table, which Jane reached out to meet and accept the tightly wrapped tissue.

Rebecca said, ‘I should have washed it but I thought water might damage it.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Jane, guessing its concealment.

‘I’d like a brandy.’

‘We’ll both have brandy,’ determined Jane, gesturing to the waiter. Hers would probably be better used to sterilize what she had wrapped in tissue than to drink, she decided. Raising the glass, she said, ‘You’ve made the right decision: the only decision.’

Rebecca didn’t respond.

*   *   *

‘I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,’ warned Jane, as John Passmore reached out towards the minuscule, unwrapped memory stick. ‘She hid it internally, the centre of her universe.’

‘And Monsford’s, which he’ll regret,’ predicted Aubrey Smith. ‘You did bloody well, getting her to part with it at last.’

‘I’ve promised all evidence of her being on it will be untraceably wiped.’

‘I need to check with the technical guys that it’s possible to do that,’ cautioned Passmore.

‘Too bad if it isn’t,’ dismissed Jane, uncaring. ‘It’s ours now. And have them keep a totally complete copy before any erasing is done. I want evidence of her taking part in whatever discussions there were.’

‘I’d do that anyway,’ assured Passmore. ‘But why do you want an additional copy?’

‘She’s the favourite to become the next MI6 Director, isn’t she?’

‘Make several copies,’ ordered Aubrey Smith.

*   *   *

‘It’s far worse than I expected,’ declared Natalia. ‘It’s worldwide ridicule, in Moscow’s eyes. It could be disastrous for Charlie.’

‘We’ve virtually made it a condition of access to Radtsic that we’re allowed to see everyone held in Moscow and Charlie heads the list,’ hopefully reminded Ethel. She’d officially registered Natalia’s reservation to the Radtsic announcement, after warning Natalia in advance, and was glad she’d followed safe-house regulations by doing so.

‘They invariably confront direct public humiliation, which is how they’ll see it,’ insisted Natalia, who’d sat with Ethel for a long time watching the global television round-up of the media coverage. ‘Charlie’s their obvious retaliation.’

Which he’s always been,
thought Ethel, surprised after Natalia’s earlier self-flagellation that she appeared genuinely to retain any hope of Charlie’s freedom. ‘They had to know it was coming: expect it. And we can’t use normal judgements here. We’re talking of Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic! We’ve got the overwhelming bargaining advantage.’

‘You might get your other people back, those who don’t matter, but not Charlie,’ insisted Natalia.

They were on a conversational roundabout, Ethel recognized. And were anyway supposed to be discussing Natalia’s assessment of Irena Novikov’s American debriefing. ‘Moscow haven’t come up with a response yet.’

Natalia’s laugh was condescending. ‘How could you have forgotten what you’ve just said—that Moscow was expecting it. They’ve been ready for it—although probably not the sensationalism—within an hour of discovering Radtsic had gone and been prepared ever since, both with a public reaction and what they’d do in retaliation, although I’d guess they adjusted that after Charlie’s shooting and all the deaths. Vnukovo made everything so very much easier for them. It gave them a choice.’

She had to get rid of this barrier, Ethel knew. It was technically a breach of regulations but the circumstances of Natalia’s presence were as abnormal as those of Radtsic: probably even more so. ‘There was something else that went to Moscow, in our reply to their access request. Radtsic wrote a personal letter to Andrei, begging him to join him and Elena, knowing the FSB would read and analyze every word and implication. One of those implications, more an open threat, was that he’d start telling us everything he knows about the organization he was at the very centre of for more than two decades.’