Run Around (31 page)

When she finally got up Barbara wandered, still in her nightdress, into the living room. The room service trolley had been collected the previous night but the single rose had been left in its slim vase on a side table. Already it was wilting. Barbara took it from the container and carried it with her to the window, standing with the flower between both hands and cupped just beneath her chin. Pale winter sunight was silvering the lake, broken in several places by bustling, self-important ferries. Maybe, she thought, she'd take a pleasure trip while Roger had to work. But not today: today she had other more important things to do, like organizing their vacation.

She went towards the bathroom still carrying the rose, deciding always to keep it, as the important souvenir it was: she'd press it, like her mother had pressed flowers as mementoes of special occasions. Use it maybe as a frontispiece for the album of photographs of the trip they'd make up. But then again, maybe not. Maybe she'd keep the rose separate, as a private reminder to herself.

She showered and dressed and from the suite telephoned the Hertz and Avis and Budget car rental agencies to get comparable quotes, before going downstairs to the coffee shop for breakfast. After she'd eaten she got the addresses of the six best travel agencies from the concierge and patiently toured all of them, collecting brochures and catalogues. From the last she obtained the location of the tourist offices for Germany and Italy and France and went to each of those, as well, to pick up official guide books and maps. She lunched contentedly alone in a café near the Promenade du Lac, flicking through some of the brochures and trying to devise an itinerary. She liked the idea of driving south into Italy and then along the coast into France. From there they could either drive right up to Paris and fly directly home or detour earlier into Germany.

Barbara returned to the hotel by mid-afternoon and for an hour wrote out different suggestions and routes, each of which she neatly annotated alongside the appropriate page so that it would be easily found when she discussed it later with Roger.

She actually felt quite tired when she finished, stretching up and going again to the window with its view of the lake. Everything was so beautiful, so wonderful: she decided she'd been right in thinking what she had at Dulles airport. She had never been so happy, not even on her wedding day. Somehow getting back together seemed better than getting married.

Chapter Twenty-eight

In Charlie's experience any assessment by fellow professionals inevitably ranked the Israeli secret services among the top three in the business: frequently they came out top, likely to be beaten by Russia, America and perhaps Britain only on the extent and degree of technical intelligence-gathering facilities – particularly satellites – that the others possessed.

Within fifteen minutes of beginning on the background dossiers on everyone involved in the Middle East conference Charlie, jacket discarded, in his relieved stockinged feet and with the sustaining bottle of the Beau-Rivage's best whisky delivered from room service, acknowledged how well deserved the reputation to be. Never, from any other service – and certainly not his own – had Charlie had access to such well documented and complete material. Each participant, even the support staffs and secretariats that Levy had talked of, were allocated a separate file and where that information linked to another person or a group also involved the dossier was annotated and indexed, to enable instant cross-referencing. And each file was accompanied by a photograph, sometimes several.

‘Bloody marvellous,' he said admiringly, in the empty room.

Just as quickly Charlie formed another opinion: that by himself it was going to be an impossibility to assimilate everything that was there by the scheduled end of the conference, let alone by the beginning.

The most obvious short cut was not to attempt initially to read the files at all but to conduct upon each a visual photographic comparison against the Primrose Hill print. Even that took a long time because there were so many Israeli pictures and anxious though he was Charlie refused to hurry, never replacing them in their folders until he was entirely satisfied there was no fit, able to speed up only when the dossier proved to be that of a woman. The male to female ratio seemed to be about eight to one, perhaps higher.

Charlie felt a spurt of excitement after two hours when he thought he saw a similarity between the London photograph and a man identified as a ministerial aide on the Syrian delegation. It leaked away as soon as he snatched open the file to see the immediate notation that it was one of the likenesses the Israelis had isolated and discounted after fuller investigation. He came upon another man – the deputy press spokesman for the Palestinian party – after a further hour, less excited this time, and found again that it was another that Levy's people had eliminated. It was midday before Charlie completed the checks, finding nothing.

He slumped back in his chair, absent-mindedly massaging his foot with one hand, whisky glass in the other, frustrated by another now familiar dead end. Shit, he thought, annoyed not by just the obvious failure. He had, he admitted to himself, made the mistake of forgetting the ability of the Israelis until he was presented with it. Which still did not mean, of course, that he was going to rely on their assessment. And there was a way he could streamline if not actually short-cut the examination. The files on the American contingent – which was the largest – could be relegated to last, together with those upon the Israelis, which Charlie was passingly surprised Levy had included. Which left the Syrian, Jordanian and Palestinian groups, with the Palestinians perhaps being the obvious first choice.

Sighing, Charlie topped up his glass, and was pulling the folders towards him when the telephone shrilled. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he jumped, startled.

‘Cummings,' said the British intelligence
rezident
, in immediate identification.

‘Yes?' said Charlie, irritated at the interruption.

‘There's a summons from London.'

‘Something important!' demanded Charlie.

‘There's no indication,' said Cummings.

Charlie said: ‘Be a good mate and say you couldn't get hold of me?'

‘I'll do nothing of the sort,' refused Cummings. ‘And anyway, it's marked Priority Urgent.'

He shouldn't have used the phrase good mate, Charlie realized: Cummings might have responded better to good chap or good fellow. He and Witherspoon would have made a fine matching pair, thought Charlie, remembering Witherspoon's reaction to the restaurant receipt request on the day of the Novikov debriefing in Sussex. ‘Tut, tut, on an open telephone line, too!' rebuked Charlie. He didn't detect the intake of breath but guessed there would have been one. Not much of a victory, he thought, unsure why he'd bothered.

‘I shall in fart say that the message has been passed on according to instructions,' insisted the other man.

‘Always follow the instructions and stand back after lighting the touch-paper,' agreed Charlie. ‘Tell them it'll take me a while.'

‘I said it's urgent.'

‘I heard what you said.' Prat, he thought.

Charlie did not hurry after replacing the receiver. In fart he poured himself another drink, looking again at the task literally before him, considering another way to break it down. Or rather extend it, although the burden would not be his. Was it worth it? he asked himself, sipping the drink. Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes the British technical facilities were better, he thought again. So why not? Keep the buggers busy and justify their existence if nothing else. Meant a hell of a lot to carry, though.

Charlie managed the one o'clock train and bought a first-class ticket so he could occupy the first-class dining carriage: he regarded eating on trains – particularly a train travelling through the spectacular scenery outside – to be one of life's true pleasures and increasingly there didn't seem to be many of those left any more. The fish was good and the veal excellent and although he limited himself to half a bottle of wine and only one brandy with his coffee he guessed the carefully stored bill would add at least five notches to Harkness's blood pressure. If the man knew what he was carrying with him on a train, unescorted and in a briefcase that didn't even have a proper lock, the pressure would probably go off the Richter scale or whatever it was by which such things were measured. By now the sneaky bastard would have checked the restaurants he'd listed, Charlie guessed. No good worrying about spilt milk: or to be more accurate, frequently spilled wine. So why the summons? And on a Priority Urgent grading, which was a come-running-and-don't-bother-with-your-trousers demand. He hadn't done anything wrong: nothing that he considered wrong, anyway.

He caught a taxi from the railway station to Thunstrasse and was actually entering the British embassy when what seemed to be all the clocks in the World opened up in competition to be first to chime four o'clock.

‘Faster than a speeding bullet,' grinned Charlie, as he entered the security section of the legation.

‘I told London you'd be here an hour ago,' said Cummings.

‘Traffic was dreadful,' said Charlie.

‘They want you at once: the Director himself is waiting.'

He appeared to be because Sir Alistair Wilson came on to the line immediately the connection was made to London: the scrambling device at either end whined slightly and gave both their voices a hollow, tinny tone.

‘I should have known it was inevitable!' said Wilson. He sounded weary.

‘What?' asked Charlie.

‘Official complaints. From Washington and from Bern: you've caused another hell of a row. Whitehall are furious.'

‘I was trying to get them to react!'

‘You succeeded,' said the Director, bitterly.

‘They're acting like nothing is going to happen!'

‘Maybe nothing is.'

Not Wilson as well, thought Charlie, dismayed. He said: ‘The Swiss have made a cock of it: they haven't wanted to believe it from the beginning.'

‘I'm pulling you out, Charlie. Tonight.'

‘No!' protested Charlie. ‘There's less than thirty-six hours left!'

‘No more arguments,' insisted the Director. ‘The decision isn't mine any more. It's coming from above, from the very top.'

Which meant Wilson had got a bollocking from the prime minister, Charlie recognized. Bloody nuisance, that: it really gave the man no alternative, unless he pulled a big fat rabbit out of the hat. So what the hell was it! Charlie abruptly remembered the Israeli photographs he'd hauled all the way from Geneva and started to talk with the idea only half formed. He said: ‘I think I've got a positive lead.'

‘What!'

‘Photographs,' said Charlie. ‘There are actually two that look good to me. I intended to make contact today anyway: ask for them to be properly compared, technically and against our records.'

‘Where did you get them?'

A difficult question, Charlie acknowledged. If he admitted they all came from Mossad sources the Director would know at once they would already have been checked and cleared and realize the delaying tactic. He said: ‘All over the place: mostly from delegation spokesmen.' To cover himself, he added: ‘A few from the Israelis.'

There was a long silence from the London end. Then the Director said: ‘You being honest with me about this?'

‘Yes,' said Charlie, comfortably. It wasn't actually a lie that there were photographic similarities.

There was another pause. Wilson said: ‘If it is positive, there'll be a need to renew the warning, at least. Which means leaving you there while they're checked. But you listen Charlie and don't you even think of choosing to misunderstand what I say. You're to pouch the photographs to London, right now. And after that you are to do nothing but sit and wait, until I come back to you. You got that? Sit and do nothing. Go near no one, upset no one, talk to no one. You disobey me just once, by one iota, and I will personally oversee your dismissal. You heard everything I have said?'

‘I heard,' said Charlie. He'd backed himself into a right fucking corner this time, he thought: and he wasn't quite sure why he'd even done it. And less sure what he hoped to achieve by manoeuvring the phoney reason for staying on. Unless it was to say I told you so when it happened.

To the waiting Cummings in the office outside the secure communications room Charlie said: ‘There's an urgent shipment for London. A special pouch. Can you fix it for me?'

‘Of course,' said the resident intelligence officer.

Charlie sent all the photographs, even the women, wanting the unnecessary comparisons to take as long as possible.

The choice of the railway terminal as a meeting spot was professionally excellent, crowded with passengers and noise amongst which it was easy for Vasili Zenin to merge invisibly. With his customary caution he arrived thirty minutes early, the mistake of taking the woman back to the apartment still nagging irritatingly in his mind and determined against any further relaxation.

He found a slightly raised section near the northern departure gates from which it was possible for him to maintain an elevated watch, alert as he had been at the restaurant the previous day for any surveillance build-up and like the previous day isolating nothing about which to become alarmed.

Zenin picked out Sulafeh almost as soon as she entered the vast concourse, immediately curious at the woman's demeanour. She was hurrying and darting bird-like looks around her, behaving quite differently from the way she had when he'd followed her from the Palestinian hotel and Zenin's initial impression was that she had herself spotted someone in pursuit whom he'd missed. Anxiously he scanned the crowd around and behind her, letting their planned meeting time pass while he searched, unable to detect anything.