red star burning; a thriller

8/2/2019 Red Star Burning; A Thriller

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and eventsportrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or areused fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martins Press.

RED STAR BURNING. Copyright 2012 by Brian Freemantle. All rights reserved.Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. MartinsPress, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.comwww.stmartins.com

ISBN 978-1-250-00636-3 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-250-01306-4 (e-book)

First Edition: June 2012

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f1

KILL MYSELF? ECHOED CHARLIE, DERISION AND ASTONISH-

ment combined.

Thats what I think youll end up doing.

Bollocks, rejected Charlie. At the backtoo often in the

forefrontof his mind had always hovered the expectation of dying.

But violently: from a breath-sucking assassins bullet or the burn of a

back-alley knife or a shattering explosion. But never of killing him-

self, not even while confronting his now fossilized existence.

It would be understandable, sympathized the small, hunched

psychiatrist, George Cowley. Youve spent almost thirty years at the

front end of British intelligence, always on the edge. Now youre blown,

in a Protection Program with a new identity, a retirement salary, a safe

house, and a protection regime. All of which youre refusing to acknowl-

edge or observe. From which the only conclusion is that youre either

inviting Russian assassination or intending to kill yourself.

Bollocks, repeated Charlie. He had to do better than this: con-

vince this asshole of an MI5 psychiatrist that hed got it all wrong. As

he, in turn, had got it all wrong, staging an intentionally deceiving per-

formance for the too easily detected minders during his limited excur-

sions from the safe house. The internal cameras and listening devices

would be recording everything of this performance, too, he accepted.It would have been easier for you, if maybe not for them, if youd

had a family: a wife, children, to fill the emptiness within you,


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RED STAR BURNING | 3 |

Cowley pressed on. But you havent, have you, Charlie? All youve

ever had is the job and now you dont have that anymore.

Wrong again! agonized Charlie. He did have a wife. And a daugh-

ter. A family still in Russia that no one knew about. Nor could they everknow, because Natalia Fedova was a senior officer in the Federalnaya

Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the intelligence agency of the Russian Federa-

tion that his own MI5 service believed was determined to assassinate

him.

You expect me to adjust in five minutes to all thats happened!

demanded Charlie, discomfited at his inadequate reply.

Cowley, who had the highest security clearance, tapped Charlies

file on the table between them. Ive read every word thats in here:

know everything youve done. And having read it Id expect you to

understand the very real danger youre in and accept all the protec-

tion thats being offered.

What danger was Natalia facing after his most recent Moscow as-

signment? Charlie asked himself, as he had repeatedly over the past

three months. If he was blown, as MI5 believed him to be, the search

might stretch back to his phoney Moscow defection, when Natalia

Fedova had been his interrogator. Charlie had never been totally satis-

fied then shed sanitized their subsequent relationship from what then

would have been KGB records. Im not convinced the risk is as great

as everyone believes it to be.

Thats for the Director-General to decide, not you. And that de-

cisions been made.

As yours has been made, Charlie fought back. And its wrong.

You ever kill anyone, Charlie? demanded the psychiatrist, un-

expectedly.

Never intentionally. That was debatable, thought Charlie, uneasy

at the prescience of the other man. Charlie hoped there was nothing in

the bulky personnel dossier with which Cowley could catch him out.Didnt it ever worry you, people getting killed? Assassinated?

persisted the other man.


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Brian Freemantle | 4 |

It didnt happen often and when it didor had toit was part

of the job: I never pulled a trigger. That reply was a cop-out, Charlie

acknowledged, but theyd been talking of death and dying for the

past thirty minutes and he was fed up at the verbal ping-pong.Could you have pulled a trigger, if youd had to?

Id been trained to that level, as a last resort: I never got to that

resort. Charlie was surprised at the sudden although easily suppressed

anger, an emotion he hadnt experienced for a long time because it in-

dicated lack of control, which was always dangerous professionally.

Do you still think you could pull the trigger, if you had to?

Not with the barrel against my own head, no, refused Charlie,

guessing the direction in which Cowley was leading.

You sure about that? demanded the psychiatrist. Or are you

pissed off that the rest of your life is going to be spent incarcerated in

security-covered, audio-and-CCTV-equipped safe houses, forever bur-

ied deep within a protection program, never ever able again to meet

or speak to anyone you once knew?

Ill get there, responded Charlie, dismissively.

Youre not even trying, accused Cowley, dismissive in return.

Youre supposed to have adopted the new namethe entirely new

identityyouve been allocated and you havent. Youre supposed

never to establish patternsnever the same restaurants, never the

same pub, never the same cinema, never the same route or transport

to the same supermarketand you havent. Youre supposed to alter

the way you dress, alter as much of your appearance as possible, and

you havent: youre even still wearing those spread-apart Hush Pup-

pies about to fall off your awkward feet. As part of that appearance

changein your particular case, all the more essential because of

the target you now areyoure supposed seriously to consider surgi-

cal facial reconstruction and you havent bothered to attend three

specialist appointments to discuss it.I told you Id get round to it! Lame again, Charlie recognized.

How often, since youve been in the program, have you seriously

considered suicide?


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Since entering the protection program I have never, ever, consid-

ered suicide, replied Charlie, enunciating each word for emphasis.

I dont believe you, declared Cowley. Its a fucking awful exis-

tence. Ive never had a protected patient who hasnt thought of takinghis or her own life.

How many actually did?

Six, Cowley came back at once.

Im not going to become your seventh! assured Charlie.

I know youre not, agreed the psychiatrist. Im going to put

you on suicide watch to ensure you dont.

Fuck it, thought Charlie. He had to hurry to reach Natalia in time.

Defect to the British! exclaimed Elana, her voice breaking. You

cant . . . we cant . . . She tried to continue but couldnt, her mind

seized by the enormity of what Radtsic had told her, her eyes fixed

farther ahead of the embankment road along which they were walk-

ing, the river-bordered British embassy in the distance. We cant . . .

youre the virtual head of Russian intelligence . . . its unthinkable. . . .

She tried again: What about Andrei?

Itll be easy with Andrei at the Sorbonne, insisted Radtsic, whose

heavy mustache, gray like his thick hair, and heavy, indulged body

had in the past made him the butt of jokes about his physical resem-

blance to Stalin. Paris is closer to London than we are here in Mos-

cow. The moment we run hell be picked up and brought to us there.

Well be together and well be safe.

Its too much for me to understand, protested the woman. In

contrast to her husband, who was fifteen years her senior, Elana was

a slim, even elegant woman committed to her career as professor of

physics at Moscow University. My work . . . what about my work . . .

I mean . . . I dont know.I cant go without you. Youd be arrested: dismissed from the

university. Radtsic was agonized by the conversation, his whole body

clammy with perspiration.


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I didnt mean I wouldnt come with you. I was thinking of every-

thing I would be abandoning . . . leaving behind. Are you sure, really

sure, that youre being targeted?

I found two listening devices in my office today, one actually inthe telephone handset, the other in the base of the desk light: thats

why were walkingso we can talkout in the open like this, dis-

closed Radtsic. And today I was told theres no reason for my attend-

ing the quarterly operational review, which Ive done ever since I

was appointed deputy chairman: actually headed more sessions than

the chairman himself.

Oh my God! said Elana, who was a devoted churchgoer. Its

true, isnt it? Youre going to be purged.

No, Im not, insisted Radtsic, defiantly. Im going to get out.


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f2

HED SCREWED UP BIG TIME, CHARLIE ACKNOWLEDGED. HOW

big he didnt yet know, nor how to find out: whether, even, if he would.

Feigning inferiority to encourage the underestimation of those against

whom he was pitted was one of several chameleonlike survival cloaks

in which Charlie Muffin so often professionally wrapped himself.

But it hadnt worked with George Cowley. On film and on sound, Char-

lie knew, hed looked a lost, vacant-eyed idiot who, in the specialized

environment in which, until now, hed existed, had lost not just the

will but the professional ability to live. And become a potential lia-

bility.

How, in his eagerness to reassure Natalia that he was still alive

and financially to provide for her and Sashacould he have failed

properly to consider the possible misunderstandings! The core con-

cern of MI5 heirarchy had to be that pissing about as hed intention-

ally, stupidly, doneneither properly in nor improperly out of the

protection regimerisked his detection by those murderously hunt-

ing him. And that however they chose to destroy him would publicly

expose how close Russian intelligence had come to insinuating itself

into the very heart of the Oval Office in Washington D.C., with an

equally gullible, puppy dog Britain led unsuspectingly by the nose to

the same disaster.Charlie stirred from the chair into which hed slumped after Cow-

leys departure fifteen minutes earlier. It would appear on the all-

seeing cameras as bad as the confrontation itself, as if exhausted by it


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hed collapsed into continuing depression, not what hed objectively

been doing, taking time for self-critical self-examination. Resulting in

what? Irritation, predominantly, Charlie answered himself: irritated at

having been so obviously beaten in a verbal who-can-shout-loudestcontest and at that humiliation being filmed and recorded and at be-

ing so completely cut off from everything and everyone and because of

that isolation not able to gauge the full extent of his self-created situa-

tion.

Charlie started up, determined to identify all the cameras upon

which his every wakingand sleeping, through infrared technology

moment was monitored. By the time he reached the kitchen and the

cupboard containing the Islay single malt, he was reasonably sure

hed located four before abandoning the pointless exercise. Miniatur-

ized as the lenses were, hed never pick them all out. And what if he

did? He wasnt on an operational assignment, where he had to protect

himself against every eventuality. He was in a permanently recorded

goldfish bowl. And there was no recovery advantage from his being

able to pose or perform to mislead his constant watchers. Whatever

he did would be further misconstrued as proof of his mentally erod-

ing hold on reality.

Which it most certainly wasnt, Charlie assured himself, as he

splashed whiskey into his glass intentionally to be visible to a camera

in the window-blind coping. The whiskey and how much of it he drank

would scarcely be a revelation to his observers. They actually provided

it because of its rarity: known as it inevitably would be to his pursuers,

it could have led to his whereabouts if hed placed a regular order with

an outside supplier.

How many pursuers would there be? wondered Charlie, carrying

his tumbler back to his accustomed lounge chair overlooking the

small, sensor-seeded garden. This soon, only three months after hed

wrecked an espionage operation the Russians had nurtured overpractically eighteen years, thered be a lot: a code-name-designated

operation, in fact. Would it be only Russian? Almost certainly not.

The Russian target had been the CIA, convincing themwhich it


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had, completelythat a former KGB-cum-FSB officer about to be

elected president of the Russian Federation would, once in absolute

power, remain their deeply embedded agent through whom America

could virtually manipulate the Moscow government, never suspect-ing that it would have been the misguided occupant of the White

House on Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C., who would have

been the puppet on the Kremlins strings. There would doubtless have

been a lot of head rolling at the CIAs Langley headquarters. Enough,

certainly, for the Agency to consider matching, murderous retribu-

tion. Was he safe even from his own people? Charlie knew the mass

clear-out of those whod swallowed the Russian bait at MI5s Thames

House headquarters had been only slightly less sweeping at the MI6

building on the other side of the river at Vauxhall Cross, both suffi-

cient to gain him far more enemies than admirers.

He wasnt simply caught between a rock and a hard place, Charlie

accepted. He was trapped beneath a collapsing mountain range: if

one avalanche didnt sweep him away, another one would. Most of

which, to some extent, hed already worked out. Todays humiliating

psychoanalysis had simply concentrated it in its entirety. As much as

it had concentrated his mind, which was no longer fogged by the in-

dignation with which hed rejected the psychiatrists accusation. He

definitely hadnt contemplated suicide. But subconsciously hed al-

lowed himself to sink into an acceptance of his eventually being

detected: of his being killed by one or other of the groups committed

to his destruction.

Which was preposterous and unthinkable: hed never capitulated

to anything or anyone and he didnt intend rolling onto his back and

spreading his legs in submission now, no matter how different or

stultified that life might now be.

Charlie smiled and looked up in the direction of another suspected

camera. It was, he determined, a decision that deserved another drink,in celebration this time.


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What the hell does he think hes got to smile about? demanded

Aubrey Smith, turning away from the safe-house recording that di-

rectly followed Charlie Muffins psychoanalysis.

Normally Id try an answer that would help, apologized GeorgeCowley. This time I dont think I can.

Youve put him on suicide watch, for Christs sake! exploded

Jane Ambersom, the androgynously featured, newly appointed deputy

director. You actually think hes going to top himself!

I also find that difficult to accept, said the mild-mannered, mild-

voiced Smith, whose confidence remained undermined by his know-

ing how dangerously close his overthrow, orchestrated by Ambersoms

predecessor, had been. As it fortunately turned out, Jeffrey Smale had

been the highest-profile casualty from Charlie Muffins success.

I think hes a potential danger to himself and because of that a

danger to the service, insisted Cowley, repeating the warning with

which hed begun the assessment meeting.

Theres no way, no set of circumstances, in which Charlie Muf-

fin could be suicidal, persisted the Director-General.

Ive just spelt out the circumstances to you. And to him, reminded

Cowley. He knows just how much of a target he is. And always will

be. Just as he knows, simply to survive, what every day of every week

of every month is going to be for that survival. I cant imagineno

one can truthfully imaginewhat the constant awareness of that is

like. Its worse than being imprisoned for life, in solitary confinement.

In those circumstances a man quite quickly becomes dehumanized,

robotlike, because there is no human contact apart from his guards,

which isnt enough. Charlie Muffin doesnt have anyone with whom

to adjust, to make a new life. But hes not incarcerated. He can go out,

to pubs and restaurants and cinemas and theaters, and see other

people all around him. But never risk getting involved, never know-

ing whom he can trust. Its permanent, unremitting torture.Charlie Muffins always been a loner and never trusted anyone,

disputed Ambersom, gesturing to her own copy of Charlies personnel

file. Whats new now?


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How he lived before was by his own choice, the psychiatrist

pointed out. And before, he had the job. Which I acknowledge from

everything Ive read he did by his own rules and upset a lot of people

in the process. But he was doing something:he had a reason to live. Hedoesnt have that reason now: any reason whatsoever to go on living

now.

What are you suggesting? asked Smith, whose deceptive, qui-

etly spoken demeanor hinted to his post-Oxford career as professor of

Middle East studies, one of the core credos of which was that once-

suffered harm had always to be avenged, a philosophy hed quickly

recognized in Charlie Muffin.

Im not employed here to suggest, refused Cowley. Im here to

assess his mental health and thats what Ive done.

Are you saying hes mentally ill? demanded the sharply suited,

precisely spoken Ambersom, whod bitterly opposed and still resented

her manipulated transfer to MI5 from the external Secret Intelli-

gence Service, MI6.

Not yet, qualified Cowley, forcefully. I think in time, a com-

paratively short period of time, he could begin to develop a psychosis.

I also think that he would be intelligent enough to realize himself

what was happening to him and that with the emptiness of his exis-

tence, an emptiness thats never going to be filled, hed prefer to kill

himself than gradually, knowingly, degenerate into mental decline.

The psychiatrist shifted his own copy of Charlies personnel file. It

might be difficult for most people to decipher from all thats in here,

but from what Ive read and from the sessions Ive had with him, Ive

got Charlie Muffin marked as an extremely proud, even arrogant

man. Hed rather kill himself than end up mentally confused, wear-

ing an incontinence pad.


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red star burning; a thriller

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