See Charlie Run Read Free

immediate escape.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Charlie, gratefully. Sir Alistair Wilson was a good bloke, one of the few.
    Harkness was sitting neatly in front of his superior’s desk, knees and feet properly together, saucer in one hand, teacup in the other. Charlie wondered if the man starched his underpants like he did his shirt collars: at least they stayed down. Harkness frowned up and said: ‘Are you all right? You don’t look well.’
    â€˜Ate something that didn’t agree with me,’ said Charlie. He looked between the two men, going beyond the immediate impression of complete contrast. They were, he decided, a good combination. Wilson was a former Ghurka commander who specialized in jungle warfare and provided the entreprenurial brilliance and Harkness kept the books and made sure they balanced.
    â€˜How’s that enquiry going?’ asked Wilson, easing himself into a more comfortable position in front of the window.
    â€˜Not too badly,’ said Charlie, immediately cautious. He’d been around too long to say it was practically over and get shifted prematurely from one rotten job to another rotten job.
    â€˜Could someone else take it over?’
    Shit, thought Charlie. He said, still cautious: ‘Take a long change-over briefing. But it might just be possible.’ There was always the possibility, of course, that the job might be better and not worse: but that wasn’t the way his luck usually ran.
    â€˜So it can be swapped?’ insisted Harkness, determined on a positive manner.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Charlie, reluctantly.
    The Director moved with stiff-legged awkwardness to the desk. Rose growing was the man’s hobby and at one corner was a vase of Pascali. He looked briefly down at some papers laid out in readiness and then smiled up at Charlie. ‘It’s good, Charlie; could be one of the best. But it won’t be easy.’
    That was the trouble, thought Charlie: they never were. He said: ‘Another defector damage assessment?’
    Wilson smiled, discerning the reason for the question. ‘It’s a defection,’ he said. ‘But definitely not another office job. Asia.’
    The last vestiges of Charlie’s headache lifted. Back on the streets: his proper place. Gutters too, if necessary. Whatever, as long as it was operational. He said: ‘Where?’
    â€˜Japan,’ said the Director.
    â€˜Worked Tokyo twice,’ said Charlie. ‘Went well both times.’
    â€˜Let’s hope it does this time,’ said Harkness. ‘It could be spectacular.’
    Wilson went back to his papers and said, with dictated formality: ‘Yuri Kozlov is an operative of Department 8 of Directorate S of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate, currently attached to the Soviet embassy in Tokyo. For the past six months he has been negotiating with the Americans, to come over. They want us to share.’
    â€˜Balls!’ said Charlie, at once.
    Both men looked up at him, surprised.
    â€˜Like you said,’ continued Charlie, ‘it could be spectacular. If Kozlov is genuine Department 8 then he’s a killer, a trained assassin. He could give details of assassinations that have been carried out and not been detected as such; maybe some indication of future targets. He could detail the training and be used for incredible propaganda, publicly disclosing that the Soviets actually train and despatch people to kill. To get something like that the CIA would think it was Christmas, every day. They wouldn’t let us or any other service within a million miles. And certainly not offer him, openly. It’s wrong.’
    Wilson smiled again, at Charlie’s objections. ‘I agree with you, absolutely: on the face of it utter balls.’
    â€˜Then I don’t understand,’ said Charlie.
    â€˜The CIA don’t want to share. I bet they’re as mad as hell at the idea,’ continued Wilson. ‘But they