Red Star Burning by Brian Freemantle

appearance of a shoe-polished, department-store-suited bank clerk, complete with wire-framed spectacles and closely cropped hair. To conceal the harelip he cultivated an unclipped, walrus-style mustache that matched his hair’s natural blondeness, the disguise now so accustomed that it was not until this reflective moment that the facial similarity between himself and Radtsic’s heavy Stalin-like growth occurred to him. It could, decided Jacobson, be his escape from this additional surveillance assignment upon Natalia Fedova, which he resented as an extra and unnecessary burden. It was very definitely an objection to be put to James Straughan, maybe even as early as tonight.
    Natalia Fedova arrived, on foot, at precisely the same time as she had the previous two evenings, wearing the same light summer coat and carrying the same briefcase, as always in her left hand with the entry key in her right. And, again as worrying as the previous two evenings, unaccompanied by the child who had until now always been with her.
    London weren’t going to like the absence, Jacobson decided: they weren’t going to like or understand it at all.

 
     
    9
     
    They didn’t.
    “We could be too late,” suggested James Straughan, keeping any satisfaction from his voice at the possibility of Monsford’s having miscalculated.
    “It could mean a lot of other things, too,” argued Rebecca Street, loyally. As usual, she was giving the Director the full benefit of a plunging décolletage.
    “Being too late is the most obvious,” insisted Straughan, who’d intentionally held back from announcing Sasha’s apparent disappearance during the mutual-congratulation orgy between the MI6 Director and his deputy at Monsford’s maneuvering Rebecca onto the planning group, savoring the moment of deflation. Although well aware she wouldn’t comprehend a single word, Straughan intended telling his mother about it that evening: he had a fading hope that his nightly monologues might get through to her.
    “Why didn’t you tell me earlier that we hadn’t seen the child for so long?” suspiciously demanded Monsford, who hadn’t activated his personal recording facility.
    “I didn’t want to be premature. After three days I decided it should be flagged up.” Sometimes, thought Straughan, he feared this devious man would send him mad.
    “What else?” said Rebecca.
    “I don’t think we should use Jacobson to monitor Natalia’s apartment,” cautioned Straughan. “If the child has been taken from her, the place will be under permanent surveillance. Jacobson could be isolated.”
    “It’s a possibility,” conceded Monsford, who’d led the other two through an hour’s review of Radtsic’s extraction before Straughan’s revelation. “I don’t like the uncertainty this introduces.”
    “It needn’t materially change what we’ve agreed,” encouraged the woman. “We’re intending a diversion with Natalia, not a genuine extraction.”
    “It’s an uncertainty we’ve no way of controlling,” repeated Monsford.
    “How does it impact upon what we’ve discussed?” pressed Straughan, who’d considered Jane Ambersom a friend and wished he’d been less cowardly and confronted Monsford’s apportion onto her of all his own misconceptions over Lvov. Now Straughan was enjoying Monsford’s evident stress in front of a woman he wanted to impress.
    “All Natalia’s got to do is make another bloody telephone call: Smith’s keeping Charlie’s apartment line open,” Monsford pointed out.
    “I thought we’d decided she’s reciting what the FSB tells her to say?”
    “What if she somehow gets an unmonitored call out?” demanded Monsford. “Don’t forget Shakespeare’s warning of pernicious women.”
    “We’ll confuse ourselves going around in hypothetical circles,” risked Rebecca.
    “She’d have said more if she’d been able,” persisted Straughan, ignoring the warning.
    “We’re gaining nothing by speculating,” insisted