Red Star Falling: A Thriller by Brian Freemantle

our people,’ recognized Jane, at once.
    ‘That’s what she’s insisting: wants you to know,’ said Ethel, glad to have moved the decision on.
    *   *   *
     
    Harry Jacobson was obediently waiting at Monsford’s designated spot, virtually out of sight of the main Hertfordshire house, close to the garage complex. It would have been equally difficult for Monsford to be seen from the house getting from his car, which pulled in even closer to the buildings. Monsford led the way through the concealing stand of trees deeper into the wooded area, not speaking until he reached it.
    ‘Just ground sensors here? No audio equipment?’
    ‘Not until about another four metres,’ assured Jacobson.
    ‘You missed Radtsic’s reference to a diversion,’ accused the Director, at once.
    ‘Yesterday was my rest day.’ Where was the usual irrational anger at any mistake? wondered Jacobson.
    ‘Who was monitoring?’
    ‘Bullen?’
    ‘You replaced him?’
    ‘Of course,’ said Jacobson, glad he’d anticipated the dismissal demand, even though it had created an atmosphere with the rest of the protection squad.
    ‘What did you tell Radtsic in Moscow?’
    ‘Exactly what he told Elena on film. At one of our meetings, before any plan had been formulated, I told him we might introduce a diversion into his extraction.…’ Jacobson hesitated, believing he was beginning to understand, a swell of hopeful satisfaction moving through him. The assassination instructions would have been transferred to Stephan Briddle, he guessed. And Stephan Briddle was dead. ‘… Then the idea got dropped. I never discussed it in any way whatsoever with Radtsic … or with anyone else.’ Come on, thought Jacobson, enjoying himself: nibble at the bait for me to be sure.
    ‘The committee are attaching importance to the remark, after what happened at Vnukovo.’
    Getting there, thought Jacobson. He had to be careful, though. He needed to gain every benefit while remaining as distanced as possible from this unnaturally subdued bully. ‘I can understand that, after what happened.’
    ‘You’re to appear before them, to explain the remark.’
    Savouring how perfect the analogy fitted the huge man, Jacobson recognized this to be the moment the subjugated bull was on its knees, the sword upraised for the killing thrust. ‘There’s surely nothing more for them to hear or understand beyond what they’ve already seen and heard on film.’
    ‘They’ll want to know what the intended diversion was to be.’
    Jacobson hesitated, wanting the words to be right. Monsford even had his head lowered, as if in readiness for the kill. ‘I actually find it difficult to remember the details of our conversation.’
    Monsford’s head came up, restoring his full bull-like stature, smiling briefly. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this conversation.’
    Oh no you don’t, Jacobson thought at once. Could he take the chance: risk everything with just a few misplaced words? But it wasn’t his risk, he reminded himself. ‘We haven’t talked of my next posting, now I quite obviously can’t return to Moscow.’
    ‘That has to be resolved,’ allowed Monsford, tightly.
    ‘I did put forward some preferences.’
    ‘Washington, wasn’t it?’
    ‘And Paris.’ The ballet wouldn’t be as good as it had been in Moscow but on balance it would be better than America. And Covent Garden had been a total disappointment the night before.
    ‘Yes, Paris,’ accepted Monsford, reflectively.
    ‘As head of station,’ pressed Jacobson, knowing it all had to be finalized at this moment, with nothing left as a vague promise.
    ‘Which do you want?’
    ‘Paris.’
    ‘It’s yours.’
    ‘As head of station.’
    ‘As head of station,’ echoed Monsford. His face was mask-like.
    ‘And potentially deputy director after that.’
    ‘That’ll be yours, too, when the time comes.’ Which it never would, determined Monsford, furious at the humiliation.
    ‘When do you want me in London for