Run Around by Brian Freemantle Page A

unknown to anyone but himself because Zenin only really trusted himself.
    Because it was so conveniently near, actually on the quai where he was sitting, Zenin ate in the luxury of le Chat Bottée restaurant of the Beau-Rivage, seeking out a lakeside table to have the best outlook while he ate, enjoying the opportunity to relax. Briefly, fantasizing almost, he tried to imagine an escape route across the lake after the assassination, shaking his head at the idiocy of the idea: it would be easier to get trapped on the lake than in any of the one-way streets the stupid bastards at the embassy had failed to designate. The way to escape was far easier and far less dramatic than that film he’d seen the first night in London but the name of which he could no longer remember.
    At the Hertz office on the Rue de Bern he hired for three weeks a medium-sized Peugeot on the English driving licence issued in the name of Henry Smale, paying the deposit in sterling. With time to spare he drove around the immediate border towns, uncertain whether eventually to abandon it for later discovery in Switzerland or France. Perly, in the south, was a possibility. Or Meryin, further north.
    He got back into the city by early evening and reconnoitred by road this time the area he had that morning explored on foot, at once conscious of the road-blocked restrictions, even though the heaviest traffic of the day was over. The car could certainly be parked nearby but the first and subsequent meeting places needed to be somewhere where he had easier freedom of movement to dodge. It was a pity the jogging and bicycle routine could not be repeated: it had worked very well in London, despite being so unnecessary.
    Zenin finished the initial reconnaissance earlier than he’d anticipated, realizing it would be possible for him to drive to Bern to establish himself as he should have done the previous day. And at once abandoned the idea. It would mean checking out unexpectedly from the auberge where he had reserved for two nights and any unexpected and identifying action had to be avoided.
    Instead, because it was a cuisine with which he was not familiar, he ate Chinese at the Auberge des Trois Bonheurs, after which he attempted a walk along the shore of the lake but found it too cold, so he went back to the auberge. The clerk who had registered him was on duty again and Zenin reminded the man that he was booking out the following morning.
    â€˜A short stay, Herr Schmidt?’ said the man.
    â€˜Off to New York in the morning,’ said Zenin, completing the carefully prepared false trail.
    The relationship between the KGB chief Kalenin and Alexei Berenkov went beyond that of Dzerzhinsky Square to that of long friendship. It had become their custom to alternate dinner invitations and that night it had been Kalenin’s turn, at his bachelor Kutuzovsky apartment. He’d served roasted venison with red cabbage and Georgian wine. He knew nothing about wine and had taken Berenkov’s advice that it was good: during his London posting the man had become the connoisseur his cover required. Afterwards they had French brandy with coffee and then Valentina, Berenkov’s wife, cleared the table and busied herself tidying and washing up in the kitchen, because that was customary too. The men always talked and having been married to Berenkov for twenty years Valentina knew precisely when to absent herself.
    â€˜There is definitely increased surveillance in London?’ asked Kalenin.
    â€˜No doubt about it.’
    â€˜London was identifiable in the communications Novikov handled,’ said Kalenin. ‘It was to be expected.’
    â€˜Not of this intensity,’ insisted Berenkov.
    â€˜But the embassy in Bern are adamant there is no increase there,’ reminded Kalenin. ‘There surely would have been if Novikov knew more than we believe and had been able to identify Switzerland. And if the drop had been picked up.’
    â€˜I