Read Online See Charlie Run by Brian Freemantle - Free Book Online

of some plastic material. Four men nearby matched the description, except for their footwear. Charlie moved slightly and found his man at the far end of the carriage. By studying the colour coding chart, Charlie worked out that he was on the Yurakucho line; when the train hissed into Aoyama-Itchome station he realized he was going the wrong way, with too many intermediary stops. Charlie did not immediately disembark at Omatesando, wanting as many people as possible to clear ahead of him. He slipped through the closing doors as the warning bell sounded, hurrying towards the sign for the Hanazomon line, but at the last moment switching to Toei Shinjuku. He was lucky with a waiting train again and ran on. He was sweating and his ribs hurt, from having to hurry. He looked around the carriage, intent upon the feet. There was one man again at the end of the carriage who qualified, but he got off at Akasaka and Charlie reckoned it was looking good. He made another delayed departure at Hibaya, caught the first train and got off at the next stop, at Ginza. He ran up the stairs, breath groaning from him, and plunged at once into the man-wide labyrinth of paths and alleys behind the main streets, stopping frequently now, openly seeking the pursuit. There wasn’t any, but Charlie still wasn’t satisfied. He kept twisting and turning, managing to reach the larger Miyukidori Street entirely by back alleys. He remained drawn back, until he saw an unoccupied, cruising taxi, emerging to hail it at the moment of passing.
    Charlie gave the location of the British embassy and sat back gratefully, wet-bodied and panting, against the upholstery. Maybe he was getting too old for all this Action Man stuff; then again, perhaps he should exercise with something heavier than a whisky glass in his hand. He saw the driver was taking him the longer way, through Marunouchi and around the park, but didn’t protest; after all the buggering about, he needed time to get his breath back.
    Charlie went patiently through the identification procedure at the embassy and sat where he was told by the crisply efficient receptionist, who didn’t respond to his grin. Crabby old virgin, dismissed Charlie. Couldn’t be many left: veritable museum piece.
    Richard Cartright was a thin, well tailored man whom Charlie estimated to be about thirty. There was an attempt at extra years with a thin moustache, which didn’t work and an obvious Eton tie, which always did. Charlie had tried it once but got caught out before lunch: during his early, inverted snobbery days. Cartright gave an open-faced smile, offered his hand.
    â€˜I’ve been expecting you,’ said Cartright. There’s been some traffic.’ Charlie Muffin was certainly an odd-looking cove.
    Thought there might be,’ said Charlie.
    He followed the younger man into the rear of the embassy, where the sectioned-off, secure intelligence area was kept at arm’s if not pole’s length by the rest of the diplomatic staff. Over the door to Cartright’s office were some charm bells to ward off evil spirits, and there was a bonsai arrangement of miniature trees on the window shelf. The furniture was better than London and the carpet was genuine, Charlie saw. He hoped the charm bells worked.
    â€˜Minimum involvement, I gather?’ said Cartright, at once.
    â€˜For the usual reasons,’ said Charlie.
    â€˜Nasty then?’
    The man should know better than to question, thought Charlie. ‘Could be,’ he said.
    â€˜Ready to do anything I can,’ offered Cartright.
    â€˜I’ll remember that,’ said Charlie. ‘What was your guidance from London?’
    Cartright indicated the prepared and waiting dossier. ‘Always necessary to obtain clearance.’
    Harkness, guessed Charlie. He said: ‘I want a blank British passport, picture slot and nameplace empty.’
    Cartright made a sucking noise, breathing in. ‘Means involving a