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the first time.
    “Yes. I could, of course, have lied and said no, but I want everything to be honest and clear between us.”
    “I respect and appreciate that.”
    “And I would appreciate an answer.”
    Radtsic hesitated further. Then he said: “Of course I will cooperate. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir,” confirmed Jacobson. “That’s the deal.”

 
     
    4
     
    The warning of an official visit was always made by a recorded voice quoting Charlie’s four-digit protection designation, 1716. He had to acknowledge it with a binary response, the first sequence by using his telephone keypad to provide a separate five-digit identification, 10063. That had to be verified by his verbally reciting, for voiceprint recognition, a different number—1316—to separate recording equipment. His failure to provide both in sequential order or wrongly numbering either was his alarm signal that he believed himself to be compromised.
    Charlie’s telephone rang at eight thirty on the morning of his return, slightly earlier than he’d expected although he was already shaved and showered, waiting. By the time he completed the answering ritual he had the impression of the walls closing claustrophobically around him, coupled with a flicker of nostalgia for the brief freedom of his Jersey escape. He sloughed off the memory by looking at continuous TV news programs, particularly for any coverage of the impending Russian presidential elections, about which there had been intense international speculation in the assassination’s aftermath, of which his incarceration was a living-death outcome. There was nothing, as it had been for weeks now.
    There were security CCTV monitors relaying into three rooms of the safe house. Charlie watched the arrival of his case officer from the one in the kitchen. Brian Cooper was a balding, rotund testimony to the more flamboyant style of Savile Row tailoring, to which Charlie took as much attention-attracting exception as Cooper did of his shambling, trouser-shone charity-shop preference.
    Charlie opened the door at the first ring, matching the other man’s critical head-to-toe appraisal. Standing aside for Cooper to enter, Charlie said: “I wasn’t sure if it would be you who’d come.”
    “You ready?” Cooper demanded, not moving. The voice was brittle-toned public school.
    “Ready for what?”
    “It’s not going to be here.” The suit was a muted gray and Charlie guessed he could have achieved a closer shave from the sharpness of the trouser crease than he’d got earlier from his razor.
    “What isn’t?”
    “What do you think? I asked if you were ready.”
    “We going far?” asked Charlie, stumbling awkwardly into step behind the other man, vaguely disconcerted that he hadn’t anticipated the inevitable inquest being elsewhere. It indicated greater irritation than he’d imagined.
    Cooper didn’t reply, jerking his head toward the back of the anonymous, unwashed Ford. All the glass was smoked, even the fully raised screen between the driver and his rear-seat passengers.
    “I asked if we were going far,” Charlie repeated.
    “I don’t know,” said the man, not bothering to look across the car.
    It was possible Cooper didn’t, Charlie accepted. The Ford made a full, pursuit-testing circle around Sloane Square and two sharp, unsignaled diversions before resuming a gradually emerging northern route.
    “Maybe I should have packed an overnight bag?” Charlie tried again.
    “I’m not interested in small-talk shit,” announced Cooper, abruptly. “You’re one great big pain in the ass. You want to go on being stupid enough to do what you’re doing, whatever the fuck that is, that’s fine by me. You want to commit suicide, for Christ’s sake hurry up and do it so we can start looking after people who deserve to be looked after!”
    “I’m sorry if I’ve made your life difficult,” apologized Charlie, meaning it. They were clearing London but veering westward: