See Charlie Run by Brian Freemantle

of Art Fredericks, putting the booklet back into the rack. ‘Got some good references.’
    â€˜Soviet or British?’
    Fuck you, thought Charlie. Take your pick,’ he said.
    Charlie walked deeper into the embassy alongside the CIA Resident, grinning at the Marine as he passed and thinking what an incongruous couple they must look; Charlie realized he scarcely reached the other man’s shoulders. There was a further identity check from more Marines at the actual entrance to the intelligence section of the embassy, and Fredericks signed his personal authority for Charlie’s admission. Beyond the desk, the corridors were blank walled and the doorways contained no glass, so that the offices beyond were completely concealed. Charlie looked up expectantly, found the camera monitor and winked.
    Fredericks’ office was large, because he was the CIA officer in charge, but it still didn’t seem big enough for the man. Charlie guessed the enormous enveloping chair had been specially imported. There was the obligatory US flag in the corner and the nameplate on the front of the desk, and behind, on a low cabinet, an array of sports pictures and pennants. Charlie identified the boxing prints and thought there was also a photograph of Fredericks in American football kit. It would, thought Charlie, have been a sight to see. On the desk itself was a family photograph of a pretty blonde-haired woman and two blonde-haired girls, faces of both dominated by freckles and a foundry’s supply of steel that always seemed to go into American teeth braces.
    â€˜So we’re going to work together?’ said Charlie.
    â€˜That was always the plan.’
    â€˜You’re setting up the meeting for me, with Kozlov?’
    Fredericks hesitated, glad he’d given the undertaking the previous night and was not being forced into an open capitulation or admission of how he’d tried to screw the scruffy son-of-a-bitch. Harry Fish was right; the bag women on 42nd Street were in better shape. He said: ‘I’ve started things off. Like I said, it’ll take a while.’
    â€˜You also said you thought Kozlov was genuine. Why?’
    There was another pause from the American. He’d worked his butt off, regarding this as probably the most important case he was likely to encounter in a dozen years, and now this guy was coming in and expecting to be fed it all on a plate. ‘Everything he’s said checks out.’
    Charlie sighed, conscious of the attitude. Openly to challenge would make things worse. He said: ‘OK, let’s start at the beginning. Anything known, in your records?’
    Fredericks shook his head. ‘We’ve run the name – and his wife’s – through every computer there is: ours, FBI, NSA and military and navy. FBI have two Kozlovs, both who served in Washington at one time or another. One is now in the Soviet embassy in Ankara, the other in Paris …’
    â€˜Photo-comparisons, to make sure they’re the same people?’ interrupted Charlie.
    â€˜Of course we made photo checks!’ said Fredericks, irritably. ‘The Kozlovs who are in Ankara and Paris are the guys who were in Washington. Neither of the wives’ names were Irena, either. Kozlov’s clean.’
    â€˜Sure that’s his real name?’
    â€˜We’ve no way of telling.’
    Charlie frowned openly at the evasion. ‘You want me to believe you haven’t taken a photograph, during one of your four meetings!’
    Fredericks smiled, in reluctant admission. He said: ‘Twice. We freighted the pictures back to Washington. He’s not on any mug file we or any other agency have.’
    â€˜Born?’
    â€˜Leningrad, 1940.’
    â€˜Age seem right?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Anything unusual?’
    â€˜Unusual?’ queried Fredericks.
    The man knew what he meant, for Christ’s sake! Charlie said: ‘Facial hair. Or lack of hair.