Free Bearpit by Brian Freemantle

only to give unprovable verbal acceptance. He took it now from his safe, with no need to read it again. Across it he scrawled ‘Unacceptable. Unequivocable rejection’ and added the date to coincide with that of the day Agayans had written and annotated it. Also from the safe he extracted a backlog of documentation for his secretariat’s attention and dispersal, carefully sorting through until he reached the appropriate and matching date, inserting the Agayans document into the place it would have properly occupied if his supposed refusal had occurred on the day he received it. Just as carefully he placed the whole pile in the Out tray, for the following morning’s collection. Kazin pulled his appointment diary towards him, studying the two entries. Both read: ‘Review of position in Afghanistan. No further action.’
    What would the entries in Agayans’ diary read? The floodwaters began to seep in again as Kazin realized there would be no opportunity for him to seize and have undetectably changed whatever notes or documentation Agayans might have left, which had always been the intention. A fresh numbness began to move through the plump, sweat-dampened man and then the telephone sounded.
    â€˜There’s been an unforeseen incident,’ reported Panchenko, using the coded phrase that had been agreed between them.
    Relief – slight but still relief – moved through Kazin. He said: ‘Thank you for telling me,’ and replaced the receiver. There still remained too many uncertainties, too many unknown dangers.
    The first two days there had been anxiety, a will-there-won’t-there-be tenseness, but the designated book had been properly upright in its rack in the United Nations library. On the following day Yevgennie Levin’s attitude changed to one of expectation because Proctor, who had never let him down, had after all promised three days at the outside. And this was the third day. The boring, unread census document was there, like before; still upright, still undisturbed, still unread.
    Levin’s eyes clouded in frustration, and careless of being seen he closed them tight against the emotion. All the preparation had been against difficulties arising on his side, not that of the Americans. So what had happened? What had gone wrong?

8
    â€˜Dead!’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜How?’ There was a report, as stiffly formal as the colonel standing before him, but Malik wanted more, much more. He wanted everything.
    â€˜I responded immediately to your telephone instructions,’ recited Panchenko, monotone. ‘But it was evening, as you know. It entailed going to the Comrade Director’s home …’
    Malik sighed, curbing the impatience. It was as if the man were reading from the inadequate report he had already submitted. Malik said: ‘How did you know Agayans would be at home?’
    â€˜I did not,’ said Panchenko. ‘I learned by telephoning the duty registration clerk here that Agayans had already left. The garage said the journey was logged to his home, on Gogolevskiy Boulevard …’
    Unimpeachable police work, acknowledged Malik. He said: ‘Was any indication given that you were coming?’
    Panchenko allowed himself a frown. ‘Telephoning ahead, you mean?’
    â€˜Yes.’ His broken shoulder ached, like it often did, always an unnecessary intrusion. He resisted massaging it.
    â€˜There was no prior contact,’ insisted Pancheno stiffly.
    Malik wondered if the man slept in an attitude of permanent attention. He said: ‘How many men were assembled?’
    â€˜A squad. Four men besides myself,’ said the security chief.
    â€˜Were the four with you at Gofkovskoye Shosse?’
    â€˜I telephoned the department here, instructing they should be assembled.’
    â€˜So you returned here to pick them up?’
    â€˜No. We arranged a meeting point at Verdandskovo.’
    â€˜So there was no