Comrade Charlie (11 page)

Natalia found herself enjoying her role. The official meetings were not difficult to interpret, either verbally or by intention, and after shutting herself away in the Mytninskaya apartment for so long the sudden social change was pleasant, as well. She liked the cocktail parties and the receptions and the dinners. There were limited but interesting tourist outings and three press conferences, each with photocalls from which Natalia instinctively and protectively recoiled until pressured into forming part of the groups.

When she returned to Moscow she was surprised to see the photographs published in
Pravda
and
Izvestia
, both with her name printed in full.

Dutifully fulfilling her imagined function, Natalia wrote a comprehensive and annotated report of the visit, with a single-sheet summary in which she judged that although the Australians had been welcoming and friendly she did not believe an official invitation would be forthcoming so close to a general election within the country. It proved to be an accurate assessment.

The North American tour was longer and with a different government group, a perennial Trade Ministry quest for grain sales to supplement another failed Russian harvest. This time there was advanced publicity, a group photograph published in
Pravda
and again with everyone identified by name.

Natalia conducted herself as carefully as before. This time the sexual advance came from a deputy minister who accepted her refusal philosophically and switched his attention at once to one of the accompanying female stenographers who was equally unoffended but still said no. There were eight days in Ottawa, again concluding with press conferences and photographs, and from Canada they flew south to Washington. The scheduled American visit lasted a week and ended with a joint conference with US agricultural and trade officials who disclosed tentative agreement to supply the full amount needed to make up the Russian shortfalls.

In her assessment upon her Moscow return Natalia warned against their becoming over-reliant upon American supplies that could be used as a bargaining lever in some quite separate, later negotiation between the two countries.

Berenkov responded by return, congratulating her upon her analyses – as he had after her correct interpretation in Australia – and assured Natalia her transfer was being regarded even beyond the First Chief Directorate as an unqualified success.

Blackstone could not remember feeling like this before: couldn't put into so many words
exactly
how he did feel. He felt comfortable. And supremely confident, without those worrying dips into depression. But most of all there was relief at not having to worry any more. There'd never seemed to be a time in the past when part of his mind wasn't occupied with money, making calculations on scraps of paper, often virtually fingering the edges of the coins in his pocket to count how much he had. He didn't have to do that any longer, not any of it. Christ, it was a good feeling! Not something he wanted to lose, ever. So he was going to make bloody sure he didn't. The drawings so far had been easy. Not that he'd said so, of course. He hadn't made them look like a quick or simple job, either. He'd done them properly, top-quality stuff, giving good value for what he got.

And he hadn't flashed the money around, either. Not too much, anyway. The car, a second-hand Ford but a good one, nearly new, had cost more than he'd really planned to spend and he'd had to spread quite a lot on hire purchase, but there'd be no difficulty keeping up the payments, with his extra income guaranteed. And the separate holidays were booked, with Ruth and Ann. And it was good, being able to go into shops with either of them and say things like ‘If you want it, it's yours' when they tried on a dress or something.

Blackstone thought back to another time, a time he was never going to know again, when he'd been worried as usual but cheered himself up, thinking of his luck in having both Ann and Ruth. Now everything
was
perfect, he decided: absolutely perfect.

12

Charlie's cubicle was on the fifth floor, overlooking an unused courtyard at the back. The corridor and other offices seemed much quieter than usual, with hardly anyone about, as if they'd all heard the airraid siren and rushed off to the shelters before the bombs started to drop. At this door Charlie hesitated, looking through the fluted glass into the facing cubicle. It was nominally the office of Hubert Witherspoon, whom Charlie suspected of being the eager purveyor of his indiscretion to Harkness. It looked, as it always looked, like an entry for the Neat Office of the Year Award, but Witherspoon wasn't there. If there had been a rush for the airraid shelters Witherspoon would have been way out in front to get the deepest, safest place with his sandwich pack and toilet deodorizer.

Charlie's quarters looked like the bomb had already scored a direct hit. The non-classified InTraffic that Charlie was listed automatically to receive had continued uninterrupted while he had been away. It overflowed the provided tray, and messengers had made a pile beside, on the desk, and when that got high enough to topple over they had started stacking them on the floor. There was a second tray for signals advising Charlie in his absence that classified material was awaiting his signature and collection from Dispatch. It was empty, like it had been for months. On top of the two filing cabinets, in an empty milk bottle, drooped the skeleton of an atrophied tulip he'd stolen from St James' Park coming back from lunch one evening; he couldn't remember where he'd got the empty milk bottle.
The Times
still lay on his picked-at, cluedotted blotter, folded as he'd left it at the crossword. Someone had filled in with a contrasting red pen the word that had baffled him – ‘Idiot' – in response to the clue asking who told
Macbeth
that life was but a walking shadow. Witherspoon, guessed Charlie: the prick was always going on about Double-whatevers from Oxford and trying to prove how clever he was. Charlie didn't think the answer was right.

Charlie sat heavily in his chair, thrust sideways to get it going and managed a complete circle before the momentum stopped. The story of his recent existence, he thought; going around in circles getting nowhere. But not today. Today there was the confrontation with Harkness. Charlie was looking forward to it more than he'd looked forward to anything for a long time.

His move or Harkness'? His entry past the document check on the ground floor would have been tabbed, for instant notification. So Harkness, four floors above in that taken-over Director General's office, would know he was in the building. And protocol dictated that he wait in the rabbit hutch until he was summoned.

‘Fuck that,' said Charlie to himself. He used the internal direct line which sometimes Sir Alistair Wilson had actually answered himself because that was what the line was for, immediate contact. It was Laura who replied.

‘The prodigal returns!' announced Charlie. There was no immediate response and Charlie said: ‘Hello?'

‘We've been advised,' said Laura. Her voice was rehearsed-sad, the way people sympathize with death.

‘How's Paul's prickly heat?'

Laura ignored the question. Instead she said: ‘I thought you might have called in
between.'

‘Best I didn't,' assured Charlie.

‘You any idea what you did!'

‘Followed procedure,' recited Charlie. ‘Now I've been ordered to report in. Shall I come on up?'

‘Of course you can't come up just like that. I'll ask.'

‘Shall I hang on?'

‘I'll call you back.'

It was a full half hour before the call came. The outside corridors and office were as quiet as before and there was no one else in the lift. It took a further fifteen minutes to negotiate the top-floor security check before Charlie was admitted to the inner sanctum of squashy carpet and bewigged ancestors. They still clutched their globes and compasses and looked hopeful.

Laura was waiting at the door of her own office, through which he had to pass to reach Harkness. As he approached she felt out for his hand, a mourning gesture again, and said: ‘I've been as worried as hell about you: I still am.'

‘There's still a lot I don't understand,' lied Charlie.

‘Be…' started the girl.

‘…careful,' finished Charlie. ‘Always. Trust me.'

Harkness was leaning forward oddly low against the Director General's desk, like a trench soldier who disbelieved the Armistice had been declared. The desk was completely clear, the man not bothering with the pretence of any previous or more important paper work: Harkness stared unblinkingly at Charlie as Charlie crossed the expansive office. The interior continued the style of the exterior, up-to-theankle carpet, yesteryear panelling and self-satisfied predecessors who'd always had butter on their bread. Once again there were no conveniently placed chairs, meaning that he had to stand: little cunt intent on little victories, Charlie thought. He was determined against the man achieving many more today.

Harkness cleared his throat and said: ‘You caused a very great disturbance: a very great disturbance indeed.'

‘Strictly adhering to laid-down regulations,' said Charlie. ‘What's the result of the investigation, sir?' The respectful title was open contempt from a man who'd never before called Harkness sir and who'd never in his career observed any of the guidelines. And you know it and there's fuck all you can do about it, thought Charlie.

‘You are not under surveillance,' said Harkness, matching formality with formality. The waistcoated suit was blue, the pastel accessories pale mauve.

Charlie let his shoulders fall, a man from whom a burden has been lifted. ‘That's a relief!' he said.

‘I would have liked prior discussion, before the full alarm was initiated,' blurted Harkness, just failing to stop the rise of anger in his voice.

I bet you would, you little shit, thought Charlie; so you could have contained everything. He said: ‘Your specific orders are to react without any delay, sir.'

‘Stop reminding me of regulations!'

Temper, temper, thought Charlie: I've hardly started yet. He said: ‘So what was it all about, sir?'

Colour was increasingly suffusing Harkness' face, so that he looked like someone who'd fallen asleep in the sun. He said: ‘It would appear to have been a false alarm.'

No you don't, decided Charlie. He said: ‘I don't see how that could be, sir. Two men interrogated my mother and I categorically established that they were imposters.'

There was a prolonged silence and Charlie guessed the other man was trying to find the escape words and phrases. Stumble and thrash about, Charlie thought contentedly: there aren't any.

‘There was an internal mistake,' managed Harkness finally. ‘Men exceeded instructions.'

Charlie dropped his head to one side. ‘I'm afraid I don't understand, sir.'

‘A routine check that was taken too far.'

Now it was Charlie who let the quiet build up between them, conscious of Harkness' discomfort rising with it. When the silence was on the point of going on too long Charlie said: ‘Routine check? By our own internal security, you mean?'

Harkness swallowed, nodding. ‘Yes.'

‘Are you telling me my mother was interrogated by members of
this
department!'

‘Questioned,' Harkness tried to qualify. ‘Questioned, not interrogated.'

‘She's seventy-seven years old,' said Charlie, very softly, very controlled. ‘Seventy-seven years old and senile.'

Harkness looked away, unable to meet Charlie's look. The man mumbled: ‘Internal mistake, like I said.'

‘There are operational memoranda,' reminded Charlie. Still soft, still controlled: You're going to roast until every little bit is cooked, ready to eat, Charlie promised himself.

‘Overlooked, I'm afraid.'

‘Overlooked by whom!'

‘Impossible case-load, trying to fulfil two functions during the Director General's illness.'

That explanation had a said-before ring about it, isolated Charlie triumphantly. Determined to get a direct admission, Charlie said: ‘MI5's involvement would automatically have brought the matter to the attention of the Joint Intelligence Committee, wouldn't it?' And the Prime Minister, who chairs it, Charlie concluded mentally.

In a life filled with more dislike and antagonism than a mongoose on a snake farm, Charlie had been subjected to a great many hate-filled stares but few equal to the one that came at that moment from Richard Harkness. The man said: ‘I think it right that I should extend to you the proper apology.'

Charlie tried to gauge how difficult, practically verging on the super-human, it would have been for Harkness to say that. And still I'm not satisfied, Charlie thought, relentlessly vindictive. He said: ‘I'll pass that apology on to my mother, shall I? She was very unsettled by the episode.'

‘If you would,' muttered Harkness. There was growing around the man an attitude of distraction, as if he found it difficult completely to concentrate.

Charlie felt neither pity nor sympathy. Neither was an easy attitude for him at the best of times and they were never likely to be extended to Harkness. Charlie made up rules, far less verbose and convoluted than those created by Harkness. One of the foremost was always shaft first the bastard trying to shaft you and with a blunter, hotter shafting machine. He said: ‘I gave permission at the spy school for you to access my personal file. The one that includes the medical records. You did get it, did you?'

Harkness nodded his head, awkwardly, as if he were punch drunk. ‘A further misunderstanding. I've returned it, of course.'

‘This routine investigation to which I have been subjected?' persisted Charlie. ‘Is it concluded now?'

‘Yes,' said Harkness.

‘I do have the right officially to be informed of that, don't I?' said Charlie.