Comrade Charlie (38 page)

Berenkov turned away from the ignored window, hurrying back to his desk, excited by the resolve. He had to think it through, to guarantee there were no pitfalls, but it seemed to be the perfect answer, the way for him to pick up the puppet strings again. The essential requirement was to decide how much time he would have, following any seizure of Charlie Muffin, to complete everything in King William Street. Which was dictated by the length of the British interrogation. Berenkov smiled in continuing satisfaction, because he had the perfect guide to that from his own arrest and questioning. A month, he remembered: almost an entire month of morning till night inquisition from Charlie Muffin, the man he intended, with exquisite irony, to place in precisely the same position. Not that he would need a month to complete everything, Berenkov estimated. Two days, perhaps: three at the most. For the first two or three days of his own detention they'd hardly come near him. They'd followed the classic interrogation technique, leaving him absolutely alone in a cell to let his imagination build up the fears and uncertainties and panic. He couldn't rely upon whatever happened to Charlie Muffin being exactly the same as his own experience, of course. But it was more than enough for him to plan around.

What about Valeri Kalenin? It would be protocol to brief the man, now that everything was so close: certainly an act of friendship. But there could be dangers in his discussing it with the other man. Although Berenkov himself was completely satisfied he'd evolved a way to compensate for anything the British might do there was always the possibility that the more nervous Kalenin wouldn't agree. He might even use the unexpected London activity as an excuse to cancel the entrapment altogether, irrespective of how advanced it already was. And Berenkov knew he could not ignore a direct order. Better – safer – that he wait. There was, after all, a perfectly reasonable explanation, if one were later demanded, for his saying nothing. There was no
proof
that the British moves concerned Charlie Muffin. He was simply taking precautions if it did: there could be no criticism or censure in that.

Berenkov spent more than an hour drafting and redrafting his detailed orders to London, the most insistent of which was that the Soviet watch upon the Bayswater hotel be maintained and not lifted. And that he be alerted the moment something – anything – occured involving Charlie Muffin, be it day or night.

Which necessarily meant his remaining permanently at the First Chief Directorate building, Berenkov accepted. After ensuring the dispatch of the London instructions Berenkov had a cot moved into his office.

‘What's happened?' asked Valentina when he telephoned to tell her he was not coming home.

‘Nothing yet,' replied Berenkov. With his customary belief in himself he added: ‘But something will, soon now.'

Vitali Losev was in a foul mood, in no way alleviated by this being the last occasion he would have to deal with or even talk to a man he despised. It had started to rain after he left London and he didn't have a topcoat. The weather worsened the further south he travelled and although he managed to dodge from cover to cover after getting off the train he was still soaked when he reached the Portsmouth bar he'd established as their meeting place, his trouser cuffs clinging wetly to his ankles, his jacket soggy on his shoulders.

Blackstone was already there. The man smiled up hopefully when Losev entered and said, unwisely: ‘Rotten day?'

Losev didn't bother to answer. Instead he slid an envelope along the bar top and said: ‘Here it is: the retainer.'

‘How much is it?' demanded Blackstone. His tongue edged out, wetting his lips, as if he were tasting something.

‘Two hundred,' said Losev.

‘You're not wasting your money, believe me,' said Blackstone, thrusting the envelope into his pocket. ‘I still need to know the recognition procedure for this new man, Visitor.'

Losev smiled. ‘He knows you.'

‘Knows me!'

‘Why do you think no action was taken against you after the interview with that British security man?'

‘Him!' exclaimed Blackstone, incredulous.

‘What better way to protect ourselves?' said Losev. ‘He's been on our side for years.'

Fifteen of the notes in the envelope in Blackstone's pocket were numbered consecutively with the money that had been secreted in Charlie Muffin's flat.

41

Charlie failed: despite all Natalia's patience and coaxing tonight nothing happened,
would
happen, not like it finally had when the problem occurred before. Charlie said Oh Christ and he was sorry and Natalia kissed him and told him not to be silly, that it didn't matter and who said it had to work every time.

‘I did,' insisted Charlie, making a weak effort to ease his embarrassment.

‘Chauvinist pig!' she accused, trying to help him here, too.

‘It won't be like this again.'

‘It will and it won't matter then, either.'

Charlie gestured around the bedroom and said: ‘I'm not making excuses but this has all been a bit unreal, hasn't it?'

‘Completely,' Natalia agreed at once. ‘Unreal and wonderful.'

‘I've worried, at the risks you've had to take.'

Natalia kissed him again, on the cheek, and said: ‘I've been lucky. And careful. And prepared.'

‘How prepared?'

‘Like you told me, the simpler the better. If there'd ever been a challenge I'd have said I'd changed my mind and decided to go to the bar for a final drink. But I haven't had to.'

He had to tell her tonight, remembered Charlie. He said: ‘And now you won't.'

‘What?' she frowned at him.

‘I'm checking out tomorrow.'

‘But I…oh…'

‘I've got to, haven't I?' urged Charlie. ‘You just can't run, without some planning in advance.'

‘Of course,' accepted Natalia at once. ‘I just hadn't thought.' Or wanted to, she acknowledged, to herself. She felt safe, cocooned, in this bedroom: locked away where no one could get to them, hurt them. And more. His moving out, to make positive arrangements, finally committed her. And while she wanted to cross and was determined to cross she was still frightened. Frightened of being intercepted at the last minute and frightened of the unknowns of trying to live a new life in an environment and a country where she was a stranger and frightened of things she couldn't even conceive but feared would be ahead of her, lurking in dark corners.

‘You don't sound sure?'

‘Of course I'm sure: you know that…' Natalia trailed off. Then she said, hopefully. ‘Can't you imagine how I feel?'

‘I'm sorry,' said Charlie.

‘What must I do?' she asked quietly.

‘Do you know the rest of your itinerary?'

‘Farnborough, for the remainder of the trade days. The afternoon of the last but one day here in London, for official receptions. The last day is packing up – the shopping I told you about – and then the plane back to Moscow in the late afternoon.'

Charlie sat nodding, not looking at her. ‘The shopping expedition,' he decided. ‘That creates the best opportunity: the safest…' he turned to her. ‘Has there been any talk of groups being organized? Any arrangements made?'

‘Loosely,' said Natalia. ‘Everyone's talking about Harrods.'

‘Make yourself part of it,' insisted Charlie. ‘If your plane is going in the afternoon the outing will have to be in the morning. Just go with the group. It's a big store, usually crowded. Which is ideal. Let yourself become separated: it's got to appear completely accidental, to avoid any suspicion. There are a lot of exits and entrances. Make for the one directly opposite the underground – what you call metro – station. It's named Knightsbridge, after the district. Because it
is
a station it's busy, so there'll be a lot of cover from people using it.'

‘What do I do then?'

‘Just wait,' instructed Charlie. ‘I'll be ready, whatever the time.'

‘It all seems too…'

‘…simple,' finished Charlie. ‘It'll work.'

She smiled at the reminder. ‘I'll learn,' she promised.

‘Do you want me to go through it again?'

Natalia shook her head, serious-faced. ‘No.'

‘This is always the worst part, just before everything starts,' warned Charlie.

‘I've never known it,' said Natalia. ‘I wasn't trained as a field agent, like you. It's different for me: more difficult.'

‘Just a few more days,' said Charlie. ‘After that it'll all be over. We'll be settled.'

‘Where?'

‘I don't know, not yet.'

‘I wish…' started Natalia, and stopped. Enough! she told herself, irritated. There was no other way – no safer way – and it was ridiculous to start saying she wished that there were. He was a professional who knew what he was doing. She had to trust him. There was surely no one else in whom she could better put that trust.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Let's not leave any uncertainty about anything,' pressed Charlie. ‘We won't get second chances: neither of us expected this one.'

‘No, really.' She didn't want to – she
wouldn't
– show any weakness, let him know how really frightened she was. She was behaving like a child.

‘You sure?' said Charlie, still pressing.

‘Quite sure.'

Charlie looked at her, waiting, but Natalia didn't continue. He said: ‘I'll be waiting.'

‘I'll be there.'

The following morning Charlie telephoned reception from his room, apologizing for ending his booking early, but didn't go down into the foyer to settle his account until he was sure the Russian delegation would have left for Farnborough. When he got there the porter who'd greeted him the first day was behind his cubbyhole desk and Charlie smiled and said he was leaving and the porter said he was sorry he hadn't been able to be of more assistance.

‘Not that it would have been easy,' said the man, his ill-fitting teeth moving as if they had a life of their own. ‘Been a right work-up with all these Russians.'

‘Other people have told me,' commiserated Charlie.

‘Had to send out for more bar-stock two days ago,' disclosed the man. ‘Some of them really
did
need minders!'

Charlie paid his bill and assured the reception clerk and the cashier that he'd enjoyed his stay and walked out into the forecourt towards the road and its taxi stand.

They got him just at its edge. There were three men, one very large, who emerged from a blue Ford. The large one waved a piece of paper towards Charlie but too quickly for him to read it. The man said: ‘Charles Edward Muffin. This is a warrant for your arrest, issued under the necessary section of the Official Secrets Act.'

‘Hands against the car roof, sunshine,' ordered his immediate companion. ‘It's always wise to give bastards like you a pat-down.'

Charlie did as he was told, unprotesting. The man ran his hands expertly over Charlie's body, seeking a weapon, finishing with further expertise by running the search finally down Charlie's right arm and snapping a handcuff around his wrist before Charlie guessed it was going to be done.

‘Hey! What's going on!'

They all turned at the shout. The friendly, goldloving barman named John was hurrying along the pavement, on his way to open up for the day.

The big arresting officer sighed and took a small folding wallet from his jacket pocket, holding it in front of the man to halt the approach. ‘Smedley, Special Branch,' he said to the barman. ‘Piss off!'

Charlie said apologetically to the barman: ‘They've got to speak like that all the time otherwise they don't get the job.'

The man who had attached himself to the other end of the handcuff twisted in, thrusting Charlie into the rear of the car, and the big man got in on the other side, so that Charlie was crushed between them. The third man got in behind the driver's seat.

‘You're nicked, you are!' insisted the large man. ‘You're in the shit right up to your scruffy bloody neck.'

‘I often am,' confided Charlie mildly. He looked at the man and said: ‘So if you're Smedley…' He paused, turning to the man to whom he was tethered. ‘…then I suppose your name will be Abbott? You people normally stay together as partners, don't you?'

‘What the fuck are you talking about!' demanded Smedley.

‘Bullied any senile old ladies lately?' asked Charlie, in a very personal question of his own.

From that first alert, which came from the Soviet observers still in the hotel before Charlie was properly in the Special Branch car to be driven away, Vitali Losev had to do everything personally, specifically refused authority to delegate anything to any other Soviet intelligence officer and by so doing diminish or spread his own responsibility. Which was, he accepted, an open, threatening warning against his making the slightest error. He was not, however, unduly worried: identifiable responsibility against mistakes carried corresponding credit for success. And he did not consider what he had to do as particularly difficult. His predominant consideration, in fact, was that it put him very much in a position of superiority over everyone in the Kensington safe house but most importantly over Alexandr Petrin.

Losev approached the Kensington house by a circuitous, carefully checked route and did not hurry his final entry until he was completely sure that he was alone.

It was oddly quiet inside the large room where the drawing and the photographing were continuing, the atmosphere practically somnolent: Petrin was actually slumped in a chair, a discarded newspaper over his knees, heavy-eyed with boredom. There was a perceptible change when Losev entered the room, something like a stiffening going through the people in it, and Losev felt a flicker of satisfaction that the most discernible change came from Petrin.