Charlie M

(7)

Hesitant and uncomfortable, like a couple selected by a computer dating service, the two Directors finally met at Cuthbertson’s club in St James’s Street, agreeing its security. Each had had detailed biographies prepared by their services on the other, and had memorised them. Purposely, phrases were introduced into the small talk, showing the preparation, each wanting the other to know that he was aware it wasn’t really a social occasion.

He’d been right, decided Ruttgers, smiling across the lunch table at the man. Sir Henry Cuthbertson was lost outside the barrack square and the benefit of Queen’s Regulations.

The Kalenin approach had been made at an American embassy function, recalled Cuthbertson, answering the smile. Their awareness and the consequent approach was hardly surprising. That the Director had come from Washington was unexpected, though. He’d impress Ruttgers, like he’d impressed the Prime Minister, three weeks earlier, determined the Briton.

‘These Arbroath smokies are very good,’ complimented the American, boning the smoked fish. ‘It’s something we don’t have in America.’

‘I’m very fond of your cherry-stone clams,’ countered Cuthbertson. Advantage Cuthbertson, he decided.

‘I was very glad when the Secretary of State suggested I come to make your acquaintance.’

The American lifted the Chablis at the end of the sentence.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ accepted Cuthbertson. ‘Yes, liaison is very important.’

‘Vitally important,’ said Ruttgers.

Deuce, decided Cuthbertson, irritably.

The waiter came to clear the plates, saving him.

‘In every field,’ he generalised.

‘But I’m interested in one particular aspect,’ pressed Ruttgers. ‘The immediate future plans of a certain General.’

Cuthbertson stared around him, alarmed. He was going to lose the encounter, he thought, worriedly.

The artificial reaction amused the American, who waited until the other man had come back to him. This was going to be comparatively easy, thought Ruttgers.

‘We know all about it,’ exaggerated the C.I.A. chief. ‘We know you’re expecting further contact within a week or two.’

It had been easy in the closed environment of Moscow to discover the impending arrival of the man named Snare. Already, the operative who had been Braley’s deputy in the Soviet capital had been ordered to keep the Briton under permanent observation once he arrived. They’d know immediately there was a move, Ruttgers hoped.

‘I find it difficult to understand what you’re talking about,’ said Cuthbertson, stiffly. This wasn’t going at all like the Downing Street meeting. No one had pushed him then, just listened in polite attention.

‘Come now, Sir Henry,’ protested Ruttgers, lightly, carefully lifting the mollusc from the top of his steak and kidney pudding and frowning at it.

‘It’s an oyster,’ said the Briton helpfully. ‘You’re supposed to eat it with the pudding.’

Ruttgers pushed it to the side of his plate.

‘There is no other man in the world to whom I would dream of talking as directly as this,’ continued Ruttgers, flatteringly, holding Cuthbertson’s eyes in a gaze of honesty. ‘We don’t have to be coy with each other, surely?’

Cuthbertson speared several marinated kidneys, filling his mouth so he could avoid an immediate reaction. The other man’s directness flustered him, as it was intended to do.

‘There is a development in the East which is quite interesting,’ conceded the Briton, at last. He sipped his Château Latour reflectively. ‘And I’m sure you won’t be offended,’ he hurried on, disclosing his apprehension, ‘when I say I don’t see that at the moment it affects you in the slightest …’

He paused, growing bolder.

‘… There is an excellent liaison between us, as we have agreed. If anything transpires, you’ll hear about it through the normal channels.’

Bloody prig, thought Ruttgers, smiling broadly in open friendship. He hadn’t believed people talked of ‘normal channels’ any more.

‘Sir Henry,’ he placated, let’s not misunderstand each other.’

‘I don’t think there’s any misunderstanding,’ insisted Cuthbertson. The game was swinging back his way, he decided.

Ruttgers spread his hands, recognising the cul-de-sac.

‘The Kalenin affair is spectacular,’ he announced, selecting a different path and trying to shock the man into concessions.

Cuthbertson curbed any concern this time.

‘It really is too much for one service,’ said the American.

‘I can recommend the Stilton,’ said Cuthbertson, twisting away. ‘With a glass of Taylors, perhaps?’

Ruttgers nodded his acceptance, feeling the anger surface. Arrogant, stupid old bugger. How, he wondered, desperately, would the professional soldier react to the suggestion of higher authority?

‘I have it on the direct instructions of the President himself,’ disclosed Ruttgers, grandly, ‘that I can offer the full and complete services of the C.I.A. on this operation;’

‘That’s very nice,’ replied Cuthbertson.

The American was unsure whether he was referring to the offer or the cheese.

‘It would be an absolute disaster for the West if anything went wrong,’ bullied Ruttgers.

‘I’m quite confident nothing will,’ said Cuthbertson, dabbing his lips with the linen napkin. The two men sat looking at each other.

‘I shall be staying in London for some time,’ said Ruttgers, maintaining the smile. ‘Now that we’ve opened up this personal contact between our two services, I think it should continue.’

‘Oh,’ prompted Cuthbertson, uncertainly.

‘By regular meetings,’ expanded Ruttgers.

‘Of course,’ agreed the British Director, surprised that the other man had capitulated so easily. ‘I’d like that.’

And he would, decided Cuthbertson, leaving the club for his waiting car. People appeared remarkably easy to handle: this job wasn’t going to be as difficult as he had feared, after all.

He smiled, settling back against the leather upholstery. It had been game, set and match, he decided.

The greetings weren’t the same any more, recognised Charlie, as Berenkov entered the interview room. The Russian’s exuberance was strained, as if he were constantly having to force his attitude and recall the exaggerated gestures. His skin had that grey, shining look of a man deprived of fresh air for a long period, and the familiar mane of hair was flecked with grey, too. The prison denims were freshly laundered and pressed, but the hands that lay flaccid on the table between them were rough, the once immaculate nails chipped and rimmed with dirt.

‘It’s good of you to come so often, Charlie,’ thanked Berenkov.

Since his return from holiday, Charlie had visited the spy every week: the decline in that time could be almost measured on a graph, thought the Briton.

‘How is it?’ Charlie asked, concerned.

Berenkov shrugged. He sat hunched over the table, as if he were guarding something between his fingers. Charlie saw the palm of his right hand was nicotine-stained where he smoked in the prison fashion, cigarette cupped inwards against detection. A year ago, thought Charlie, Berenkov had had a gold holder for the Havana Havanas. The Russian appeared to notice the dirtiness of his nails for the first time and began trying to pick away the dirt.

‘It’s not easy to adjust to a place like this, Charlie.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Charlie, immediately offended by his own platitude.

Berenkov looked directly at him for the first time, a sad expression.

‘I’m sorry,’ apologised Charlie. He should be careful to avoid banal remarks, he decided.

‘What’s happening outside?’ asked Berenkov.

‘It’s a rotten spring,’ replied Charlie. ‘More like winter – bloody cold and wet.’

‘I used to like the English winters,’ said Berenkov, nostalgically. ‘Some Sundays I used to go to Bournemouth and walk along the seafront, watching the sand driven over the promenade by the sea.’

Bournemouth, noted Charlie. Too far for a casual, afternoon stroll. So Berenkov had had a source at the Navy’s Underwater Weapons Establishment at Portland. He’d have to submit a report to Cuthbertson: they thought they had plugged the leak by the arrest of Houghton and Gee after the detection of Lonsdale, back in the 1960s.

‘You’ve been taken off the active rota,’ challenged Berenkov, unexpectedly.

Charlie smiled. The Russian wasn’t completely numbed by his imprisonment, he thought. But it was a fairly obvious deduction from the frequency of the visits.

‘I suppose so,’ admitted Charlie.

‘What happened?’

‘Face didn’t fit,’ reported the Briton. ‘There was a new regime: I upset them.’

The Russian carefully examined the man sitting before him, easily able to understand how he could have offended the British caste system.

Charlie Muffin was the sort of man whose shirt tail always escaped from his trousers, like a rude tongue.

Apart from the flat-vowelled accent, Charlie wore his fair hair too long and without any style, flopped back from his forehead. He perspired easily and thus rarely looked washed and the fading collars of his shirts sat uncomfortably over a haphazardly knotted tie, so it was possible to see that the top button was missing. It was a department store suit, bagged and shapeless from daily wearing, the pockets bulging like a schoolboy’s with unseen things stored in readiness for a use that never arose.

Yet about this man, decided the Russian, there was the indefinable ambience of ruthless toughness he had detected among the long-term prisoners with whom he was having daily contact. In Charlie it was cloaked by an over-all impression of down-at-heel shabbiness. But it was definitely there.

It was almost impossible to believe the man possessed such an incredible mind, thought Berenkov.

‘Is it a change for the good?’ asked the Russian.

The recorders were probably still operating, thought Charlie, despite the lack of interest now in Berenkov.

‘They’ve a different approach,’ sidestepped Charlie. ‘Very regimental.’

‘Soldiers can’t run spy systems,’ declared Berenkov, positively, picking up the clue that Charlie had offered.

‘You’re a General,’ said Charlie. ‘And so is Kalenin.’

‘Honorary titles, really,’ said the Russian, easily. He seemed to brighten. ‘More for the salary scale and emoluments than for anything else.’

‘Just like the capitalist societies,’ picked up Charlie, noting the change of attitude. ‘Every job has got its perks.’

The Russian became serious again.

‘You haven’t forgotten what I said, Charlie,’ he urged, reaching across the table and seizing the other man’s wrist. ‘Be careful … even though they’ve pushed you aside, be careful.’

Charlie freed his wrist, embarrassed.

‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. He sounded like a child protesting his bravery in the dark, he thought.

The Russian stared around the interview room.

‘Don’t ever let yourself get put in jail,’ he said, very seriously.

‘I won’t,’ agreed Charlie, too easily.

‘I mean it,’ insisted Berenkov. ‘If you get jailed, Charlie, your lot wouldn’t bother to get you out. Kill yourself rather than get caught.’

Charlie frowned at the statement. He would have thought Berenkov could have withstood the loss of freedom better than this. He felt suddenly frightened and wanted to leave the prison.

‘Come again?’ pleaded Berenkov.

‘If I can,’ said Charlie, as he always did. At the door he turned, on impulse. Berenkov was standing in the middle of the room, shoulders bowed, gazing after him. There was a look of enormous sadness on his face.

‘Charlie,’ he told himself, waiting in du Cane Road for the bus. ‘You’re getting too arrogant. And arrogance breeds carelessness.’

A woman in the queue looked at him curiously. She’d seen his lips move, Charlie realised.

‘So it didn’t work?’ queried Braley, perched on the windowsill of the room that had been made available to them in the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.

‘No,’ snapped Ruttgers. His face burned with anger. ‘Pompous bugger spent most of the time trying to teach me how to eat oysters.’

Braley frowned, trying to understand, but said nothing.

‘We can’t do anything unless they let us in,’ said the Moscow Resident.

‘I know,’ agreed Ruttgers, slowly.

‘So what now?’ asked Braley.

Ruttgers smiled, an expression entirely devoid of humour.

‘Lean on them,’ said the Director. ‘In every way.’

Braley waited, expectantly.

‘And if something started happening to their operatives,’ continued Ruttgers, ‘then they’d need assistance, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Braley. ‘They would.’

Ruttgers, he thought, looking at the mild little man, was a rare sort of bastard. It was right to be frightened of him.