Charlie M

(12)

The distrust was tangible, a positive obstruction between them, thought Charlie, sitting comfortably in the Director’s office.

He’d created the situation and was contented with it, examining the reactions like a researcher studying slides beneath a microscope.

Wilberforce was in his accustomed chair, examining his peculiar hands as if seeing their oddness for the first time and Cuthbertson was attempting to improve the design on an already tattooed blotter. He regretted now his earlier agreement to the Moscow tape recording being played in full, guessed Charlie.

Ruttgers stood by the window, driven there by the anger that had pulled him from the chair as the Neskuchny Sad recording had echoed in the lofty room. The American Director was swirled in a cloud of tobacco smoke.

Braley perched in the stiff, uncomfortable chair, pumping at his inhaler.

‘I repeat what I have already told Sir Henry,’ protested Ruttgers, staring out into Parliament Square. ‘Kalenin, if indeed the voice we have heard is that of Kalenin, is lying.’

‘To what purpose?’ enquired Charlie, in apparent innocence.

‘What right have you got to question me?’ demanded the American, imperiously.

‘The right of a man whose two colleagues have already perished as a result of C.I.A. involvement and whose neck is currently on the block,’ retorted Charlie, judging the offence.

Ruttgers looked at Cuthbertson for rebuke, but when none came reiterated, ‘The C.I.A. did not inform upon your operatives.’

‘Then what can it mean?’ coaxed Charlie. This encounter couldn’t have gone better, he thought.

‘That he was lying,’ said Ruttgers, without thought. ‘Or that it isn’t really Kalenin.’

‘Do you really feel that?’ seized Cuthbertson, ahead of Charlie, but prompting for different reasons.

‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ said the American.

‘Then it’s an equally reasonable assumption that the whole episode is phoney – as I have argued for many weeks now. And that we should stop this thing now without any more risk to either service or any more people,’ said Charlie.

Ruttgers stayed at the window, recognising the alley into which he had been backed.

The cracking of Wilberforce’s knuckles came over the sound of Braley’s wheezing; it was like being a sick visitor in a terminal ward, thought Charlie.

‘It must be pursued to the end,’ asserted Ruttgers, finally.

Cuthbertson looked up from his defaced blotter.

‘By my service,’ he qualified.

Ruttgers said nothing.

‘And on my terms,’ stipulated the ex-soldier.

Ruttgers sighed, accepting he had no bargaining counters. He nodded, briefly.

‘On our terms,’ demanded the British Director, insistent on a commitment.

‘Agreed,’ confirmed the American, tightly.

‘Which means I want somebody …’ Charlie paused, looking at the asthmatic Braley,’… him, with me in Czechoslovakia. At all times, in fact …’

Cuthbertson and Wilberforce looked up, frowning curiously.

‘Because having a C.I.A. man with me guarantees I won’t be exposed by them, doesn’t it?’ smiled Charlie, looking between the two Americans for reaction.

Ruttgers turned away from the window, his face clearing.

‘… But that’s …’

‘… me setting you up,’ interrupted Charlie. ‘I want him with me, but taking as little part as I determine in the discussions I have. He’s just always got to be within ten yards.’

‘Ten yards?’ queried Braley, the inhaler held loosely in his hand, like a blackboard pointer.

‘From that range, I’m classified as an expert shot,’ said Charlie, simply. ‘I’d see an arrest coming, long before ten yards …’

He stared directly at Ruttgers.

‘… I shall draw a gun from the British embassy,’ he recorded. ‘And before any arrest, I’ll kill your man. And that would create an embarrassing international cause célèbre, wouldn’t it?’

‘This is preposterous!’ complained the American, going to Cuthbertson.

‘Yes,’ agreed the British Director, ‘it is, isn’t it? But after the misfortunes that have occurred so far, I can see Muffin’s point of view.’

‘You want constant involvement,’ contributed Wilberforce. ‘This is surely what’s being proposed?’

Another blocked alley, saw Ruttgers.

‘I want to make it quite clear,’ began Ruttgers, formally, ‘that a full account of this meeting will be sent to the Secretary of State, Willard Keys, for whatever use he might see fit to make of it in his discussions with the President about the forthcoming European visit. I’m sure he’ll find it sad that the special relationship between our two countries has reached such a point.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ picked up Cuthbertson, unafraid. ‘I hope his distress will be matched by that of the British cabinet when they have had the opportunity fully to study the transcript of the Kalenin conversation.’

This was very bad, realised Ruttgers. If the British pressed the point, Keys would abandon him, assuring the President he had no knowledge of the entrapment of Snare and Harrison. He could be brought down by this débâcle, realised the American.

‘I think we are allowing stupid, unwarranted animosity to cloud the point of this meeting,’ he attempted.

‘Which is to bring successfully to the West the most important Russian defector since 1945?’ lured Charlie.

Ruttgers nodded, suspiciously.

‘To a scenario which you don’t accept?’ said Braley, to help his superior.

‘Doesn’t it seem to you that, Harrison and Snare apart, the whole thing has gone just a little too easily?’ asked Charlie.

‘Yes,’ agreed Ruttgers, immediately. ‘But then again, how else could it have gone? Kalenin is in a unique position to manipulate circumstances to his own advantage and to behave in a manner that others would find impossible.’

‘So now you accept it’s genuine?’ said Wilberforce, head sunk deeply on his chest so that the words were difficult to hear.

‘I’m saying we …’ Ruttgers paused, remembering the rebuke, ‘… you,’ he corrected, ‘should make the Prague meeting.’

‘Have your analysts examined every report and transcript?’ asked Charlie.

‘Yes,’ said Braley, shortly.

‘To what conclusion?’ demanded Charlie.

‘Apprehension,’ accepted Ruttgers. ‘But not the outright doubt that you’re expressing, Charles.’

‘Charlie,’ stopped the Englishman.

Ruttgers frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ demanded the American Director.

‘If you must use it, the Christian name is Charlie,’ he corrected.

Ruttgers looked in bewildered exasperation at Cuthbertson, who shrugged. Muffin was amazingly vindictive, decided Cuthbertson. Almost childishly so.

‘It just doesn’t feel right,’ swept on Charlie, enjoying his control of the meeting. They were all uncomfortable and confused, he saw, happily.

‘I know what you mean,’ said the American, staring at the peculiar Englishman. ‘But at this stage, we’ve got no choice but to go along with it.’

‘What about access to Snare?’ reminded Charlie, coming back to Cuthbertson.

‘Deferred,’ reported the permanently red-faced man. ‘Without any explanation.’

Charlie shook his head, unhappily, as if the delay confirmed his concern.

‘We can do nothing except follow Kalenin’s lead,’ stressed Braley, again taking his chief’s lead.

‘I believe Kalenin when he said he’s putting me under surveillance,’ said Charlie, opening a new course of discussion. ‘Even here, in London.’

Both Ruttgers and Cuthbertson frowned.

‘Have you been aware of it?’ asked Wilberforce.

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘But if they were good, and they will be, then I wouldn’t know of it, would I?’

‘So?’ queried Ruttgers. He examined the Englishman with interest. He was a complete professional, thought the C.I.A. Director: the only one, apart from himself and Braley, in the room.

‘So we must wash the money.’

Ruttgers moved, uncomfortably, like a subordinate aware of an indiscretion in front of the managing director at a firm’s Christmas party.

‘Now wait a minute …’

‘… we can’t wait a minute,’ cut off Charlie. ‘If that money isn’t broken down, Kalenin will know about it. You heard the tape. He just won’t cross.’

‘What’ll that involve?’ asked Braley.

‘To do it sufficiently publicly?’ said Charlie, rhetorically. ‘I’d say about two weeks to cover London, the South of France and Austria. And that’s not allowing for any unforeseen difficulties.’

‘We did record the numbers,’ confessed Ruttgers. ‘And it took us nearly a week, even feeding into a computer.’

‘We’ll still be able to keep a check,’ said Charlie.

‘How?’ asked Ruttgers.

‘Knowing every number is the optimum. And unnecessary,’ Charlie lectured. ‘To trace the money, if you need to, we’d need just a sample. Braley and I could use a pocket assessor and feed in a section of the cleaned money.’

Ruttgers frowned, doubtfully.

‘And let’s face it, you’re being incredibly cautious,’ stressed Charlie. ‘At a conservative estimate, it’ll take two years completely to debrief Kalenin. And even then he’ll need and probably demand help with a new identity, place to live and permanent guards. We’ll be aware of his location for ten to fifteen years from now. The money is very unimportant, except to him.’

And to the American Congress, thought Ruttgers. But the Briton was talking complete common sense. It really didn’t matter and Keys would have to accept that ground conditions made the change necessary. Equated against the amount of money the C.I.A. spent yearly, sometimes on madcap projects, this investment was infinitesimal, anyway. Ruttgers nodded acceptance, shifting from the window.

The man found it difficult to remain in any one position, thought Charlie, watching Ruttgers settle into the chair he had already quit four times during the course of the meeting.

Like Charlie, Ruttgers felt there was something indefinably wrong about the whole thing. But he did have what he wanted, a man involved from this moment in every aspect of the crossing, the American Director reassured himself.

‘Right,’ he accepted. ‘We’ll do what you suggest and hope it’s right.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ seized Charlie. ‘None of us knows whether we’re right or not. And we won’t for three weeks.’

Berenkov looked a caricature of the man he had once been, thought Charlie. The Russian edged almost apprehensively into the room, all exuberance gone, standing just inside the door and staring at his visitor, awaiting permission to advance further.

The man’s skin looked oily, but flaking, as if he were suffering from some kind of dermatitis and there was a curtain of disinterest over his eyes. He shuffled rather than walked, scarcely lifting his feet and when he spoke it was in the prison fashion, his lips unmoving.

‘Good of you to come, Charlie,’ he said. The voice was flat, completely devoid of expression.

‘You don’t look good, Alexei.’

The man stayed where he was, just inside the entrance.

‘Come in, Alexei. Sit down,’ invited Charlie. He felt patronising.

‘It’s been over a year,’ mumbled Berenkov, through those unmoving lips, disordering his hair with a nervous hand as he settled at the table. ‘One year, three months and two weeks.’

And two days, knew Charlie. How long, he wondered, before men with a sentence as long as Berenkov’s stopped marking the calendar?

He had nothing to say, realised Charlie.

‘I brought some magazines,’ he tried, hopefully. They’re being examined by the prison authorities, but it’ll only take a few minutes. You should have them by tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ said Berenkov, unresponsively.

He wouldn’t read them, Charlie realised. The degree of apathy into which the Russian had sunk would mean he spent all his cell-time staring at the wall, his mind empty. Berenkov had the smell of cheap soap and the proximity of too many bodies, thought Charlie, distastefully.

‘Any tobacco?’ cadged the Russian, hopefully.

Charlie pushed some cigarettes across the table. Berenkov took one, hesitated, then slid the rest into his pocket. He stopped, frozen for a second to await the challenge from Charlie. The Briton said nothing and Berenkov relaxed.

‘Doing anything interesting?’ asked the Russian.

Charlie looked at him curiously. It was a question without hidden point, he decided.

‘No,’ he generalised. ‘Just clerking.’

Berenkov nodded. He’d barely assimilated the words, Charlie saw.

‘But I’m going away on holiday for a few weeks,’ covered Charlie. ‘I won’t be able to see you for a while.’

Momentarily the curtain lifted and Berenkov frowned, like a child being deprived without reason of a Sunday treat.

‘You won’t abandon me, Charlie?’ he pleaded.

‘Of course I won’t,’ assured Charlie, holding without any self-consciousness the hand that Berenkov thrust forward. ‘I made you a promise, didn’t I?’

‘Don’t let me down, Charlie. Please don’t let me down.’

In Janet’s flat, three hours later, he swilled brandy around the bowl, watching it cling to the side. He looked up suddenly at the girl.

‘You know what?’ he demanded.

‘What?’ responded Janet.

‘Berenkov was right. All those months ago.’

‘About what?’

‘Me and imprisonment. He said I wouldn’t be able to stand it and he was right. I’d collapse even before he’s done.’

‘So what would you do?’ asked the girl, seriously.

‘If I knew capture was inevitable,’ asserted Charlie, ‘then I’d kill myself.’

She was going to cry, realised Janet. Shit, she thought.

Kalenin began setting out the tanks for Rommel’s assault upon Tobruk and then stopped the displacement, half completed. He wouldn’t play tonight, he decided. He straightened, staring down at the models. The forthcoming Czech visit and what was to follow made it unlikely that he would recreate the battle for some weeks.

If ever. The thought came suddenly, worrying him. Why, he wondered, was Kastanazy being so implacable in his campaign? It was an over-commitment in the circumstances and therefore stupid, likely to cause him problems. And Kastanazy wasn’t usually a stupid man.

Kalenin shrugged, replacing the tanks into their boxes. Perhaps it was time Kastanazy was taught a lesson, he thought, sighing. The man wasn’t liked in the Praesidium, Kalenin knew.

The General went into the regimented living-room, carefully positioned the cover over the headrest of the easy chair and sat down, looking with satisfaction around the apartment, enjoying its clinical neatness. Not one thing out of place, he thought. He smiled at the thought. The words that could sum up his life, he decided: everything in the right place at the right time.

He rose abruptly, without direction, bored with the inactivity. The next month was going to be difficult to endure, he realised.

He poured a goblet of Georgian wine, then stood examining it. Berenkov had been disparaging about his country’s products, recalled Kalenin. ‘Bordeaux has much more body. And a better nose,’ his friend had lectured, during their last meeting.

He envied Berenkov, Kalenin suddenly realised. The man was all he had ever wanted to be. But Berenkov had been caught, Kalenin rationalised. Which made him fallible.

Will I be detected? wondered Kalenin, finishing his wine.