Charlie M

(14)

Charlie spent the day before his Prague flight in Rye. He had telephoned from London, so when he arrived at the station, Wilkins, who had been manservant and chauffeur to Sir Archibald throughout his directorship of the department and retired on reduced pension rather than work for another man, was there to meet him.

They had known each other for twenty years, but Wilkins greeted him formally, allowing just the briefest, almost embarrassed handshake, before opening the car door.

It was a magnificent Silver Shadow, maintained by a chauffeur who adored it in a condition of first-day newness.

‘Car looks as good as ever,’ complimented Charlie.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Wilkins, steering it from the parking space.

‘If ever Sir Archibald fires you, come and drive for me,’ invited Charlie, attempting what had once been a familiar joke between them.

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Wilkins. He’d forgotten, thought Charlie, sadly. The response should have disparaged a Ford Anglia, a troublesome vehicle that Charlie had once owned.

‘Sir Archibald was sorry he couldn’t come to the station,’ recorded Wilkins.

‘Isn’t he well?’

‘He’s waiting at the house,’ avoided the chauffeur.

‘Isn’t he well?’ repeated Charlie, but Wilkins didn’t reply and after several minutes Charlie relaxed against the shining leather, knowing the conversation was over.

No, thought Charlie, as he hesitantly entered the lounge of Sir Archibald’s home, darkened by drawn curtains against the summer brightness. Sir Archibald wasn’t well. It was incredible, Charlie thought, remembering his last meeting in Wormwood Scrubs with Berenkov, how quickly people collapsed. The former Cambridge cricket blue who had captained his county until his fiftieth birthday and who, three years before, had been an upright six-foot-three who could command attention by a look, was now a bowed, hollowed-out figure, with rheumy eyes and a palsied shake in his left hand. He’d developed the habit of twitching his head in a curious, sideways motion, like a bird pecking at garden crumbs apprehensive of attack, and he blinked, rapidly and constantly, as if there were a permanent need for clear vision.

‘Charlie!’ he greeted. ‘It’s good to see you.’

The blinking increased. He was very wet-eyed, Charlie saw.

‘And you, sir,’ replied Charlie. Odd, he thought, how instinctive it was to accord Sir Archibald the respect he found so difficult with Cuthbertson.

‘Sit down, lad, sit down. We’ll drink a little whisky. I’ve some excellent Islay malt.’

Charlie had already detected it on the old man’s breath. Sir Archibald filled two cut-glass goblets, raised his and said: ‘To you, Charlie. And to the department.’

‘Cheers,’ said Charlie, embarrassed. It had been a forced toast and he wished the old man hadn’t made it.

Sir Archibald sat in a facing chair and Charlie tried to avoid looking at the shaking hand. The old man had always detested physical weakness, remembered Charlie. During his tenure as Director, medical examinations had been obligatory every three months.

‘Been unwell,’ complained Sir Archibald, confirming the expected irritation at his own infirmity. ‘Caught flu, then pneumonia. Spent too much time in the garden on the damned roses. Lovely blooms, though. Have to see them before you go.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. ‘I’d like that.’

Sir Archibald drank noisily, sucking the whisky through his teeth. Charlie became conscious of the stains on his jacket and trousers and sighed. Sir Archibald was a very shabby, neglected old man, he thought.

‘Good of you to come at last,’ said the former Director, floating the criticism.

‘Been busy,’ apologised Charlie, inadequately.

Sir Archibald nodded, accepting the excuse.

‘Course you have, course you have. See from the newspapers that you finally got Berenkov.’

‘Yes,’ conceded Charlie, modestly. ‘It was all very successful.’

Sir Archibald added whisky to both their glasses, looking cheerfully over the rim of the decanter.

‘Got a commendation, too, I shouldn’t wonder? Your job after all.’

‘No,’ said Charlie, staring down into the pale liquid. ‘I didn’t get a commendation. Two other operatives did though. Names of Harrison and Snare. You wouldn’t know them; they arrived after you left.’

‘Oh,’ said Sir Archibald, glass untouched on his knee. The old man knew it would be improper to ask the question, Charlie realised, but the curiosity would be bunched inside him.

‘It’s very different, now, sir,’ said Charlie, briefly.

‘Well, it had to be, didn’t it?’ offered Sir Archibald, generously.

‘For two unpredictable, entirely coincidental bits of bad luck?’ refuted Charlie, suddenly overcome by sadness at the figure sitting before him. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Come now, Charlie,’ lectured his old boss. There had to be a shake-up and you know it.’

‘It hasn’t achieved much.’

‘It got Berenkov,’ pointed out Sir Archibald.

‘I got Berenkov, operating a plan evolved by you and Elliot before the changes were made,’ contradicted Charlie.

‘It was sad about Elliot,’ reflected Sir Archibald, reminded of his former assistant and trying to defuse Charlie’s growing outrage. ‘I visit the grave sometimes. Put a few roses on it and ensure the verger is keeping it tidy. Feel it’s the least I can do,’

‘I’ve never been,’ confessed Charlie, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I was in East Germany when the funeral took place.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Sir Archibald. ‘Not important. It’s the living that matter, not the dead.’

It had been one of Sir Archibald’s favourite remarks, remembered Charlie.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, shielding his goblet from another addition from his persistent host.

‘Is it going to be difficult, Charlie?’ demanded Sir Archibald, suddenly.

‘What?’ frowned Charlie.

‘Oh, I know you can’t give me details … wouldn’t expect it. But is the operation you’re involved in going to be difficult?’

Charlie smiled, nodding his head at his former chiefs insight.

‘Very,’ he confirmed. ‘The most difficult yet.’

‘Thought it was,’ said the old man. ‘Knew there had to be some reason for the visit.’

Quickly he raised his shaky hand, to withdraw any offence.

‘Appreciate it,’ Sir Archibald insisted. ‘Consider it an honour to be thought of like this, by you.’

‘It’ll probably go off perfectly,’ tried Charlie, cheerfully.

‘If you believed that, you wouldn’t have bothered to come here to say goodbye,’ responded the former Director.

Charlie said nothing.

‘Anything I can possibly do to help?’ offered the old man, hopefully.

‘No,’ thanked Charlie. ‘Nothing.’

‘Ah,’ accepted Sir Archibald. ‘So you could die?’

‘Easily,’ agreed Charlie. ‘Or be caught.’

Charlie paused, remembering Berenkov. ‘I’m not sure of which I’m more frightened, death or a long imprisonment,’ he added.

Sir Archibald gazed around the room. ‘No, Charlie,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t know, either. But the risk isn’t new: it’s been there on every job upon which you’ve ever been engaged.’

‘This one is different,’ insisted Charlie.

The decanter was empty and Sir Archibald took another bottle from beneath the cabinet. They were regimented in lines, Charlie saw, before the door was closed. The former Director fumbled with the bottle, finally giving it to Charlie to open for him.

‘Have the department handled it right?’ demanded Sir Archibald, defiantly. He was getting very drunk, Charlie saw.

‘Competently,’ he said.

‘But I’d have done better?’ prompted the old man, eager for the compliment.

‘I think you’d have had more answers by now,’ said Charlie. It wasn’t an exaggeration, he thought. Sir Archibald could always pick his way through deceit with the care of a tightrope-walker performing without a net.

Sir Archibald smiled, head dropped forward on to his chest.

‘Thank you, Charlie,’ he said, gratefully. It was becoming difficult to understand him.

‘For coming,’ the old man added. ‘And for the compliment.’

‘I meant it,’ insisted Charlie.

Sir Archibald nodded. The glass was lopsided in his hand, spilling occasionally on to his already smeared trousers.

‘Be very careful, Charlie,’ he said.

‘I will, sir.’

‘Remember the first rule – always secure an escape route,’ cautioned Sir Archibald.

The training that got me back alive from East Germany, recollected Charlie.

‘Of course.’

Sir Archibald hadn’t heard him, Charlie realised. His head had gone fully forward against his chest and he had begun to snore in noisy, bubbling sounds. Carefully Charlie reached forward and extracted the goblet from the slack fingers and put it carefully on to a side table.

He stood for several minutes, gazing down at the collapsed figure. Every day would end like this, he realised; it was another form of imprisonment, like that of Berenkov.

‘Goodbye, sir,’ said Charlie, quietly, not wanting to rouse the man. He snored on, oblivious.

Wilkins was standing outside the room, waiting for him to leave.

‘He’s gone to sleep,’ said Charlie.

Wilkins nodded.

‘He’s not been well, sir,’ reminded the chauffeur.

‘No,’ accepted Charlie.

‘He misses the department … misses it terribly,’ said Wilkins in what Charlie accepted was the nearest the man had ever come to an indiscretion.

‘And we miss him,’ assured Charlie. ‘Tell him that, will you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ promised Wilkins. ‘It would please him to be told that.’

The man turned to the hall table.

‘He wanted you to have these, sir,’ said Wilkins, offering him a huge bunch of Queen Elizabeth roses. ‘He’s very proud of them.’

‘Tell him I was very grateful.’

‘Perhaps we’ll see you again, sir,’ said Wilkins, knowing it was unlikely.

‘I hope so,’ said Charlie, politely, knowing he would not make a return visit.

‘What lovely flowers,’ enthused Janet, as Charlie handed her the roses three hours later.

‘I got them from Sir Archibald Willoughby,’ reported Charlie.

The girl looked sharply at him.

‘The Director wouldn’t like it if he knew you’d seen him,’ said Janet, formally.

‘Fuck the Director, he’ll know anyway because his watchers followed me, all the time. They were so bloody obvious they should have worn signs around their necks.’

‘It’s still improper,’ insisted the girl.

‘If he doesn’t like it, he can go to Prague tomorrow and put his head in the noose, instead of staying behind in a comfortable office sticking pins in maps.’

The First Secretary, Vladimir Zemskov, was being cautious, judged Kalenin, unwilling to be openly critical before the full Praesidium.

‘It is distasteful to us to have to demand an explanation from such an experienced officer as yourself, Comrade General,’ he said.

Kalenin nodded, appreciatively.

‘But Comrade Kastanazy has made the complaint about the progress so far,’ hardened the Soviet leader. He waited, pointedly. ‘And the consensus of opinion,’ he continued, ‘is that insufficient thought and planning has been put into proposals to repatriate General Berenkov …’

‘I refute that,’ said Kalenin, bravely.

Several members of the Praesidium frowned at the apparent impertinence.

‘… I asked to be given a certain period of time,’ reminded Kalenin. ‘I understood from Comrade Kastanazy that I was being allowed that time. To my reckoning, it has yet to expire …’

‘… There are only a few more days,’ reminded Zemskov. The man was offended, Kalenin saw, and the ambivalent attitude was disappearing in favour of Kastanazy. They’d all follow Zemskov’s lead, he knew.

‘Allow me those days,’ pleaded Kalenin.

‘But no more,’ said Zemskov, curtly.

I won’t need any more, thought Kalenin.