Charlie M

(15)

Charlie invariably grew nostalgic about the East European capitals he visited, trying to envisage the life of centuries before and those years free of concerted oppression when the people delighted in grandiose architecture and extravagant monuments to their own conceit.

‘Prague would have been a women’s city,’ he told himself, in the taxi negotiating its way over the Manesuv Bridge. He stared along the Vlatva river towards the Charles Bridge upon which he was scheduled to meet Kalenin the following day.

‘Please God, make it be all right,’ he mumbled. He became aware of the driver’s attention in the rear-view mirror and stopped the personal conversation. A psychiatrist would find a worrying reason for the habit, Charlie knew.

The car began to go along Letenska and Charlie gazed up at Hradany Castle on the hill. The remains of King Wenceslaus were reported to be there, he remembered. He should try to visit the cathedral before he left.

The reception at the embassy was stiffly formal, which Charlie had expected. It was an embassy unlike most others, in which he had no friends, and he guessed no one there would make it easy. The high-priority message from Downing Street to the ambassador would have indicated the importance of Charlie’s mission, but equally it would have alerted the diplomat to the risk of having his embassy and himself exposed in an international incident that could retard for years the man’s progress through the Foreign Office. It was right they should resent his intrusion, he accepted.

‘I hope to leave within days,’ Charlie assured the First Secretary, who gave him dinner. Charlie’s cover came from the Treasury, checking internal embassy accounts. It was the easiest way for quick entry and exit.

‘Good,’ said the diplomat, whose name was Collins. He was a balding, precise man who cut his food with the delicacy of a surgeon. His attitude reflected that of the ambassador, Charlie guessed.

‘There really shouldn’t be any trouble,’ tried Charlie.

‘We sincerely hope not,’ said Collins immediately.

He was regarded with the distaste of a sewage worker come to clear blocked drains with his bare hands, decided Charlie. Sod them.

‘There is one thing,’ said Charlie, remembering the threat made when the C.I.A. presence had been forced upon the department. It seemed rather theatrical now, but it was a precaution he would have to take.

‘What’s that?’

‘I shall want a gun.’

Collins looked at him, incredulously.

‘A what?’ he echoed.

‘Don’t be bloody stupid, man,’ replied Charlie sharply. ‘A gun. And don’t say the embassy haven’t got one because I had three sent out in the diplomatic pouch a fortnight ago.’

Collins dissected his meat, refusing to look at him.

‘The instructions to the embassy were signed personally by the Prime Minister,’ threatened Charlie, irritated by the treatment. He was behaving just like Ruttgers, Charlie thought, worriedly.

‘I’ll ask the ambassador,’ undertook Collins.

‘Tell the ambassador,’ instructed Charlie. His anger was ridiculous, he accepted, quite different from his normal behaviour in an overseas embassy. Because of it, the meal became stifled and unfriendly and Charlie drank too much wine. He did it knowingly, anticipating the pain of the following day but needing it to submerge his fear and spurred by irritability. Twice during the dinner, offended at the continued pomposity of the First Secretary, Charlie stopped just short of fermenting a pointless dispute.

He retired immediately after the meal, sitting in the window of the room with a tumbler of duty-free whisky, gazing out over the darkened city. A thousand miles away, he ruminated, an old man for whom he would once have happily died was probably sitting in a window holding a larger amount of whisky, staring out over his rose bushes. The degeneration of Sir Archibald had frightened him, accepted Charlie. He snorted, drunkenly, at the thought. And Berenkov had frightened him and the assignment frightened him.

‘Wonder I’m not constantly pissing myself,’ he mumbled.

Spittle and whisky dribbled down his chin and he didn’t bother to wipe it.

‘Got to stop talking to myself,’ he said.

He slept badly, rarely losing complete consciousness and always aware of himself through spasmodic, irrational dreams in which first Ruttgers and then Sir Archibald pursued him wielding secateurs and he panted to evade them, burdened by the wheezing Braley slung across his shoulders.

He abandoned the pretence of sleep at dawn, sitting at the window again, watching the sun feel its way over the ochre, picture-painted buildings in the old part of the city immediately below him.

He had the hangover he had expected. His head bulged with pain that extended down to his neck and his mouth was arid. It had been a stupid thing to have done and would affect his meeting with the Russian, he thought.

He breakfasted alone, in his room, uncontacted by anyone. Finally he approached Collins’s office, determined to control the annoyance.

‘The ambassador has approved the issuing of a revolver,’ said the meticulous diplomat.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. He felt too ill to compete with the man, anyway.

The weapon lay on the desk and Collins looked at it but refrained from touching it, as if it were contaminated. Charlie picked it up and placed it in the rear waistband of his trousers, at the small of his back, where it would be undetectable to anyone brushing casually against him and not be a visible bulge unless he fastened his jacket.

He was conscious of Collins studying him, critically.

‘I don’t bloody like it, either,’ said Charlie, venting his apprehension.

It was a warm, soft day and if he hadn’t felt so unwell Charlie would have enjoyed the walk down the sloping, sometimes cobbled, streets.

The Charles Bridge is one of the ten that cross the Vltava to link both sides of the city but is restricted entirely to pedestrians. Each parapet is sectioned by huge statues of saints.

Charlie approached early from the direction of Hradany, so he loitered before the shops in the narrow, rising approach to the bridge, stopping for several moments apparently to study the fading, pastel-coloured religious painting adorning the outside of the house at the immediate commencement. He was not being followed, he decided.

The bright sunlight hurt his eyes, increasing the discomfort of the headache. He felt sick and kept belching.

Slowly he began to cross the bridge, professionally glad it had been chosen as a meeting place. It was thronged with tourists and provided excellent cover.

He saw the American first.

Braley had approached from the opposite side of the river and had halted by one of the statues. He was wearing sports clothes and an open shirt, with a camera slung around his neck. It was very clever, conceded Charlie, reminded again of the fat man’s expertise. Without creating the slightest suspicion, the American was ideally placed to photograph the meeting between him and Kalenin.

So thick was the midday crowd he almost missed the General. The tiny Russian was standing where they had arranged, wearing a summer Russian raincoat that was predictably too long, staring up towards the sluices. Charlie felt a shudder of fear go through him and he shivered, as if he were cold. He gripped his hands tightly by his side, pushing his knuckles into his thighs.

‘Too late to be frightened, Charlie,’ he told himself. ‘You’re committed.’

As he covered the last few yards, he tried to isolate the watchers in addition to Braley but failed. It was to be expected, rationalised Charlie. Those immediately around the K.G.B. chief would be the absolute best: Ruttgers and Cuthbertson would have people there as well, he knew.

Charlie grinned, despite the nervousness and discomfort. There hadn’t been a moment for the past three months when he hadn’t been under collective surveillance from one service or another, he thought. Presidents didn’t get better protection.

He positioned himself alongside the Russian without looking directly at him.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he apologised. He was still dehydrated from the alcohol and his voice croaked.

‘Not at all,’ assured Kalenin. ‘I was early.’

Charlie felt the other man examining him.

‘Are you all right?’ asked the General. ‘You don’t look well.’

Charlie turned towards him.

‘Fine,’ he lied.

Kalenin nodded, doubtfully.

‘I’m afraid Snare has had a collapse,’ announced the General.

Charlie stayed, waiting.

‘Apparently couldn’t stand solitary confinement,’ reported the Russian. ‘Our psychiatrists are quite worried.’

‘He’s in the Serbsky Institute?’ predicted Charlie.

‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘It’s remarkably well equipped.’

‘So we’ve heard in the West from various dissidents who’ve been brainwashed there,’ responded Charlie, sarcastically.

Kalenin frowned at the remark, then shrugged.

‘My people will be upset at the news,’ said Charlie.

It was quite unintentional, I assure you,’ replied Kalenin. ‘In the circumstances, I couldn’t let him come into contact with anyone, could I?’

‘No,’ accepted Charlie. ‘I don’t suppose you could.’

Kalenin looked back up the river.

‘I’ve always liked Prague,’ he said, conversationally. ‘I think of it as a gentle city.’

Charlie was perspiring, not just from the heat, and the pain in his head drummed in time with his heartbeat.

‘We’re not here to admire the city,’ he reminded, curtly.

Again Kalenin turned to him.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’re recording this meeting?’ queried Kalenin, expectantly.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, patting his pocket. Kalenin nodded.

‘You were very punctilious about the money.’

Further along the bridge, Charlie saw Braley manœuvre for a photograph.

‘I see your companion in Vienna and France is a little further along,’ continued Kalenin, without turning around. ‘Shall I meet him?’

The Russian was smiling, happy at his control of the situation.

‘That’s a matter for you,’ said Charlie, disconcerted.

‘I think we should, in a moment,’ replied Kalenin. ‘I’ve worked out the crossing with great care and I don’t want anything to go wrong: it’s best he hears at the same time as you.’

‘We’ve also done a fair amount of planning,’ guaranteed Charlie.

Kalenin nodded again. He’s patronising me, thought Charlie.

‘The money will be in Austria?’ demanded Kalenin.

‘I’ve already lodged it at the embassy,’ said Charlie.

‘Good,’ praised Kalenin. ‘Good. You really do seem to have put some thought into it.’

The General turned, looking towards the American.

‘To avoid repetition, shall we join Mr Braley now?’

It would have been relatively easy to compare pictures taken in Austria and France against those of former personnel at the Moscow Embassy, supposed Charlie.

The American saw them approaching and moved against the parapet, gazing fixedly at the view.

‘Are there many pictures of our meeting, Mr Braley?’ greeted Kalenin.

Braley’s chest pumped uncertainly.

‘We were photographed as well as seen during the money-changing,’ enlightened Charlie, feeling sorry for the C.I.A. man.

Braley swallowed, trying to curb the nervous reaction.

‘Good day, sir,’ he said to the Russian, awkwardly.

It sounded a ridiculous greeting in the circumstances and Charlie wanted to laugh. Nerves, he thought.

Kalenin continued walking, without replying, leading them from the bridge. He appeared very confident, thought Charlie; too confident, even. The man could ruin the whole thing by conceit, thought the Englishman, worriedly.

‘There’s a very attractive horologue in the old town,’ lectured Kalenin, like a tourist guide, as they reached the covered pavement. ‘And some pleasant cafés.’

Charlie and Braley exchanged looks, but said nothing. The American was as uncertain as he was, saw Charlie.

Kalenin made a point of showing them the gilded timepiece before courteously seating them at a pavement table and ordering drinks. He and Braley had beer, but Charlie selected coffee.

‘I have been thinking very deeply about what is to happen,’ said Kalenin slowly. He was speaking, thought Charlie, as Cuthbertson would have addressed a class at staff college.

Kalenin looked directly at both before continuing.

‘I have become increasingly aware of the enormous value I have in the West,’ said the General. ‘Upon reflection a value far in excess of $500,000.’

Braley moved to speak, anticipating a change of mind in the Russian, but Kalenin raised his hand imperiously, stopping the interruption. From somewhere in the square, Charlie knew, there would be cameras recording every moment of the encounter: the admiration of the horologe and selection of the conveniently free café table was very rehearsed.

‘I am determined to be properly treated,’ continued Kalenin.

He was ill at ease with pomposity, thought Charlie.

‘I don’t think you need have any doubt about that,’ assured the Briton.

Kalenin looked at him, irritably.

‘Allow me to finish,’ he demanded. ‘As I have already indicated, I will cross over on the nineteenth. I’ve arranged a visit to the border area in such a way as to allay any suspicion. I have selected Jaroslavice as the crossing point …’

The General paused.

‘… don’t forget that,’ he instructed.

‘… Jaroslavice isn’t on the border,’ corrected Charlie, immediately.

Kalenin sighed. ‘I know,’ he accepted. ‘I mention the town for map reference. I shall cross at Laa an der Thaya. I preseume you will have people back at Stronsdorf, but that won’t be enough …’

Charlie smiled at the man’s behaviour. It wasn’t natural, he knew. But Kalenin was sustaining it well.

‘We won’t forget the crossing point,’ he promised.

Kalenin looked at him sharply, suspecting mockery.

‘I’ve not the slightest intention of crossing in the vague expectation of a reception committee in Stronsdorf,’ announced the General. ‘I must know the arrangements that have been made to receive me in the West. And be assured they will be followed.’

Braley looked questioningly at Charlie, who nodded.

‘You were quite right, sir,’ began the American at last, ‘in your assessment of your importance. If it will convince you of our awareness of it, let me say that both the British and American Directors are personally making the trip to Austria to greet you …’

Kalenin beamed.

‘Exactly,’ he said, apparently not surprised by the news. ‘That’s at exactly the sort of level I want to conduct the whole affair.’

Charlie began to feel better and waved for more drinks, ordering a beer for himself this time. He stared around the square, trying to identify the watchers. It was hopeless, he decided, abandoning the search.

‘What time do you intend to be at Laa?’ he asked the Russian.

‘Night will be best,’ said Kalenin, immediately. ‘According to my estimate, if we travel through Ernstbrunn and Korneuburg, we can reach Vienna in little over an hour …’

Charlie nodded, doubtfully. Longer, he would have thought.

‘… I want you waiting on the Austrian side of the border promptly at 10.30. But not before. I don’t want a caravan of cars attracting attention,’ ordered Kalenin.

‘It’ll hardly be dark,’ complained Braley.

‘Dark enough,’ insisted Kalenin.

‘Shouldn’t we arrange a contingency situation, in case there is any cause for your being delayed?’ asked Charlie.

Kalenin smiled sympathetically at the Englishman.

‘Instructing me on trade-craft?’ he mocked.

‘Trying to guarantee a successful operation, General,’ retorted Charlie, tightly.

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ said Kalenin, confidently. ‘Nothing at all.’

He raised his glass, theatrically.

‘To a perfect operation,’ he toasted.

Feeling uncomfortable, both Charlie and Braley drank.

‘And another thing,’ said Kalenin. ‘I want the money brought to the border. I want to see it …’

‘… But …’ Charlie began.

‘… I want to see it,’ cut off Kalenin, definitely.

He stared at Charlie, alert for any challenge.

Charlie shrugged. ‘As you wish,’ he said.

‘I wish,’ picked up Kalenin. ‘And please inform your people …’ he paused, ‘… on both sides of the Atlantic,’ he qualified, ‘of my insistence at being accorded the proper reception and continued treatment befitting my position.’

‘We’ll inform them,’ undertook Charlie. It would be interesting to see the reaction of both Directors when the tape was played in London, he thought.

‘There need be no further contact between us,’ said Kalenin, curtly. ‘You know the crossing point and my demands …’ he hesitated, looking at Charlie. ‘… be at Laa,’ he instructed the Englishman. ‘I shall remain in Czechoslovakia until I’m personally sure you hold the money and the Directors are somewhere in the capital.’

Charlie nodded, frowning.

‘You want me to make another crossing into communist territory?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ smiled Kalenin, easily. ‘What possible apprehension need you have? It’ll only be a few yards.’

Abruptly the tiny Russian stood up.

‘I will leave you,’ he said. He turned, then came back to them.

‘Until the nineteenth,’ he said.

Charlie and Braley watched the tiny figure bustle across the square and disappear along one of the covered pavements.

Braley extended his examination of the square, like Charlie aware they had been placed by design at the particular café table. They paid, rose and without talking, suspicious that listening devices might have been installed, walked into the open.

‘Well?’ demanded Charlie, as they slowly followed the route the General had taken. Both walked with their heads bent forward, so it would have been impossible for the conversation to have been lip read by their observers.

‘It’s wrong,’ judged Braley. ‘We’ve been set up.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘Incidentally,’ side-tracked Braley. ‘That gun was visible when you sat down.’

Charlie loosened his jacket, annoyed at the criticism. He hadn’t checked its concealment by sitting down; a stupid mistake.

‘Did you mean it, Charlie?’ asked Braley, interested. ‘If there had been any C.I.A. involvement during the meeting, would you have shot me?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, immediately.

Braley paused, then shook his head slightly. It was impossible to discern whether the attitude was one of disbelief or incredulity.

The C.I.A. man jerked his head in the direction in which Kalenin had disappeared.

‘What do you think he’s going to do?’

Charlie slowed in the shadow of the covered pavement.

‘I wish to Christ I knew. I’ve tried every possible permutation and it still doesn’t come out right.’

Braley looked pointedly at his watch.

‘He’s been gone fifteen minutes,’ said the American. ‘If we were going to be arrested, it would have happened by now.’

Charlie nodded agreement, having already reached the same conclusion.

‘The table would have been the best spot,’ he enlarged. ‘During the conversation, his men could have got so close that we wouldn’t have had a chance to blink.’

‘So we aren’t going to be busted?’ demanded Braley.

It was a hopeful question, recognised the Briton. He shrugged, unhelpfully. ‘How the hell do I know?’

They went through the archway and began to walk towards Wenceslaus Square.

‘If they’re going to arrest us, it won’t really matter,’ said Charlie. ‘But I think we should immediately part to double the chances of what’s been said getting back to London.’

Braley nodded.

‘If I manage to reach it, I’m going to remain in the embassy until the last possible moment for the flight,’ advised Charlie.

‘Right,’ agreed Braley, enthusiastically.

‘There’s a flight at 1530 tomorrow, BE 693,’ listed Charlie. ‘Aim for that.’

Charlie’s walk back across the Charles Bridge to the embassy was a pleasant, relaxed meander. He ate alone in his room that night, drinking nothing and left the following day with just two hours to reach the airport, knowing the flight would have been called by the time he reached the departure lounge.

Braley was waiting for him aboard the aircraft, the asthma gradually subsiding.

‘Well?’ queried Charlie. ‘Now what do you think?’

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Braley. ‘It just doesn’t make bloody sense.’

‘Good trip?’ asked Edith.

‘All right,’ agreed Charlie.

‘Surprised you came straight home,’ said his wife, accusingly.

Charlie stared back at her, curiously. For several seconds she held his gaze, then looked away.

‘There’s been a reason every time I’ve been late home,’ he insisted. ‘You know that.’

‘So you keep telling me,’ she said, unconvinced.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. He snapped his mouth shut. It would be wrong to argue with her, using her to relieve his nervousness, he thought.

She ignored the challenge.

‘So it is definitely the nineteenth?’ she said.

‘Looks like it.’

She looked directly at him again, the hostility gone.

‘I’m frightened, Charlie,’ she said.

‘So am I,’ said her husband. ‘Bloody frightened.’

Kastanazy paused at the end of his account to the full Praesidium. There was no movement from the other fourteen men.

‘And that, Comrades, would appear to be a full summation of the situation thus far,’ he said. No one believed him, he saw.

‘Are you sure?’ demanded the Party Secretary.

Kastanazy nodded.

‘Incredible,’ judged Zemskov. ‘Absolutely incredible.’