Charlie M

(18)

‘It’s very heavy,’ complained Kalenin, as they approached the Austrian border.

‘Shall I help?’

‘I think I can manage,’ said the General, using two hands to hold the case. The tiny Russian paused before the barrier, lowering the bag to the ground.

‘The moment of commitment,’ he said, turning to Charlie.

‘Yes,’ agreed the Briton.

Kalenin sighed, then positively shoved the bag beneath the post with his foot. It grated over the road, an irritating, scratching sound.

‘Too late to go back now,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I thought that on the way over.’

They bent together beneath the bar and walked easily towards the Mercedes. Braley had turned the car, Charlie saw. He would have expected to have heard the sound of the engine.

Marshall was in the border post now, Charlie noticed, gazing hopefully over their shoulders for pursuit. His men would be deployed on either side of the road, Charlie knew. They were very professional: it was impossible to isolate them against the blackness of the woods.

Charlie escorted the Russian past the point without looking, suddenly anxious to get away from the area. Braley was waiting, the car doors already open.

‘I’ll travel in the front,’ selected Kalenin. He turned to Charlie.

‘Are you the driver?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

The Russian nodded, as if the information were important.

Braley held the door for him and Kalenin seated himself fussily, arranging his coat comfortably about him before lowering the case on to his lap.

Charlie and the American paused briefly, looking at each other. Then Braley closed the door and Charlie hurried to the driver’s seat.

He started badly, accelerating too quickly and felt Kalenin’s eyes upon him. Charlie gripped the wheel and slowed, staring at the twisting road.

‘A pleasant evening,’ remarked Kalenin, conversationally.

‘Yes,’ said Braley, after waiting for Charlie to respond. ‘Very pleasant, sir.’

Charlie reached the Ernstbrunn turning and came off the road to Mistelbach. On the highway far behind he could just detect the lights of the cars returning Marshall and his unhappy commandos.

‘I’m glad there was no trouble, sir,’ tried Braley embarrassed by the silence in the car.

‘I was confident there wouldn’t be,’ said Kalenin, immediately. ‘If I decree a border post remain unmanned, then it is unmanned.’

The lights of Korneuburg fireflied in front. The teams at Stockerau and Wolkersdorf would have already been informed that it had been a quiet crossing and be moving in to cover him, Charlie knew. And Marshall’s cars were quite close behind now. The protection was complete.

‘We’re well guarded?’ queried Kalenin, presciently.

‘Utterly protected,’ assured Charlie. ‘It would be impossible to stop us now.’

‘What about a routine Austrian police patrol?’

‘They would only want my driver’s documents,’ said Charlie. ‘And they’re in order.’

Langenzerdorf was deserted and they were on the outskirts of Vienna in the time that Ruttgers and Cuthbertson had estimated during their trial run. They crossed the Danube canal and passed the post office, turning right into Fleischmarktstrasse to get into the old part of the city. Over the rooftops, he could see the spire of St Stephen’s Cathedral. It looked very peaceful, thought Charlie.

Every unit would be on full alert now; and Ruttgers and Cuthbertson would have quit the first floor lounge and be in the radio room, he guessed, charting their progress street by street.

He turned slowly into Wipplingerstrasse. Marshall’s team had stopped at the junction behind him, blocking it until the Russian had entered the house.

‘Escort the General in,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll take the car on.’

The American left the car and opened Kalenin’s door. The tiny Russian got out immediately and stopped, waiting for Braley’s lead. The secured gate opened the moment the American spoke into the grill. Subserviently, he allowed Kalenin to lead as they went along the darkened pathway. The door was opened by Hubert Jessell as Braley knocked. The American led up the stairway, the breath squeaking from him.

The lounge door was already open, light shafting into the corridor.

Ruttgers and Cuthbertson stood side by side, the table separating them from the Russian. Braley entered and then closed the door, standing directly inside. For several seconds, no one spoke, apparently unable to believe the crossing had gone so well.

Ruttgers recovered first, hurrying around the table, hand outstretched.

‘General,’ he greeted. ‘Welcome! Welcome indeed.’

Kalenin smiled at the greeting, accepting his hand.

‘You must be …?’ he invited.

‘Ruttgers,’ identified the C.I.A. Director. ‘Garson Ruttgers. And allow me to introduce my English counterpart, General Sir Henry Cuthbertson.’

The Briton had followed him around the table, hand held forward.

‘A pleasure, General,’ assured Cuthbertson. ‘A very great pleasure.’

Kalenin shrugged off his topcoat and held it awkwardly. Immediately Braley was at his arm, taking it.

Ruttgers took the Russian by the elbow, moving him further into the room.

‘A perfect crossing,’ congratulated Cuthbertson. ‘A copybook operation.’

‘I have the necessary power,’ reminded Kalenin, modestly.

‘A drink,’ suggested Cuthbertson. ‘I think a celebration is in order.’

‘I enjoy your Scotch whisky very much,’ accepted Kalenin, hopefully. ‘And I agree, we’ve got something to celebrate.’

Ruttgers and Cuthbertson were tight with excitement, each aware of the incredible prestige of their coup. The Briton over-filled the glasses, only remembering Braley as an after-thought.

‘We had taken every precaution to ensure nothing would interfere on this side,’ guaranteed Ruttgers, eager to boast.

‘A plane is waiting, at Schwechat,’ added Cuthbertson, ‘we’ll be safely in London by dawn tomorrow.’

From the communications centre below, notification of Kalenin’s safe arrival had already been sent to Wilberforce and Downing Street. By now, guessed Cuthbertson, a personal telephone call would have been made by the Premier to the American President.

‘Your health,’ toasted Kalenin, raising his glass.

‘And yours,’ responded Ruttgers, sincerely.

Kalenin moved to one of the more comfortable chairs arranged around the table.

‘It was important that you came personally to greet me,’ he said, to both Directors.

‘It’s unthinkable that we would not come,’ replied Ruttgers.

Kalenin sipped the drink, appearing quite relaxed.

‘Tell me your plans,’ he ordered.

‘There is accommodation waiting in England,’ reported Cuthbertson. ‘Four completely safe houses in each of which you’ll live from time to time.’

‘It will be a long process,’ suggested Kalenin. Apparently reminded of time, he looked at his watch.

‘Yes,’ agreed Ruttgers. ‘But during it you will live in absolute luxury and complete safety. Your security will be a joint American-British responsibility.’

‘Of course,’ said Kalenin.

‘We’ve taken every step to ensure your comfort,’ expanded Cuthbertson. He smiled, a man about to produce the best present at a party.

‘You enjoy war-games with tanks, I believe?’ he asked.

Kalenin frowned, then nodded.

‘They’ve been provided for you, at every house,’ smiled the English Director.

‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ thanked Kalenin.

‘We are anxious that you will be completely happy … we’ve complied with your every request so far …’

‘Indeed,’ said Kalenin. ‘I’ve been very grateful.’

He looked pointedly at his empty glass and Cuthbertson moved immediately to fill it.

‘As soon as you feel sufficiently rested,’ said Ruttgers, ‘perhaps it would be a good idea if we were to get to the airport.’

Kalenin nodded, without replying, the glass held before his face with both hands.

‘You created a remarkable operation,’ said the Russian, at last.

‘Thank you,’ said Ruttgers.

‘… the road all the way to Schwechat covered, this entire area from the canal to the city hall and Am Hof Square, right down to the riding school and the Volksgarten …’

Ruttgers nodded, content with the praise. His voice was strained by the smoking and he coughed, frequently.

‘… and then the border organisation, with teams at Stockerau and Wolkersdorf, Ernstbrunn and Korneuburg …’

Ruttgers began staring at the Russian, curiously.

‘How …?’ he began, but Kalenin shook his head, imperiously. Again he looked at his watch.

‘It’s been an hour and thirty minutes since I arrived in Vienna,’ the Russian declared, smiling.

Both Directors were looking at him now, baffled.

‘Time enough,’ completed Kalenin.

‘General,’ tried Cuthbertson, hopefully, ‘I’m sorry, but …’

‘… you don’t understand,’ finished Kalenin. There was a tone in his voice now, a man in control.

Reluctantly he placed his empty glass on the table.

‘Excellent whisky,’ he praised, turning to them and smiling. ‘No, there’s no possible way that you could …’

He looked carefully from Cuthbertson to the American and then back again.

‘Over a year ago,’ he said, addressing Cuthbertson, ‘you British broke a Soviet espionage chain … it was remarkable for you to have done so. We thought of it as a brilliant installation, virtually undetectable. That you did uncover it was extremely damaging for us … and personally embarrassing to me …’

Both Directors were quite still: Cuthbertson had his head bent to one side, as if he had difficulty in hearing. His face was deepening in colour and his eye was fluttering.

‘Moscow regarded the system created by Alexei Berenkov as the best in Europe since the war …’

From where Braley stood there was an uncomfortable movement of scuffing feet.

‘… Now Berenkov is in jail. And you both know that Russia does not allow its operatives, particularly one so highly regarded as Berenkov, to remain in captivity longer than is absolutely essential …’

‘… Are you telling us …’ attempted Ruttgers, but again Kalenin cut him off.

‘… I’m telling you that the Soviet government, which has already, incidentally, established a service to replace that which was broken, decided to repatriate Berenkov as soon as possible and deal to the espionage services of the West as damaging a blow as possible, to compensate for the destruction of Berenkov’s network.’

He stopped, waiting, but now neither Ruttgers nor Cuthbertson spoke.

‘Within the last ninety minutes,’ recounted the Russian General, ‘my men have seized, I sincerely hope without any fighting, the 200 operatives that you had positioned to guard my crossing …’

‘… But that’s impossible!’ protested Cuthbertson.

‘Oh no, not at all,’ disagreed Kalenin. ‘All you need is organisation and the right information, and I’ve got both. But I anticipated you would find it difficult to accept. I’m now in complete charge of this house. No doubt you’ve a method for summoning your people. Try it …’

Cuthbertson jabbed at a button set into the table, prodding it impatiently for response. They remained waiting for several minutes, but no one came.

‘Oh my God,’ muttered Cuthbertson.

‘… But that means …’ realised Ruttgers, unwilling to complete the fear.

‘… that as well as your operatives, I intend taking back to the Soviet Union for barter the English and American security Directors,’ confirmed Kalenin, happily.

‘As I explained,’ he enlarged, ‘we decided to make it as damaging as possible. Of course, we’ll release you both, in exchange for Berenkov. And all your operatives, too. They will be useless, unfortunately, photographed, fingerprinted and identified. But at least you’ll have them back …’

He hesitated, preparing the blow.

‘And you’ll both be utterly discredited,’ he added. The whole operation will set your services back years.’

‘What you’ve outlined would be impossible,’ insisted Cuthbertson, laughing nervously. ‘So few people knew the complete operation …’

His voice broke away and he looked beyond Kalenin to where only Braley stood.

‘Yes,’ concurred the Russian, seeing the gradual realisation. ‘There was no way I could have evolved the thing by myself.’

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Ruttgers.

‘You really were incredibly stupid, Sir Henry. Charlie Muffin was one of the few real operatives in your service. Yet you set him up to be shot in Berlin, vilified him for his handling of the Berenkov affair when it was he who originated and co-ordinated the capture and then announced he was being downgraded …’

Kalenin spread his hands, in mock exasperation.

‘How can you expect loyalty when you treat a man like that?’ he demanded.

‘The bastard,’ shouted Ruttgers.

‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘But he never made the pretence of being anything else, did he?’

‘You don’t think we’ll let you get out of this room alive?’ demanded Ruttgers, desperately defiant.

The Russian frowned, irritated.

‘Mr Ruttgers,’ he protested, mildly, ‘this room is the only one in the house not occupied by my men, all of whom are armed. Not that their weapons really matter. They’ll be through that door exactly two seconds after I give the command. I agree you could probably shoot me in that time, but to what point. At the moment, my country is prepared to deal with this matter in the utmost secrecy. But if I die, every detail will be leaked to the West, before your repatriation. That wouldn’t make for a very pleasant homecoming to Washington would it?’

‘We’ll still be laughing-stocks,’ said Ruttgers, deflated.

‘I’m afraid so,’ accepted the Russian. ‘But only to a few people in your governments. And you’ll be alive.’

‘What about the money?’ demanded Cuthbertson, suddenly.

‘Oh yes,’ said Kalenin, reminded. ‘That’s Charlie’s. Don’t forget he’s got a long retirement and he’s forfeited his pension rights.’

‘I’ll get him,’ vowed Ruttgers. ‘If it takes me until the day I die, I’ll get him.’

‘He expects you might try,’ said Kalenin. ‘I don’t think he’s too worried.’

He felt in his pocket.

‘He thought you might want this back,’ he said to Ruttgers, extending the device the American had installed in the bottom of the money-bag.

‘Not that it would really have mattered,’ added the Russian. ‘You’ve no one for a hundred miles you could have employed to trace it.’

Kalenin stood, shouting a command as he rose. Braley remained stolidly in front of the door, awaiting instructions.

Ruttgers tensed, then sighed, his shoulders drooping. He shook his head impatiently and the fat American unlocked it.

‘Shall we go?’ invited Kalenin.