Charlie M

(19)

Charlie and Edith sat cross-legged on the floor, the money piled neatly before them. Charlie held the list of numbered notes he and Braley had created and was carefully removing those that were a danger to them. Edith sat nearer the fire, feeding the money into the flames.

‘Fifty thousand,’ she moaned. ‘It seems such a waste!’

Would she ever lose her concern for money? wondered Charlie.

‘We’ll have to be very careful,’ he warned. ‘Both Rutgers and Cuthbertson are vindictive sods. It’ll all have to go.’

‘Are you really worried, darling?’ asked his wife.

Charlie paused in his selection, considering the question.

‘Properly aware of the dangers,’ he said, firmly.

‘You’ve got more money than me now, Charlie,’ said the woman, in sudden realisation. The barrier would be down between them, at last. She was glad, she decided.

Charlie smiled at her, content with her admission.

‘I know,’ he said. The satisfaction was very obvious in his voice.

‘Why don’t we spend mine first? I cashed all the shares and drew the money out, as you asked. Let’s get rid of my damned inheritance.’

Charlie looked at her, aware of the sacrifice. Edith was embarking completely upon a new life, he thought. He hadn’t known she’d appreciated so fully the resentment he had always felt about her wealth.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That would keep us going for several years, without having to touch this.’

‘And then,’ he continued, ‘during the first meeting with him, a thing she had never been before. He patted the bricks of money lying on the floor, then stood up, stretching the cramp from his legs.

‘I never thought it would work, Charlie, when you told me why we were going on holiday after East Berlin and the Berenkov trial. I really didn’t,’ she said.

‘No,’ agreed Charlie, gazing through the window and watching the incoming tide throw pebbles up on to the beach. ‘There were times when I was doubtful.’

‘I’m amazed you and Kalenin were able to cover every eventuality from that one set of meetings in Austria.’

‘Kalenin is brilliant,’ praised Charlie. ‘It was his idea to bring in the Americans, knowing that Washington’s presence would occupy Cuthbertson so much initially that any flaws we hadn’t covered would have more chance of going unnoticed. Kalenin had a personality file on Ruttgers and guessed exactly how the American would behave. He and Cuthbertson were too worried thinking about each other to properly consider what I was doing …’

‘Didn’t you ever make a mistake?’ asked his wife, admiringly.

‘Not really a mistake,’ conceded Charlie. ‘Kalenin was anxious Berenkov should know he’d not been forgotten and that efforts were being made to get him out. So during a meeting with Berenkov in Wormwood Scrubs, months ago, I had to mention Kalenin’s name before I was supposed to have known about it. I sweated for days that it would be spotted on analysis, but it wasn’t.’

He stopped, reflecting Edith’s question.

‘And then,’ he continued, ‘during the first meeting with Cuthbertson, I got worried at one stage that I was being too convincing with the doubts about Kalenin’s defection. I got away with it, though. They might have doubted my courage, but never my loyalty.’

‘Don’t you feel guilty?’ seized the woman.

‘No,’ he insisted, positively. ‘There was hardly a meeting when I didn’t warn them there was something wrong. I repeated it until they were tired of hearing it …’

‘… which was the entire psychology of doing it,’ rejected Edith,’ … and to salve your own conscience …’

‘Perhaps,’ said Charlie. ‘But I’m not sorry to have disgraced Cuthbertson. He’ll have to retire, which means another Director. And that can only result in good for the service. Wilberforce will still be there to ensure continuity. I don’t like him, but at least he understands the system!’

‘I can’t believe you don’t feel any guilt,’ persisted Edith. ‘You betrayed your country.’

‘I rid the service of a man who was bound to lead it to disaster.’

‘That’s a personal justification.’

‘And exposed to every Western intelligence system the identity of Kalenin, who had been a mystery for thirty years.’

‘And got a fortune in return,’ she said.

‘The service had abandoned me,’ insisted Charlie. ‘It’s better than growing roses on a Grade IV pension and being pissed by three o’clock every afternoon.’

Edith shook her head. He would feel ashamed, in the future, she knew. Would it create another barrier? she thought, worriedly. They only had each other, now.

‘I’m going to enjoy being able to afford good clothes,’ reflected Charlie. ‘And keeping a decent wine bin.’

He looked down at his scuffed Hush Puppies. He’d keep them as a souvenir, he decided.

‘You always were a snob, Charlie,’ protested his wife, laughing at him.

‘But honest about it,’ he defended. ‘Always honest.’

‘Why did you have to be so scruffy?’

‘Psychology,’ avoided Charlie. ‘It made them contemptuous of me. People never suspect a person of whom they’re contemptuous.’

And it would have meant using even more of your money, he added, mentally.

‘Don’t you feel sorry about Harrison and Snare?’

He frowned. Why was Edith so determined there should be some contrition? he wondered.

‘Those two bastards stood on a viewing platform in Berlin, watching for me either to get captured or shot. When I got to the Kempinski, they were celebrating my death. Why should I feel sorry for them?’

Edith shuddered, very slightly.

‘You don’t forget, do you, Charlie? Ever?’

‘No,’ he accepted. ‘Never.’

His wife stared at him for several minutes, uncertain whether to raise the question. Then she said, hurriedly: ‘Was it really necessary to have an affair with that secretary?’

‘Essential,’ said Charlie. ‘It deflected their interest away from you completely … made it possible for you finally to draw all the money out without their thinking of checking your account. When they bugged her apartment, which I didn’t expect, it gave me a channel to feed Cuthbertson any attitude I wished. And from Janet I got everything I wanted to know about their thinking.’

She sat, unconvinced.

‘With Janet,’ persisted Charlie, ‘they thought they had a tap on every unguarded moment. Through her and the recorders, I was able to prove myself and allay any suspicion before it had time to arise.’

‘Poor Janet,’ said Edith, sadly.

‘Forget it,’ advised Charlie. There was no feeling. It was a game for her, like backgammon or Scrabble. And I bet she made some money, as well.’

‘It seems a daft thing to say in the circumstances, Charlie, but I hope you’re right. I don’t like to think of you being cruel.’

‘It was a necessary part of survival,’ said Charlie.

‘Promise me you never loved her?’

‘I promise,’ said Charlie, looking up and smiling directly at his wife.

‘Will they be searching for us now, Charlie?’

The man nodded.

‘Bound to be,’ he said. ‘But knowing their minds they will think of the Mediterranean. Or perhaps the Far East. Certainly not here, in Brighton.’

‘I do hope it’s a nice summer,’ said Edith, going to the window. ‘I did so much like to travel.’

‘I gave you a holiday of a lifetime before contacting Kalenin,’ reminded Charlie. ‘And we’ll do it again, in a few years’ time.’

‘Kiss me, Charlie,’ said Edith, urgently. ‘Kiss me and say you love me.’

He crawled across the floor, dislodging the money from the orderly piles, and embraced his wife.

‘I do love you, Edith,’ he said.

‘And I love you, Charlie. I was very worried, you know.’

‘Worried?’

‘That you’d leave me for her.’

Charlie frowned, his face inches from hers.

‘But why should I have done that?’

‘It’s just that sometimes you frighten me, Charlie … we’ve been married fifteen years and there are times when I think of you as a stranger.’

‘That’s a point,’ he said, pulling away and wanting to lighten the mood. ‘I’ll have to get another name.’

‘But Charlie is so … I don’t know. It just seems to fit,’ she protested.

‘Not any more,’ insisted the man. He squatted, reflectively. He would take the Christian name of the old Director, he decided.

‘It will be Archibald,’ he announced, grandly. ‘I’ll keep the first name, but from now on it will be Charles.’

What a pity that Cuthbertson would never know, he thought. He rolled the words uncomfortably in his mouth.

‘Charles Archibald,’ he declared. ‘With a very definite accent on the “Charles”. Charlie Muffin is dead.’

The Home Office car drove directly on to the airstrip, ten minutes after the rest of the passengers had boarded BE 602 to Moscow.

Berenkov got unsteadily from the vehicle and stood for several minutes, supported by one of the officials, gazing for the last time at the Heathrow complex. Finally he turned and shuffled with difficulty up the steps and into the specially curtained first class section.

The steward approached him after they had cleared the airport and the seat-belt sign had been turned off.

‘A drink, sir?’ he suggested.

Berenkov looked up, whey-faced, considering the invitation.

‘It’s been so long,’ he said, quietly. ‘So very long.’

The steward waited.

‘You’d only have claret in those little bottles, of course,’ said the Russian, professionally. ‘And that wouldn’t be what I’d enjoy. I’ll have a miniature champagne.’

He watched apprehensively as the drink foamed in the glass, then waited for the bubbles to settle.

Finally he lifted it, then paused, glass almost to his lips.

‘Your health, Charlie Muffin,’ he said.

‘Sir?’ enquired the steward, half turning.

‘Nothing,’ said Berenkov. ‘Nothing at all.’