Charlie M

(9)

Snare hated Moscow, he decided. It was claustrophobic and petty-minded and inefficient and irritating. He had attended the Bolshoi and been unmoved, the State Circus and been bored and the Armoury and been unimpressed with the Romanov jewellery, even the Faberge clocks. The body of Lenin, enclosed behind glass in that mausoleum, was not, he had concluded, the embalmed body at all, but a waxwork. And a bad wax-work at that. He’d seen better at Madame Tussaud’s, when he’d taken his young nephew for an Easter outing. The child had wet himself, he remembered, distastefully, and made the car smell.

The flattery of being lionised as a new face in an embassy starved of outside contact had worn off now and he pitied the diplomats and secretaries whose constant opening gambit was to refer to his thoughtfulness in bringing as gifts from London, Heinz baked beans, Walls pork sausages and Fortnum amp; Mason Guinness cake. It had been Muffin’s advice, recalled Snare. Just the sort of sycophantic rubbish in which the man would have indulged, a gesture to make people like him.

He’d spent several evenings with the Director’s friend, Colonel Wilcox, and rehearsed their approach if Kalenin attended the official function. But even Wilcox had erected a barrier, afraid any mistake could create an embarrassing diplomatic incident. So no one liked him, decided Snare. He didn’t give a damn. Thank Christ, he thought, gazing out of the embassy window, that the stupid party was tonight and he could start thinking of his return to London. It was raining heavily, smearing the houses and roads with a dull, grey colour. It was hardly surprising, he thought, that the Russians seemed so miserable.

The interest of the Americans slightly worried him. They knew who he was, he accepted. That absurdly tall man who kept talking about basket-ball, moving his hands in a flapping motion as if he were bouncing a ball against the ground, was definitely an Agency man. Snare groped for the man’s name, but had forgotten it. Odd how sportsmen liked to boast their chosen recreation, he considered. Harrison was always driving imaginary golf balls with his reversed umbrella.

Someone in the British embassy must have disclosed his identity, he thought. When he got back to London, he’d complain to Sir Henry Cuthbertson and get an investigation ordered. Bloody diplomats were all the same: trying to show off their knowledge, gossiping their secrets.

The fact that he was known to be an operative didn’t matter, he rationalised. They’d be expecting him to do something befitting his role and all he had to do was attend an embassy party and, if Kalenin were there, carry on where Harrison had left the conversation in East Germany.

And because no one, apart from the British, knew what that conversation was, then all he would appear to be doing was behaving in a normal, social manner.

The thought of achieving his mission while they all watched, unaware of what was happening, amused him. It would have been pleasant, letting them know afterwards how stupid they had been. But probably dangerous. He sighed, abandoning the idea.

Snare turned away from the window, taking from the desk immediately behind it the coded report that had come from Whitehall three weeks earlier giving a complete account of Harrison’s meeting with the General.

Harrison had done bloody well, congratulated Snare. When he got back to London, he’d take the man out for a celebration meal, to l’Etoile or l’Epicure. Some decent food would be welcome after what he had endured for the past month, when he’d been lucky enough to get any service at all in a hotel or restaurant.

Carefully, he traced the responses that Kalenin had given in Leipzig. There could be no doubt, he agreed, turning to Cuthbertson’s assessment, that the General was a potential defector. The East German encounter had shown him the pathway, thought Snare. But it was still going to be difficult if Kalenin turned up, discovering the undoubted conditions that the man would impose. Secretly he hoped Kalenin wouldn’t appear: then he could just go home. Yes, he thought, it would be better if Kalenin didn’t attend. Because whatever he achieved tonight, if anything at all, would be secondary to Harrison’s initial success. It was bloody unfair, thought Snare, irritably, that the other man had just got six days in East Germany and all the glory and he’d been stuck in Moscow for four weeks and had to perform the most difficult part of the whole operation.

He descended early to the ballroom, arriving with the first of the British party. He spoke briefly to the ambassador and Colonel Wilcox, discussed the quality of the Cambridge eight with the cultural attache who had been his senior at King’s and had got a rowing blue, and then edged away, to be alone. Being disliked had its advantages, he thought: no one bothered to follow.

The American contingent arrived early and there were more of them than Snare had expected. What an appalling life, sympathised Snare, playing follow-my-leader from one embassy gathering to another, repeating the same conversations like a litany and attempting to keep sane. Almost immediately behind the Americans, the rest of the diplomatic corps arrived, crushing into the entrance and slowly funnelling past the hosts towards the drinks tray and tables of canapes. Whatever did these people, all of whom had seen each other in the last week and to which absolutely nothing had happened in the interim, find to talk about? wondered the Briton.

At the far end of the chandeliered room, an orchestra was attempting Gilbert and Sullivan and Snare was reminded of the amateur musical society at his prep school.

‘Hi.’

Snare turned to the fat man who had appeared at his elbow. He seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in his breathing.

‘Braley,’ the man introduced. ‘American embassy.’

Another C.I.A. man? wondered the Briton.

‘Hello,’ he returned, minimally.

‘Could be a good party.’

Snare looked at him, but didn’t bother to reply.

‘Not seen you before. Been in Washington on leave, myself.’

‘I envy you,’ said Snare, with feeling.

‘Don’t you like Moscow?’

‘No.’

‘How long will you be stationed here?’

‘As briefly as possible,’ said Snare.

Christ, thought Braley. And the man was supposed to have diplomatic cover: hadn’t anyone briefed him?

‘Believe you’ve met my colleague, Jim Cox?’ said Braley, brightly.

Snare looked at the second American and nodded. He wasn’t practising his basket approach tonight, Snare saw. What had really offended him about Cox, a thin-faced, urgent-demeanoured man who did callisthenics every morning and jogged, according to his own confession, for an hour in the U.S. embassy compound in the afternoon, was the discovery that the price he was offering Snare for the duty-free, embassy-issued Scotch would have only allowed a profit of twenty pence a bottle. The offence was not monetary, but the knowledge that others in the embassy would have learned about it and laughed at him for being gullible, particularly after the apparent well-travelled act of bringing in the beans and sausages. Everyone would know now that it wasn’t his idea, but somebody else’s. They’d probably guess Charlie Muffin, he thought; in his first few days in the Soviet capital, there had been several friendly enquiries about the bloody man.

Snare looked back to Braley. So he was an Agency man, too. Best not to encourage them.

‘Excuse me,’ said Snare, edging away. ‘I’ve just seen somebody I must talk to.’

‘An idiot,’ judged Braley, watching the Englishman disappear through the crowd.

‘I told you he wasn’t liked,’ reminded Cox. Apart from the invisible basket-ball practice, Cox had the habit of rising and falling on the balls of his feet, to strengthen his calf muscles. He did it now and Braley frowned with annoyance. Cox would probably die of a heart attack when he was forty, thought the unfit operative.

‘I thought you were exaggerating,’ confessed Braley. ‘He’s unbelievable.’

‘It’s been like this all the time.’

‘The Director said there had been changes. I wasn’t aware how bad their service had got. They certainly need our involvement.’

Cox dropped an imagined ball perfectly through the shade of a wall light, nodding seriously to his superior.

‘The Russians must have spotted him,’ he predicted.

Braley looked at him, sadly.

‘They know us all,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t …’

‘Here he is,’ broke off Cox, urgently.

Braley stopped talking, looking towards the entrance. There were ten in the Russian party. Kalenin was the last to come through the door, separated from the others by a gap of about five yards. He wore uniform, which seemed to engulf him, and moved awkwardly, as if uncomfortable among so many people.

Politely he stood last in line as his colleagues eased forward, greeting the ambassador and the assembled diplomatic corps.

‘And there goes Snare,’ completed Cox, needlessly.

The Englishman had positioned himself near the side table laid out with cocktail snacks. He moved away as the Russians entered, remaining halfway between it and the greeting officials, permitting him a second chance of an encounter, as they came to eat, if Colonel Wilcox failed to hold Kalenin sufficiently for the rehearsed meeting.

But Wilcox didn’t fail. Soldierly obedient to his instructions, the distinguished, moustached officer immediately moved to engage Kalenin, and Snare continued forward. He estimated he had ten minutes in which to confirm absolutely the conviction about the Russian General by discovering the conditions.

Wilcox saw his expected approach and smiled, half turning in feigned invitation. It was going almost too well, thought Snare, apprehensively, entering the group.

‘General, I don’t believe you’ve met the newest recruit to our embassy, Brian Snare.’

The Englishman waited, uncertain whether to extend his hand. Kalenin gave a stiff little bow, nodding his head.

Befitting the Gilbert and Sullivan string ensemble, decided Snare, answering the bow.

‘A pleasure, General,’ he began. It would, he guessed, be another fencing session, like that which Harrison had recorded so well from East Germany.

‘And mine,’ responded the Russian.

‘Your command of English is remarkably good,’ praised Snare, seeking an opening. He glanced almost imperceptibly at Wilcox, who twisted, seeking an excuse to ease himself from the conversation and avoid the involvement that so worried him.

‘It’s a language I enjoy,’ replied Kalenin. ‘Sometimes I listen to your B.B.C. Overseas broadcasts.’

An unexpected confession, judged Snare. And one that could create problems for the man.

‘They’re very good,’ offered Snare, inadequately.

‘Sometimes a little misguided and biased,’ returned Kalenin.

The reply a Russian should make, assessed Snare. Now there was no danger in the original remark.

Although a small man, the Russian looked remarkably fit, despite the rumoured dedication to work. Snare found him vaguely unsettling; Kalenin had the tendency to remain completely unmoving, using no physical or facial gestures in conversation. The man reminded Snare of a church-hall actor, reciting his responses word-perfect, mindless of their meaning.

‘Excuse me,’ muttered Wilcox, indicating the British ambassador who stood about ten feet away. ‘I think I’m needed.’

Good man, judged Snare. He’d exonerate him from any criticism of the embassy when he returned to London. He saw the faintest frown ripple Kalenin’s face at the departure.

‘There are other opportunities for practising the language, of course,’ said Snare, conscious of the time at his disposal.

‘At receptions like this,’ suggested Kalenin, mildly.

‘Or at trade gatherings, like those of Leipzig,’ said Snare. He had to hurry, risking rebuttal, he decided.

Kalenin was looking at him quite expressionlessly. It would never be possible to guess what the man was thinking, realised Snare. Debriefing him would take years; and a cleverer man than Charlie Muffin.

‘In fact,’ continued the Englishman. ‘I think you met a colleague of mine recently at Leipzig.’

‘Wonder what they’re talking about,’ said Braley, leaning against the far wall forty feet away.

‘Our turn will come, if all goes well,’ said Cox, descending two inches from his calf exercise.

‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ protested Braley, breathily. ‘I find it irritating.’

Cox looked at him, surprised.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised. Sensitivity of a sick man confronted with good health, he rationalised. Poor guy.

Cox was a joke who needed replacing, decided Braley, enjoying his new intimacy with the C.I.A. Director. He’d get the man moved as soon as possible.

‘A colleague?’ Kalenin was questioning, accepting champagne from a passing tray. He didn’t drink, Snare noted, holding his own glass untouched. Kalenin was a careful man, he decided, unlikely to make any mistakes.

‘Yes. At the British tractor stand.’

‘Ah,’ said Kalenin, like someone remembering a chance encounter he had forgotten.

Taking the lead, he said: ‘Have you seen your friend lately?’

‘No,’ said Snare, intently. ‘But I know fully of your conversation.’

Kalenin had his head to one side, examining him curiously, Snare saw. His reply did not appear to be that which Kalenin had anticipated, he thought.

‘My friend found the conversation most interesting,’ he tried to recover, momentarily unsettled.

‘Did he?’ responded Kalenin, unhelpfully.

Snare felt the perspiration pricking out and wanted to wipe his forehead. It would be wrong to produce a handkerchief, he knew, resisting the move. There could only be a few minutes left before an inevitable interruption and the damned man was making it very difficult.

Harrison had been bloody lucky.

‘In fact,’ Snare went on, ‘he would very much like to continue it.’

The curious look persisted.

‘But that would be difficult, wouldn’t it?’ said Kalenin. He smiled for the first time, an on-off expression like someone following an etiquette manual that recommended a relaxed expression exactly five minutes after the first meeting.

‘Difficult,’ agreed Snare. ‘But not impossible.’

Kalenin frowned again, then shrugged. What did that mean? wondered Snare. Quickly he pulled his hand over his forehead; the sweat had begun to irritate his skin. Kalenin would have seen it, realising his nervousness, he thought, worriedly.

‘Perhaps that’s a matter of interpretation. And differing opinion,’ said Kalenin, obscurely.

Cuthbertson was right, thought Snare. There were to be conditions.

‘I’m sure the difficulties could be resolved to the satisfaction of both interpretations,’ assured Snare.

Kalenin had probably survived for so long by being so cautious, decided the Briton. He felt happier at the new direction of their conversation.

‘It would need the most detailed discussion.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Snare.

‘And would probably involve expense.’

Snare swallowed, nervously. The meeting would be as successful as Harrison’s, he determined. Despite the outward calm, he guessed Kalenin was a desperately scared man.

‘I don’t see expenditure being a problem,’ said Snare.

‘Not half a million dollars?’ questioned the General, eyebrows raised.

Snare paused, momentarily. ‘Anything,’ Cuthbertson had said. ‘Anything at all.’

‘Certainly not half a million dollars,’ guaranteed Snare.

Kalenin smiled, a more genuine expression this time.

‘Do you know the Neskuchny Sad, Mr Snare?’

For a moment Snare didn’t understand the question, then remembered the gardens bordering the Moskva River. He nodded.

‘I’ve taken to walking there most Sundays,’ reported the Russian. ‘I feel it’s important for an inactive man to get proper exercise.’

‘Indeed,’ concurred Snare, wondering the route towards which the Russian was guiding the conversation.

‘I’ve made it a very regular habit. Usually about 11 a.m.’

‘I see,’ said Snare, relaxing further. It was almost too simple, he thought.

‘I really am most anxious about my health,’ expanded Kalenin. ‘I’m quite an old man and old men believe that misfortune will befall them any day.’

Wrong to relax, corrected Snare. There was a very real reason for this apparently aimless conversation.

‘But that is often a groundless apprehension,’ he responded. ‘I’ve every reason to suppose that your health will remain good for a number of years.’

‘It really is most important that I know that,’ insisted Kalenin. ‘In fact, if I thought these Sunday constitutional walks were doing me more harm than good, I’d immediately suspend them.’

‘I think the walks are most beneficial. Certainly at this time of the year,’ said Snare.

From his left, the Briton detected Colonel Wilcox returning, conforming to their rehearsal. Snare turned to greet Cuthbertson’s friend.

‘We’ve been discussing health,’ threw out Kalenin, eyes upon Snare.

‘Very important,’ said the attache, unsure of the response expected.

‘I’ve been telling Mr Snare of exercises I’ve begun, to ensure I remain healthy for many years.’

Wilcox hesitated, waiting for Snare’s lead.

‘And I’ve been assuring the General,’ helped the operative, ‘that continuing good health, into a very old age, has become a subject of growing interest in England.’

Wilcox frowned, baffled by the ambiguity. What a stupid occupation espionage was, he decided. Silly buggers.

‘Quite,’ he said, hopefully.

Kalenin looked across the room, to the rest of the Russian contingent.

‘I must rejoin my colleagues,’ he apologised.

‘I’ve enjoyed our meeting,’ said Snare.

‘And so have I,’ said Kalenin. ‘And remember the importance of good health.’

‘I will,’ accepted Snare. ‘In fact, I might take up walking for the few remaining weeks I have in Moscow.’

‘Do that,’ encouraged Kalenin. ‘I can recommend it.’

‘Appeared to go well,’ said Braley, watching the two men part. ‘I’d just love to get my hands on Snare’s report.’

‘We will,’ predicted Cox, stationary now. ‘When the British are forced to admit us, officially, we can demand the files already created.’

‘We’ve got to get in first,’ cautioned Braley.

Snare coded his report that night, determined it would exceed in detail and clarity Harrison’s account from East Germany. It hadn’t been difficult to prepare a better report, decided Snare, reading the file that had taken him three hours to complete. The evidence was incontestable now. When this operation was successfully concluded, he decided, Britain would be regarded as having the best espionage service in the Western world. He sealed the envelope, personally delivering it to the ambassador’s office for the diplomatic pouch. And I will be known to be part of that service, he thought, happily. A vitally important part. He would keep the Sunday appointment with Kalenin, he decided, then return to London the following week; perhaps Cuthbertson would insist that he accompany him to the personal briefing of the Prime Minister.

As the weekend approached, Snare felt the euphoria of a man ending a prison sentence, ticking off the last days of his incarceration. Just eight more days and he would be back in London, he consoled himself: it would be a triumphant homecoming.

On the Thursday, he decided to buy souvenirs, assembling the currency coupons that would give him concessions in the foreign exchange shops. Some of the intricately painted dolls, he decided, preferably in national costumes.

He was arrested walking along Gorky Street, towards the G.U.M. department store. It was meticulously planned, taking little more than two minutes. The leading Zil pulled up five yards ahead, disgorging four men before it stopped and when he half turned, instinctively, he saw the second car, immediately behind. Four men were already spread over the pavement, blocking any retreat.

To his back was the wall. And the gap between the two cars was filled by both drivers, standing side-by-side and completing the box.

‘Please don’t run,’ cautioned a man, from his right. He spoke English.

‘I won’t,’ promised Snare. There was no fear in his voice, he realised, proudly.

‘Good,’ said the spokesman and everyone seemed to relax.

Charlie gazed around the lounge of his Dulwich home, revolving the after-dinner brandy between his hands.

‘You’ve made a good home, darling,’ he said. There was an odd sound in his voice, almost like nostalgia.

Edith smiled, a mixture of gratitude and apprehension. Her money had bought everything.

‘I try very hard to please you, Charlie,’ she reminded.

He concentrated completely upon her, reaching over and squeezing her hand.

‘And you do, Edith. You know you do.’

‘I don’t mind about affairs, Charlie,’ she blurted.

He remained silent.

‘I’m just frightened it’ll go wrong, I suppose.’

‘Edith,’ protested Charlie, easily. ‘Don’t be silly. How could that happen?’

‘Love me, Charlie?’

‘You know I do.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘You’re the only man I see colours with, Charlie,’ she said, desperately. ‘I wish to Christ I’d never inherited the bloody money to build a barrier between us.’

‘Don’t be silly, Edith,’ he said. ‘There’s no barrier.’

The phone rang, a jagged sound.

‘That girl from the office,’ said Edith, accusingly, holding the receiver towards him.

‘Sorry to trouble you at home so late,’ said Janet, formally.

‘What is it?’ demanded Charlie, irritation obvious in his voice.

‘You were to go directly to Wormwood Scrubs tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sir Henry wants that cancelled. You’re to be at the office at nine o’clock. Sharp.’

Very military, mused Charlie; just like her godfather’s parade ground.

‘But that…’ began Charlie.

‘Nine o’clock,’ repeated the girl, peremptorily. ‘I’ve already informed the prison authorities you won’t be coming.’

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, but the telephone had been replaced, destroying the sarcasm.

‘What is it?’ asked Edith, as he put down the telephone.

‘My meeting with Berenkov has been scrapped,’ reported Charlie. ‘I’ve got to see Sir Henry at 9.0 a.m.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked the woman, worriedly.

‘What I’ve argued for the past ten months,’ replied Charlie. ‘That you can’t run the service like an army cadet corps. I told you they’d need me.’

‘Don’t get too confident, will you, Charlie?’

‘You know me better than that.’

‘It’s just so bloody dangerous.’

‘It always has been,’ said Charlie, tritely.