Comrade Charlie

27

It was three days after the failed suicide attempt – almost four taking the overnight flight into account – when Emil Krogh landed in London. He still felt ghastly. And looked it, too. His face was grey and even more sagged, his eyes rheumy and with an occasional apprehensive tic pulling at the right side of his face, near his mouth, so that he seemed to be smiling, but grotesquely. There was a tremble to his hands, as well: there was an almost permanent shake and at times a more profound jump, actually lifting his hands in small convulsions. Again it was his right side.

He didn’t sleep at all during the flight and arrived gravel-eyed and sour mouthed, a throbbing ache moving beyond his head to run down the back of his neck into his shoulders. Although his eyes were open and his body moving there kept being momentary breaks in his awareness of his surroundings, so that he kept twitching back in apprehension at finding himself in a place – like the immigration check and the Customs hall and outside the terminal building, seeking a taxi – without knowing how he got there.

He sat with his head back against the seat on the drive into London, oblivious and uncaring about the route or anything on it. At the hotel he went robot-like through the registration formalities: in his suite he jerked up, like a man awakening, unable to remember getting there from the downstairs lobby. He slumped into a chair in the sitting room, not bothering to unpack, drifting in and out of positive awareness, dreaming but not dreaming and never a proper dream at all. His mind was blocked by the squalor of the Oakland motel, and that was all he kept thinking of: the smell and the filth and how he’d scrabbled around on his hands and knees the following morning, trying to clean away the mess he’d caused and then to clean himself and after that sneaking out, still early, without being seen and then driving aimlessly around, trying to recover. Incredibly Peggy seemed to accept his explanation of some gastroenteritis bug and he’d stayed away from the plant that day and played out the charade with his concerned father-in-law that evening, insisting it was only a passing, twenty-four-hour thing and that there was no reason at all for him to cancel the trip to England.

And now he was here, Krogh realized, in a sudden, coherent moment. Here, like he’d been told to be: obedient and waiting for them to snap their fingers for him to do whatever they wanted done, like a dog performing tricks. He supposed that’s what he was: their performing animal, here boy, good dog, fetch boy, fetch.

Krogh’s right hand leapt high in fright at the sound of the telephone. He sat, transfixed by the strident sound but not responding to it for several moments. When he did, finally, he just lifted it from its cradle, not able to speak to identify himself.

‘Emil?’

Krogh still couldn’t make a proper response. He grunted, a guttural sound, and Petrin repeated: ‘Emil?’

‘Yes,’ said Krogh, at last. The word croaked out.

‘How was the flight?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Krogh stupidly.

‘You don’t know!’

‘All right, I guess.’

‘You tired?’

Krogh almost said again that he didn’t know, but stopped. He said: ‘Sort of.’

‘I thought you’d want to rest for a while. But now there are things to be done. You called the Isle of Wight factory yet?’

‘No.’

‘Things like that,’ said Petrin. ‘And I want you to look at what we’ve set up for you. Make sure you’ve got everything you want.’

Krogh grunted again.

‘Telephone the factory at three. Make an appointment for tomorrow: they’re expecting you so it’ll be convenient enough. But don’t tell them where you’re staying, unless they press. I don’t want them to have an address,’ ordered the Russian. ‘Be downstairs at three thirty. I’ll take you to where you’re going to work.’

Krogh gave a third grunt.

‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Petrin.

‘Nothing.’

‘You understood what I’ve said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Repeat it back to me.’

Krogh did and Petrin said: ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

Krogh stayed for several moments by the telephone but at last willed himself to move. He finally unpacked. Then he showered and shaved and felt marginally better, but only marginally. He was hungry and nauseous at the same time. Fleetingly he considered getting something on room service but discarded the idea. His suite overlooked the outer road. He stood at the window, gazing in the direction of the unseen Berkeley Square. Grosvenor Square was unseen, too, to his left, but still close, not more than three or four hundred yards. Krogh knew the American embassy was there: the American embassy where the CIA and the FBI would have station officers. You don’t know me but my name is Emil Krogh and I have leaked to the Soviets everything I so far know about the ultimate destruction weapon forming part of the Strategic Defence Initiative. I’d like you to kill me because I’ve tried to do it myself but I couldn’t do it right. I’m utterly inadequate, you see. He felt more hungry than sick and wished he’d ordered something. Too late now. Have to wait until tonight: maybe a steak then. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper, full meal: certainly a proper, full meal that he’d managed to keep down. Krogh went into the bathroom, where the lighting was better than the bedroom, and examined himself. The shower and shave had helped and he didn’t think he looked as bad as he had when he’d arrived that morning. Definitely the pallor was better, not so grey. His eyes were still awash, though, and not just wet but very red. Drops, if he’d had any with him, might have helped. Something else that was too late. Almost three, he thought. He tried to remember the name of the project chief at the factory and couldn’t, his mind an impenetrable blank. There was a stomach-opening panic and he scrambled through the letters and addresses in his briefcase, closing his eyes in the prayer-like hope that it was there, then suddenly came upon it. Springley: Robert Springley. Quite unusual. Stupid of him to have forgotten it. Couldn’t afford to forget anything in the coming days. Had to remember everything, difficult, technical detail, and make the drawings. Get rid of the bastards, once and for all.

Krogh gave a tiny cry of surprise, a sharp intake of breath, when the telephone sounded again. Nervously, as if the receiver were hot and he risked burning himself from contact with it, Krogh picked it up. Once more he didn’t say anything.

‘Emil?’

Krogh squeezed his eyes shut, another praying gesture, absurdly relieved to hear Petrin’s voice. Even more absurd, he wanted very much to have the man with him, looking after him, telling him what to do. ‘Yes?’

‘I didn’t want you to sleep on, if in fact you were asleep. It’s close to three.’

‘I was awake. I know what time it is.’

‘Good. Just wanted to make sure. I’ll be waiting downstairs.’

‘Is that where you are now?’

‘No. Make your call now, OK?’

The line went dead. Fetch boy, fetch, thought Krogh. Staging his own infantile protest he waited until a couple of minutes past three before dialling the number. He was connected at once to Robert Springley. The exchange was predictable: how was he, and thanks he was fine in return and it had been a pleasant enough flight and yes the English weather was a contrast with what he was used to in California and – lying – he didn’t feel too bad at the moment but he guessed the jet-lag would hit him any time now. Springley insisted he was looking forward very much to the meeting and thoughtfully dictated the train times from Waterloo station that would connect with a hydrofoil service from the mainland to get him to the Isle of Wight by eleven the following morning, if that weren’t too early. Krogh assured the Englishman the schedule was convenient, replaced the telephone and hunched forward on the chair, thinking how easy it had all been. His hands weren’t moving as much as they had been, earlier: not really a discernible shake any more. Just the vaguest movement of uncertainty.

Krogh tried another protest, remaining unnecessarily in his suite until three thirty, which put him downstairs in the lobby five minutes late. Petrin was waiting in the smaller of the two drawing rooms, to the right of the doors, actually looking at a copy of Country Life as if he were studiously reading the magazine. As he usually did, Petrin appeared quite relaxed and at ease. The man didn’t look up until Krogh was quite close. When he did so at last he smiled and stood and quite illogically extended his hand, as if they were friends meeting after a long period. Instinctively Krogh responded to the offered handshake, wishing too late to stop that he hadn’t. He was aware of the Russian studying him and waited for the complaint about how rough he looked but Petrin said nothing about his appearance. He didn’t seem aware of the lateness, either.

‘You call the factory?’

‘Of course.’

‘Everything OK?’

‘That’re expecting me at eleven tomorrow.’

‘That’s good, Emil. I’m very pleased.’

Krogh remembered reading that dog owners got better performances from their animals by expressions of encouragement. Trying to sound dismissive, he said: ‘Shall we get on with it?’

Petrin smiled and defeated him, as he always did. The Russian said: ‘I like your enthusiasm.’

The Soviet safe house was just off Rutland Gardens, a comparatively small property among the imposing five- and six-storeyed Regency buildings which are no longer individual houses but split-up and divided apartment and sometimes office conversions, each occupied by anonymous and indifferent strangers content to remain anonymous and indifferent, which made the location ideal for the Russians’ unobserved use.

Virtually an entire room had been set aside for Krogh, although the equipment by no means filled it. Krogh’s impression was that the contents of a commercial or industrial drawing supplier’s showroom had been emptied, which was almost what had happened. There was a large, flat table bisecting the room across its centre and stacked with cartons of original drawing film and trace paper running from size A1 to A4. There were several containers of pencils and drawing pens, in varying colours. The large drawing board was a traditional design, with top and bottom rollers connecting a complete foldaway parallelogram drawing machine which was adjustable, to move either up or down or across a drawing. In front of the assembly was a swivelling drawing chair and there were two large, anglepoise lights and a more elaborate third illumination, with a series of manoeuvrable lamps attached to a bar from which lamps could be set and positioned to direct light in any particular direction or spot.

‘Well?’ asked Petrin. For once there was not the automatic confidence with which the man usually spoke.

‘It looks all right,’ said Krogh.

‘But is it enough!’ demanded Petrin. ‘Is there anything we haven’t got!’

‘It looks adequate. But I won’t really know until I see what I’ve got to draw.’

‘Was it Springley you talked with?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s he expect?’

‘We did not discuss anything on the telephone.’

‘String it out,’ ordered Petrin, confidently back in a position of command. ‘I’m not minimizing the difficulty of what you’re trying to do: it’s impossible to expect you to retain half, let alone all of it. So prepare him for your coming back.’

‘What if he baulks at that?’

‘Don’t let him: remember always that you are the major stakeholder in this thing. They’ll defer to you because they’ll think you’re their access to American defence orders worth a lot of money.’

‘It’s all thought out, isn’t it?’ said Krogh dully.

Petrin frowned at the remark. ‘Of course it is,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you expect it to be?’

The question touched a nerve. The problem, reflected Krogh, was that he didn’t know what to expect, about anything. He had the feeling of being lost in a completely alien environment, which he supposed he was. He said: ‘So this is where I have to work. What else?’

‘Nothing,’ said Petrin simply. ‘You go to the English factory, spend as much time there as you need, and then come back here and make the drawings we want.’

Krogh shook his head disbelievingly, laughing at the same time. ‘It doesn’t work like that; can’t work like that.’

Petrin sighed. ‘Then make it work your way!’ he said irritably. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: establish whatever work pattern you consider necessary. There is only one consideration: getting it all and getting it right.’

‘Will you travel with me?’

‘Do you want me to?’

Yes, thought Krogh at once. He hated and despised and loathed this man. Yet he wanted the reassurance of his presence, the knowledge that Petrin would be somewhere close at hand, ready if the need – whatever the need was – were to arise. He said; ‘I don’t know…I didn’t…’ and trailed away, feeling ridiculous.

‘Emil!’ said Petrin with stretched patience. ‘You came in overnight on flight one zero nine. The plane was fifteen minutes late. You occupied a first class seat, four B, on the aisle. The Hackney carriage licence number of the taxi that brought you in from the airport was eight zero eight nine two five…’ The Russian smiled. ‘… And when you go to the Isle of Wight tomorrow you’ll be just as thoroughly protected.’

‘But are you coming?’ insisted Krogh.

There had been long psychological training periods at the spy schools, particularly the academy on the Prospekt Mira, on how a suborned agent could become dependent upon his case officer, and Petrin isolated the indication immediately. Knowing that the reliance had to be made complete in the mind of the agent, Petrin repeated: ‘Do you want me to?’

‘Yes,’ conceded Krogh.

From that same spy school instruction Petrin realized that the man was completely his now, to be moulded and shaped entirely as he wanted, like a piece of modelling clay. He said: ‘Then I will. We won’t actually travel as companions but I’ll be with you all the time, like others will be. You’re not to worry, you understand?’

Once, recalled Krogh, a remark about not worrying had annoyed him and he’d shouted back and told the man not to be absurd. He didn’t shout back today. Instead he said: ‘All right. I know.’

‘Did you get any sleep at the hotel?’

‘No.’

‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Petrin. He took a phial from his pocket, offering it to the other man. ‘Here!’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘Just sleeping pills,’ said the Russian. ‘They’re quite mild, but from the man we had on board I know you didn’t sleep at all on the flight coming over and I guessed you’d need them.’

Krogh stared at the phial and thought of an Oakland motel room and visibly shuddered.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t think I want them,’ said Krogh. He felt his stomach move at the recollection.

‘You do, Emil. I want you to take them.’

Hesitantly the American took the offered bottle, realizing that accepting the pills wasn’t the same as taking them, which he was sure he couldn’t physically manage.

There was a movement to their left and a man appeared at a door to another room. The man said something in Russian, briefly, and even more briefly Petrin replied in Russian. The man withdrew at once.

‘Who was that?’ asked Krogh.

It had, in fact, been the KGB duty change for the constantly monitored telephone, which was installed in the adjoining room. Petrin said: ‘No one to concern you. There’ll probably be quite a few people around when you start working here.’

‘What do I have to do now?’ asked Krogh, showing his increasing reliance.

‘Do you want to eat?’

The belated hunger he’d felt at the hotel had gone now and Krogh said: ‘Not really.’

‘Then just rest. You’ve got a lot to accomplish in the coming days.’

‘I will,’ undertook Krogh. He wouldn’t sleep, he knew: it would be impossible.

‘And I’ll take you back,’ said Petrin.

Petrin accompanied him to his suite. Inside Krogh looked curiously at the other man and said: ‘What’s happening now?’

‘Now you take the sleeping pills I gave you,’ said Petrin. ‘Which you weren’t going to do, were you?’

‘No,’ miserably admitted Krogh at once.

It was Petrin who got water from the bathroom and stood in front of the American while he took the dosage, an adult guaranteeing a child swallowed its medication.

‘I know practically everything you’ll do or try not to do,’ said Petrin. Mould the clay into any shape, he thought.

‘Yes,’ said Krogh in further dull acceptance.

‘Remember, Emil. I’m here with you in the same hotel. Looking after you. You’re safe.’

‘Yes,’ said Krogh again. He wished he didn’t need the comfort of that assurance.

The person who was going to be around the American most of all when he worked in Rutland Gardens was Yuri Guzins, and the man was terrified. The suggestion that a scientist go from Baikonur to London to oversee the drawing was met with the sort of frenzied protest that Berenkov and Kalenin had expected. And as they further expected the project chief, Nikolai Noskov, succeeded in arguing himself out of the responsibility, so anxious to avoid it that it was actually he and not Kalenin who put forward Guzins’ name as an alternative candidate.

Guzins tried to protest just as forcibly but he lacked Noskov’s seniority. More importantly he lacked Kalenin’s seniority and authority and was ordered first from Baikonur and then from Moscow with only forty-eight hours to prepare himself.

One of the man’s final, weak protests had been that he spoke no language but Russian, so Vitali Losev was sent from London to chaperon the man from the first moment of his arrival into Europe, at Amsterdam’s Schipol airport.

Losev went with deepening bitterness, viewing it as another secondary role and deciding that it was dangerous, too, when he saw the obvious, attentionattracting apprehension with which Guzins emerged from the arrival hall on to the main concourse. Losev moved at once to minimize it, directly approaching the heavily moustached scientist with the immediate assurance that he was going to be escorted and that there was no need for concern.

They entered Britain by a roundabout route, driving all the way from Amsterdam to Calais by car and crossing to Dover by sea ferry. Guzins travelled on a Greek passport that had been freighted in the diplomatic bag from Moscow to London and which Losev had carried with him to Holland, for their meeting. It was a completely uneventful trip and they arrived at Rutland Gardens late on a Thursday night.

‘What is this place?’ demanded Guzins at once, nervously.

‘Your home,’ said Losev. ‘Welcome to England.’