Comrade Charlie

Chapter 47

It was a week before Charlie was called to the ninth floor, a week during which he was forbidden to go anywhere near his Vauxhall flat but had to live in a department-owned house in Hampstead and was required, each succeeding day, to build up in the minutest detail a report upon everything he had done from the moment he’d detected the Soviet surveillance on the Isle of Wight. There were two interviews with the executives from the department’s internal security division, hostile, antagonistic encounters with men who considered Charlie had exposed the inadequacies and failings of their colleagues and were determined to catch him out and find cause for some internal disciplining. Charlie didn’t believe they did, to any degree of seriousness, but was in any case hardly concerned. He obeyed the instructions and endured the interrogations but existed through it all in a slough of crushing despondency, his mind and feelings absorbed to the exclusion of anything else by that morning at the department store window, gazing down upon Natalia for the last time. He’d hesitated that day, at the moment of leaving the store, all the conflicting reasoning and common-sense decisions wiped out, his sole, overwhelming desire abruptly to run back and get to her. For several moments he’d remained just inside one of the exit doors, almost literally pulled in opposing directions. He’d fought against the yearning and carried on, quitting the place, but since then, every day and every night, he’d thought about nothing else, mentally rearranging the arguments, trying to reach — pointless though that would now be — a resolve different from that he’d made.

During the week the office across the corridor normally occupied by Hubert Witherspoon had remained empty and there had been no contact or communication from Richard St John Harkness, which Charlie had half expected but did not regret failing to receive.

He was curious, when he received the ninth-floor demand, if at last it was to be confronted by Harkness: the interview request was illegibly signed pour procurationem on Director General notepaper but during Sir Alistair Wilson’s absence Harkness had frequently used it, according himself the promotion that had never occurred in reality.

But it hadn’t come from Harkness. At the reestablished security counter on the ninth floor he was collected by the primly permed Miss Harriet Jameson-Gore, Wilson’s personal secretary who had been in temporary charge of the typing pool during the Director General’s illness and escorted by her to the old man’s office, where Wilson was waiting. Wilson was by the window, where the sill was just the right height for him to perch and take the pressure off his leg without actually sitting down. There were two vases of pink parfait roses on the man’s desk, filling the room with their scent. Growing roses at his Hampshire home was Wilson’s overriding hobby: oddly it was the presence of the flowers, more than Wilson being there to receive him, that told Charlie the man was back permanently in control. Charlie still didn’t think the older man looked completely fit.

Wilson gestured Charlie towards the sagging visitor’s chair that had been absent during Harkness’ tenure, a scored and stained leather thing with a seat that kept descending after a person sat in it. Without extending any invitation the Director General poured Islay malt into two tumblers, which he held before him for examination and then added more whisky to both.

He handed one to Charlie and said: ‘I’ve got the report from internal security. And their recommendations. They’ve itemized eight positive breaches and recommend your severe reprimand and that those reprimands be logged on your service record.’

They’d have been pissed off at that being the best — or rather the worst — that they could do, Charlie knew. He said: ‘I suppose that’s about right.’

‘I’ll say it again,’ remarked Wilson. ‘You behaved like a bloody fool. An absolute bloody fool.’

‘Yes,’ accepted Charlie meekly. He didn’t accept it at all but now was not the time to argue, sitting there with a glass of the Director General’s whisky in his hand.

Wilson propped himself at the window again, gazing into his drink. ‘Did she turn up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘She appeared to be. It was impossible in surroundings like that to be absolutely sure.’

‘Why didn’t you make the contact?’

‘It wasn’t right,’ said Charlie. ‘She had to know.’

Wilson nodded, in agreement. ‘I would have thought so. We could be wrong, of course, but I doubt it…’ He looked up from his glass. ‘Was it important to you?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Charlie at once. ‘Very important.’

‘Then I’m sorry. Personally sorry, I mean.’

Charlie shrugged, not immediately speaking. Then he said: ‘Whatever the full story, I had to allow the doubt.’

‘Let’s move on,’ said Wilson briskly. ‘There are other things that need to be discussed. I’ve read your account…’

‘Yes?’ said Charlie inquiringly.

‘My impression is that it is completely honest.’

‘It is,’ assured Charlie.

‘Then be honest about something else.’

‘What?’

‘Did you intentionally embark, before the Isle of Wight business, to set up the deputy Director General or Hubert Witherspoon?’ demanded Wilson. ‘Create situations — aware as you were of certain personal feelings concerning you — that would lead them to overstep the mark perhaps?’

Charlie stared directly across at the other man, holding his eyes. ‘No, sir,’ he lied, ‘I did not.’

Wilson gazed back, matching Charlie’s look just as directly. There were several moments of silence. Wilson said: ‘I want your assurance on this. You are being utterly truthful about that?’

‘Yes I am,’ said Charlie, feeling no discomfort.

Wilson nodded three or four times, quite slowly, and made a sound as if he were humming to himself. He said: ‘There were some serious management mistakes. The credibility of the department has been called into question.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Charlie. He still felt no discomfort. Remorse, either. The bastards wouldn’t have felt anything for him, if they’d caught him out in the beginning or if the Soviet manipulation had turned out differently. They’d have been out somewhere celebrating by now, two glasses of lemonade and lots of self-satisfied back-slapping about how clever they’d been, ridding the department of an embarrassing oddity called Charlie Muffin.

‘It’s been decided there should be certain changes,’ disclosed Wilson. ‘Mr Harkness is being appointed Finance Director.’

It was difficult for Charlie to remain straightfaced. No longer deputy Director General! Charlie had never expected that: imagined trying to achieve it, even, because he wouldn’t have thought it possible. And it wouldn’t have been, not from what he’d done, he recognized objectively. Their overreaction, their embarrassing mistakes, had been related to what they were fed by Moscow. His part in their downfall had been to expose the Soviet manoeuvre for what it was. He said: ‘Who is the new deputy Director General going to be?’

‘That’s still to be decided,’ refused Wilson.

‘And Witherspoon?’

‘Administration,’ said Wilson vaguely. ‘He will no longer be maintained on the active roster.’

Charlie supposed he should feel some satisfaction — be grateful at least that his two most active critics in the place had been dumped at the same time — but he didn’t. Somehow it now seemed quite unimportant. He said: ‘What about me? Is any change to be made to my role here?’

Wilson’s face relaxed, into something of a smile. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. But I want you to listen, very carefully. Don’t you ever take so many chances again: try to run everything like a one-man army. It’s an absolute bloody miracle that things did not turn out to be a bigger disaster than they were: a miracle that the whole Russian scheme didn’t get you sent away for more years than you’ve got left to live.’

‘What has happened?’ asked Charlie.

Wilson gave an uncertain movement with his hand. ‘One of the many things we’ll never know is why they held back the film roll of the drawing they planted in King William Street. We can only thank Christ that they did and we were able to destroy it. We know they retrieved what we put there because we followed Losev every step of the way. Now all we can do is sit and pray, which is hardly enough but all there is. There’s been a lot of direct telephone conversations between the President and the Prime Minister. Between the American directors and myself, as well. No one believes it’s going to work; that it stands a chance in hell.’

‘What about the people rounded up from the safe house?’

‘There’s a lot of squabbling over that. America is pressing for a full-blown spy trial: certainly they want to sweat every drop they can out of the scientist. His name turns out to be Yuri Guzins, incidentally: we traced him from some photographs taken at the Soviet installation at Baikonur.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Guzins is tempting: bloody tempting,’ said Wilson. ‘The other two don’t matter. I’d prefer to have Obyedkov expelled: usual grounds about activities not in keeping with his supposed diplomatic status. The other one too, for entering on a false passport. The FBI have identified him as Alexandr Petrin. He’s based in the Soviet consulate in San Francisco. Washington take that as positive confirmation that Krogh’s leaked everything there is to tell about the work his company were doing.’

‘What about Krogh?’

‘That’s what really angers the Americans,’ disclosed Wilson. ‘There’s been a second operation and there doesn’t seem to be any doubt there’s permanent and severe brain damage. He can’t talk even if he wanted to. Seems it’ll never be possible to bring him to trial.’

‘So who’s going to get their way?’ pressed Charlie.

Wilson sighed, shifting himself against the window sill. ‘The trouble with staging a major trial is that restricted though it would be, actually in camera, there would have to be some revelation that America has lost its Star Wars supremacy. That would cause an enormous public outcry in America but for the wrong reasons: there would be a huge loss of confidence, a fear that they were no longer in control but vulnerable instead, not outrage that Russia steals Western technology, because most people accept that already. I can’t see any purpose in finger-pointing: it’s closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

‘Which leaves Blackstone?’

‘Who didn’t actually do anything,’ reminded the Director General. ‘We’ll orchestrate the court hearing quietly enough. It will be a closed session again. The charge will be attempting to assist in a hostile act, so there’ll be a term of imprisonment. Losev will be incriminated, so we can get rid of him, cause Moscow some little inconvenience.’

‘The decision is ours, here in London, isn’t it?’ pointed out Charlie. ‘There could only be an American prosecution if Krogh could be arraigned, which he can’t.’

Wilson smiled, a teeth-baring expression. ‘I’ve made the point,’ he said. ‘It’ll all come down in the end to a political chess game between London and Washington. Who gains or loses more by making or winning concessions.’

‘I can’t go back to Vauxhall, can I?’ guessed Charlie.

‘Of course not,’ said the Director at once. ‘We know that flat’s identified, just like we know you were definitely targeted.’

‘Pity,’ said Charlie sadly. ‘There’s a good pub there. The Pheasant.’

‘That’s precluded too,’ announced Wilson. ‘You can stay at the department place for as long as you want, until you find something else. We’ll clear Vauxhall for you. And there’ll be the phoney trial, of course.’

Charlie had wondered if Wilson would do it. ‘On the stuff that was supposed to be found in the flat?’

The Director General nodded. ‘In camera again,’ he agreed. ‘Charge can be something like receiving payment for unspecified acts of espionage. The Attorney General isn’t going to like his courts being used like this but I think I can persuade him. We belong to the same club, you know.’

‘I didn’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s necessary, I suppose.’

‘If Berenkov believes you’re out of circulation he isn’t going to have another try, is he?’

‘No,’ agreed Charlie. ‘So it’s extremely necessary.’

Wilson laughed, adding whisky to both their glasses. ‘Just imagine!’ he said. ‘Officially it’ll mean you’ll cease to exist.’

‘People have been treating me like that for years,’ said Charlie.

‘Don’t ever forget what I’ve said, about how you operate in the future?’

‘I won’t,’ promised Charlie. Let’s cross each bridge when we come to it, he thought easily.

‘I mean it,’ warned Wilson. ‘Any more wild independence and I’ll have you out of this department so fast your feet will leave scorch marks!’

‘Trust me,’ invited Charlie.

‘Always the trouble, Charlie. Always the trouble.’

‘I wanted to see you,’ said Laura.

‘Been busy,’ said Charlie. ‘Sorry.’ If she had not actually come to the fifth floor and physically confronted him he would still probably have made an excuse to avoid their meeting — which, he decided, now they were together, was ridiculous. Why shouldn’t they have a drink together?

‘I know bits,’ said Laura. ‘Not a lot. Just bits.’

‘It’s very complicated,’ said Charlie, in attempted dismissal. ‘What’s the financial department like?’

‘Better view,’ said Laura. ‘He’s trying to redesign the expenses claims forms. He wants much more detail.’ The entire department Harkness now controlled was separate from Westminster Bridge Road, across the river and nearer to Whitehall. Refusing to be put off, Laura said: ‘I want to ask you something.’

‘What?’

‘That day in the street, when you told me you didn’t want to keep the date? Did you know then that the Russians had picked you up?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

‘So it was to protect me?’

‘It was probably already too late by then,’ apologized Charlie. ‘I wanted to keep you out of it if I could.’

Laura smiled and reached across the wine-bar table, pressing his hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘I wish I’d realized sooner,’ said Charlie. ‘I was slow.’

‘I did what you wanted, you know,’ offered Laura. ‘Before that, I mean. I gossiped to Harkness, about you. He seemed to think it was very important.’

‘I’m sorry about that, too,’ said Charlie. ‘Using you like that.’

‘Are you!’ she demanded quizzically.

Charlie smiled back at her. ‘Sort of,’ he said.

‘They say there was a woman involved,’ said the girl. ‘Someone you knew?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. The rumour mill was very active, he thought.

‘Can you tell me about it?’

Charlie topped up both their glasses from the Montrachet bottle between them. ‘No,’ he said positively. Over, he thought: finished.

‘Oh,’ said Laura, rebuffed.

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Charlie.

‘Paul’s asked for a divorce,’ she announced abruptly. ‘His girlfriend is pregnant again. They want to get married.’

‘I’m…’ started Charlie, and stopped. He said: ‘No. It would sound trite.’

‘Thanks anyway.’ She was silent for a moment and then she said: ‘That’s not why I made contact. I mean I didn’t think…’ Her voice trailed off and she shrugged.

‘I didn’t think it was,’ said Charlie.

She smiled at him hesitantly. ‘I’d like to see you sometimes, though. If you’d like to, that is. Nothing serious. No commitment. Just a drink occasionally, like now.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie doubtfully. They were two lonely people, he thought. Why not?

‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ regretted Laura hurriedly.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Was she beautiful?’

‘I thought so.’

‘Sure you don’t want to talk about it?’

‘Very.’

‘I went over to Fulham last weekend, where Paul and the girl are living. Hung about. Actually saw them. They were taking the first baby out for a walk. One of those pushchairs with wheels that twist in every direction. It’s a little boy, you know, their first baby. Peter. Can’t think why I went there now. They seemed very happy. They were laughing. He had his arm around her.’

Charlie wished desperately he could think of something to say, to help. Maybe he was helping by not saying anything.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about, not to me.’

She smiled at him sadly. ‘You know that photograph that used to upset you, the one of Paul?’

‘Yes.’

‘He took it with him.’

‘Don’t go to Fulham any more,’ advised Charlie.

‘I won’t.’

The bottle between them was empty. Charlie said: ‘Would you like some more?’

‘No,’ refused Laura. ‘I should be getting home.’ She looked directly at him and said: ‘I don’t want you to come back with me.’

‘I wasn’t going to suggest it,’ said Charlie.

‘Just a drink, occasionally.’

‘That would be good.’

‘Life is a bitch, isn’t it!’ She said with sudden vehemence.

‘Every time,’ agreed Charlie.

‘I thought there was going to be improvement, a week ago,’ said the nursing home matron. ‘There were definitely signs of some emergence. But in the end nothing happened.’

Charlie put the chocolates on the woman’s desk and said: ‘Why don’t you have these?’

‘We mustn’t lose hope,’ insisted the woman.

‘I don’t,’ said Charlie. ‘Ever.’ There was something else he was never going to lose, either. The doubt that by feeding things back to Harkness as he had, through Laura, he’d actually caused his mother to be interrogated as she had been: that her remission wasn’t the fault of the Special Branch men but his.