Here Comes Charlie M

SIXTEEN

Onslow Smith had taken over the larger conference chamber in the American embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square. He stood on a dais at one end of the room, a projection screen tight against the wall behind him. While he waited for everyone to become seated, he fingered the control button connected to the screening machine that would beam the pictures through the tiny square cut into the far wall.

The diminutive figure of Garson Ruttgers bustled into the room, moving towards the seat which Smith had positioned just off the raised area but still in a spot separating him from the other operatives, a considerate recognition of the importance he had once enjoyed.

Immediately behind sat Braley, clipboard on his knee. It was a great pity, decided the Director, that the Vienna episode had marked the end of any promotional prospects for the man. Braley appeared to have a fine analytical mind and worked without panic, despite the obvious nervous reaction to stress. He’d arranged everything for that day’s meeting and done it brilliantly; one of the few people affected by Charlie Muffin who would easily make the transition to a planner’s desk.

One of the few people, he repeated to himself, staring out into the room. Eighty men, he counted. Eighty operatives who had been trained to Grade 1 effectiveness; men from whom the Agency could have expected ten, maybe fifteen years of top-class service. All wiped out by Charlie Muffin. And Wilberforce expected him to sit back and do damn all except be the cheerleader. The apparent success of the early part of the entrapment had gone to the British Director’s head, he decided.

‘Shall we begin?’

The room quietened at the invitation. Smith stood with his hand against the back of the chair, looking down at them.

‘Some of you,’ he said, ‘may have guessed already the point of drafting you all to London …’

He waited, unsure at the harshness of the next part of the prepared text. It was necessary, he decided. It would remind them of what they had lost and bring to the surface the proper feelings about the man responsible.

‘… because you all, unfortunately, shared in the operation that ended your active field careers.’

Ruttgers, who had been initially grateful for the seating arrangement, moved uncomfortably in front of the men he had personally led to disaster, realising too late its drawbacks. Needing the activity, he lighted the predictable cigarette.

‘Because of this man …’ announced Smith, dramatically. He pressed the control button. A greatly enlarged picture, several times bigger than life, of Charlie Muffin appeared on the screen. It had been taken in the churchyard. Several times Smith pressed the button, throwing a kaleidoscope of photographs on the wall, shots of Charlie Muffin in Zurich, coming through passport control at London airport, outside his Brighton house and entering and leaving the offices of Rupert Willoughby.

‘Taken,’ said Smith, ‘by the British.’

He paused to let the murmur which went through the room settle into silence. It was like baiting animals, bringing them to the point where their only desire was to fight, thought the Director.

‘Charlie Muffin has been found,’ he declared.

He waited again for the announcement to be assimilated.

‘Found,’ he picked up, ‘by a very painstaking but rewarding operation conducted by the British …’

There was complete silence in the room, realised Smith. The concentration upon what he was saying was absolute. He sighed, shuffling the prepared speech in his hand.

‘I wish to make it quite clear at the outset that since the discovery of the man, the handling of the affair had been jointly handled by the British and ourselves.’

He appeared to lose a sheet of notes, then stared up at them.

‘At very high level,’ he emphasised.

He waited for them to assess the importance, then went on: ‘A certain course had been decided upon, a course of which you’ve no need to be aware …’

Harsh again, recognised Smith. But necessary, a reminder of just how far down they’d all been relegated. After this they’d be clerks at Langley until retirement, with only the Virginia countryside to relieve the boredom.

‘It is sufficient for you to know that no immediate action — open action, anyway — is being taken against Charlie Muffin …’

The noise started again, the sound of surprise this time.

‘Which does, of course,’ continued the C.I.A. chief, ‘create a danger.’

He stopped once more. He’d really fucked it up, he decided honestly.

The response from the room was growing louder and several men were trying to catch his attention, to ask questions.

‘And that is why I have gathered you here,’ said Smith quickly, trying to subdue the clamour. ‘The British consider the surveillance they have established is sufficient and certainly, thus far, it has proven to be. But I have no intention whatsoever of this Agency taking a subservient role in the continuing operation envisaged by the British.’

Smith sipped from a glass of water and in the gap a man at the front blurted: ‘You mean we are going to stop working with the British?’

Smith smiled, the timing of the question over-riding any annoyance at the interruption.

‘I intend giving the impression of continued co-operation,’ he said. ‘Before this meeting is over, you will all be given dossiers containing every item of information about Charlie Muffin that the British have so far been able to assemble … it is quite extensive. With the benefit of that information, we are going to establish our own, independent operation. When the shit hits the fan, I still want us wearing clean white suits.’

The persistent questioner in the front row pulled forward again.

‘He will be eliminated, sir, won’t he? Charlie Muffin will be eliminated?’

It was almost a plea, thought Smith. He moved to speak, but Ruttgers responded ahead of him, emotion momentarily washing away his awareness of his reduced role.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the ex-Director, fervently. ‘He’ll be eliminated. I promise you that.’

‘But not until I’ve given the explicit order,’ instructed Smith.

Charlie stood at the lounge window of the Brighton house, gazing out at the tree-lined avenue. The uniformed policeman who had passed twice was standing at the corner now, stamping his feet against the early evening chill. Where, wondered Charlie, were the others?

He turned into the room, staring at the bottles grouped on the table by the far wall. No, he decided easily. He didn’t need it. Not any more.

‘What I need,’ he told himself, ‘is for them to over-reach themselves. Just once.’

And Edith, he thought. He wanted her by him very much. But not yet. He had to get a clearer indication of what was happening before putting her to any more risk than she already faced. Poor Edith.