Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

26

They hadn’t allowed him any water to wash or shave. Charlie had peed in the bucket and knew that the smell of the room clung to him. Jackson beckoned him from the doorway. Charlie got up slowly from the bed, stretching the cramp from his back. He’d spent the night hunched against the wall, knees beneath his chin, and felt lightheaded from sleeplessness. Charlie clutched at his unsupported clothing and shuffled out into the interrogation room. The arrangements were the same as before, except that there was a second man, in horn-rimmed glasses, at the recording table. He was seated behind a box file. But there was no chair for Charlie this time. Bastards, he thought. He stood with his legs apart, trying to keep his trousers up that way; they bagged at the waist.

‘We’ll discuss your defection,’ said Wilson, as if there had only been a few minutes’ interruption.

‘There was no defection,’ said Charlie.

‘At the end of 1977 you went to the Soviet Union,’

‘I did not.’

Wilson put out his hand and from the box file the bespectacled man produced a small wallet. Wilson leaned forward across the table and said, ‘Is that your photograph?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie curiously.

Wilson turned towards the recording equipment. ‘Exhibit 1 that Charles Muffin has identified containing his photograph is an identity document, according him the rank of major in the KGB and establishing entry into the Soviet Union in November 1977.’

‘This is nonsense.’

‘We found everything in your flat,’ said the director. ‘And Walsingham’s on-demand safe deposit box here in Rome. If he hadn’t panicked, you’d have got away with it. He would have been dead, but you’d still have been free.’

Wilson was handed something else from the document box and held it up for Charlie. ‘Is that your photograph attached to this card?’

‘Of course it is.’ Careful, he thought: he’d let the irritation show.

Again Wilson turned to the side table. ‘Let the record show that Muffin has just acknowledged his photograph on the official authorization to concessions in certain restricted Moscow stores. It will be exhibit 2.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ demanded Charlie. ‘You know it’s not true.’

Wilson ignored the protest. ‘Do you know what these are?’ He held up some sort of decoration in his hand. With it was a long, official-looking form. Charlie saw the writing was Cyrillic.

‘I’ve never seen either before in my life,’ said Charlie. He tried to reject the panic sweeping through him.

Once more Wilson spoke to his right. ‘Exhibit 3 is the official decoration of the Hero of the Soviet Union, with a citation commending Charles Muffin for outstanding work on behalf of the security service of the Soviet Union.’

‘It’s not true!’ said Charlie desperately. ‘It’s complete invention.’

Naire-Hamilton cupped his hand to Wilson. The director listened, and then said to Charlie, ‘There’s no point in extending this, is there? Why not admit it?’

‘My name is Charlie Muffin,’ he recited, in a name, rank and serial number monotone. ‘In 1977 I disclosed to the Soviet Union the whereabouts in Vienna of the British and American intelligence directors, for personal reasons. That is all I have ever done. At no time beyond that have I had any contact with Russia…’ He stared straight at Naire-Hamilton. ‘I have killed no one.’

‘What’s that?’ demanded Wilson.

‘A Canadian passport,’ said Charlie.

‘Take it.’

Charlie held onto his trousers with his left hand and felt out with his right.

‘What’s the entry stamp, on page thirty-six?’

Charlie turned the pages awkwardly, supporting the document against his chest. ‘Delhi,’ he said.

‘Did you, on 14 April, two days after the admission into India recorded on that date stamp, kill a British intelligence agent named Walter Thomison?’

‘No!’

‘What’s the entry on page twenty-eight?’

Charlie fumbled through. ‘Ankara.’

‘Did you, on 27 August, one day after your arrival in Turkey, assassinate Rupert Bullock, a British intelligence agent attached to the embassy there?’

‘This is a farce…’

‘Page forty-four,’ stipulated Wilson.

Dully Charlie turned the pages. ‘Bangkok.’

‘Did you, on 3 October, four days after your arrival, shoot Peter Weighill, who had been identified to you as an intelligence operative working out of the British embassy in Thailand?’

‘No,’ said Charlie. His mind was misted by the accusations being made against him.

‘Do you recognize these?’ demanded the director, offering a fan spread of paper.

Charlie sighed. ‘No,’ he said.

Wilson went to the note table. ‘This will be itemized as exhibit 5, the passport being exhibit 4,’ he said. ‘It consists of congratulatory cables, two signed personally by General Kalenin, commending Charlie Muffin on the success of his assassination of British agents attached to embassies in the three countries in which the Canadian passport numbered 18756 shows he had access.’

He’d let them play themselves out. There was nothing else he could do.

‘Let the deposition show we are discussing what I shall identify as exhibit 6,’ said Wilson. He offered it to Charlie. It was long, running to two pages and on flimsy paper that Charlie remembered from intelligence briefings. ‘Do you know this?’

‘No.’

Wilson sat back, holding it loosely before him. ‘It’s your instruction sheet.’

‘What instruction sheet?’

‘Telling you what to do here,’ said Wilson. ‘Telling you that Henry Walsingham, a spy like you, had panicked after the caution from Moscow that he was under suspicion and intended organizing a robbery on the ambassador’s safe, believing information incriminating him was being held there…’ Wilson broke off. ‘You were brilliant, getting to that safe as you did to find it wasn’t so. Didn’t Walsingham believe you when you told him there was nothing there?’

‘Walsingham wasn’t a spy.’

Wilson waved the paper. ‘The instructions make it clear you were to kill him, because he’d become unstable. You had to improvise when the robbery went ahead, didn’t you?’

‘Like everything else alleged today, this is complete nonsense,’ said Charlie. He spoke towards the recorder: if they were going to get the bullshit on tape, his denials were going to be there too.

‘You knew Walsingham, didn’t you: you were his control?’

‘No.’

‘We’ve proof,’ said Wilson. ‘We found the key, to the safe deposit box. It’s all there.’

‘I met Henry Walsingham the day after the robbery, at the ambassador’s villa at Ostia. I had never met him before.’

Wilson reached for the document.

‘Exhibit 7 will be listed as the Soviet message indicating initial control contact with Charlie Muffin,’ he said. ‘It contains a notation in Walsingham’s handwriting confirming that the meeting took place on 10 June last year in Washington.’

Relief surged through Charlie. ‘What was that date?’

‘10 June!’

‘No!’ said Charlie triumphantly. ‘And now it’s in the record there’s nothing you can do about it.’

As Charlie through of Willough by there was a kaleidoscope of imagery, of his meeting in the underwriter’s office and then, intrusively, of a grey-suited man reading a magazine in the waiting room; the same grey-suited man who fell into step behind Clarissa as she walked past the Trevi fountain.

‘Bastard!’ said Charlie. But why? Hadn’t he been the bigger bastard for what he’d done with Clarissa, willing though she might have been? Ironically it made things easier. He looked at the director. ‘Rupert Willoughby can prove I wasn’t in Washington on 10 June last year.’ Charlie hesitated, arrested by another image – the crying, tear-stained face of Edith during one of their last rows. And her accusation, ‘ Nothing matters to you but survival does it Charlie

… nothing at all…’ She’d been right, as always. To Wilson he said, ‘And it can be corroborated.’

It was a vast high-ceilinged room, already prepared for some of the conferences to be held during the forthcoming Summit. It was dominated by two tables arranged in a T; ministers sat at the top cross section and their advisers were spread away from them. Wires ribboned the floor, for the microphones set before each place and for the translations to be fed into the headsets clipped discreetly against each chair arm. Beyond the main seating arrangement was a small table, for the conference secretariat, and it was here that Billington, Wilson and Naire-Hamilton sat.

‘I would like to say at the outset on behalf of my government that we greatly appreciate your understanding in allowing this discussion.’ Naire-Hamilton fell easily into standard diplomatic verbosity. The London instructions were that he should lead the meeting, to spare Billington full responsibility as the permanent British representative.

‘And, on behalf of my government, I want to make it clear that we consider what has taken place to be a flagrant breach of every diplomatic understanding,’ said Guiseppe Belli. The Foreign Ministry official was a saturnine, sallowcomplexioned man whose lightweight pinstripe matched Naire-Hamilton’s in elegance. He made a striking contrast with Inspector Moro, who sat to his left. The third Italian, Roberto Delcasta, was the deputy director of Italian intelligence, a slight, bespectacled man.

‘There was no intention for it to be,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘How else can it be construed?’ demanded Belli impatiently. His English was clipped and precise.

‘As a sincere attempt on behalf of my country to avoid a scandal,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘How?’ demanded Delcasta. ‘The robbery had already created security doubts with other countries.’

Naire-Hamilton nodded for Wilson to take over. Succinctly, with no deviation from the rehearsed story, the intelligence director talked of the suspicion of a traitor within the British embassy, their efforts to locate him and the discovery of a man who had disgraced the service seven years earlier. As he spoke he stared intently at the three Italians facing him, aware of the slight relaxation of their attitude. It was fifteen minutes before he stopped, and at once Naire-Hamilton said, ‘Throughout it has been the intention of the British government to limit the possibility of embarrassment for the Common Market Summit in a fortnight’s time.’

‘Cooperation would have achieved the same result,’ said Belli.

Naire-Hamilton could not be deflected so easily. ‘Until eight o’clock last night we saw it as an internal matter to be controlled within the privileged precincts of our own embassy. We had less than two hours to act when it turned out otherwise.’

‘That is still no explanation for removing the body of the dead British national,’ said Moro. ‘Or seizing the man responsible. That is positive interference in an investigation being carried out by the Italian authorities.’

‘I’ve already explained the purpose; the instinctive reaction was that to call the police risked the matter becoming public’ Naire-Hamilton was adamant.

‘There has to be a satisfactory solution,’ said Belli.

‘Which is why we sought this meeting,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘What?’ said the Italian.

‘You had a robbery of a British ambassador, which was distressing so close to the Summit,’ said Wilson, realizing the offer would have to come from them. ‘And from the palm print and blood samples you know you have discovered the thief.’

‘So?’ demanded Moro.

‘It can’t be too hard to invent an account of a successful police investigation, culminating in an attempted seizure during which the man was killed.’

‘A story like that could never be contained within the civil police,’ protested Delcasta.

‘No need even to try,’ said Wilson. ‘Already it is known that Inspector Moro is attached to diplomatic protection. An attempted arrest by a security squad would be publicly acceptable. And also ensure secrecy.’

‘It would also reassure other governments of the effectiveness of your diplomatic safeguard,’ added Naire-Hamilton. ‘And be a strong argument against increasing their own bodyguard contingent.’

‘And you would look after your own problems?’ said Belli.

‘Absolutely,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘Which leaves the Summit,’ said Belli.

‘Which I’m also prepared to discuss,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

Wilson looked curiously along his side of the table and then realized that the discussion had moved beyond the seizure on the Via Salaria.

‘My government does not see it as an easy meeting,’ said Belli.

‘There are certain contentious issues,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘A possible dispute between us, I believe. About subsidy contributions.’

‘I’m aware of the agenda,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘It is an item which my government would prefer not to have been included,’ said Belli.

‘I understand that the items for discussion are still subject to final agreement between the secretariat,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘That’s also my understanding,’ said Belli.

‘I’m authorized to say that my government would greatly appreciate your discretion about the difficulties with our embassy.’

‘And I’m authorized to bring it to a conclusion,’ disclosed Belli.

‘It would be unfortunate for there to be disagreements between our two governments.’

‘I am sure it can be avoided.’

‘Have I your guarantee on that?’

Again there was a pause before Naire-Hamilton replied. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘An absolute guarantee.’

Belli pushed back his chair, allowing a smile. Neither Delcasta nor Moro joined in. Wilson felt the meeting moving in their favour. He felt a rare admiration for the way Naire-Hamilton had conducted the negotiations.

‘Any official investigation into what happened at the Via Salaria could provoke unwelcome publicity,’ said Belli. He looked to Moro. ‘Can we make it work?’

‘With the greatest difficulty,’ said Moro reluctantly. The anger was moving through the policeman, so that he found it hard to remain still.

‘But it is possible?’ pressed Belli.

‘I suppose so.’

Belli returned to Naire-Hamilton. ‘My government would also want an assurance that never again would you consider acting in such a fashion in our country.’

‘Which I have given you, unhesitatingly,’ said Naire-Hamilton at once.

Belli forced his public smile. ‘I think we have an agreement.’

They shook hands. ‘There has been no official transcript,’ said Belli. ‘It is important that we trust each other for the agreements to be kept.’

Wilson saw Moro look towards the extensive electronic equipment on the larger table and decided his earlier doubts were well founded.

‘There will be no misunderstanding,’ assured Naire-Hamilton.

*

They had used Billington’s official car, with the glassed partition between them and the driver: Naire-Hamilton and Billington sat in the back with Wilson opposite on the jump seat.

‘The PM won’t like the concessions,’ predicted Naire-Hamilton.

‘There was no choice,’ said Billington. ‘The Italians had all the cards.’

‘He’d set his mind on getting the subsidies properly distributed: it’ll look a ridiculous climb-down.’

‘Lesser of two evils,’ said Billington.

Naire-Hamilton looked up at the intelligence director. ‘Now that’s resolved, we can go ahead as planned,’ he said.

Wilson moved on the cramped seat. ‘I want to question him further,’ he said. ‘That date is an odd disparity.’

Naire-Hamilton let the pause become obvious between them. ‘We’ve pulled back from a potential disaster,’ he said slowly.

‘I want to avoid another one,’ said Wilson.