Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

8

General Kalenin would have preferred more time to assemble the material but he was confident he had forgotten nothing. He arranged it before him on the desk top, checking against the carefully prepared list, for the final scrutiny. The medal ribbon designated a Hero of the Soviet Union and was accompanied by a long official citation made out in Charlie Muffin’s name. There was a Soviet identity card, with a picture of Charlie and an authorization, again with a picture, for admission to the restricted concessionary stores. The passport contained Charlie’s picture and was date-stamped for the relevant countries where the Britons had been killed. There was five thousand dollars in cash and several congratulatory cables, two referring to the assassinations in Delhi and Ankara. The longest document was the briefing about Rome. It ran to two full pages and Kalenin concentrated upon that most of all, because it had to complete the entrapment.

He summoned the courier to take it to the Foreign Ministry for inclusion in that night’s diplomatic pouch to London, shrugging into his topcoat while he waited. He followed the messenger from his office but descended in the private lift directly into the basement where the car was waiting in an area of guaranteed absolute security. The journey to Kutuzovsky Prospect took only minutes and Kalenin dismissed the driver for the evening.

It was one of the largest apartments in the government complex, too big for his solitary needs but awarded to him because of his rank. The size enabled Kalenin to devote an entire room to his hobby. From habit he went immediately to it, staring down at the contoured papier-mache layout and the positions of the miniature tanks with which he had been recreating the Battle of Kursk in the most recent war game. It was over a fortnight since he’d abandoned it. Normally he would have invited Alexei Berenkov to complete it with him, but had decided against it tonight.

Reminded of his guest, Kalenin went back into the main room and opened two bottles of Aloxe Gorton to let them breathe. Berenkov preferred French to Russian wine and Kalenin enjoyed using his official position to indulge his friend. He lit a low heat beneath the bortsch and added meat and dumplings when it began to steam. He had just completed laying out the caviar and smoked fish when the bell sounded.

Berenkov entered as exuberantly as always, enveloping Kalenin in his burly arms. The only legacy of the man’s British imprisonment was the white hair. The cowed apprehension of his immediate return had disappeared and under Valentina’s care all the weight had been restored. He looked like a bear, thought Kalenin. But elderly and docile, the sort that live in children’s fairy stories.

‘Valentina is sorry,’ said Berenkov, repeating the apology of their telephone conversation earlier in the day. ‘I think Asian flu is the best weapon the Chinese have.’

‘Tell her I hope she’s better soon,’ said Kalenin. ‘But I wanted to talk to you alone anyway.’

For the caviar and fish there was vodka. Before they began eating they touched glasses, toasting Russian-fashion.

‘That sounds intriguing,’ said Berenkov, heaping his plate with fish.

‘It’s Charlie Muffin.’

Berenkov stopped eating, ‘What about him?’ There was a sadness of anticipation in his expression.

Berenkov had the highest security clearance for his appointment as senior lecturer at the spy college on the outskirts of Moscow, so Kalenin recounted in detail the Rome exposure and what he intended to do to save it. Berenkov sat hunched forward, huge hands cupped around his vodka glass, his food temporarily forgotten.

‘He couldn’t have been better for our purpose,’ said Kalenin. Charlie Muffin had been responsible for trapping the other man and Kalenin knew that, during the debriefing which followed, a professional respect had developed between them.

‘How did you find him?’

‘In America, about a year ago,’ said Kalenin. ‘He was involved in the insurance protection of a Tsarist stamp collection. I’ve had him under observation ever since.’

‘A convenient coincidence.’

‘The British will be completely convinced.’ Kalenin brought the bortsch and wine to the table. Berenkov poured, sniffing the bouquet appreciatively.

‘What do you think of the plan?’

Berenkov made an uncertain rocking gesture with his hand. ‘It seems good.’

‘Kastanazy is being purged.’ Kalenin needed to confide fully. ‘I expect him to be dismissed any day.’

‘Will you get the seat?’

Kalenin smiled. ‘It’s a possibility.’

Berenkov raised his glass. ‘To your success.’

‘Thank you.’

Berenkov put down the glass and said guardedly. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Charlie Muffin.’

‘He might have been good once,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘But not any longer: he’s collapsed pretty badly during the last year.’

Berenkov laughed, a short, humourless sound. ‘He was right about the stick,’ he said.

‘Stick?’

‘A remark he made at the last meeting we had, in prison,’ remembered Berenkov. ‘He said he always got the shitty end of the stick.’

Charlie filled the bath with cold water, rolled up his trousers and perched carefully on the edge, easing his feet in with a sigh of relief. Rubber-soled suede wasn’t good for hot weather: and now his feet hurt like buggery. He flexed his toes, thinking of the ride back to Rome.

Had there been a Lancia following? He’d only been aware of it for part of the journey and when he’d slowed it had overtaken naturally enough. But he hadn’t been going fast in the first place, so why had it crawled along behind?

Maybe he was being over-cautious. By going out to Ostia Charlie had avoided any contact with the embassy, so there couldn’t be the slightest chance of detection. He would have to be careful he didn’t imagine danger where none existed.

There was a knock at the door. It came again, more insistently, as he dried his feet. He padded across the room, without bothering to roll down his trousers.

‘Going to the beach?’ said Clarissa Willoughby.

‘Just as soon as I knot my handkerchief,’ said Charlie.

‘You don’t seem pleased to see me.’

‘I’m not sure that I am.’