‘So?’
‘I don’t think they could properly handle something this big. It’ll go wrong.’
‘How important is Kalenin?’ asked Keys.
Ruttgers hesitated. At last, he thought, the doubtful son of a bitch is coming round.
‘I don’t think,’ he replied, slowly, ‘that I can think of a Russian whose defection would be more important in the entire history of communism … except perhaps Stalin.’
Keys sat back, bemused at the analysis. Ruttgers was absolutely convinced, he decided.
‘But surely …’ he started to protest.
‘… he’s lived through it all,’ insisted Ruttgers. ‘Stalin … Beria … Krushchev and Bulganin … Brezhnev … there is not one single Russian better able to tell us not only what happened in the past, but what might occur in the future. His value is incalculable.’
Ruttgers had been right in seeking the meeting, decided Keys. He’d tell the President at the afternoon briefing.
‘I agree,’ said the Secretary. ‘We’ve got to get involved.’
Ruttgers smiled and Braley found his breathing easier.
‘But be careful,’ added Keys. ‘If the shit hits the fan, I want us wearing clean white suits. Hand-shakes in space and détente is important at the moment.’
‘I know,’ assured Ruttgers. He paused, uncertain about the commitment at the final moment of making it. The risks were enormous. But then so was the chance of glory.
‘I thought I’d do it personally,’ he announced.
Keys stared at the C.I.A. chief, the words jamming in the back of his throat.
‘Do you think that’s wise?’ he queried, finally.
‘It’s got to be someone of authority … someone who can make decisions on the spot,’ argued Ruttgers.
Keys looked down at the photographs of Kalenin smiling up at him from the desk. Such an ordinary little man, he thought. Was he really worth it?
‘I think it’s very dangerous,’ judged Keys.
‘So do I,’ agreed Ruttgers. ‘But I think the potential rewards justify it.’
Keys nodded slowly, indicating Braley.
‘I think you should be seconded to it, as well,’ he said. ‘You’ve encountered Kalenin, after all. And if the need to go into Moscow arrives, your visa is valid.’
Braley smiled and felt his lungs tighten again.
The Secretary of State turned back to the Director.
‘Keep me completely informed … at all times,’ he instructed. ‘I don’t like it… I don’t like it at all.’
Kalenin crouched on the kitchen floor of his apartment, frowning at the tank displacement before him. He’d been fighting the Battle of Kursk for over a week now and it wasn’t going at all well. Unless there was a sudden change of luck, the Germans were going to reverse historical fact and win. He stood up, bored with the game.
What, he wondered, would be his worth to the West? It was important to calculate the amount to reflect his value, without being ridiculous. He smiled, happy at the thought. Five hundred thousand dollars, he decided. Yes – that was just about right.
The Customs inspector at Southampton located the second litre of brandy in Charlie’s overnight case and sighed, irritably. Why was there always a bloody fool? He held up the bottle, not bothering with the question.
‘Forgot,’ offered Charlie, shortly. ‘Bought it on the way out and forgot.’
‘Even though it’s wrapped in underwear you packed last night?’ accused the official. He made them unpack all their luggage, searching it slowly, so their departure would be delayed. If his dinner was going to be ruined, so would their homecoming.
‘It’ll cost you £4 in duty,’ he said, finally, surveying their wrecked suitcases.
It was another hour before they reached the M3 on the way to London.
‘Sometimes,’ said Edith, breaking the silence, ‘I really don’t understand you, Charlie.’
‘Bollicks,’ he said.
(6)
Cuthbertson had telephoned ahead, so Snare and Harrison were already waiting in the office when the Director and Wilberforce flurried in from their meeting with the Cabinet. It was the first occasion it had happened and he’d impressed them, Cuthbertson knew. There’d be other meetings at Downing Street, after today.
Cuthbertson was purple-faced with excitement, smiling for no reason, moving around the room without direction, nerves too tight to permit him to sit down.
‘Everyone agrees,’ he announced, generally. He giggled, stupidly. The other three men pretended not to notice.
Since the disaster of the Berenkov debriefing, Cuthbertson had always waited for an independent judgment. With Kalenin, he had insisted on two assessments and then met with the Foreign Secretary before bringing it before the full cabinet. The Prime Minister had been incredibly flattering, remembered Cuthbertson. He felt warm and knew his blood pressure would be dangerously high.
‘This is going to be the sensation of the year … any year,’ insisted Cuthbertson, as if challenging a denial. He looked at the others in the office. Wilberforce probed his pipe. Snare and Harrison nodded agreement.
‘Kalenin didn’t actually say anything about defection, did he?’ queried Snare, selecting a bad moment.
Cuthbertson stared at the man as if he had emitted an offensive smell.
‘Good Lord, man, of course not. But you’ve read the Moscow reports from Colonel Wilcox. He used to be in my regiment … know the man’s integrity as well as I know my own. There can be only one possible interpretation.’
‘So what happens now?’ asked Harrison, pleased at the rebuff to Snare.
‘He’s given us our lead. Now we’ve got to follow it.’
‘How?’ said Snare, anxious to recover.
‘The Queen’s Birthday,’ declared Cuthbertson, quickly, leaning back in his chair and smiling up at the ceiling.
Christ, it was better than soldiering, he thought.
‘There’s going to be a party at the Moscow embassy to celebrate it. And then there’s the Leipzig Fair.’
Snare frowned, but stayed silent. He could easily understand how the General annoyed Charles Muffin, he thought.
‘If Kalenin turns up at either, we’ll get our proof.’
‘I don’t quite see …’ Wilberforce stumbled.
‘Because we’ll be at both places, to speak to him,’ enlarged the Director.
‘Are you sure he’ll go to Leipzig? It’ll be unusual attending a trade affair, surely?’ questioned Harrison.
Irritably, Cuthbertson rummaged in the file, extracting the report from the trade counsellor at the Moscow embassy that had accompanied that of the military attaché.
‘… “Trade is important between our two countries”’, quoted the Director. ‘… “I personally hope to see it first hand at this year’s convention … Through trade, there will be peace, not war …”’
He looked up, fixing Harrison, who shifted uncomfortably.
‘… Where’s the Easter trade delegation?’ he demanded, needlessly. ‘Leipzig, of course.’
‘Will we be able to get visas in time?’ smirked Snare.
‘There’s a vacancy on the embassy establishment in Moscow,’ said Cuthbertson, airily. ‘It’ll be easy to get you accredited.’
Colour began to suffuse Snare’s face.
‘So I’m going to Moscow?’ he clarified.
‘Of course,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘And Harrison to East Germany.’
He gazed at Snare. ‘Wilcox is a good man … he’ll cooperate fully,’ predicted the Director.
Neither operative looked enthusiastic.
‘This is going to stamp our control indelibly upon the service,’ continued Cuthbertson. ‘We’ll be the envy of every country in the West … they’ll come to us cap in hand for any crumbs we can spare …’
‘It won’t be easy,’ said Harrison. It would be disastrous if he made a mistake, he thought. Fleetingly the vision of the burning Volkswagen and the body he had tho
ught to be that of Charles Muffin flickered into his mind.
‘Of course it won’t be easy. The Russians will do anything to prevent Kalenin from leaving …’ agreed Cuthbertson. He paused, looking carefully from one to the other. ‘… You’ll have to be bloody careful. Let Kalenin make the running all the time.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
The hope in Snare’s voice was evident to everyone in the room.
‘Then you’ll stay in Moscow for a few months until we can withdraw you without it being too obvious. And Harrison can come out when the Fair is over.’
‘If nothing happens,’ enthused Harrison, later, as the two operatives sat in the office formerly occupied by Charlie Muffin, ‘think of all the wonderful ballet you’ll be able to see. I hear the Bolshoi are marvellous.’
Snare stayed gazing out of the window into Whitehall. At least those killed in the war had a public monument, he thought, looking at the Cenotaph.
‘I don’t like ballet,’ he said, bitterly.
Back in Cuthbertson’s office, Janet carried in the carefully brewed Earl Grey tea, placing the transparent bone china cups gently alongside the Director and Wilberforce, then returned within minutes with two plates, each containing four chocolate digestive biscuits.
She stood, waiting.
‘What is it?’ demanded Cuthbertson, impatiently.
‘I thought you might have forgotten,’ offered Janet. ‘Mr Muffin returned this morning. He’s been in the office, all day.’
‘Oh Christ!’ said Cuthbertson. He stared at Wilberforce, deciding to delegate. Muffin wasn’t important any more.
‘You see him,’ he ordered the second man.
‘What shall I tell him to do?’
Cuthbertson shrugged, dismissively, taking care to break his biscuits so that no crumbs fell away from the plate.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, consumed by the Kalenin development. ‘Let him see Berenkov again.’
‘So Muffin isn’t to be demoted?’ probed Wilberforce, anxious to avoid being blamed for another mistake.
The Director paused, tea-cup to his lips.
‘Of course he is,’ he snapped, definitely. Even though the man had been right, showing them the way to uncover three other members of Berenkov’s system, Cuthbertson didn’t intend admitting the error.
‘But for God’s sake, man, consider the priority,’ he insisted. ‘The last thing that matters is somebody as unimportant as Muffin. Kalenin is the only consideration now.’
Charlie lay exhausted in the darkness, feeling the sweat dry coldly upon him. He hooked his feet under the slippery sheet, trying to drag it over him, finally unclasping his hands from behind his head to complete the task. He didn’t like silk bed-linen, he decided.
‘So he won’t even see me?’ he said.
‘He’s very busy,’ defended Janet, loyally, intrigued by the self-pity in Charlie’s voice. She hoped he wasn’t going to become a bore: she’d almost decided to take him to a party the coming Saturday, to show him to her friends.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Charlie turning to her. In the darkness, she wouldn’t detect his attention.
‘There’s a hell of a flap,’ reported the girl. ‘We’re trying to get Snare a visa for Moscow. And Harrison into East Germany under Department of Trade cover for the Leipzig Fair.’
‘Why?’
‘Cuthbertson thinks some General or Colonel or something wants to defect from Russia.’
‘Who?’
‘He won’t identify him. Even the memorandum to the Prime Minister refers to the man by code.’
Charlie smiled in the darkness. The bloody fools.
‘You’ll be annoyed tomorrow, Charlie,’ predicted the girl, suddenly.
He waited.
‘Remember the last time you saw Berenkov … the day your shoes leaked …?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cuthbertson has cut the taxi fare off your expenses. He dictated a memo today, saying you’d obviously walked.’
The girl went silent, expecting an angry reaction. Instead she detected him laughing and smiled, too. Charlie was such an unpredictable man, she thought, fondly. She would take him to Jennifer’s 21st.
‘I did miss you, Charlie.’
‘Yes,’ he said, distantly, his mind on other things.
‘Charlie.’
‘What?’
‘Make love to me again … the way I like it …’
The trouble with her preference, thought Charlie, pushing the sheet away, was that he always got cramp in his legs.
He sighed. And it was going to be a cold walk home, he thought. He’d been relying on those expenses: now he couldn’t afford a taxi.
(7)
Hesitant and uncomfortable, like a couple selected by a computer dating service, the two Directors finally met at Cuthbertson’s club in St James’s Street, agreeing its security. Each had had detailed biographies prepared by their services on the other, and had memorised them. Purposely, phrases were introduced into the small talk, showing the preparation, each wanting the other to know that he was aware it wasn’t really a social occasion.
He’d been right, decided Ruttgers, smiling across the lunch table at the man. Sir Henry Cuthbertson was lost outside the barrack square and the benefit of Queen’s Regulations.
The Kalenin approach had been made at an American embassy function, recalled Cuthbertson, answering the smile. Their awareness and the consequent approach was hardly surprising. That the Director had come from Washington was unexpected, though. He’d impress Ruttgers, like he’d impressed the Prime Minister, three weeks earlier, determined the Briton.
‘These Arbroath smokies are very good,’ complimented the American, boning the smoked fish. ‘It’s something we don’t have in America.’
‘I’m very fond of your cherry-stone clams,’ countered Cuthbertson. Advantage Cuthbertson, he decided.
‘I was very glad when the Secretary of State suggested I come to make your acquaintance.’
The American lifted the Chablis at the end of the sentence.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ accepted Cuthbertson. ‘Yes, liaison is very important.’
‘Vitally important,’ said Ruttgers.
Deuce, decided Cuthbertson, irritably.
The waiter came to clear the plates, saving him.
‘In every field,’ he generalised.
‘But I’m interested in one particular aspect,’ pressed Ruttgers. ‘The immediate future plans of a certain General.’
Cuthbertson stared around him, alarmed. He was going to lose the encounter, he thought, worriedly.
The artificial reaction amused the American, who waited until the other man had come back to him. This was going to be comparatively easy, thought Ruttgers.
‘We know all about it,’ exaggerated the C.I.A. chief. ‘We know you’re expecting further contact within a week or two.’
It had been easy in the closed environment of Moscow to discover the impending arrival of the man named Snare. Already, the operative who had been Braley’s deputy in the Soviet capital had been ordered to keep the Briton under permanent observation once he arrived. They’d know immediately there was a move, Ruttgers hoped.
‘I find it difficult to understand what you’re talking about,’ said Cuthbertson, stiffly. This wasn’t going at all like the Downing Street meeting. No one had pushed him then, just listened in polite attention.
‘Come now, Sir Henry,’ protested Ruttgers, lightly, carefully lifting the mollusc from the top of his steak and kidney pudding and frowning at it.
‘It’s an oyster,’ said the Briton helpfully. ‘You’re supposed to eat it with the pudding.’
Ruttgers pushed it to the side of his plate.
‘There is no other man in the world to whom I would dream of talking as directly as this,’ continued Ruttgers, flatteringly, holding Cuthbertson’s eyes in a gaze of honesty. ‘We don’t have to be coy with each other, surely?’
C
uthbertson speared several marinated kidneys, filling his mouth so he could avoid an immediate reaction. The other man’s directness flustered him, as it was intended to do.
‘There is a development in the East which is quite interesting,’ conceded the Briton, at last. He sipped his Château Latour reflectively. ‘And I’m sure you won’t be offended,’ he hurried on, disclosing his apprehension, ‘when I say I don’t see that at the moment it affects you in the slightest …’
He paused, growing bolder.
‘… There is an excellent liaison between us, as we have agreed. If anything transpires, you’ll hear about it through the normal channels.’
Bloody prig, thought Ruttgers, smiling broadly in open friendship. He hadn’t believed people talked of ‘normal channels’ any more.
‘Sir Henry,’ he placated, let’s not misunderstand each other.’
‘I don’t think there’s any misunderstanding,’ insisted Cuthbertson. The game was swinging back his way, he decided.
Ruttgers spread his hands, recognising the cul-de-sac.
‘The Kalenin affair is spectacular,’ he announced, selecting a different path and trying to shock the man into concessions.
Cuthbertson curbed any concern this time.
‘It really is too much for one service,’ said the American.
‘I can recommend the Stilton,’ said Cuthbertson, twisting away. ‘With a glass of Taylors, perhaps?’
Ruttgers nodded his acceptance, feeling the anger surface. Arrogant, stupid old bugger. How, he wondered, desperately, would the professional soldier react to the suggestion of higher authority?
‘I have it on the direct instructions of the President himself,’ disclosed Ruttgers, grandly, ‘that I can offer the full and complete services of the C.I.A. on this operation;’
‘That’s very nice,’ replied Cuthbertson.
The American was unsure whether he was referring to the offer or the cheese.
‘It would be an absolute disaster for the West if anything went wrong,’ bullied Ruttgers.
‘I’m quite confident nothing will,’ said Cuthbertson, dabbing his lips with the linen napkin. The two men sat looking at each other.
Charlie M Page 6
