Charlie M

by Brian Freemantle

  Then he realised the following car had closed behind him. There were only five yards between them now and he could see five men jammed uncomfortably in the other vehicle.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Harrison, aloud.

  In the first few seconds of unthinking confusion, he braked, accelerated, then braked again, so that the car leapfrogged towards the obstruction. Two soldiers in front of the spikes motioned him to stop and men began fanning out along either side of the road. The recollection of the burning Volkswagen and the dull, thudding sound that the bullets had made, hitting the body, forced itself into his mind and again he braked, sharply and with design this time, trying to spin the car in its own length so that he could be facing back up the road. The vehicle stuck, halfway around, the bonnet pointing uselessly towards the bordering field. To his right, Harrison saw the following car had anticipated the manœuvre and turned across the road, blocking any retreat.

  Harrison was sobbing now, the breath shuddering from him. There was no reason why he should be detained, he assured himself, his lips moving. No reason. Or excuse. Don’t panic. Act in the outraged manner of any important government official irritated by being stopped. The car episode was easily explained; just dismiss it as lack of control in an emergency situation in a hired car.

  He thrust out of the vehicle and began walking purposefully towards the road block, protest disordered in his mind. But then he saw the uniforms and fear got control of him and he stopped. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. And then he ran, stupidly, first towards the waiting soldiers, then sideways, trying to leap the ditch.

  There was no sound of warning before the firing, which came almost casually from a machine gun mounted on a pivot near the driving position of the leading armoured car. Harrison was hit in mid-air and dropped, quite silently, into the ditch he was trying to leap.

  The driver and one of the men from the following car walked slowly up the road, hands buried into the pockets of their leather topcoats, breath forming tiny clouds in front of them as they walked. For several minutes they stood staring down into the ditch, alert for any movement that would indicate he was still alive. Only Harrison’s legs were visible, the rest of him submerged in the black, leaf-covered water. His foot jerked spasmodically, furrowing a tiny groove in the opposite bank. It only lasted a few seconds and then it was quite still.

  ‘It’s not possible to spin a Skoda like that,’ said the driver, as they turned to go back to their own vehicle.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Something to do with the suspension and the angle that the wheels are splayed.’

  ‘Must be safe on ice, then?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘We won’t tell Snare,’ decreed Cuthbertson. He stood at the window, watching a snake of tourists slowly enter the Houses of Parliament. They were Japanese, he saw, armoured in camera equipment and wearing coloured lapel pins identifying them with their guides, who carried corresponding standards in greens and reds and yellows.

  ‘All right,’ agreed Wilberforce.

  ‘It would be quite wrong,’ justified Cuthbertson, turning back into the room. ‘He’d go to Moscow frightened. A frightened man can’t be expected to operate properly. It’s basic training.’

  ‘Need he go at all?’ asked Wilberforce. ‘Surely Harrison’s report is pretty conclusive.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ insisted Cuthbertson. ‘He’s got to go. I’m convinced now, but we need to know the conditions that Kalenin will impose. And if he’s made his own escape plans. A man like Kalenin won’t just walk into an embassy and give himself up.’

  ‘Yes,’ concurred Wilberforce. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  They remained silent while Janet served the tea. It was several minutes after she had left the office before the conversation was resumed.

  ‘Was it a surprise?’ asked Wilberforce, nodding to the door through which the girl had left the room.

  ‘What?’ demanded Cuthbertson, pretending not to know what the other man was talking about.

  ‘To discover from the security reports that Janet was having an affair with that man Muffin.’

  ‘Not really,’ lied the Director. ‘I gather he has a reputation for that sort of thing. Rutting always has been the pastime of the working class.’

  He shook his head, like a man confronted with a distasteful sight.

  ‘Imagine!’ he invited. ‘With someone like that!’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked the second-in-command. ‘He’s married and she’s the daughter of a fellow officer, for God’s sake.’

  Cuthbertson opened the other file on his desk, containing the report of Harrison’s death.

  ‘Let’s see how Snare gets on,’ he said, guardedly.

  ‘Over six months have passed since Comrade General Berenkov was sentenced,’ recorded Kastanazy, gazing over his desk at Kalenin.

  ‘Yes,’ said the K.G.B. officer.

  ‘Most of yesterday’s Praesidium meeting was devoted to discussing the affair.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the General.

  ‘Please understand, Comrade Kalenin, that the patience of everyone is growing increasingly shorter.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the General.

  Had Kastanazy purposely dropped his rank? he wondered.

  (9)

  Snare hated Moscow, he decided. It was claustrophobic and petty-minded and inefficient and irritating. He had attended the Bolshoi and been unmoved, the State Circus and been bored and the Armoury and been unimpressed with the Romanov jewellery, even the Fabergé clocks. The body of Lenin, enclosed behind glass in that mausoleum, was not, he had concluded, the embalmed body at all, but a waxwork. And a bad wax-work at that. He’d seen better at Madame Tussaud’s, when he’d taken his young nephew for an Easter outing. The child had wet himself, he remembered, distastefully, and made the car smell.

  The flattery of being lionised as a new face in an embassy starved of outside contact had worn off now and he pitied the diplomats and secretaries whose constant opening gambit was to refer to his thoughtfulness in bringing as gifts from London, Heinz baked beans, Walls pork sausages and Fortnum & Mason Guinness cake. It had been Muffin’s advice, recalled Snare. Just the sort of sycophantic rubbish in which the man would have indulged, a gesture to make people like him.

  He’d spent several evenings with the Director’s friend, Colonel Wilcox, and rehearsed their approach if Kalenin attended the official function. But even Wilcox had erected a barrier, afraid any mistake could create an embarrassing diplomatic incident. So no one liked him, decided Snare. He didn’t give a damn. Thank Christ, he thought, gazing out of the embassy window, that the stupid party was tonight and he could start thinking of his return to London. It was raining heavily, smearing the houses and roads with a dull, grey colour. It was hardly surprising, he thought, that the Russians seemed so miserable.

  The interest of the Americans slightly worried him. They knew who he was, he accepted. That absurdly tall man who kept talking about basket-ball, moving his hands in a flapping motion as if he were bouncing a ball against the ground, was definitely an Agency man. Snare groped for the man’s name, but had forgotten it. Odd how sportsmen liked to boast their chosen recreation, he considered. Harrison was always driving imaginary golf balls with his reversed umbrella.

  Someone in the British embassy must have disclosed his identity, he thought. When he got back to London, he’d complain to Sir Henry Cuthbertson and get an investigation ordered. Bloody diplomats were all the same: trying to show off their knowledge, gossiping their secrets.

  The fact that he was known to be an operative didn’t matter, he rationalised. They’d be expecting him to do something befitting his role and all he had to do was attend an embassy party and, if Kalenin were there, carry on where Harrison had left the conversation in East Germany.

  And because no one, apart from the British, knew what that conversation was, then all he would appear to be doing was behaving in a normal, social manner.

  The
thought of achieving his mission while they all watched, unaware of what was happening, amused him. It would have been pleasant, letting them know afterwards how stupid they had been. But probably dangerous. He sighed, abandoning the idea.

  Snare turned away from the window, taking from the desk immediately behind it the coded report that had come from Whitehall three weeks earlier giving a complete account of Harrison’s meeting with the General.

  Harrison had done bloody well, congratulated Snare. When he got back to London, he’d take the man out for a celebration meal, to l’Étoile or l’Épicure. Some decent food would be welcome after what he had endured for the past month, when he’d been lucky enough to get any service at all in a hotel or restaurant.

  Carefully, he traced the responses that Kalenin had given in Leipzig. There could be no doubt, he agreed, turning to Cuthbertson’s assessment, that the General was a potential defector. The East German encounter had shown him the pathway, thought Snare. But it was still going to be difficult if Kalenin turned up, discovering the undoubted conditions that the man would impose. Secretly he hoped Kalenin wouldn’t appear: then he could just go home. Yes, he thought, it would be better if Kalenin didn’t attend. Because whatever he achieved tonight, if anything at all, would be secondary to Harrison’s initial success. It was bloody unfair, thought Snare, irritably, that the other man had just got six days in East Germany and all the glory and he’d been stuck in Moscow for four weeks and had to perform the most difficult part of the whole operation.

  He descended early to the ballroom, arriving with the first of the British party. He spoke briefly to the ambassador and Colonel Wilcox, discussed the quality of the Cambridge eight with the cultural attaché who had been his senior at King’s and had got a rowing blue, and then edged away, to be alone. Being disliked had its advantages, he thought: no one bothered to follow.

  The American contingent arrived early and there were more of them than Snare had expected. What an appalling life, sympathised Snare, playing follow-my-leader from one embassy gathering to another, repeating the same conversations like a litany and attempting to keep sane. Almost immediately behind the Americans, the rest of the diplomatic corps arrived, crushing into the entrance and slowly funnelling past the hosts towards the drinks tray and tables of canapés. Whatever did these people, all of whom had seen each other in the last week and to which absolutely nothing had happened in the interim, find to talk about? wondered the Briton.

  At the far end of the chandeliered room, an orchestra was attempting Gilbert and Sullivan and Snare was reminded of the amateur musical society at his prep school.

  ‘Hi.’

  Snare turned to the fat man who had appeared at his elbow. He seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in his breathing.

  ‘Braley,’ the man introduced. ‘American embassy.’

  Another C.I.A. man? wondered the Briton.

  ‘Hello,’ he returned, minimally.

  ‘Could be a good party.’

  Snare looked at him, but didn’t bother to reply.

  ‘Not seen you before. Been in Washington on leave, myself.’

  ‘I envy you,’ said Snare, with feeling.

  ‘Don’t you like Moscow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long will you be stationed here?’

  ‘As briefly as possible,’ said Snare.

  Christ, thought Braley. And the man was supposed to have diplomatic cover: hadn’t anyone briefed him?

  ‘Believe you’ve met my colleague, Jim Cox?’ said Braley, brightly.

  Snare looked at the second American and nodded. He wasn’t practising his basket approach tonight, Snare saw. What had really offended him about Cox, a thin-faced, urgent-demeanoured man who did callisthenics every morning and jogged, according to his own confession, for an hour in the U.S. embassy compound in the afternoon, was the discovery that the price he was offering Snare for the duty-free, embassy-issued Scotch would have only allowed a profit of twenty pence a bottle. The offence was not monetary, but the knowledge that others in the embassy would have learned about it and laughed at him for being gullible, particularly after the apparent well-travelled act of bringing in the beans and sausages. Everyone would know now that it wasn’t his idea, but somebody else’s. They’d probably guess Charlie Muffin, he thought; in his first few days in the Soviet capital, there had been several friendly enquiries about the bloody man.

  Snare looked back to Braley. So he was an Agency man, too. Best not to encourage them.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Snare, edging away. ‘I’ve just seen somebody I must talk to.’

  ‘An idiot,’ judged Braley, watching the Englishman disappear through the crowd.

  ‘I told you he wasn’t liked,’ reminded Cox. Apart from the invisible basket-ball practice, Cox had the habit of rising and falling on the balls of his feet, to strengthen his calf muscles. He did it now and Braley frowned with annoyance. Cox would probably die of a heart attack when he was forty, thought the unfit operative.

  ‘I thought you were exaggerating,’ confessed Braley. ‘He’s unbelievable.’

  ‘It’s been like this all the time.’

  ‘The Director said there had been changes. I wasn’t aware how bad their service had got. They certainly need our involvement.’

  Cox dropped an imagined ball perfectly through the shade of a wall light, nodding seriously to his superior.

  ‘The Russians must have spotted him,’ he predicted.

  Braley looked at him, sadly.

  ‘They know us all,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t …’

  ‘Here he is,’ broke off Cox, urgently.

  Braley stopped talking, looking towards the entrance. There were ten in the Russian party. Kalenin was the last to come through the door, separated from the others by a gap of about five yards. He wore uniform, which seemed to engulf him, and moved awkwardly, as if uncomfortable among so many people.

  Politely he stood last in line as his colleagues eased forward, greeting the ambassador and the assembled diplomatic corps.

  ‘And there goes Snare,’ completed Cox, needlessly.

  The Englishman had positioned himself near the side table laid out with cocktail snacks. He moved away as the Russians entered, remaining halfway between it and the greeting officials, permitting him a second chance of an encounter, as they came to eat, if Colonel Wilcox failed to hold Kalenin sufficiently for the rehearsed meeting.

  But Wilcox didn’t fail. Soldierly obedient to his instructions, the distinguished, moustached officer immediately moved to engage Kalenin, and Snare continued forward. He estimated he had ten minutes in which to confirm absolutely the conviction about the Russian General by discovering the conditions.

  Wilcox saw his expected approach and smiled, half turning in feigned invitation. It was going almost too well, thought Snare, apprehensively, entering the group.

  ‘General, I don’t believe you’ve met the newest recruit to our embassy, Brian Snare.’

  The Englishman waited, uncertain whether to extend his hand. Kalenin gave a stiff little bow, nodding his head.

  Befitting the Gilbert and Sullivan string ensemble, decided Snare, answering the bow.

  ‘A pleasure, General,’ he began. It would, he guessed, be another fencing session, like that which Harrison had recorded so well from East Germany.

  ‘And mine,’ responded the Russian.

  ‘Your command of English is remarkably good,’ praised Snare, seeking an opening. He glanced almost imperceptibly at Wilcox, who twisted, seeking an excuse to ease himself from the conversation and avoid the involvement that so worried him.

  ‘It’s a language I enjoy,’ replied Kalenin. ‘Sometimes I listen to your B.B.C. Overseas broadcasts.’

  An unexpected confession, judged Snare. And one that could create problems for the man.

  ‘They’re very good,’ offered Snare, inadequately.

  ‘Sometimes a little misguided and biased,’ returned Kalenin.

  The reply a Russ
ian should make, assessed Snare. Now there was no danger in the original remark.

  Although a small man, the Russian looked remarkably fit, despite the rumoured dedication to work. Snare found him vaguely unsettling; Kalenin had the tendency to remain completely unmoving, using no physical or facial gestures in conversation. The man reminded Snare of a church-hall actor, reciting his responses word-perfect, mindless of their meaning.

  ‘Excuse me,’ muttered Wilcox, indicating the British ambassador who stood about ten feet away. ‘I think I’m needed.’

  Good man, judged Snare. He’d exonerate him from any criticism of the embassy when he returned to London. He saw the faintest frown ripple Kalenin’s face at the departure.

  ‘There are other opportunities for practising the language, of course,’ said Snare, conscious of the time at his disposal.

  ‘At receptions like this,’ suggested Kalenin, mildly.

  ‘Or at trade gatherings, like those of Leipzig,’ said Snare. He had to hurry, risking rebuttal, he decided.

  Kalenin was looking at him quite expressionlessly. It would never be possible to guess what the man was thinking, realised Snare. Debriefing him would take years; and a cleverer man than Charlie Muffin.

  ‘In fact,’ continued the Englishman. ‘I think you met a colleague of mine recently at Leipzig.’

  ‘Wonder what they’re talking about,’ said Braley, leaning against the far wall forty feet away.

  ‘Our turn will come, if all goes well,’ said Cox, descending two inches from his calf exercise.

  ‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ protested Braley, breathily. ‘I find it irritating.’

  Cox looked at him, surprised.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. Sensitivity of a sick man confronted with good health, he rationalised. Poor guy.

  Cox was a joke who needed replacing, decided Braley, enjoying his new intimacy with the C.I.A. Director. He’d get the man moved as soon as possible.