Charlie M

by Brian Freemantle

  Cuthbertson nodded, accepting the assurance. He took a gold flag indicating Kalenin from a third box and inserted it into the marked house on Wipplingerstrasse.

  ‘Anyway,’ pointed out the British Director, ‘he won’t be there longer than an hour. It will just be somewhere to stop, change his clothes and then leave for the airport.’

  ‘You’ve fixed that?’ queried the American.

  Cuthbertson, who had already entered another gold marker in Schwechat, nodded.

  ‘We’ve officially informed the Austrians we want to shift embassy furniture and equipment over a three-week period. There will be four dummy flights, moving things around for no reason except to get them used to it.’

  As he talked, Cuthbertson was flagging the area around the house where Kalenin would be held. He worked on a grid pattern, marking down from the Danube Canal, bordered by the post office and Aspern Square across to the old city hall and Am Hof Square and embracing the Hofburg Palace, the Spanish Riding School and running up to Volksgarten. Blue flags indicated concealed observations; green designated open surveillance, on foot or in cars.

  ‘That’s a hell of an area,’ remarked Ruttgers, echoing Wilberforce’s thoughts.

  ‘But necessary,’ insisted Cuthbertson. ‘This outline covers the situation for a concealed, unpursued crossing …’

  He opened a drawer and took out some red-headed pins.

  ‘… I think there should be a contingency situation for an emergency flight, possibly under pursuit …’

  He held up the crimson markers.

  ‘… and we won’t be able to insert these, showing it, until Muffin’s meeting on the thirteenth from which I hope to know the crossing point.’

  ‘Then what?’ queried Ruttgers.

  Cuthbertson sighed.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t happen,’ he said. ‘But in case it does, we’ll want a back-up team at the crossing spot. If the Russians learn it’s Kalenin, they’ll come across without bothering whose country they’re violating. I’ll have a transfer car waiting, into which we can put Kalenin …’

  He hesitated at the American’s frown.

  ‘I’ll only need three minutes at the outside,’ he said. ‘If the Russians chase, I want them to be able to locate almost immediately the crossing car, which will take off to loop Vienna and apparently make for the Italian border…’

  ‘While the real car completes the journey to the airport?’ accurately guessed Ruttgers.

  ‘There’s a lot wrong with that,’ argued Wilberforce. The two Directors stood, waiting.

  ‘What do you imagine the Austrian authorities are going to do while all this is happening?’ criticised the civil servant.

  ‘As much as possible,’ said Cuthbertson, confidently. ‘All I want is the transfer. The Austrians will be chasing the car that crossed and which the Russians or Czechs followed. Not one of my operatives – or an American – will be involved, apart from the initial holding operation. From then on, Austrian police pursuit is exactly the sort of diversion I want.’

  ‘What about the driver of Kalenin’s original car?’ probed Wilberforce, obstinately.

  ‘He’ll have to be sacrificed,’ said Cuthbertson, easily. ‘I want an explosive device fitted, during the transfer. To detonate within five minutes.’

  ‘So who will be driving?’ asked Wilberforce.

  ‘I had thought of Muffin,’ said Cuthbertson.

  ‘He’s too valuable: he’ll have to travel on with Kalenin,’ protested Ruttgers.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ accepted the British Director. ‘It’ll have to be somebody else.’

  ‘There’s Cox, currently attached to our Moscow embassy,’ offered Ruttgers, remembering his annoyance at the man’s inability to detect Charlie’s entry into Russia. ‘His involvement would be very natural. And he speaks Russian, which gives added validity for his secondment.’

  ‘A11 right,’ agreed Cuthbertson, carelessly. ‘Let’s use him.’

  Wilberforce stood studying both men, wondering if cither was really medically sane. He supposed the sacrifice of one life was justified, but he would have expected some distaste from those making the decisions: Ruttgers and Cuthbertson appeared almost to be enjoying it.

  ‘Our debriefing team will be arriving in London next week,’ reported Ruttgers, avoiding looking directly at Cuthbertson.

  ‘Yes,’ said the ex-soldier. He still hoped to persuade the Cabinet to retract permission for the interviews with Kalenin to be Anglo-American.

  ‘We’ve houses available here?’ asked Ruttgers.

  ‘Four,’ replied Cuthbertson. ‘Each is as secure as the other. They’re all in the Home Counties.’

  ‘We’d like to examine them first,’ said Ruttgers.

  The clerk-like American had been born out of his time, decided Wilberforce. He would have enjoyed bearbaiting or cock-fighting, watching animals gradually tearing themselves to pieces.

  ‘A pointless precaution,’ defended Cuthbertson, holding his temper. ‘I will not have that sort of interference.’

  Ruttgers smiled. ‘I’d still like to be satisfied,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll raise it at the Cabinet meeting,’ undertook Cuthbertson, trying to avoid the commitment. ‘They might, object, too.’

  ‘They won’t,’ predicted Ruttgers. ‘But if you need authority,’ he continued, ‘go ahead.’

  Ruttgers was an easy man to dislike, thought Wilberforce.

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ said the American.

  Cuthbertson concentrated upon his map positions, appearing disinterested.

  ‘I thought one of us should go to Vienna personally to meet him.’

  Cuthbertson frowned, off-balanced by the suggestion.

  ‘We’ll both go,’ insisted the Briton, anticipating what Ruttgers was going to say and determined not to be upstaged by the other man.

  ‘It’s an American house,’ protested Ruttgers, who had wanted the opportunity to begin his persuasion upon the Russian.

  ‘But a joint operation,’ reminded the former soldier, definitely.

  Ruttgers nodded in curt agreement. He’d blown it, he decided, annoyed at himself.

  Charlie Muffin relaxed happily in his former office, with space in which to move and its pleasant view of Whitehall. Like a child who has had its ball returned from a neighbour’s garden, he smiled at Braley. He liked the man, he decided. Braley was a professional, which always gained his esteem: little else did, reflected Charlie.

  They had finished the public laundering of the money the previous night, one day before each departed for Prague under embassy cover. The debriefing with Ruttgers and Cuthbertson had been easy and almost perfunctory, both Directors preoccupied with their pinned and flagged series of maps.

  There had not, anyway, been any reason for a lengthy meeting, remembered Charlie. The operation had gone perfectly and had been identical in the casinos of Vienna, Monte Carlo, Nice and the Clermont and National Sporting Clubs in London.

  Each night for the previous two-and-a-half weeks they had entered the high game rooms and changed fifty thousand dollars into gambling chips. After three hours mingling with the gamblers but never playing, they returned to the caisse, changed the chips back into unmarked currency and left the casino. The mornings of each day had been spent taking sample records, Charlie selecting notes at random and dictating their numbers to Braley, who had operated the pocket recorder.

  The American was bent over it now, making the final calculation.

  ‘According to my figures, we’ve a trace on fifty-five thousand dollars. That’s twenty thousand in sterling, fifteen in French francs and twenty thousand in Austrian Schillings.’

  ‘Sufficient,’ judged Charlie, dismissively.

  ‘It was very necessary though, wasn’t it?’ he added.

  Braley nodded, positively. In Vienna, Braley had identified two known K.G.B. operatives and Charlie had located a third in Monte Carlo. For that number to have been seen meant the surveillance o
n Charlie had been absolute, they had decided at their meeting with the Directors.

  ‘At least Kalenin knows we’re following his stipulations to the letter,’ said Braley.

  ‘He knows exactly what we’re doing,’ agreed Charlie. ‘What bothers me is that I haven’t a clue about him.’

  ‘Still apprehensive?’ queried Braley.

  Charlie nodded. ‘Very,’ he admitted.

  The man’s nervousness was unsettling, thought the American. He wondered how the Englishman would behave if things went wrong in Czechoslovakia.

  (14)

  Charlie spent the day before his Prague flight in Rye. He had telephoned from London, so when he arrived at the station, Wilkins, who had been manservant and chauffeur to Sir Archibald throughout his directorship of the department and retired on reduced pension rather than work for another man, was there to meet him.

  They had known each other for twenty years, but Wilkins greeted him formally, allowing just the briefest, almost embarrassed handshake, before opening the car door.

  It was a magnificent Silver Shadow, maintained by a chauffeur who adored it in a condition of first-day newness.

  ‘Car looks as good as ever,’ complimented Charlie.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Wilkins, steering it from the parking space.

  ‘If ever Sir Archibald fires you, come and drive for me,’ invited Charlie, attempting what had once been a familiar joke between them.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Wilkins. He’d forgotten, thought Charlie, sadly. The response should have disparaged a Ford Anglia, a troublesome vehicle that Charlie had once owned.

  ‘Sir Archibald was sorry he couldn’t come to the station,’ recorded Wilkins.

  ‘Isn’t he well?’

  ‘He’s waiting at the house,’ avoided the chauffeur.

  ‘Isn’t he well?’ repeated Charlie, but Wilkins didn’t reply and after several minutes Charlie relaxed against the shining leather, knowing the conversation was over.

  No, thought Charlie, as he hesitantly entered the lounge of Sir Archibald’s home, darkened by drawn curtains against the summer brightness. Sir Archibald wasn’t well. It was incredible, Charlie thought, remembering his last meeting in Wormwood Scrubs with Berenkov, how quickly people collapsed. The former Cambridge cricket blue who had captained his county until his fiftieth birthday and who, three years before, had been an upright six-foot-three who could command attention by a look, was now a bowed, hollowed-out figure, with rheumy eyes and a palsied shake in his left hand. He’d developed the habit of twitching his head in a curious, sideways motion, like a bird pecking at garden crumbs apprehensive of attack, and he blinked, rapidly and constantly, as if there were a permanent need for clear vision.

  ‘Charlie!’ he greeted. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  The blinking increased. He was very wet-eyed, Charlie saw.

  ‘And you, sir,’ replied Charlie. Odd, he thought, how instinctive it was to accord Sir Archibald the respect he found so difficult with Cuthbertson.

  ‘Sit down, lad, sit down. We’ll drink a little whisky. I’ve some excellent Islay malt.’

  Charlie had already detected it on the old man’s breath. Sir Archibald filled two cut-glass goblets, raised his and said: ‘To you, Charlie. And to the department.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Charlie, embarrassed. It had been a forced toast and he wished the old man hadn’t made it.

  Sir Archibald sat in a facing chair and Charlie tried to avoid looking at the shaking hand. The old man had always detested physical weakness, remembered Charlie. During his tenure as Director, medical examinations had been obligatory every three months.

  ‘Been unwell,’ complained Sir Archibald, confirming the expected irritation at his own infirmity. ‘Caught flu, then pneumonia. Spent too much time in the garden on the damned roses. Lovely blooms, though. Have to see them before you go.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. ‘I’d like that.’

  Sir Archibald drank noisily, sucking the whisky through his teeth. Charlie became conscious of the stains on his jacket and trousers and sighed. Sir Archibald was a very shabby, neglected old man, he thought.

  ‘Good of you to come at last,’ said the former Director, floating the criticism.

  ‘Been busy,’ apologised Charlie, inadequately.

  Sir Archibald nodded, accepting the excuse.

  ‘Course you have, course you have. See from the newspapers that you finally got Berenkov.’

  ‘Yes,’ conceded Charlie, modestly. ‘It was all very successful.’

  Sir Archibald added whisky to both their glasses, looking cheerfully over the rim of the decanter.

  ‘Got a commendation, too, I shouldn’t wonder? Your job after all.’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie, staring down into the pale liquid. ‘I didn’t get a commendation. Two other operatives did though. Names of Harrison and Snare. You wouldn’t know them; they arrived after you left.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sir Archibald, glass untouched on his knee. The old man knew it would be improper to ask the question, Charlie realised, but the curiosity would be bunched inside him.

  ‘It’s very different, now, sir,’ said Charlie, briefly.

  ‘Well, it had to be, didn’t it?’ offered Sir Archibald, generously.

  ‘For two unpredictable, entirely coincidental bits of bad luck?’ refuted Charlie, suddenly overcome by sadness at the figure sitting before him. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Come now, Charlie,’ lectured his old boss. There had to be a shake-up and you know it.’

  ‘It hasn’t achieved much.’

  ‘It got Berenkov,’ pointed out Sir Archibald.

  ‘I got Berenkov, operating a plan evolved by you and Elliot before the changes were made,’ contradicted Charlie.

  ‘It was sad about Elliot,’ reflected Sir Archibald, reminded of his former assistant and trying to defuse Charlie’s growing outrage. ‘I visit the grave sometimes. Put a few roses on it and ensure the verger is keeping it tidy. Feel it’s the least I can do,’

  ‘I’ve never been,’ confessed Charlie, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I was in East Germany when the funeral took place.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ said Sir Archibald. ‘Not important. It’s the living that matter, not the dead.’

  It had been one of Sir Archibald’s favourite remarks, remembered Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, shielding his goblet from another addition from his persistent host.

  ‘Is it going to be difficult, Charlie?’ demanded Sir Archibald, suddenly.

  ‘What?’ frowned Charlie.

  ‘Oh, I know you can’t give me details … wouldn’t expect it. But is the operation you’re involved in going to be difficult?’

  Charlie smiled, nodding his head at his former chiefs insight.

  ‘Very,’ he confirmed. ‘The most difficult yet.’

  ‘Thought it was,’ said the old man. ‘Knew there had to be some reason for the visit.’

  Quickly he raised his shaky hand, to withdraw any offence.

  ‘Appreciate it,’ Sir Archibald insisted. ‘Consider it an honour to be thought of like this, by you.’

  ‘It’ll probably go off perfectly,’ tried Charlie, cheerfully.

  ‘If you believed that, you wouldn’t have bothered to come here to say goodbye,’ responded the former Director.

  Charlie said nothing.

  ‘Anything I can possibly do to help?’ offered the old man, hopefully.

  ‘No,’ thanked Charlie. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Ah,’ accepted Sir Archibald. ‘So you could die?’

  ‘Easily,’ agreed Charlie. ‘Or be caught.’

  Charlie paused, remembering Berenkov. ‘I’m not sure of which I’m more frightened, death or a long imprisonment,’ he added.

  Sir Archibald gazed around the room. ‘No, Charlie,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t know, either. But the risk isn’t new: it’s been there on every job upon which you’ve ever been engaged.’

  ‘This one is dif
ferent,’ insisted Charlie.

  The decanter was empty and Sir Archibald took another bottle from beneath the cabinet. They were regimented in lines, Charlie saw, before the door was closed. The former Director fumbled with the bottle, finally giving it to Charlie to open for him.

  ‘Have the department handled it right?’ demanded Sir Archibald, defiantly. He was getting very drunk, Charlie saw.

  ‘Competently,’ he said.

  ‘But I’d have done better?’ prompted the old man, eager for the compliment.

  ‘I think you’d have had more answers by now,’ said Charlie. It wasn’t an exaggeration, he thought. Sir Archibald could always pick his way through deceit with the care of a tightrope-walker performing without a net.

  Sir Archibald smiled, head dropped forward on to his chest.

  ‘Thank you, Charlie,’ he said, gratefully. It was becoming difficult to understand him.

  ‘For coming,’ the old man added. ‘And for the compliment.’

  ‘I meant it,’ insisted Charlie.

  Sir Archibald nodded. The glass was lopsided in his hand, spilling occasionally on to his already smeared trousers.

  ‘Be very careful, Charlie,’ he said.

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Remember the first rule – always secure an escape route,’ cautioned Sir Archibald.

  The training that got me back alive from East Germany, recollected Charlie.

  ‘Of course.’

  Sir Archibald hadn’t heard him, Charlie realised. His head had gone fully forward against his chest and he had begun to snore in noisy, bubbling sounds. Carefully Charlie reached forward and extracted the goblet from the slack fingers and put it carefully on to a side table.

  He stood for several minutes, gazing down at the collapsed figure. Every day would end like this, he realised; it was another form of imprisonment, like that of Berenkov.

  ‘Goodbye, sir,’ said Charlie, quietly, not wanting to rouse the man. He snored on, oblivious.

  Wilkins was standing outside the room, waiting for him to leave.

  ‘He’s gone to sleep,’ said Charlie.

  Wilkins nodded.

  ‘He’s not been well, sir,’ reminded the chauffeur.

  ‘No,’ accepted Charlie.