Charlie M

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘He misses the department … misses it terribly,’ said Wilkins in what Charlie accepted was the nearest the man had ever come to an indiscretion.

  ‘And we miss him,’ assured Charlie. ‘Tell him that, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ promised Wilkins. ‘It would please him to be told that.’

  The man turned to the hall table.

  ‘He wanted you to have these, sir,’ said Wilkins, offering him a huge bunch of Queen Elizabeth roses. ‘He’s very proud of them.’

  ‘Tell him I was very grateful.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll see you again, sir,’ said Wilkins, knowing it was unlikely.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Charlie, politely, knowing he would not make a return visit.

  ‘What lovely flowers,’ enthused Janet, as Charlie handed her the roses three hours later.

  ‘I got them from Sir Archibald Willoughby,’ reported Charlie.

  The girl looked sharply at him.

  ‘The Director wouldn’t like it if he knew you’d seen him,’ said Janet, formally.

  ‘Fuck the Director, he’ll know anyway because his watchers followed me, all the time. They were so bloody obvious they should have worn signs around their necks.’

  ‘It’s still improper,’ insisted the girl.

  ‘If he doesn’t like it, he can go to Prague tomorrow and put his head in the noose, instead of staying behind in a comfortable office sticking pins in maps.’

  The First Secretary, Vladimir Zemskov, was being cautious, judged Kalenin, unwilling to be openly critical before the full Praesidium.

  ‘It is distasteful to us to have to demand an explanation from such an experienced officer as yourself, Comrade General,’ he said.

  Kalenin nodded, appreciatively.

  ‘But Comrade Kastanazy has made the complaint about the progress so far,’ hardened the Soviet leader. He waited, pointedly. ‘And the consensus of opinion,’ he continued, ‘is that insufficient thought and planning has been put into proposals to repatriate General Berenkov …’

  ‘I refute that,’ said Kalenin, bravely.

  Several members of the Praesidium frowned at the apparent impertinence.

  ‘… I asked to be given a certain period of time,’ reminded Kalenin. ‘I understood from Comrade Kastanazy that I was being allowed that time. To my reckoning, it has yet to expire …’

  ‘… There are only a few more days,’ reminded Zemskov. The man was offended, Kalenin saw, and the ambivalent attitude was disappearing in favour of Kastanazy. They’d all follow Zemskov’s lead, he knew.

  ‘Allow me those days,’ pleaded Kalenin.

  ‘But no more,’ said Zemskov, curtly.

  I won’t need any more, thought Kalenin.

  (15)

  Charlie invariably grew nostalgic about the East European capitals he visited, trying to envisage the life of centuries before and those years free of concerted oppression when the people delighted in grandiose architecture and extravagant monuments to their own conceit.

  ‘Prague would have been a women’s city,’ he told himself, in the taxi negotiating its way over the Manesuv Bridge. He stared along the Vlatva river towards the Charles Bridge upon which he was scheduled to meet Kalenin the following day.

  ‘Please God, make it be all right,’ he mumbled. He became aware of the driver’s attention in the rear-view mirror and stopped the personal conversation. A psychiatrist would find a worrying reason for the habit, Charlie knew.

  The car began to go along Letenska and Charlie gazed up at Hradany Castle on the hill. The remains of King Wenceslaus were reported to be there, he remembered. He should try to visit the cathedral before he left.

  The reception at the embassy was stiffly formal, which Charlie had expected. It was an embassy unlike most others, in which he had no friends, and he guessed no one there would make it easy. The high-priority message from Downing Street to the ambassador would have indicated the importance of Charlie’s mission, but equally it would have alerted the diplomat to the risk of having his embassy and himself exposed in an international incident that could retard for years the man’s progress through the Foreign Office. It was right they should resent his intrusion, he accepted.

  ‘I hope to leave within days,’ Charlie assured the First Secretary, who gave him dinner. Charlie’s cover came from the Treasury, checking internal embassy accounts. It was the easiest way for quick entry and exit.

  ‘Good,’ said the diplomat, whose name was Collins. He was a balding, precise man who cut his food with the delicacy of a surgeon. His attitude reflected that of the ambassador, Charlie guessed.

  ‘There really shouldn’t be any trouble,’ tried Charlie.

  ‘We sincerely hope not,’ said Collins immediately.

  He was regarded with the distaste of a sewage worker come to clear blocked drains with his bare hands, decided Charlie. Sod them.

  ‘There is one thing,’ said Charlie, remembering the threat made when the C.I.A. presence had been forced upon the department. It seemed rather theatrical now, but it was a precaution he would have to take.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I shall want a gun.’

  Collins looked at him, incredulously.

  ‘A what?’ he echoed.

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, man,’ replied Charlie sharply. ‘A gun. And don’t say the embassy haven’t got one because I had three sent out in the diplomatic pouch a fortnight ago.’

  Collins dissected his meat, refusing to look at him.

  ‘The instructions to the embassy were signed personally by the Prime Minister,’ threatened Charlie, irritated by the treatment. He was behaving just like Ruttgers, Charlie thought, worriedly.

  ‘I’ll ask the ambassador,’ undertook Collins.

  ‘Tell the ambassador,’ instructed Charlie. His anger was ridiculous, he accepted, quite different from his normal behaviour in an overseas embassy. Because of it, the meal became stifled and unfriendly and Charlie drank too much wine. He did it knowingly, anticipating the pain of the following day but needing it to submerge his fear and spurred by irritability. Twice during the dinner, offended at the continued pomposity of the First Secretary, Charlie stopped just short of fermenting a pointless dispute.

  He retired immediately after the meal, sitting in the window of the room with a tumbler of duty-free whisky, gazing out over the darkened city. A thousand miles away, he ruminated, an old man for whom he would once have happily died was probably sitting in a window holding a larger amount of whisky, staring out over his rose bushes. The degeneration of Sir Archibald had frightened him, accepted Charlie. He snorted, drunkenly, at the thought. And Berenkov had frightened him and the assignment frightened him.

  ‘Wonder I’m not constantly pissing myself,’ he mumbled.

  Spittle and whisky dribbled down his chin and he didn’t bother to wipe it.

  ‘Got to stop talking to myself,’ he said.

  He slept badly, rarely losing complete consciousness and always aware of himself through spasmodic, irrational dreams in which first Ruttgers and then Sir Archibald pursued him wielding secateurs and he panted to evade them, burdened by the wheezing Braley slung across his shoulders.

  He abandoned the pretence of sleep at dawn, sitting at the window again, watching the sun feel its way over the ochre, picture-painted buildings in the old part of the city immediately below him.

  He had the hangover he had expected. His head bulged with pain that extended down to his neck and his mouth was arid. It had been a stupid thing to have done and would affect his meeting with the Russian, he thought.

  He breakfasted alone, in his room, uncontacted by anyone. Finally he approached Collins’s office, determined to control the annoyance.

  ‘The ambassador has approved the issuing of a revolver,’ said the meticulous diplomat.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie. He felt too ill to compete with the man, anyway.

  The weapon lay on the desk and Collins looked at it but refrained from touching it, as
if it were contaminated. Charlie picked it up and placed it in the rear waistband of his trousers, at the small of his back, where it would be undetectable to anyone brushing casually against him and not be a visible bulge unless he fastened his jacket.

  He was conscious of Collins studying him, critically.

  ‘I don’t bloody like it, either,’ said Charlie, venting his apprehension.

  It was a warm, soft day and if he hadn’t felt so unwell Charlie would have enjoyed the walk down the sloping, sometimes cobbled, streets.

  The Charles Bridge is one of the ten that cross the Vltava to link both sides of the city but is restricted entirely to pedestrians. Each parapet is sectioned by huge statues of saints.

  Charlie approached early from the direction of Hradany, so he loitered before the shops in the narrow, rising approach to the bridge, stopping for several moments apparently to study the fading, pastel-coloured religious painting adorning the outside of the house at the immediate commencement. He was not being followed, he decided.

  The bright sunlight hurt his eyes, increasing the discomfort of the headache. He felt sick and kept belching.

  Slowly he began to cross the bridge, professionally glad it had been chosen as a meeting place. It was thronged with tourists and provided excellent cover.

  He saw the American first.

  Braley had approached from the opposite side of the river and had halted by one of the statues. He was wearing sports clothes and an open shirt, with a camera slung around his neck. It was very clever, conceded Charlie, reminded again of the fat man’s expertise. Without creating the slightest suspicion, the American was ideally placed to photograph the meeting between him and Kalenin.

  So thick was the midday crowd he almost missed the General. The tiny Russian was standing where they had arranged, wearing a summer Russian raincoat that was predictably too long, staring up towards the sluices. Charlie felt a shudder of fear go through him and he shivered, as if he were cold. He gripped his hands tightly by his side, pushing his knuckles into his thighs.

  ‘Too late to be frightened, Charlie,’ he told himself. ‘You’re committed.’

  As he covered the last few yards, he tried to isolate the watchers in addition to Braley but failed. It was to be expected, rationalised Charlie. Those immediately around the K.G.B. chief would be the absolute best: Ruttgers and Cuthbertson would have people there as well, he knew.

  Charlie grinned, despite the nervousness and discomfort. There hadn’t been a moment for the past three months when he hadn’t been under collective surveillance from one service or another, he thought. Presidents didn’t get better protection.

  He positioned himself alongside the Russian without looking directly at him.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he apologised. He was still dehydrated from the alcohol and his voice croaked.

  ‘Not at all,’ assured Kalenin. ‘I was early.’

  Charlie felt the other man examining him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked the General. ‘You don’t look well.’

  Charlie turned towards him.

  ‘Fine,’ he lied.

  Kalenin nodded, doubtfully.

  ‘I’m afraid Snare has had a collapse,’ announced the General.

  Charlie stayed, waiting.

  ‘Apparently couldn’t stand solitary confinement,’ reported the Russian. ‘Our psychiatrists are quite worried.’

  ‘He’s in the Serbsky Institute?’ predicted Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘It’s remarkably well equipped.’

  ‘So we’ve heard in the West from various dissidents who’ve been brainwashed there,’ responded Charlie, sarcastically.

  Kalenin frowned at the remark, then shrugged.

  ‘My people will be upset at the news,’ said Charlie.

  It was quite unintentional, I assure you,’ replied Kalenin. ‘In the circumstances, I couldn’t let him come into contact with anyone, could I?’

  ‘No,’ accepted Charlie. ‘I don’t suppose you could.’

  Kalenin looked back up the river.

  ‘I’ve always liked Prague,’ he said, conversationally. ‘I think of it as a gentle city.’

  Charlie was perspiring, not just from the heat, and the pain in his head drummed in time with his heartbeat.

  ‘We’re not here to admire the city,’ he reminded, curtly.

  Again Kalenin turned to him.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re recording this meeting?’ queried Kalenin, expectantly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie, patting his pocket. Kalenin nodded.

  ‘You were very punctilious about the money.’

  Further along the bridge, Charlie saw Braley manœuvre for a photograph.

  ‘I see your companion in Vienna and France is a little further along,’ continued Kalenin, without turning around. ‘Shall I meet him?’

  The Russian was smiling, happy at his control of the situation.

  ‘That’s a matter for you,’ said Charlie, disconcerted.

  ‘I think we should, in a moment,’ replied Kalenin. ‘I’ve worked out the crossing with great care and I don’t want anything to go wrong: it’s best he hears at the same time as you.’

  ‘We’ve also done a fair amount of planning,’ guaranteed Charlie.

  Kalenin nodded again. He’s patronising me, thought Charlie.

  ‘The money will be in Austria?’ demanded Kalenin.

  ‘I’ve already lodged it at the embassy,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Good,’ praised Kalenin. ‘Good. You really do seem to have put some thought into it.’

  The General turned, looking towards the American.

  ‘To avoid repetition, shall we join Mr Braley now?’

  It would have been relatively easy to compare pictures taken in Austria and France against those of former personnel at the Moscow Embassy, supposed Charlie.

  The American saw them approaching and moved against the parapet, gazing fixedly at the view.

  ‘Are there many pictures of our meeting, Mr Braley?’ greeted Kalenin.

  Braley’s chest pumped uncertainly.

  ‘We were photographed as well as seen during the money-changing,’ enlightened Charlie, feeling sorry for the C.I.A. man.

  Braley swallowed, trying to curb the nervous reaction.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ he said to the Russian, awkwardly.

  It sounded a ridiculous greeting in the circumstances and Charlie wanted to laugh. Nerves, he thought.

  Kalenin continued walking, without replying, leading them from the bridge. He appeared very confident, thought Charlie; too confident, even. The man could ruin the whole thing by conceit, thought the Englishman, worriedly.

  ‘There’s a very attractive horologue in the old town,’ lectured Kalenin, like a tourist guide, as they reached the covered pavement. ‘And some pleasant cafés.’

  Charlie and Braley exchanged looks, but said nothing. The American was as uncertain as he was, saw Charlie.

  Kalenin made a point of showing them the gilded timepiece before courteously seating them at a pavement table and ordering drinks. He and Braley had beer, but Charlie selected coffee.

  ‘I have been thinking very deeply about what is to happen,’ said Kalenin slowly. He was speaking, thought Charlie, as Cuthbertson would have addressed a class at staff college.

  Kalenin looked directly at both before continuing.

  ‘I have become increasingly aware of the enormous value I have in the West,’ said the General. ‘Upon reflection a value far in excess of $500,000.’

  Braley moved to speak, anticipating a change of mind in the Russian, but Kalenin raised his hand imperiously, stopping the interruption. From somewhere in the square, Charlie knew, there would be cameras recording every moment of the encounter: the admiration of the horologe and selection of the conveniently free café table was very rehearsed.

  ‘I am determined to be properly treated,’ continued Kalenin.<
br />
  He was ill at ease with pomposity, thought Charlie.

  ‘I don’t think you need have any doubt about that,’ assured the Briton.

  Kalenin looked at him, irritably.

  ‘Allow me to finish,’ he demanded. ‘As I have already indicated, I will cross over on the nineteenth. I’ve arranged a visit to the border area in such a way as to allay any suspicion. I have selected Jaroslavice as the crossing point …’

  The General paused.

  ‘… don’t forget that,’ he instructed.

  ‘… Jaroslavice isn’t on the border,’ corrected Charlie, immediately.

  Kalenin sighed. ‘I know,’ he accepted. ‘I mention the town for map reference. I shall cross at Laa an der Thaya. I preseume you will have people back at Stronsdorf, but that won’t be enough …’

  Charlie smiled at the man’s behaviour. It wasn’t natural, he knew. But Kalenin was sustaining it well.

  ‘We won’t forget the crossing point,’ he promised.

  Kalenin looked at him sharply, suspecting mockery.

  ‘I’ve not the slightest intention of crossing in the vague expectation of a reception committee in Stronsdorf,’ announced the General. ‘I must know the arrangements that have been made to receive me in the West. And be assured they will be followed.’

  Braley looked questioningly at Charlie, who nodded.

  ‘You were quite right, sir,’ began the American at last, ‘in your assessment of your importance. If it will convince you of our awareness of it, let me say that both the British and American Directors are personally making the trip to Austria to greet you …’

  Kalenin beamed.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, apparently not surprised by the news. ‘That’s at exactly the sort of level I want to conduct the whole affair.’

  Charlie began to feel better and waved for more drinks, ordering a beer for himself this time. He stared around the square, trying to identify the watchers. It was hopeless, he decided, abandoning the search.

  ‘What time do you intend to be at Laa?’ he asked the Russian.

  ‘Night will be best,’ said Kalenin, immediately. ‘According to my estimate, if we travel through Ernstbrunn and Korneuburg, we can reach Vienna in little over an hour …’