Comrade Charlie cm-9

by Brian Freemantle

  Charlie sat heavily in his chair, thrust sideways to get it going and managed a complete circle before the momentum stopped. The story of his recent existence, he thought; going around in circles getting nowhere. But not today. Today there was the confrontation with Harkness. Charlie was looking forward to it more than he’d looked forward to anything for a long time.

  His move or Harkness’? His entry past the document check on the ground floor would have been tabbed, for instant notification. So Harkness, four floors above in that taken-over Director General’s office, would know he was in the building. And protocol dictated that he wait in the rabbit hutch until he was summoned.

  ‘Fuck that,’ said Charlie to himself. He used the internal direct line which sometimes Sir Alistair Wilson had actually answered himself because that was what the line was for, immediate contact. It was Laura who replied.

  ‘The prodigal returns!’ announced Charlie. There was no immediate response and Charlie said: ‘Hello?’

  ‘We’ve been advised,’ said Laura. Her voice was rehearsed-sad, the way people sympathize with death.

  ‘How’s Paul’s prickly heat?’

  Laura ignored the question. Instead she said: ‘I thought you might have called in between.’

  ‘Best I didn’t,’ assured Charlie.

  ‘You any idea what you did!’

  ‘Followed procedure,’ recited Charlie. ‘Now I’ve been ordered to report in. Shall I come on up?’

  ‘Of course you can’t come up just like that. I’ll ask.’

  ‘Shall I hang on?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  It was a full half hour before the call came. The outside corridors and office were as quiet as before and there was no one else in the lift. It took a further fifteen minutes to negotiate the top-floor security check before Charlie was admitted to the inner sanctum of squashy carpet and bewigged ancestors. They still clutched their globes and compasses and looked hopeful.

  Laura was waiting at the door of her own office, through which he had to pass to reach Harkness. As he approached she felt out for his hand, a mourning gesture again, and said: ‘I’ve been as worried as hell about you: I still am.’

  ‘There’s still a lot I don’t understand,’ lied Charlie.

  ‘Be…’ started the girl.

  ‘…careful,’ finished Charlie. ‘Always. Trust me.’

  Harkness was leaning forward oddly low against the Director General’s desk, like a trench soldier who disbelieved the Armistice had been declared. The desk was completely clear, the man not bothering with the pretence of any previous or more important paper work: Harkness stared unblinkingly at Charlie as Charlie crossed the expansive office. The interior continued the style of the exterior, up-to-theankle carpet, yesteryear panelling and self-satisfied predecessors who’d always had butter on their bread. Once again there were no conveniently placed chairs, meaning that he had to stand: little cunt intent on little victories, Charlie thought. He was determined against the man achieving many more today.

  Harkness cleared his throat and said: ‘You caused a very great disturbance: a very great disturbance indeed.’

  ‘Strictly adhering to laid-down regulations,’ said Charlie. ‘What’s the result of the investigation, sir?’ The respectful title was open contempt from a man who’d never before called Harkness sir and who’d never in his career observed any of the guidelines. And you know it and there’s fuck all you can do about it, thought Charlie.

  ‘You are not under surveillance,’ said Harkness, matching formality with formality. The waistcoated suit was blue, the pastel accessories pale mauve.

  Charlie let his shoulders fall, a man from whom a burden has been lifted. ‘That’s a relief!’ he said.

  ‘I would have liked prior discussion, before the full alarm was initiated,’ blurted Harkness, just failing to stop the rise of anger in his voice.

  I bet you would, you little shit, thought Charlie; so you could have contained everything. He said: ‘Your specific orders are to react without any delay, sir.’

  ‘Stop reminding me of regulations!’

  Temper, temper, thought Charlie: I’ve hardly started yet. He said: ‘So what was it all about, sir?’

  Colour was increasingly suffusing Harkness’ face, so that he looked like someone who’d fallen asleep in the sun. He said: ‘It would appear to have been a false alarm.’

  No you don’t, decided Charlie. He said: ‘I don’t see how that could be, sir. Two men interrogated my mother and I categorically established that they were imposters.’

  There was a prolonged silence and Charlie guessed the other man was trying to find the escape words and phrases. Stumble and thrash about, Charlie thought contentedly: there aren’t any.

  ‘There was an internal mistake,’ managed Harkness finally. ‘Men exceeded instructions.’

  Charlie dropped his head to one side. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘A routine check that was taken too far.’

  Now it was Charlie who let the quiet build up between them, conscious of Harkness’ discomfort rising with it. When the silence was on the point of going on too long Charlie said: ‘Routine check? By our own internal security, you mean?’

  Harkness swallowed, nodding. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you telling me my mother was interrogated by members of this department!’

  ‘Questioned,’ Harkness tried to qualify. ‘Questioned, not interrogated.’

  ‘She’s seventy-seven years old,’ said Charlie, very softly, very controlled. ‘Seventy-seven years old and senile.’

  Harkness looked away, unable to meet Charlie’s look. The man mumbled: ‘Internal mistake, like I said.’

  ‘There are operational memoranda,’ reminded Charlie. Still soft, still controlled: You’re going to roast until every little bit is cooked, ready to eat, Charlie promised himself.

  ‘Overlooked, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Overlooked by whom!’

  ‘Impossible case-load, trying to fulfil two functions during the Director General’s illness.’

  That explanation had a said-before ring about it, isolated Charlie triumphantly. Determined to get a direct admission, Charlie said: ‘MI5’s involvement would automatically have brought the matter to the attention of the Joint Intelligence Committee, wouldn’t it?’ And the Prime Minister, who chairs it, Charlie concluded mentally.

  In a life filled with more dislike and antagonism than a mongoose on a snake farm, Charlie had been subjected to a great many hate-filled stares but few equal to the one that came at that moment from Richard Harkness. The man said: ‘I think it right that I should extend to you the proper apology.’

  Charlie tried to gauge how difficult, practically verging on the super-human, it would have been for Harkness to say that. And still I’m not satisfied, Charlie thought, relentlessly vindictive. He said: ‘I’ll pass that apology on to my mother, shall I? She was very unsettled by the episode.’

  ‘If you would,’ muttered Harkness. There was growing around the man an attitude of distraction, as if he found it difficult completely to concentrate.

  Charlie felt neither pity nor sympathy. Neither was an easy attitude for him at the best of times and they were never likely to be extended to Harkness. Charlie made up rules, far less verbose and convoluted than those created by Harkness. One of the foremost was always shaft first the bastard trying to shaft you and with a blunter, hotter shafting machine. He said: ‘I gave permission at the spy school for you to access my personal file. The one that includes the medical records. You did get it, did you?’

  Harkness nodded his head, awkwardly, as if he were punch drunk. ‘A further misunderstanding. I’ve returned it, of course.’

  ‘This routine investigation to which I have been subjected?’ persisted Charlie. ‘Is it concluded now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harkness.

  ‘I do have the right officially to be informed of that, don’t I?’ said Charlie.

  ‘I�
�ll let you have a memorandum today.’

  ‘My personnel record should also have an attachment to that effect too, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll ensure that it’s done,’ promised the other man.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m very glad everything has been settled so satisfactorily.’ Enough, Charlie told himself; a time to shaft and a time to stop, enjoyable though it had been.

  Laura was waiting apprehensively in the outer office, standing beside her desk. ‘He’s fired you, hasn’t he?’ she said.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Charlie, grinning. There’s inside knowledge here, my son, he reminded himself. He said: ‘Any chance of our getting together some time?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said the girl.

  Blackstone looked with disbelief at the other man, not immediately able to speak. Then he realized how stupid he must look and tried to recover, swallowing heavily. ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you’d realize it would have to come to an end some time,’ said Losev.

  ‘I didn’t,’ admitted Blackstone. Desperately he said: ‘There’s nothing at all?’

  Losev shook his head. ‘I can understand how awkward that is going to be for you, with two homes to support. That can’t be easy.’

  Blackstone stood more open mouthed than before, his tongue moving over his bottom lip. He said: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Your friend, Henry. Still your friend. You mustn’t worry.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will, when we’ve had a little chat.’

  Chapter 13

  Natalia had been away on the Australian visit when Eduard became eligible for leave, which therefore had to be postponed, so it had been almost six months since they were last together. Natalia was relieved that another overseas trip had not intruded to make this visit impossible. And pleased at how quickly permission had been granted for her to take leave herself, a Friday and a Monday, giving them a long weekend together.

  Natalia tried hard to make everything right for her son’s homecoming. She planned a Saturday-night outing and shopped widely at the concessionary stores, where she hesitated uncertainly at the alcohol counter. Natalia hardly drank but believed, although she was not sure, there was a half bottle of vodka somewhere in the Mytninskaya apartment. Eduard was nineteen, living in an all-male, military environment, she reminded herself: a man, which had been a strangely abrupt realization when he’d been home for the last time. He’d expect her to have something in: consider it odd if she hadn’t. Still hesitant Natalia bought whisky, vodka and some imported Danish beers. As an afterthought she added four bottles of French wine, two white and two red. In a final touch Natalia displayed flowers in the hallway and the living room: she knew Eduard wouldn’t appreciate them — probably wouldn’t be aware of them — but Natalia thought flowers in a home were welcoming so it was really a gesture for her own benefit.

  His letter had guessed at his reaching Moscow some time in the afternoon but she knew the risk of delay was too great for her to start preparing the homecoming meal in advance of his arrival. Natalia wandered about the flat, touching and moving things that didn’t need to be touched and spent time in Eduard’s bedroom, tidying things already tidied. Why — or of what — was she nervous? Natalia couldn’t decide. Just that she was nervous, which was ridiculous. What on earth was there to be nervous of, receiving home a soldier-son whom she had not seen for half a year? Nothing. Ridiculous, she told herself again.

  It was gone seven when Eduard telephoned and she was glad she had not started to prepare because he still had to go through some leave formalities at the military post at the Kursk station. An hour, Eduard guessed: an hour and a half at the outside. It was more than two hours from the time of the call before he got there.

  Natalia was unaccountably disoriented by Eduard’s entrance into her home. He appeared to be bigger, filling more space and making everything correspondingly smaller. The army boots looked huge and the uniform was rough when he held her to him and kissed her, quickly as if he were embarrassed by the gesture. There was a smell to his clothing, a stale, unclean impression mingled with the odour of his own body. There was another, more obvious smell on his breath and Natalia wondered if it really had taken more than two hours for him to get through the railway station formalities.

  The hallway greetings over, he stumped directly into his room with his bag and topcoat but reappeared immediately, looking around as if he hadn’t seen the apartment before.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Eduard.’

  ‘Good to be back.’

  ‘I’m cooking beef: I’m afraid it might be a little overdone.’

  ‘I’m starving!’

  ‘Would you like a bath first? There’s time.’

  Eduard frowned but started a smile at the same time, as if he suspected her of making a joke. ‘Bath! What for?’

  Natalia raised and lowered her shoulders. ‘I thought you might have felt like one after all the travelling.’

  ‘No,’ he said positively. He looked inquiringly around the apartment again as if looking for something.

  ‘I got some drink in. Beer: vodka and whisky, too.’

  Eduard allowed the grin to register. ‘Bloody good!’ he said.

  Natalia couldn’t remember his swearing even minimally in front of her before. He appeared unaware of having done so. She said: ‘It’s all in the kitchen. Why don’t you get it yourself?’

  ‘You want anything?’

  ‘No thank you.’ Natalia became aware that she had remained standing since his entry. While he was out of the room she sat down on one of the two easy chairs: he’d trodden something black, like oil, across the room and into his bedroom.

  Eduard returned with a glass of vodka in one hand and a beer in the other. He gestured with the beer can from which he was drinking direct and said: ‘Imported beer and beef in the oven! Still all the privileges! You should try the beer we get at the camps: just like horse pi…’ He stopped just in time, but remained smiling. ‘Absolutely filthy,’ he finished.

  ‘What’s it like there?’ There hadn’t been any reports of nationalistic protests between the Armenians and Azerbaijanis for a long time, but she wished his officer-cadet field course had not been somewhere so active.

  ‘Boring,’ said Eduard at once. ‘I don’t know why we don’t make our minds up: either shoot the idiots when they riot or stand back and let them kill each other. Perfect solution, one way or the other.’ He slumped in the opposing chair and thrust both legs out towards her. The boots really did look huge: she couldn’t see whatever had caused the marks he’d trodden through the apartment.

  ‘How about your grades?’

  ‘I’ll graduate easily,’ said Eduard.

  He’d always found easy anything academic, always the perfect student, remembered Natalia. Like Igor had always had a quick and receptive mind. The recollection of the husband who had deserted them surprised Natalia: she couldn’t think of the last time he’d come to mind. At once she decided it was not surprising at all. There had always been a strong facial resemblance between father and son, even in unconscious mannerisms like the way each flicked back the straying, coal-black hair and smiled crookedly, one mouth edge up, the other down, but Natalia was caught now by how much stronger the similarities seemed to her. Imagination, she dismissed. How could any of Igor’s behaviour or attitudes have washed off on a son he’d abandoned when the child was three? She said: ‘How much longer will you be attached to an active field unit?’

  The boy shrugged, making a noise as he drank from the can. ‘You know what the army’s like. They don’t have any idea where their ass is most of the time.’

  There was no apology for the expression, which Natalia did not really understand. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be more than another two or three months but there’s no way of telling.’

  Eduard helped himself to another vodka before she served the meal, for which he opened one of th
e bottles of red wine and for which he sat down without washing his hands. The boy ate bent low over the table, head close to his food, practically spooning it into his mouth in a hand-circling, conveyor-belt fashion. He finished long before her and helped himself to a further complete plateful. He gulped at the wine with food still in his mouth, swallowing and chewing at the same time. Natalia forced the conversation throughout, telling him as much as she felt able about her new job and explaining the overseas travel and how different it was from anything to which she’d been accustomed before. Eduard grunted acknowledgement sounds from time to time but she didn’t get the impression he was listening fully to what she said.

  Eduard allowed her to clear away without offering to help, settling with his legs outstretched once more, another glass of vodka resting upon his stomach between cupped hands. He’d undone his tunic and shirt collar and Natalia thought he looked very scruffy, a conscripted soldier instead of a would-be officer.

  ‘There’s some laundry,’ he announced.