Comrade Charlie cm-9

by Brian Freemantle

  Wilson stared at him across the half-moon table at which two men whom Charlie didn’t know were sitting with Richard Harkness. Wilson did not reply and there was no facial expression whatsoever. Charlie was saddened but realistically accepted he couldn’t expect anything else in the circumstances. At right angles to the half-moon table was another at which Hubert Witherspoon sat, behind several folders and binders. Adjoining him but at a separate table again there was a girl at a stenography machine and a male technician at elaborate but surprisingly old-fashioned tape-recording apparatus. Charlie looked at them both and decided that his guess at why he had been brought to Westminster Bridge Road was right. Smedley positioned himself at the door, like a guard, which Charlie supposed was how the man regarded himself. Abbott, the other interrogator of his mother, released Charlie from the handcuff and went to the door to join the other man.

  ‘Here we all are then!’ said Charlie brightly. His wrist hurt where the cuff had chafed it, but he refused the Special Branch men the satisfaction of massaging it.

  The two unidentified men looked between each other, and Charlie wondered who they were. The obvious surmise was members of the Joint Intelligence Committee. One looked up at the standing Director General and said: ‘Shall we get on then?’

  Wilson sat at last, his left leg rigidly out-thrust beneath the table, and Charlie realized the man had been especially summoned to conduct the meeting. Harkness would have manoeuvred that, Charlie guessed: the deputy would want Wilson to supervise the destruction of someone he’d championed. Wilson looked sideways to Harkness, nodded and said: ‘Yes, let’s get on with it.’ Wilson’s voice was frail, like the man.

  Harkness jerked to his feet, moving from the table at which the committee sat towards Witherspoon and the neatly stacked folders. A pink shirt and handkerchief, worn with his school tie again, complemented Harkness’ charcoal-grey suit, and the black brogues were brightly polished. Charlie looked at the shoes and was ready to bet they would hurt like a bugger.

  ‘This department has been penetrated by an agent of the Soviet Union,’ announced Harkness, dramatically. ‘It will need further investigation accurately to say for how long that penetration has been but certainly it has existed since Charles Edward Muffin returned to this country from the Soviet Union and was quite wrongly allowed to remain in this organization…’

  It wasn’t just himself on shotgun trial, thought Charlie, looking at Sir Alistair Wilson. Harkness had to be very confident of himself to make such an open and direct attack on the Director General. Charlie was sure now that the other men at the half-moon table were from the Joint Intelligence Committee.

  ‘… the damage will have been incalculable. Irreparable,’ continued Harkness. ‘The extent of that, too, will require further investigation…’

  Charlie reckoned Harkness had waited years for this moment: mouthed the imagined words, maybe practised in front of a mirror.

  ‘… I have always had the gravest doubts about Muffin’s loyalty, as well as his ability,’ went on Harkness. ‘So much so that some months ago I authorized an internal investigation upon the man, which at the time proved inconclusive. It was not, however, mistaken…’

  As rehearsed as he could be, calculated Charlie: the man was even determined to get the apology over the harassment of his mother expunged from the record. Dig on, thought Charlie; dig a great big grave to bury yourself in, asshole.

  ‘… some weeks ago this department was successful in breaking a new code with which Moscow was communicating with Russian intelligence officers — the KGB — in this country…’ Harkness reached sideways and on cue Witherspoon handed him a piece of paper. ‘The first message gave the location of a dead-letter drop in the Highgate area of London,’ resumed the deputy Director General. ‘It was placed under observation and a man who has subsequently admitted being an agent of the Soviet Union was arrested and is shortly to face trial. Another message led us to a terrorist courier, although unfortunately in that instance the opinion of the Attorney General was that no prosecution could successfully be initiated against the man. He has, however, been placed on the prohibited-aliens list at ports and airports of this country and his identity and photograph circulated to Western counterintelligence agencies…’ Harkness paused, sipping from a waiting glass of water on Witherspoon’s table and Charlie thought: Television courtroom soap opera, circa 1960.

  ‘… these two episodes are not connected to the matter being inquired into here. I mention them to establish the fact that the communication channel, which the Soviets are unaware of our being able to read, is undoubtedly genuine…’

  Harkness continued the theatre by turning to look directly at Charlie at that moment and Charlie smiled and shook his head in a matchingly exaggerated gesture, for no other reason than to off-balance the man, which it did. Harkness blinked and coloured slightly and moved to speak but stopped and then started again. Charlie said: ‘Sorry. Did I put you off?’

  There was no flush of anger from Harkness this time. He actually smiled, indicating how assured he was, looking away in contempt. He said: ‘Some weeks ago another message was decoded…’ He looked down to the paper that Witherspoon had earlier handed him. ‘“Reactivate payment by one thousand”,’ he quoted. ‘Please remember, particularly, the wording of that message. It’s important…’

  Charlie was inclined intently forward now, no longer complacent or mocking, learning things he didn’t know.

  ‘… that message was the first of several which initially meant nothing to us,’ said Harkness. ‘There was a reference to King William Street, in the City…’

  ‘What!’ demanded Charlie loudly.

  Harkness was shocked into silence by the outburst. For several moments there was complete silence in the room, and still surprised Harkness repeated: ‘King William Street,’ and then clamped his mouth shut, not having intended to respond to the question.

  ‘The bastard!’ said Charlie, in quiet conversation with himself. ‘The absolute bastard! But why?’

  There was a further silence of which Charlie appeared briefly unaware and he seemed distracted when he looked up at last, to Wilson. He said: ‘I’m sorry,’ and shook his head, as if he were trying to clear it.

  ‘You’ll be given an opportunity to speak,’ said Wilson.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Charlie, still distracted.

  Harkness was uncertain now. He looked questioningly between Wilson and Charlie and then back to Wilson again. The Director General nodded but Harkness fumbled through various slips of paper before starting to talk. ‘As I said, there was a reference to King William Street. An obvious operational instruction, involving something or someone to go south. And then to two equally obvious legend names. Visitor. And Guest…’ Harkness paused, looking towards the group of men at the table. ‘Please remember those words, too. They’re also very material…’

  The man took another drink of water. He said: ‘You will be aware of the current Farnborough Air Show. In London at the moment, attending that show, is a Russian delegation. The majority — certainly one person who is extremely important in the context of this inquiry — are staying at the Blair Hotel, in Bayswater. An inter-agency task force, with myself as its head, was authorized to pursue as actively as possible the purpose and meaning of the messages we were intercepting but not understanding. That made available to us the counterintelligence observations upon the Blair Hotel…’ Harkness stopped again, turning once more directly to face Charlie. ‘Those observations included the usual photographs and those phototgraphs showed the occupation in that hotel of Charles Edward Muffin, who was understood to be on leave from this department…’

  There was a stir from among the men at the table which Harkness took as something like congratulation for work well done because he nodded his head in what looked like appreciation.

  ‘As the result of that identification I again initiated a thorough investigation of the man…’ He reached sideways without looking at Witherspoon, who pla
ced in his hand a file that Charlie recognized. ‘… in his office in this very building this was discovered. A file — which was not listed on any register, which regulations I have introduced strictly require — upon one Natalia Nikandrova Fedova. She is a member of the Soviet delegation in this country. She is staying at the Blair Hotel. And it is my contention that she is clearly the person referred to by the legand name Guest… the control, I further contend, of Charles Edward Muffin, whom the records will show spent some time in the Soviet Union and who therefore fits the legend name Visitor…’

  Harkness returned the folder and briefly leaned over the table in muffled conversation with Witherspoon. Turning back to the committee Harkness said: ‘I make those contentions on the basis of further evidence. Convinced of an association between this woman and Muffin, I two days ago had a rummage search made of his flat, in Vauxhall…’ Harkness extended his hand, so that the money was quite evident in its envelope. ‘Extremely cleverly hidden, in a cavity behind a bedroom skirting board, was this envelope. It contains one thousand pounds. And I would remind you, gentlemen, of the first message I quoted to you in full: “Reactivate payment by one thousand”.’ Harkness felt out and was handed a key. ‘This — obviously the key to some storage facility of which we are not at the moment sure — was also found in this hiding place…’ There was another quick exchange and the key was traded by Witherspoon for the cipher pad. ‘… taped inside the casing of an electricity meter in the kitchen was this one-time cipher pad. It has been forensically tested and proven beyond doubt to be of Russian manufacture and was unquestionably the method by which Muffin communicated with Moscow …’

  Harkness hesitated, looking triumphantly at Charlie, who gazed back at him but without any gesture on this occasion because he was intent upon how the deputy would continue. It was only when Harkness did, saying: ‘It is, I submit to you, the most damning incriminating evidence possible,’ that Charlie smiled.

  Harkness’ voice was hoarse, being strained into a croak by the length of time he had been talking, but he pressed on, buoyed by the triumph of the moment and determined to omit nothing. ‘I would have liked to pursue this investigation further before arresting the man,’ he said. ‘I felt, however, that this was impossible for two reasons. Two days from now the Soviet delegation, including Natalia Fedova — this man’s control — returns to the Soviet Union…’ The familiar demanding hand reached out and Witherspoon offered another slip of paper. ‘… and because of this, a message intercepted less than two hours ago. It reads: “King William Street filled”.’ Harkness gulped from his water-glass and said: ‘I consider that this is overwhelmingly sufficient to justify the continued detention of Charles Edward Muffin, pending the further investigation I have intimated…an investigation for which I also seek the authority, on suspicion of activities detrimental to the State, of Natalia Nikandrova Fedova…’

  Harkness finished, swallowing, but remained where he was in front of the evidence table for a few moments before walking back to join the men to whom he had been talking.

  To Charlie, Harkness looked exhausted and probably was, but he was also flushed with elation. Charlie stood, waiting for permission from Wilson, feeling the throb developing in his feet, particularly the right one, near the ankle, and wished they’d let him sit. Another thing it was impossible to expect, he supposed, like getting any friendly reaction from the Director General.

  ‘Well?’ asked Wilson. There was a sad resignation in his voice.

  ‘Is that it!’ exclaimed Charlie. He made it intentionally discourteous, speaking not to the Director General but to Harkness.

  The deputy director shifted uncomfortably, not expecting questioning, and looked to Wilson for guidance. Wilson said: ‘Well, is it?’ and Charlie guessed that Harkness regretted the earlier attack upon the older man.

  ‘As I have made clear, the investigation is continuing,’ maintained Harkness stiffly.

  Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh, shook his head and said: ‘Incredible! Absolutely incredible!’

  ‘I’ll not have play-acting,’ warned Wilson. ‘If you have something to say, hurry up and say it.’

  ‘I have a lot to say, sir,’ responded Charlie politely. ‘And I ask you to bear with me because there is something going on that I don’t fully understand, not yet. But which I’ve got to: we’ve got to.’

  ‘You’ll have all the time you want,’ assured Wilson, the sadness still in his voice. ‘I want to understand it, too.’

  Charlie half turned, to look at the two Special Branch men by the door, and then back to Harkness. Charlie said: ‘And it is going to be important that the investigation from now on is handled correctly and professionally. Not in the naive and amateurish way it appears to have been conducted so far…’

  He hesitated, looking back to the guarded door where the two policemen were standing tight-faced and red with fury. There would have been an interruption anyway because from the table Harkness said: ‘I must protest at this! I have presented what I consider sufficient evidence for this man to be detained in custody pending charge under the Official Secrets Act and I urge that this be done. And that this farce stop!’

  ‘You’ve presented nothing!’ challenged Charlie, pleased at the way Harkness’ protest enabled him to expose the man’s obvious incompetence. Charlie glanced contemptuously back at the Special Branch couple and said: ‘If I were an agent of a hostile power, which incidentally I am not nor have I ever been, do you know what I’d be doing now? Laughing at you. Laughing at you, like I would have been laughing all the way here in the car because I would have already known how weak your case was: how you didn’t have one, in fact. Goliath over there made a big show at the hotel of waving a piece of paper and claiming it to be a warrant for my arrest. But cocked it up by referring to “the appropriate section” of the Official Secrets Act and not specifying the section, which he is required to do by law. A professionally trained agent, like I have been professionally trained but which some people here apparently haven’t, although they should have been, would have realized at once what’s happened. You’ve got a set of circumstances, most of which you haven’t got a clue about, and you’re hoping like hell for a confession, an explanation so that you’ll at last understand. Right!’

  ‘I refute that absolutely…’ started Harkness but Charlie refused the man the escape: now, maybe not completeling today but certainly starting today, was the win-or-lose confrontation between himself and this carping, manoeuvring bastard. And Charlie didn’t intend to lose. He said: ‘So where’s the warrant! Where’s a proper warrant signed by a magistrate satisfied by evidence already laid before him that there is evidence to justify my arrest?’

  Harkness shifted, looking to Witherspoon and then the two men by the door as if expecting rescue from them, and said: ‘Under internal regulations governing the conduct of this department I have every authority to seize and detain an officer I suspect of being an agent of a hostile power.’

  Got him, thought Charlie, satisfied at the admission. He said ‘But we weren’t talking about internal regulations governing the department, were we? We were talking about claims of legal warrants and hopes of full confessions and of hostile agents laughing at you.’

  ‘There is authority under internal regulations,’ came in Wilson. ‘An exaggeration may have been made, but isn’t it rather academic?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ argued Charlie relentlessly. ‘I think it indicates the slapdash, inefficient way this inquiry has been conducted: the sort of slapdash, inefficient way that can’t be allowed to continue.’

  Wilson’s head dropped over the table, so that it was impossible to see the expression on his face: Charlie regretted that he couldn’t. Wilson said: ‘Point noted. Proceed.’

  In what order should he proceed? wondered Charlie. The overriding essential was to prove his innocence. And there could still be a hitch in the way he’d set out to establish that. He said: ‘What was the date of transmission of the message abo
ut reactivating by payment of one thousand?’

  Harkness hesitated, looking across the room to Witherspoon and his dossier-cluttered table. The deputy director said: ‘Mr Witherspoon, upon my instructions, was nominally in charge of the day-to-day running of the investigation and has the evidence before him. Could I suggest to the committee that Mr Witherspoon responds to the questions?’

  The asshole! thought Charlie. Already Harkness was trying to back away from the responsibility and off-load the mistakes and oversights on to someone else. Charlie looked at the angularly tall man. He wasn’t languid and self-assured today. Witherspoon was red-faced, like the policemen, moving his hands nervously among the files, not able to find what he wanted and becoming more flustered. At last he said: ‘The twenty-sixth.’

  The relief warmed through Charlie. ‘You’re sure of that?’ he insisted.

  ‘Positive,’ replied Witherspoon. ‘I had already been appointed case officer of the communication intercepts. I logged the date personally.’

  ‘Transmitted from Moscow to the Soviet embassy here in Kensington Palace Gardens?’

  ‘That was where our technical division located the receiver.’

  Charlie went back to Harkness, determined against the man evading any culpability. ‘And it is your contention that the message was a signal for me to receive, somewhen between the twenty-sixth and your rummage search of my apartment three or four days ago, a payment of one thousand pounds from some KGB officer at the Soviet embassy? The thousand pounds subsequently discovered in a hiding place in my apartment?’

  ‘It’s the only possible, damning conclusion,’ said Harkness.

  ‘It’s damning, all right,’ agreed Charlie. Looking at Witherspoon he said: ‘The cipher pad concealed elsewhere was subjected to forensic examination?’

  ‘Which proved it to be of Russian manufacture,’ confirmed the man.

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘Of course.’