Charlie entered the enormous store through the prescribed door and loitered with the identifying guidebook and copy of Pravda in his left hand, feeling uncomfortably conspicuous. He waited a full fifteen minutes and then went further inside. Charlie’s feet throbbed, from the exercise of losing his pursuers. At first without conscious intention but then with increasing determination he went to the shoe department, the one on the second floor, and looked this time with greater concentration than before. They all still seemed to be big but he finally found a pair that appeared to be made of something resembling the suede of the Hush Puppies that were so kind to him. He tried them on, wiggling his toes to test the restriction and then embarking on a brief trial walk. Not bad, he thought; they’d spread and be better than the ones he had. He paid and kept them on, having the ones he had been wearing put into the bag.
He went back to the deputed area and spent a further fifteen minutes there, alert for contact. Come on! he thought, in sudden exasperation. Whoever it was had to be a professional. And Charlie decided that if the man were a professional then he’d had ample opportunity to establish there was no surveillance to concern him. He looked about the store, seeking the familiar face of Berenkov. Around him, the shoppers swirled: at an adjoining counter an American couple debated the merits of engraved glass as souvenirs and decided against buying. Charlie moved his feet, hunching them inside his new shoes, trying immediately to mould them. He couldn’t see Berenkov anywhere.
‘Is there a prize?’
Although he was prepared – actually waiting for the approach – Charlie still jumped at the familiar voice.
Natalia smiled back at him.
‘What is it?’ The smile faded into a frown of concern.
‘Startled me,’ said Charlie, honestly. Could it be? She was in the service: but with the sort of access that Wilson indicated? Why not? As a debriefer and assessor she’d range over more than one department. Ideally placed, in fact. It didn’t have to be Berenkov. The questions crowded in, one jostling the other.
‘That’s conceited,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Charlie, regaining control.
‘Imagining you’d be able to lose everyone.’
It was, if she’d genuinely followed him: dangerous, too, because he’d checked constantly and been unaware of her. ‘From the beginning?’ he said.
Natalia nodded, pleased with herself. ‘I almost lost you on the metro, at Ploshchad Nogina. Only saw you switch at the last moment.’
Still needing time Charlie took her arm and began to walk her from the store. Where was the Chekhov quote that was going to confirm everything for him? Outside he actually shivered, to make it obvious – and easy – for her and said, ‘It’s cold, suddenly.’
‘I kept warm enough, chasing you,’ she said.
For him to make the approach would be against every rule and precaution. He said, ‘There is a prize.’ Nodding towards the Rossiya Hotel where they’d had their first meal, he said, ‘A congratulatory drink.’
The uncertainties remained, irritating him. If her being in the store were as she claimed it to be – simply the result of her expertise – then there was a good chance that the would-be defector, if he were watching, would have been frightened away by witnessing his being approached. Which would mean that he had been conceited. Worse, that he’d probably cocked everything up. He took her to the roof bar, adjoining the restaurant, and said, ‘I’m impressed.’
‘I wanted you to be,’ she said, in an abrupt moment of seriousness.
Charlie waited, hopefully, but she didn’t go on. He said, ‘I thought you were trained as a psychologist and as an assessor.’
‘A complete assessor,’ she expanded. ‘Practical as well as everything else.’
She didn’t have the identification phrase, Charlie realised. So it had been her expertise. And his ineptitude. He was unhappy at the awareness that she was his street equal: he didn’t think anyone was. Conceited, like she’d accused him of being. He waited for their wine to be served, raised his glass and said, ‘Congratulations.’
She giggled, recognising his attitude. ‘You’re offended!’ she said, pleased.
‘No I’m not,’ said Charlie, defensively.
‘You are! I know you are. You thought you were better than anybody else.’
Bloody psychologist, he thought. He said, ‘The others failed. All of them. So we’ll have to do it again. And you. Bet I’ll beat you next time.’
‘A bet,’ she accepted, extending her hand to confirm it.
Charlie joined in the play acting and said, ‘I’m getting fed up, shaking hands all the time.’
There was another moment of abrupt seriousness and Natalia said, ‘So am I.’
They stayed looked directly at each other for several moments and Charlie felt the nervousness he’d known with her before. He said, ‘It was scheduled to be an all day exercise: we don’t have to go back to Balashikha.’
‘No,’ she agreed.
‘My apartment is a long way out,’ said Charlie. ‘The neighbours cook cabbage all the time.’
She rose, without saying anything and they didn’t talk on the way to her apartment. They walked by the familiar concierge and Natalia had the key ready, when they reached the door. It was neat and fastidious, like Natalia, a small place with a couch that came out to form a bed, turning the living area into a bedroom. She made the conversion, appearing embarrassed now that he was actually in the apartment with her, unwilling to look at him. When she turned from the bed, still not looking, he held out his hand so that she had to stop and then he brought her to him. He could feel her trembling. He kissed her, not very well at first and then her nervousness started to go and she responded and it was better. Charlie was nervous, too, particularly about trying to make love to her because it had been such a long time and he didn’t do it well the first time and that made him more nervous. Her breasts were very full, like he’d known they would be, and he kept caressing her and she reacted and Charlie knew he could make love again, which pleased him. It was much better, the second time: they were getting used to each other, each matching the other’s pace. She climaxed ahead of him and that pleased him, too, and when it was over she clung to him tightly, not letting him withdraw.
‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘That was really wonderful.’
‘For me, too,’ said Charlie.
‘I’d almost forgotten.’
‘So had I.’
‘Charlie.’
‘What?’
‘I want to tell you something. About my being in the class.’
She released him as she spoke, so that he was able to move beside her: he lay propped up on his arm, so that he could look down at her. ‘What about it?’
‘It wasn’t just to assess the others,’ she said. ‘I had to assess you, as well. Compare what happened against how you behaved during the debriefing.’
‘So you did know I would be there, that first day?’
She nodded. ‘It was done to off-balance you.’
And sodding well succeeded, thought Charlie. He said, ‘Why the hell let me into the place, if they don’t trust me?’
‘They trust you, as far as they’re able. They just wanted to be absolutely sure.’
‘Have you made the report?’
She nodded again, turning to look directly up at him. ‘I told them I didn’t consider there was any cause whatsoever to doubt you. That I thought you were fantastic. Which I do.’
That would turn out to be a damning opinion in a few months time, Charlie thought, in sudden realisation. He said, ‘Thanks.’
‘Are you angry? You’ve the right to be.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just business.’
‘It’s not now though, is it?’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Not any longer.’
‘I’m glad it’s happened,’ said Natalia. ‘I was frightened of it happening but now it has I’m glad.’
‘So am I,’ said Charlie, sincerely. ‘Very
glad.’
‘I won’t lie to you again, Charlie. I promise.’
Charlie swallowed, covering the awkwardness he felt by leaning forward to kiss her. Why the hell couldn’t it have been Natalia who wanted to cross to the West, he thought, bitterly. With no fresh interceptions, there was no alternative but to re-examine those that had already been made and try to discover an indicator that had been overlooked. Edwin Sampson was retained at Dzerzhinsky Square, in the office close to that of Berenkov, and went unsuccessfully through everything they had. There were empty, daily conferences with Berenkov and having gone through every message without discovering anything new Sampson said, ‘It’s hopeless: there’s nothing to indicate who it is. Just that it’s someone here, in this building.’
‘I suppose there’s some satisfaction to be gained from the fact that the transmissions have stopped,’ said Berenkov.
‘Perhaps whoever it is is frightened. Thinking we’re getting close.’
Berenkov snorted. ‘I wish that we were!’
‘It’ll happen,’ predicted Sampson. ‘So far he’s been lucky. But he’ll make a mistake. It’s inevitable that he’ll make a mistake.’
‘Maybe he’ll be clever enough not to,’ said Berenkov.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Life for Charlie became an existence in separate, settled compartments and the most settled of all developed with Natalia. He was allocated another apartment, smaller but better than the first, and nearer the centre of the city and they alternated between the two, sometimes at her place, sometimes his. At the weekends they stayed together all the time, sometimes going on river trips or journeys into the hills outside Moscow in her Lada car and sometimes not bothering to do anything at all, remaining in whichever apartment they had chosen, to read or listen to music, just enjoying each other. On a weekend when Eduard was released from school they went to the circus again – and slept apart, which seemed unnatural, so accustomed to each other had they become – and Charlie tried to make friends with the boy but Eduard remained distant and reserved, instinctively sensing competition for his mother’s affections.
Charlie didn’t mean it to develop like it did. It wasn’t how he conducted affairs, not even when Edith had been alive and he’d been cheating. He’d always been a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am operator, fun on both sides – and fully recognised to be just that – and no tears or regrets when the time came to say goodbye. He’d actually tried to keep it light, at the very beginning, but the awkward artificiality had been obvious and so he’d let everything grow, knowing it was pointless and knowing it was stupid but not wanting it to stop. Which was selfish – as well as pointless and stupid – and worst of all, dangerous.
It was because of his growing awareness of the danger to her that he changed his mind about asking her to accompany him when the next invitation came from Berenkov, quite apart from the difficulty she might have felt in the presence of someone so high in the service. Charlie dutifully congratulated Georgi on his examination results and was amused at Berenkov’s boastful pride, joining in the toasts upon which Berenkov insisted, careless of the boy’s blushing discomfort. It was the first opportunity to thank the Russian since his appointment to the spy school and Charlie said how much he was enjoying it and Berenkov said he was impressed by what Charlie was doing and Charlie wondered if it were Natalia’s report to which he was referring. He didn’t think any praise would have come from Krysin.
His existence at the spy school was another compartment. The barrier still existed between Charlie and the other instructors but gradually, with their increasing and difficult-to-avoid acknowledgement of his expertise, some of them strayed beyond it and Charlie cultivated the approaches, draining everything he could from them.
He staged another pursuit exercise on the next contact Thursday and evaded them all again and won his bet with Natalia, because she lost him this time. By then he didn’t feel any competition between them, so it didn’t seem much of a victory. More important was the time he spent lingering in the department store, waiting for an approach which never came. Charlie’s feeling about that was ambivalent. Professionally he wanted the meeting. He wanted to identify the informant and make the crossing arrangements and to go back to England in complete and well deserved triumph. But if that happened it would mean leaving Natalia and increasingly the thought of leaving Natalia was becoming a burden. So as well as disappointment there was also relief when nothing happened in the GUM store that day and the relief was greater when he went there again, on the next appointed time and nothing happened then, either. By the time of that visit, he’d been given fresh operatives to work through their final training. It meant that the initial batch disappeared and he assumed might have been immediately infiltrated into Britain or America, which slightly unsettled Charlie, because he’d never actually intended them the opportunity to practise what he had taught them. He’d wanted to be back, in advance, able to issue the warnings and complete the photofits and get them swept up or turned. It also meant that Natalia left the class, which Charlie welcomed because by the end, when they were together every night and every weekend, having to adopt the role of lecturer to pupil during the day became practically a farce. Charlie’s dismay at suspecting some of those he had trained were already working, undetected, was tempered by the awareness that the second batch, six again, meant there were more agents whom he would subsequently be able to identify: and those that had gone ahead wouldn’t be able to do much damage, anyway. An essential part of his training had been that the primary requirement for their being successful was first of all completely to install themselves in their country of placing, to obtain bona fide jobs and bona fide accommodation and – as far as possible – apparently bona fide respectability. He tried to reassure himself by the thought that even if they had been put into place, it would be six months, maybe as long as a year, before they began properly to operate.
And he’d be out in a year, thought Charlie. Which naturally brought him back to thinking about Natalia and having avoided and sidestepped and looked the other way for so long Charlie forced himself properly to think about it. Was he using her: enjoying the comfort and the security and the normality of an affair in an uncomfortable, insecure, abnormal situation? Or was it more than opportunism: love? Charlie confronted the word, one he’d avoided most of all. Charlie was frightened of love. Of admitting it. He’d always thought of being in love as exposing part of himself he didn’t want anyone else to see, like sitting on a crowded bus with a trouser zip undone. Apart from the brief and soon-passed excitement of variation, a lot of the affairs when Edith had been alive had been Charlie wanting to feel that he wasn’t dependent upon one woman. Which he had been and which – too late – he’d accepted. Charlie, who always derided rules and formulae, wished to Christ there was a listed chart he could consult, a mathematically unarguable square root of love.
He kept the fifth date at the GUM store, as unsuccessful as all the others, and as he made his way back across Dzerzhinsky Square and past the headquarters of the KGB Charlie realised that according to the arrangements he’d made with Wilson, seemingly years before in the prison governor’s office, he only had a month left. At once Charlie found an alternative argument. Six months had been an arbitrary period, plucked from nowhere and agreed anyway because by then he’d expected things to be difficult. Charlie carried the reflection on. He’d been concentrating upon the risk of his own detection. What if the informant had been found, weeks or months before? There’d been the highly publicised affair with the British first secretary: that was unusual. The detection of the would-be defector would be an explanation – the obvious one – for there not having been any contact. Logical, as well as obvious. Except that one logic extended to another. If the Russians had got their man they’d have broken him and if they’d broken him then Charlie would not have been allowed to hang around Moscow stores unarrested.
So where was he?
Charlie recognised he was incredibly well-placed gaining
intelligence of an incalculable value, increasingly trusted and in no danger. He’d actually considered, within the first few days of being in Moscow, that he might have to remain longer than the period he’d agreed with the British Director. So he’d stay on, Charlie determined. Just for a while longer, if no approach were made. He was, after all, a complete professional; and to stay would be the professional thing to do. And meant he didn’t have to consider the thought of losing Natalia. Shit, he thought; why was nothing ever easy?
The absence of any further messages did nothing to relieve the pressure from the Politburo upon Kalenin and therefore his demands upon those answerable to him. Rather, they increased. The Politburo insisted on explanations the KGB chairman didn’t have and his insistences permeated through his immediate deputies to division directors and their subordinates and spread the uncertainty not just throughout Dzerzhinsky Square but to the other divisional buildings in the capital. Even Charlie was aware of a change of attitude from Krysin but was unable to discover the reason, so he wrongly assumed it was just a further indication of alienation between them.
Because of the indications that the leaks were coming from the operational or planning divisions, the concentration evolved particularly on to Berenkov. Edwin Sampson made a further examination, as unsuccessful as those before, and separate competing committees were set up independent of each other – and the Briton’s efforts – to carry out their own enquiries. And were unsuccessful, too. The surveillance upon the British embassy became positive harassment. A car carrying an archivist and a secretary on a perfectly innocent outing to the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall on Sadovaya street was actually involved in a crash with a KGB observation group and the Britons were held for three hours in police custody before diplomatic pressure released them.
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