Charlie realised, for the first time, that he hadn’t been worried. It had been – still was – the time when he was most likely to be seized and he didn’t feel any fear. The emptiness was still too strong for that, too strong to allow relief when the aircraft actually lifted and he knew he was safe. Safe from Russia, at least. He hadn’t expected there to be an outstanding warrant alleging murder against him, although – considering it – he supposed it was logical. Surely to Christ it hadn’t all been for nothing; that he hadn’t trapped himself into going back to jail! Even the thought of that, at the moment, didn’t seem to matter. It would later, if it happened, Charlie knew; but not now.
‘Know what this means?’ asked the conversational Hollis, beside him.
‘What?’ asked Charlie, dully.
‘I can’t go back…’ Hollis turned, to Greening sitting behind. ‘We’ll neither be acceptable any longer, after this.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ said the man behind.
Charlie refused any food or drink or even conversation, gazing out of the windows at the night’s blackness, staring at his own reflection. It would have happened by now, he decided. Would Natalia be under formal arrest? Or just interrogation? God, he hoped she would be all right. The agony – now and forever – was that he was never going to know.
There was a squad waiting at London airport, four men who hurried officiously on to the aircraft and more in waiting cars and from the immediate subservience and dismissal into other vehicles of Hollis and Greening Charlie knew they were higher ranking. There were no introductions from the squad or any official immigration formalities, just bustled, arm-holding progress along side corridors and through side doors. Charlie obeyed every nudge and instruction, still uninterested. It was only when the cavalcade gained the M4 and was heading towards London that Charlie consciously attempted to push aside the ennui and concentrate on what might be about to happen.
He’d failed.
But not in a way that meant he should feel guilt. He’d told Wilson that day in the governor’s office that it was practically impossible, and the Russians had got the first secretary before he’d properly had time to get organised: Charlie was sure the diplomat’s arrest was the key to no contact ever having been made. They’d have reason to be disappointed but not critical. Certainly not critical when he told them everything about the spy school and what he’d done, to get out. He wouldn’t tell them about Natalia, Charlie determined. Not for any particular reason – there were no problems it could cause her – but he just decided not to.
‘Never thought we’d get you back,’ said an anonymous man, to his right.
Charlie recognised at once the official, accusing voice. ‘Life’s full of surprises,’ he said, knowing the apparent absence of fear would irritate the man. Running time again, he thought. What about the murder warrant that had been announced at Moscow airport? Charlie looked out at the yellow lighted streets of London and wondered how soon it would be before he saw them again, without an escort.
The men who had met him at the airport remained grouped about him as he got from the car, at the building that had once been so familiar to Charlie. Instinctively Charlie hesitated, looking up at the features he had so often thought about nostalgically and the man behind wasn’t expecting the pause, colliding with him.
‘Come on,’ said the man, brusquely and Charlie moved on, going inside. Nothing seemed to have changed. There were the same brown-painted, sighing radiators and the chipped, yellow-washed walls and the ancient mesh-faced lifts that snatched uncertainly upwards, as if they were unsure they’d complete the journey.
Wilson’s office was different. Willoughby had occupied rooms at the rear of the building, on the fourth floor and Cuthbertson inherited them. Sir Alistair Wilson’s suite was on the top floor at the front and as Charlie entered he saw the necklace of lights through the uncurtained window and realised it overlooked the river. The director was standing beside his desk, with Harkness behind him, nearer the window. There was a vase of roses on the desk and a flower that matched the display in the director’s buttonhole. The perfume permeated the room.
‘Charlie!’ greeted Wilson, someone greeting an old and much missed friend. ‘Charlie!’
The man stumped forward, stiff-legged, hand outstretched and Charlie stayed just inside the door, utterly confused. Hesitantly he took the greeting, aware of Wilson’s head jerk of dismissal to those who had accompanied him from the airport. The less effusive Harkness advanced, too, and offered his hand and Charlie shook that, as well.
‘You made it, Charlie! And got back. Congratulations! Damned well done,’ said Wilson.
The older man seized Charlie’s shoulders, moving him further into the room. What was happening: what the bloody hell was happening! thought Charlie. Surely they realised it had all gone wrong, with the first secretary’s arrest.
Charlie stood by the chair that Wilson offered, not immediately sitting. ‘It didn’t work,’ he said. There was never any contact.’
‘No,’ accepted Wilson, at once. ‘Of course not.’
‘So it was the first secretary?’ said Charlie. ‘I guessed that was how it was blown. There were reports in the papers of his arrest; of the destruction of a major spy cell.’
Wilson turned, to look briefly at Harkness. ‘One of the tragedies of the whole affair,’ he said, momentarily distant. Having read the Soviet reports, as Charlie had, Wilson said, suddenly reminded, ‘You wouldn’t know, of course: it wasn’t reported there. Wainwright committed suicide, in our own embassy, after the Russians released him.’
‘Did they break him?’ demanded Charlie at once.
‘Of what he knew,’ said Wilson. ‘He was the initial control. We’d switched.’
So that’s how he’d been able to go to GUM undetected, apart from Natalia! At once came another thought. All the contacts had been blind, Wilson had said that day in jail. Which meant Wainwright hadn’t known an identity to disclose, to his questioners. So the defector was undetected, just obviously holding back until the pressure lessened. Oh God, thought Charlie: he’d got out too soon!
‘I said there was never any contact,’ he reminded the older man.
Wilson smiled, apologetically. ‘There couldn’t have been.’
Charlie slowly sat, knowing it was time to stop guessing. ‘Couldn’t have been?’ he said.
‘There never was a spy, Charlie. Never anyone for you to meet,’ said the director. He leaned forward, demandingly. ‘Tell me something,’ he said. ‘Something important. Did you manage to meet Berenkov.’
Charlie frowned, doubtfully. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Several times. And that’s why the operation wasn’t a complete failure. Berenkov arranged for me to teach at a spy school. I’ve got the complete lay-out of Balashikha: identities of staff and at least twenty agents. Training methods, too. But I don’t understand, about there never being a spy.’
‘You couldn’t Charlie,’ said Wilson, apologetic again. ‘You had to be blind, like Wainwright. I knew Wainwright would break, under interrogation. Planned for it to happen, although not for him to take his own life. And you might have got caught, although that wasn’t planned for. And if you were caught, I couldn’t take the chance of your breaking, too…’ Wilson raised his hand. ‘I know you wouldn’t have given in easily but everyone’s got their breaking point.’
‘I still don’t understand,’ protested Charlie.
Wilson arranged himself against the radiator, injured leg straight out before him. ‘You were part – a vital, additional part – of one of the most complicated operations that we’ve ever devised,’ said the man. ‘Five years ago, when I became director, I decided to hit the Russian service. Hit it and cause as much damage as I could. It was, as I say, a complicated scheme but actually one of certain simplicity. I was lucky, because some of the groundwork had already been done. Just before he was replaced as director Willoughby, whom I know you greatly admired, set up a classic disinformation operation with a brilliant and v
ery brave operative. In Beirut he had Edwin Sampson let himself be approached and apparently suborned by the Russians…’
‘What!’ erupted Charlie.
Wilson made his hand-stopping gesture. ‘I expected you to be surprised, Charlie. Hear me out. Hear just how brilliant and brave Sampson is. I decided to build upon what Willoughby had started. It meant giving a lot away, of course, but I decided the prize was worth the investment. When the Russians were completely convinced of Sampson’s loyalty to them, they asked him to get himself transferred back here. I agreed, of course. Got him on the Soviet desk and again let him give them a lot of good, genuine stuff, to keep on convincing them. They actually made him a major, did you know that?’
Charlie nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
‘Then we got you,’ said Wilson. ‘We got you and I decided how the operation could be made doubly effective. We knew by then, of course, that Berenkov had been taken into Dzerzhinsky Square, promoted officially to deputy. I saw the way to hit the Russian service harder than I ever thought possible…’ Wilson paused, smiling his apologetic smile. ‘I had you under a microscope in jail, Charlie. I knew, from all the assessment reports and from what you did to Cuthbertson what sort of a person you were but I had to know for myself, to be sure. I knew from week to week how you refused to give in and fought back against everyone and everything and I decided it would work. From here I had the trusted Sampson tell Moscow he believed they had a spy, someone so high that I was dealing directly with him, running control. And then we had a cultural attache named Richardson put a contact note into the pocket of his colleague, Cecil Wainwright…’ Wilson hesitated again. ‘Richardson was told as much as was necessary but Wainwright had to remain blind, like I said, for it to work. Weeks before what Wainwright believed to be a genuine approach at the Bolshoi, I’d pouched to Moscow a top security code, to be used in the event of something really important. I wanted the Russians to intercept, to know that something was happening. Having got Sampson to light the fuse, we pretended to catch him. It was all timed, practically to the minute, for the moment when we knew you were getting close to breaking point. We went through the pretence of a trial, which wasn’t difficult because it was in camera, of course. Got Sampson sent to Wormwood Scrubs and put in the same cell as you and made him cultivate you, like he did…’ Wilson shook his head, in admiration. ‘Like I said, a brilliant and very brave man. Did he make you hate him?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. He was dry-throated and the confirmation croaked from him.
‘He had to, of course,’ said Wilson. ‘For it to work, later: for now, when you’ve come back. The Russians had to know of the loathing that existed between you, so that he wouldn’t be endangered…’
‘He shot a policeman,’ said Charlie, groping to understand. ‘He beat up one of the good prison officers and shot a copper. I saw him.’
‘Wait,’ said Wilson. ‘Hear it fully out. Despite your official assessments which were on record here and the monitor from the prison governor, I still had to satisfy myself completely about you. We could still have aborted your part in the operation, even then. The Soviets are always bloody good, about getting their people out. We knew when they made contact, initially through the newspaper and then through the radio he’d been told to get brought in. His telling you was the test, Charlie. If you hadn’t done exactly as you did, got to the governor and tried to stop it… agreed to go along, instead, then I’d have arranged a simple cell change and let Sampson go on alone.’
‘What would have happened to me?’ demanded Charlie, suddenly attentive.
This time there was no smile from Wilson. ‘If you hadn’t reported the escape plan and decided to get out, to Moscow, then you’d have been a traitor, wouldn’t you Charlie? You’d have served the rest of your sentence, with no parole, no reduction of sentence…’
‘Jesus!’ said Charlie, emptily.
‘But you’re not a traitor, Charlie. I always knew it…’ The smile came back. ‘That’s when I knew it was all going to work… stood a chance of working, at least. It was important to guarantee your return, of course. That’s why the business with the policeman was important…’
‘You allowed a policeman to be killed!’
Wilson shook his head. ‘The warder had to be beaten. It was unfortunate but necessary. You had to believe it. We planted the policeman: he was one of our people.’
‘Blanks?’ said Charlie.
Wilson nodded.
‘The Russians demanded the gun,’ remembered Charlie. ‘If they’d checked the magazine, it would have been over before it started.’
‘No,’ said Wilson, unoffended. ‘I’ve told you, Charlie. We planned everything to the last detail. Two of the shots were blanks. The first one, which appeared to bring the man down. And the second, to finish him off. The other bullets were genuine, just in case they did check. By that time the Russians had to believe the killing, as well.’
‘But why?’ demanded Charlie.
‘To allow the murder warrants,’ explained Wilson, gently. ‘If getting you out hadn’t gone as smoothly as it did – and I think we were lucky there – we had a warrant alleging murder against you. Moscow couldn’t have demanded to keep a murderer, could they?’
‘Sampson pretended to kill a copper to protect me!’
‘Yes,’ said Wilson.
‘Oh God,’ said Charlie, emptily.
‘All you really had to do, to make your part of the operation work, was actually get to Moscow and then get back again,’ said Wilson. ‘The business with GUM was just to make you believe there was a point in your going…’ Wilson broke away. ‘Getting into that spy school was a hell of a bonus, by the way. Well done.’
‘Berenkov fixed it,’ repeated Charlie.
Wilson nodded. ‘He was the target,’ said the director. ‘All the messages were carefully planted pointed to Berenkov’s division. I wonder if we haven’t taken too much of an obvious chance, making the supposed identification Chekhov quotations. We’ve no news of any move against him: won’t have for months yet.’
‘The messages,’ said Charlie. ‘How could you make the supposed information you were getting out of Moscow genuine enough to hope to convince them?’
Wilson shifted against the radiator, pulling his stiff leg into a more comfortable position. ‘Had to be very careful there,’ he conceded. ‘Drew on America a lot, although they don’t know it. Asked for special help, from their satellite surveillance system. If the Soviets knew – instead of believing it came from one of their own people – they’d realise just how effective and complete that satellite spying is. All the stuff from Baikonur and about crop yields came from satellites. The American NSA and our own radio and telephone intercept people at Cheltenham helped a lot, too – again not knowing just how much – and we managed to get quite a bit more from that. The information I told you about in jail, about Politburo decisions, actually came from microwave intercept. We made a big fuss, finally. We blanketed the Soviet embassy here and over the course of several months – while you were still in jail and actually before Sampson got sentenced – began to identify their agents here. We pouched the information to Moscow and had them transmit it back and then expelled most of them, a couple of months back.’
‘My coming out turned the key completely on Berenkov?’ said Charlie, the picture practically formed in his mind now. ‘We’d known each other, here. The messages – the indication that the informant wanted to defect – pointed to him. My going to Moscow – then getting out – would confirm the final suspicion?’
‘That’s right,’ said Wilson.
‘Did you know about Georgi?’
‘Georgi?’
‘His son passed an examination qualifying him for an exchange course education, somewhere in the West,’ explained Charlie.
‘Marvellous!’ said Wilson, enthusiastically. ‘I didn’t have any idea but that’s a hell of a bonus, too. Like your actually getting to him. I thought it might happen but I reco
gnised it as a long shot.’
‘Poor Alexei,’ said Charlie, wistfully.
Wilson frowned at the sympathy. ‘Can’t you understand how this will turn the Russian service on its head!’ he demanded. ‘Everything with which Berenkov has been involved since his return and rehabilitation in Russia will be suspect. And not just that. Everything he ever sent from here, as well. It’ll take them years to sort out and send them in more wrong directions that we can count.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie, ‘It’s very clever.’ He stopped and then began again. ‘What about Sampson?’
‘He does what it was always intended he should do, when I took over the Willoughby operation. I always intended to stage his arrest, to get him repatriated to Russia…’ Wilson paused, in further admiration, ‘I don’t think I know of a man with more courage or conviction. I didn’t force the decision upon him, you understand. I gave him weeks, to make his mind up. Set it out as clearly as I could that he was committing himself to a situation that I didn’t think many men could endure. He insisted on going through with it. There’s a chance he would have been involved in their attempts to find out who the supposed defector was: he sent the first warning message, after all. If he is, then he can further tilt everything in Berenkov’s direction. But that again would be a bonus and I think we’ve had enough of those. What we’re hoping for is that he’ll get brought in to their service…’ There was another smile. ‘And then we’ll have what the Russians think we’ve already got. We’ll have a spy in place.’
‘Christ!’ said Charlie.
‘He won’t be able to go on forever, of course,’ said Wilson. ‘The same murder warrant exists against him. The understanding is that he can run whenever he wants. Knowing Sampson, I expect him to stay for the agreed period. Five years. For five years he’s going to feed us everything he can. And when he gets back here I’m personally going to see that he gets every reward and honour it’s possible for him to have.’
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