Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

by Brian Freemantle

  Life would have been a damned sight easier if he’d remained a disciple of St Michael, thought Charlie, going into the bathroom.

  Charlie shaved delicately, to avoid cutting himself, not wanting to meet Rupert Willoughby with tiny flags of toilet paper all over his face. He wetted his hair to keep it in place, but used too much water and knew that when it dried it would stick up. It usually did, so there wasn’t much he could do about it. Ready long before it was time to leave, he surveyed the completed impression, standing sideways and holding in his breath and stomach to hide the bulge. Dissatisfied, he turned full frontal, squaring his shoulders and stiffening his neck, as he had on the long-ago parade grounds.

  ‘Christ!’ he said.

  Willoughby’s office was close to the main Lloyds building in Lime Street. It was the sort of place that never changed. There was the same rickety, stubborn lift, models of boats in glass cases, scrolls of honour commemorating past chairmen and employees who had died in both wars, lots of dark wood everywhere and the smell of polish. Rich and enduring, thought Charlie; a million miles from a Battersea tenement where the kids thought aerosol sprays had been invented to write ‘Fuck’ on the walls. If they had to do it at all, it was better than ‘Nigger’, he supposed.

  Charlie made his way along the familiar corridors to the receptionist, who smiled and said he was expected. Charlie tightened his stomach, secured the buttons of his crisply cleaned suit and pressed his hands over the straying hair; it was sticking up, like he’d feared it would.

  ‘Good to see you again, Charlie,’ said Willoughby. The underwriter, who was a tall man, and uncomfortable because of it, unfolded rather than stood from behind his desk.

  The office was fittingly traditional. There was heavy panelling, again the pungent smell of polish, the model of a paddle steamer in a case and an almost soundless tape machine, spewing a tiny stream of information neatly into a special container.

  ‘Good to see you too,’ said Charlie. Guessing the reason for the frown that momentarily crossed the other man’s face, Charlie added, ‘Had a bad night.’

  Willoughby thought it looked as if there had been a lot more than one. Charlie had always been unkempt but never careless. Willoughby suspected that the shabby suede shoes and department-store suits, pockets bulged with mysteries, had always been a contrived camouflage of anonymity behind which the man operated, using the condescension of others to his own advantage. The underwriter had never seen Charlie Muffin in a pressed suit or crisp shirt. There was an obvious inference and Willoughby was glad of it; if Charlie hadn’t wanted employment, it might have been difficult.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t return your call earlier,’ apologized the underwriter. ‘I was out of town.’

  ‘Thought it was time to make contact again,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Why did it take you so long?’

  Because I screwed your wife in America and knew it would continue if I kept in touch, thought Charlie. He was sure, after so long, that Clarissa wouldn’t be a problem anymore. He said, ‘Busy, with one thing and another.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Willoughby. He was a sparse, hesitant man of half-completed, hurried movements. Every few moments he brushed back from his forehead an imaginary flop of hair.

  ‘I’m not any more,’ said Charlie quickly.

  The secretary came in, carrying a silver coffee tray, fully laid; even the coffee pot and the jugs were silver. If Willoughby had had a po under his bed, that would have been silver too, thought Charlie.

  Willoughby poured. Offhandedly he said, ‘Thought about you a lot: Clarissa often asks after you.’

  Charlie remained impassive. ‘How is she?’

  The underwriter settled back in his chair. ‘Fine,’ he said.

  Charlie decided that Willoughby was nervous and wondered why.

  ‘After what you did, it was me who should have called you,’ said Willoughby abruptly. There was a surge of guilt and Willoughby reflected that it was a pretty shabby way of repaying someone who had prevented his going bankrupt over a phoney liner fire in Hong Kong or on the loss of a Russian stamp collection during the American exhibition. But then, if Charlie had done what he suspected, that was pretty shabby too.

  ‘You talked of a problem on the telephone.’ Charlie wanted to get to the purpose of the visit.

  ‘Ever heard of Lady Norah Billington?’

  ‘No.’

  Willoughby was genuinely surprised. ‘She’s always in the newspapers,’ he said.

  ‘Not on the racing pages.’

  ‘She’s the Mendale heiress. There’s an estate in Yorkshire, a villa in Jamaica, as well as Rome and a flat here in London, near us in Eaton Square.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Her husband’s got a lawyer’s mind and reads the small print. A year ago I underwrote a replacement cover policy on her jewellery. It’s coming up for renewal. First time value was one and a half million, but the indexed rise will bring it up to two million. I’ve got to agree the adjustment in writing and he’s asked that I do so.’

  ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

  ‘Guarantee the protection,’ said the underwriter. ‘It’s listed in specific detail on the policy, but before I agree the rise I’ve the right to check the alarm system and the protection.…’ Willoughby smiled. ‘Father always said you were the most security-conscious man he had on the staff.’

  That wouldn’t be the assessment now, thought Charlie. The same bastards who set him up for sacrifice manoeuvred Sir Archibald’s replacement as director, but Charlie knew the old man would never have condoned the retribution. ‘Morals are important in an immoral business, Charlie.’

  When Charlie didn’t reply immediately, Willoughby repeated apologetically, ‘Not quite the sort of thing you did before.’

  It wasn’t, thought Charlie. Clerk’s stuff. Senior clerk, maybe, but still a clerk. But it would be better than getting so pissed by nine o’clock every night that he couldn’t count the bridges on the way home.

  ‘I’d like to do it,’ he said.

  ‘Sure?’ said Willoughby.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Charlie. ‘Where?’

  ‘Rome,’ said Willoughby. ‘Sir Hector Billington is our ambassador there.’

  Charlie felt an abrupt stomach emptiness, the sort of sensation that comes when a lift goes down unexpectedly. Seven years, he thought; nearer eight. Diplomatic turnaround averages three years, four at the most. He’d never been attached permanently to any embassy anywhere, just used the facilities passing through. And never Rome. What he’d done would have remained a secret, apart from those at the very top. So what was the risk? Less than 50 per cent. Acceptable enough, to lift himself out of the shit in which he’d been wallowing for too long.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. He’d just have to be careful and he’d always been that, until recently.

  Willoughby put his hands flat against the desk top, in a tiny slapping motion. ‘I’ve just had an idea,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Instead of checking through the files here, why not come to the flat tonight and look at them there? Then we can have dinner.’

  The inclination to refuse was as always almost automatic. Then Charlie thought of warmed-up shepherd’s pie, cardboard sandwiches and another empty evening in an anonymous pub.

  ‘Sure Clarissa won’t be inconvenienced by the short notice?’ he said.

  ‘Positive.’

  As he passed through the outer office to the reluctant stop and start lift, Charlie was vaguely aware of a man in a grey-striped suit. He was reading a copy of the Sun.

  Since the insistent instructions from Moscow, there was no longer any casualness about the observation; they’d even ignored the ABC café close to Willoughby’s office, remaining instead in an alcove on the opposite side of the street.

  The man who preferred night to day-time shifts, because there was more opportunity for accidental groping, spotted Charlie first.

  ‘There!’ he said.<
br />
  The woman, shapeless in sweater, jeans and tennis shoes, let the man move out ahead of her, so there wouldn’t be any body contact; if he attempted to maul her like he had all the others, she’d determined to kick him so hard in the crotch he’d wear his balls for a necklace.

  4

  General Valery Kalenin was an ambitious man who recognized the nearness of success and knew, without conceit, that he deserved it. For almost thirty years he had served the KGB faithfully, heading four of the five main directorates and leaving each better than when he had arrived. Latterly it had been the clandestine section responsible for overseas activities, and objectively he considered that branch of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti more highly organized than at any time since its formation.

  It was because of that pride that he instinctively opposed the assassination idea, when it was proposed by Boris Kastanazy. As an operation it was futile, a pinprick irritation disposing of men who would be immediately replaced. It was only after Kastanazy, anxious to reinforce his failing influence within the Politburo, had forced the decision through that Kalenin realized the possible advantage.

  In a society of indirect conversations and sideways manoeuvring, it had been a positive gamble for Kalenin openly to oppose the scheme, arguing the danger of the Rome detection. There had been moments, in the initial weeks, when he’d regretted the outspokenness. But not any more. The purge had begun and, because of the stance he had taken, he was absolved from it. Kastanazy could be the only sufferer. Which meant a KGB vacancy on the Politburo.

  Kalenin prepared himself carefully for the forthcoming encounter, knowing it was probably one of the most important of his career. He was a small man and aware of it, just as he would have been aware of the disadvantage of a speech impediment. To gain the impression of stature, he chose to wear his uniform and debated wearing the Order of Lenin and the Hero of the Soviet Union, eventually rejecting the medals as ostentatious. Ribbons would be sufficient reminder of the honours his ability had earned him in the past.

  The driver’s knock came precisely on time. Although he was ready, Kalenin delayed his response, unwilling to give any indication of anxiety: the man had other functions beyond driving, and Kalenin did not want any account of over-eagerness relayed. It was not until the third knock that he answered the door.

  As always, the driver hurried out into the reserved central lane and Kalenin settled back in the deep leather seat. The final snows still clung defiantly, white in the chimney crannies and on the roofs, but black and traffic-gritted at the pavement edges and gutters. Helmeted babushkas, so swaddled in layers of cloth and rough-cut sheepskin that it was difficult to imagine a human body beneath the mushroom shapes, chipped and swept and gossiped at their brooms. In another month, thought Kalenin, it would be spring, the hills outside the city still wet but proudly green and with the new flowers under the birch and fir.

  The signs said the grass should not be walked upon, so the Alexander Gardens were still white and obediently untrodden. The car passed the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and the Monument to Revolutionary Thinkers and swept into the red-walled Kremlin through the Trinity Tower gate. There were already tourists, crocodiling through the museums and cathedrals to the right, where the public were allowed. There were a few foreigners, animated with cameras and brightly dressed. But the majority were Russian, bundled like the street cleaners and following their tour leaders with dull-faced, placid acceptance. Only the children appeared to be smiling, not seeming to regard the visit as an official comparison of past decadence with the improvements of the present. Why did Russians need vodka to make them laugh, thought Kalenin. That couldn’t be anything to do with the past; they’d drunk as much under the Tsars as they did now. And under the Tsars had been allowed to fall down and freeze to death during winters like this. Now there were nightly street searches around the capital and sobering stations to which drunks could be taken and hosed back to sobriety.

  The car turned left, towards the Senate and the cordoned-off area, cutting off Kalenin’s view of the tourists. It was recognized as an official vehicle and gestured through towards the Praesidium wing. There was a guide waiting for him, which was unnecessary, but Kalenin fell into step with the procedure. How many times had he journeyed along these tall, echoing corridors, to appear before ambitious men and inquiring committees? Too many to remember. It would be good, to have others come to explain themselves to him. And it was going to happen, he thought confidently.

  It was a room the Politburo used for committee meetings, away from the main, impressive chamber. All thirteen members of the Soviet hierarchy were assembled around the kidney-shaped table. Already there was a fug of cigarette smoke, with pushed-aside cups and glasses on the table; even an occasional loosened collar, he saw. Despite the impression of informality, there was a secretariat table at the side of the room with three stenographers as well as a technician to operate the tape equipment. Kalenin was glad there would be records.

  Vladimir Zemskov, the First Secretary, was in the chair. He was a dried-out stick of a man, thin-haired and emaciated, like an erudite vulture. He was smoking – a full-packed, Western-style cigarette, not the half-and-half Soviet version – and when he spoke his voice was thick and phlegmy. ‘There has been some preliminary discussion,’ he said.

  As he spoke, Zemskov looked sideways along the table, towards Boris Kastanazy. The man responsible for Politburo control of the KGB was a complete contrast to the First Secretary. Kastanazy was obesely fat, so much so that there was no impression of a neck, making it seem as if his head had been attached as some sort of afterthought. From the perspiration pricked out on Kastanazy’s face, Kalenin guessed the open, damning criticism had already begun: Kastanazy looked as if he were gradually melting in the sun.

  ‘I have no doubt that Rome has been exposed,’ said Kalenin forcefully. He was aware of Kastanazy’s facial expression, something like a wince.

  ‘The embassy or the source?’ queried Zemskov.

  ‘It’s too early to be positive,’ said Kalenin. ‘At the moment I think only the embassy.’

  ‘Can it be saved?’

  ‘I’m formulating proposals,’ said Kalenin. ‘The European Summit creates a difficult time limit.’

  ‘We must have internal access to that conference,’ insisted Zemskov. ‘Decisions will be made affecting every one of our satellite borders in Europe. And not just Europe: Greece will be attending this year for the first time, so it’s the Mediterranean as well. It’s essential we know what happens.’

  ‘It’s precisely because of that importance that the British will want it settled before it begins,’ reminded Kalenin. Heavily he added, ‘And why the killings should not have been risked.’

  ‘What do you propose?’ asked the First Secretary.

  ‘To let them.’

  ‘What!’ Zemskov’s astonished reaction led the stir that went around the table.

  ‘I’m going to give them what they’re looking for,’ announced Kalenin. ‘Two, in fact. The British already regard one as a traitor: it’ll make it easy for them to accept the other.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A week, I hope. A fortnight as the outside.’

  ‘Which would leave more than a week to the Summit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Zemskov coughed, an unpleasant sound. ‘A great deal depends upon this, Comrade General.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kalenin.

  Further along the table Kastanazy blew his nose, and quickly wiped his forehead. To Kalenin, Zemskov said, ‘Proper gratitude will be expressed, for success.’

  Kalenin showed no reaction to the promise for which he’d been hoping. Save Rome, and the seat would be his.

  *

  Igor Solomatin worked independently of the Soviet embassy in Rome, under false documentation and identity, and was sure he was undetected; but he still returned to Moscow by the prescribed dog-leg route, flying from Italy to Paris and then from Paris to Amsterdam, to pick up the
Aeroflot connection to Moscow. He made the entire journey unaware of the rotating check squad of eight men instructed by Kalenin to act as his protection.

  The man entered the spartan office at the rear of Dzerzhinsky Square respectful but not awed by his surroundings, and Kalenin was impressed: to be awed meant to be overly nervous and nervous people made mistakes. As close as he was to success, Kalenin was determined against any mistakes.

  For more than an hour Solomatin sat attentively forward in his seat as Kalenin outlined the operation, the only movement an occasional nod. At the end Kalenin said, ‘Well?’

  ‘It should work,’ said Solomatin.

  Kalenin smiled, impressed again; most field operatives would have been fawning in their praise. He lighted a tubed cigarette and said, ‘How is he?’

  ‘Frightened,’ said Solomatin.

  ‘A lot rests upon him.’

  ‘He recognizes that.’

  ‘Can he do it?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Solomatin. ‘What about the Englishman?’

  ‘The flight reservations have been made. Once he’s there, there’s nothing he can do to avoid involvement. Are you sure of the Italian?’

  ‘He’s ready.’

  Kalenin offered a file across the desk. ‘There are all the details of the alarm system and burglar protection.…’ He stopped, at a sudden thought. ‘He speaks and reads English, I suppose?’

  ‘Sufficiently,’ assured Solomatin.

  Kalenin depressed the summons button on the desk intercom and said, ‘Someone is returning to join those already with you in Rome. His name is Vasily Leonov.’

  Solomatin turned, as the outer door opened. A slim, fair-haired man stood there. He wore Western-style clothes and there was about him a vague, almost distracted, attitude that Solomatin had known among professors at university. It was a fleeting impression, replaced at once by the suspicion that ground control of the operation was being taken from him.