In front of the only window was a chaise longue and a small table. Charlie moved around and raised the Venetian blind. The glass was reinforced solidly into the frame, not to be opened. Charlie tugged at the cord to lower the blind and turned apologetically. ‘I never can make these things work,’ he said.
Sighing she jerked at the string, releasing it first time.
‘Must be a knack,’ said Charlie, enjoying her closeness.
She stepped back hurriedly.
‘Now I suppose you’d like to see the safe?’ she said.
‘I’m going to need Lady Billington for that,’ said Charlie.
‘What!’
‘The jewellery check has to be completed with the owner.’
‘But that’s not convenient.’
‘Neither is losing it.’
‘Lady Billington has an appointment in Rome in.…’ She hesitated, glancing at her watch. ‘… just under two hours. How long will it take to go through the list?’
‘As long as it takes,’ said Charlie unhelpfully. ‘Certainly longer than two hours.’
‘This really is most inconvenient.’
‘She couldn’t cancel Rome?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then I’ll have to come back.’ Charlie wasn’t upset at the prospect. It had taken a year for Willoughby to consider using him again and, like a child saving the strawberry in the pudding until last, he was in no hurry to rush it.
‘I’ll see what can be arranged,’ said the secretary.
‘We haven’t examined Lady Billington’s bedroom yet,’ reminded Charlie.
Jane Williams opened the door, letting him precede her into a pink and white room of silk festoon blinds and tufted carpet. There was a four-poster bed, draped with Venetian lace and haltered at each corner by wide bands of pink silk. The walls were lined with silk too.
‘It’s like walking across the top of a wedding cake,’ said Charlie. As he crossed towards the windows he was conscious again of photographs – a montage of Lady Billington, as a young child, in a horse-drawn carriage before a house large enough to be a palace, and then, older, on a ski slope with a villa behind her. There were pictures of her in yachts, cars, boarding aeroplanes and at receptions with the famous. Charlie recognized the Kennedys and the Rainiers. Why was it that the rich needed so many reminders of their privilege?
‘Quite an album,’ he said.
Jane Williams didn’t reply.
There was a verandah matching that of the other bedroom, with a set of windows opening onto it. The protection was the same and the bells sounded the moment they were tested. The two additional windows had restricted opening.
‘Satisfied?’
‘You mentioned sherry,’ said Charlie.
She looked at her watch again. ‘I don’t imagine Lady Billington expected it to take this long.’
‘Why don’t we see?’
The stairs were wide enough for them to walk abreast and this time she kept level, unwilling for him to follow her. All the way down the corridor she stayed in step with Charlie, until they reached a leather-padded recessed door. She knocked but didn’t bother to wait for an answer.
‘The insurance man,’ she announced and Charlie conceded victory to her. The one who’d called every week on his mother in Manchester for the penny policy was flat-capped, bicycle-clipped and always had his hand ready for a tip.
Lady Billington smiled a smile that didn’t falter at Charlie’s crumpled appearance.
‘How nice of you to come,’ she said, as if he’d accepted a late invitation to make up a dinner number. Charlie guessed Lady Billington was about fifty but she didn’t look it. She was heavy-busted, which was unfortunate because it unbalanced the slimness of her figure. She was brave enough to leave the slight greyness in her auburn hair, which was long and looped to her shoulders. And she didn’t make the mistake of too much make-up. She wore a plainly cut dress, silk, which seemed to be her favourite material, and from the list that Willoughby had given him Charlie knew the pearls, which were matched to perfection, had been valued a year earlier at £17,000. The diamond brooch was real too: £10,000. Charlie was conscious of movement around her feet and saw two fluff-balls of cats. Angora, he thought. No, that was rabbits. Persian perhaps. He felt the irritation begin at the back of his throat.
‘I said sherry,’ remembered Lady Billington. ‘But I prefer gin. What about you?’
‘Scotch please,’ said Charlie.
‘Shouldn’t do it, you know,’ she said.
‘Do what?’
‘Drink in this climate; the Romans always watered their wine, but then look what happened to them.’
Charlie liked her. Lady Billington was the Rolls Royce to Jane Williams’s Daimler, he decided, accepting the drink from the returning secretary. His nose was itching.
‘Cheers,’ said Lady Billington.
‘Cheers,’ said Charlie.
‘Must have been an awful nuisance for you, coming all the way from London.’
‘It was necessary for the valuation adjustment,’ said Charlie, hoping that was the way proper insurance men spoke.
‘Hector fusses so!’ she said. ‘Half the time people don’t know the difference between the real thing and paste.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not finished,’ said Jane Williams. ‘It seems you have to be personally present when the jewellery is checked.’
‘Whatever for!’
‘You’re the owner,’ said Charlie. ‘I can only accept proof of identity from you: it’s a term of the policy.’ He sneezed, just getting the handkerchief to his face in time.
‘Can’t do it today,’ said Lady Billington. ‘Due in Rome for lunch. Hector treats lateness as a diplomatic incident.’ She was sitting on a wide couch. The cats snuggled up beside her and she began to fondle them.
‘Your secretary explained,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sorry. I should have explained on the telephone.’
‘No matter,’ said Lady Billington. She frowned at her empty glass and offered it to the other woman. ‘And look at the diary, will you?’
She came back to Charlie. ‘What have you done?’
‘Checked the security, which was the main point of the visit,’ said Charlie. ‘It seems extremely efficient.’
‘I heard the bells.’
Charlie realized she had a tendency to over-stress her sibilants and was unsure whether it was an impediment or the gin. ‘From what I’ve seen I should think you’re safe enough.’ He sneezed again.
‘Have you got a cold?’
Charlie looked towards the cats. ‘Bit asthmatic,’ he said. ‘Reaction to animal fur.’
Jane Williams returned with the drinks and the appointments diary. Lady Billington held up the animals. ‘Take them out dear, will you?’
Sighing, the secretary carried both animals out into the corridor. She returned picking fur from her skirt.
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.
She said to Lady Billington. ‘You could fit it in tomorrow.’
Charlie thought she made it sound like agreeing to a hack being shod.
‘Come for sherry,’ invited Lady Billington, sipping her gin.
The cats were clustered at the door, awaiting readmission when he left. Jane Williams showed him out. At the drive, Charlie said, ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘I doubt it,’ she said, determined upon the last word.
Charlie sneezed, not managing the handkerchief in time.
Alexander Hotovy had stressed his wife’s health when he made the request and had been given permission to travel to London airport to meet her on her return from Czechoslovakia. He sat in the rear of the car, confident neither the driver nor the escort who accompanied him would discern the excitement that was throbbing through him. It wouldn’t be so easy with Lora: his wife knew him too well. He’d rehearsed the whispered warning for when they embraced, so she would not question him until they got somewhere secure to talk. Dear God, he prayed, let her be well enough to accept i
t without challenge. In a day – two at the most – they would all be safe.
The vehicle circled the roundabout and sped beneath the huge welcoming sign above the tunnel leading into the airport. Hotovy smiled at it briefly. That’s what he was being welcomed to: a new life. A new life without restrictions or suspicion or worrying about an indiscreet word or thought. Freedom! His hands were wet with sweat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them under the pretence of blowing his nose.
Safeguarded by the CD plates, the car parked on the double yellow lines outside the European arrivals building and Hotovy got out. He walked with deliberate slowness into the terminal, staring up at the indicator board for the flight from Prague.
‘You are Comrade Hotovy?’
‘Yes,’ In his surprise, Hotovy answered before he realized that the question had been asked in Russian. There was a man either side of him and as he turned he saw three more close behind. ‘What do you want?’
‘Look there, please,’ said one of them politely.
About a hundred and fifty yards along the concourse Hotovy saw his two boys being led into the building. There were three men and a woman with them. They went to the desk handling the Aeroflot flight. Tickets and boarding passes were handed to them without any checking formalities.
‘You’re not going to make a fuss, are you?’ said the man.
‘No,’ said Hotovy.
It was two hours after the Aeroflot departure that Clarissa Willoughby arrived at Heathrow. With the porter trailing her she went straight by the check-in counter for the Nice flight to the ticket desk.
‘I’d like to change my flight,’ she said to the clerk.
The man in the grey suit, still with his umbrella, busied himself among the magazines at the bookstall. He found he read a lot in his line of business.
8
General Kalenin would have preferred more time to assemble the material but he was confident he had forgotten nothing. He arranged it before him on the desk top, checking against the carefully prepared list, for the final scrutiny. The medal ribbon designated a Hero of the Soviet Union and was accompanied by a long official citation made out in Charlie Muffin’s name. There was a Soviet identity card, with a picture of Charlie and an authorization, again with a picture, for admission to the restricted concessionary stores. The passport contained Charlie’s picture and was date-stamped for the relevant countries where the Britons had been killed. There was five thousand dollars in cash and several congratulatory cables, two referring to the assassinations in Delhi and Ankara. The longest document was the briefing about Rome. It ran to two full pages and Kalenin concentrated upon that most of all, because it had to complete the entrapment.
He summoned the courier to take it to the Foreign Ministry for inclusion in that night’s diplomatic pouch to London, shrugging into his topcoat while he waited. He followed the messenger from his office but descended in the private lift directly into the basement where the car was waiting in an area of guaranteed absolute security. The journey to Kutuzovsky Prospect took only minutes and Kalenin dismissed the driver for the evening.
It was one of the largest apartments in the government complex, too big for his solitary needs but awarded to him because of his rank. The size enabled Kalenin to devote an entire room to his hobby. From habit he went immediately to it, staring down at the contoured papier-mâché layout and the positions of the miniature tanks with which he had been recreating the Battle of Kursk in the most recent war game. It was over a fortnight since he’d abandoned it. Normally he would have invited Alexei Berenkov to complete it with him, but had decided against it tonight.
Reminded of his guest, Kalenin went back into the main room and opened two bottles of Aloxe Gorton to let them breathe. Berenkov preferred French to Russian wine and Kalenin enjoyed using his official position to indulge his friend. He lit a low heat beneath the bortsch and added meat and dumplings when it began to steam. He had just completed laying out the caviar and smoked fish when the bell sounded.
Berenkov entered as exuberantly as always, enveloping Kalenin in his burly arms. The only legacy of the man’s British imprisonment was the white hair. The cowed apprehension of his immediate return had disappeared and under Valentina’s care all the weight had been restored. He looked like a bear, thought Kalenin. But elderly and docile, the sort that live in children’s fairy stories.
‘Valentina is sorry,’ said Berenkov, repeating the apology of their telephone conversation earlier in the day. ‘I think Asian flu is the best weapon the Chinese have.’
‘Tell her I hope she’s better soon,’ said Kalenin. ‘But I wanted to talk to you alone anyway.’
For the caviar and fish there was vodka. Before they began eating they touched glasses, toasting Russian-fashion.
‘That sounds intriguing,’ said Berenkov, heaping his plate with fish.
‘It’s Charlie Muffin.’
Berenkov stopped eating, ‘What about him?’ There was a sadness of anticipation in his expression.
Berenkov had the highest security clearance for his appointment as senior lecturer at the spy college on the outskirts of Moscow, so Kalenin recounted in detail the Rome exposure and what he intended to do to save it. Berenkov sat hunched forward, huge hands cupped around his vodka glass, his food temporarily forgotten.
‘He couldn’t have been better for our purpose,’ said Kalenin. Charlie Muffin had been responsible for trapping the other man and Kalenin knew that, during the debriefing which followed, a professional respect had developed between them.
‘How did you find him?’
‘In America, about a year ago,’ said Kalenin. ‘He was involved in the insurance protection of a Tsarist stamp collection. I’ve had him under observation ever since.’
‘A convenient coincidence.’
‘The British will be completely convinced.’ Kalenin brought the bortsch and wine to the table. Berenkov poured, sniffing the bouquet appreciatively.
‘What do you think of the plan?’
Berenkov made an uncertain rocking gesture with his hand. ‘It seems good.’
‘Kastanazy is being purged.’ Kalenin needed to confide fully. ‘I expect him to be dismissed any day.’
‘Will you get the seat?’
Kalenin smiled. ‘It’s a possibility.’
Berenkov raised his glass. ‘To your success.’
‘Thank you.’
Berenkov put down the glass and said guardedly. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Charlie Muffin.’
‘He might have been good once,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘But not any longer: he’s collapsed pretty badly during the last year.’
Berenkov laughed, a short, humourless sound. ‘He was right about the stick,’ he said.
‘Stick?’
‘A remark he made at the last meeting we had, in prison,’ remembered Berenkov. ‘He said he always got the shitty end of the stick.’
Charlie filled the bath with cold water, rolled up his trousers and perched carefully on the edge, easing his feet in with a sigh of relief. Rubber-soled suede wasn’t good for hot weather: and now his feet hurt like buggery. He flexed his toes, thinking of the ride back to Rome.
Had there been a Lancia following? He’d only been aware of it for part of the journey and when he’d slowed it had overtaken naturally enough. But he hadn’t been going fast in the first place, so why had it crawled along behind?
Maybe he was being over-cautious. By going out to Ostia Charlie had avoided any contact with the embassy, so there couldn’t be the slightest chance of detection. He would have to be careful he didn’t imagine danger where none existed.
There was a knock at the door. It came again, more insistently, as he dried his feet. He padded across the room, without bothering to roll down his trousers.
‘Going to the beach?’ said Clarissa Willoughby.
‘Just as soon as I knot my handkerchief,’ said Charlie.
‘You don’t seem pleased to see me.’
‘I
’m not sure that I am.’
9
Clarissa sat in the middle of the bed with her knees drawn up beneath her chin, so that her skirt gaped, revealing too much leg. Charlie moved a crumpled shirt from the only chair in the room to sit down, wanting to distance himself from her. Charlie was annoyed. At Clarissa, for being so sure of herself. And at himself, for the excitement he felt.
‘This is stupid,’ he said.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I do.’
‘It’s fun.’
She meant it, Charlie knew. People like Clarissa did things simply because they were fun. Like boarding aircraft at dawn in the previous night’s party clothes because breakfast at Focquets seemed fun, or like deciding it was fun to look at a friend’s villa in Acapulco right after lunch at San Lorenzo. Clarissa must worry about her passport like he worried about his feet.
‘What about Rupert?’
‘He thinks I’m somewhere off the coast of Menton, on a yacht.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘Rupert didn’t seem a problem for you in America. What’s so different now?’
‘Look at me,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m a worn-out old bugger at least ten years older than you. If you took me to the house of any of your friends they wouldn’t let me past the kitchens.’
‘You’re an inverted snob!’
‘Would they?’
‘I don’t intend finding out.’ She looked around her. ‘This is a pretty crappy room, Charlie.’
‘I wasn’t expecting to share it.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘Isn’t this a bit too much slam, bam, thank you, ma’am?’
‘Being a prissy hypocrite doesn’t suit you.’
‘Flashing your arse doesn’t suit you.’
Madrigal for Charlie Muffin Page 6
