Comrade Charlie

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘It’s going to be interesting for you then,’ said the man.

  ‘How’s that?’ asked Charlie ingenuously.

  ‘Got a special party arriving.’

  ‘Special?’

  ‘A group of Russians. Here for the Farnborough Air Show.’

  ‘In this very hotel!’ exclaimed Charlie, suitably impressed.

  The barman nodded and smiled, content with the reaction. ‘Practically taken over an entire floor.’

  ‘That must create a headache for you all, an important group like that?’ lured Charlie.

  There was another nod. ‘We’ve had a lot of Russians from the embassy, making sure everything is going to be all right. All the staff have been checked.’

  ‘You personally?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You mind that?’

  A shrug this time. ‘Not really. Unusual experience, really.’

  ‘Practically an entire floor, you say?’

  The man responded as Charlie hoped he would. ‘The sixth,’ he confirmed. ‘And those rooms that aren’t occupied have to stay empty while the party is here.’

  ‘All rather exciting,’ said Charlie. Would the restrictions the Russians imposed mean the sealing of the entire floor?

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the barman, a seen-it-all-before remark. ‘You’d better get here early at night if you want a place to sit.’

  ‘I will,’ assured Charlie.

  In the Soviet car outside Viktor Nikov, whose tour of personal observation it was, said bitterly: ‘Drinking! He sits in the bar drinking and we sit here, with nothing!’

  It was almost two months from their last being together, that weekend at the dacha, when Valentina finally raised it. They were making plans to go again, during another of Georgi’s college breaks, and Valentina asked if Kalenin were coming and Berenkov admitted that he had not invited the man.

  ‘Are you going to?’ she demanded. Throughout the years that Berenkov’s overseas postings had kept them apart Valentina had developed a peremptory independence unusual for the wife of an intelligence officer.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ shrugged Berenkov.

  ‘Why not?’ She was a big woman, blonde and strong-featured. Impatient and uninterested in dieting she was putting her faith in tight corsetry and accepted that it was not really working.

  ‘I don’t think he’d welcome an invitation, at the moment.’

  ‘So there is a difficulty between you?’ seized Valentina, recalling her impression of quietness from the last dacha visit.

  ‘It’s not serious,’ said Berenkov. I hope, he thought.

  ‘Can you talk about it?’

  ‘No,’ refused Berenkov shortly, retreating at last behind the expected security-consciousness of his job.

  ‘Who’s right?’

  Berenkov laughed, unoffended at his wife’s directness. ‘It’s not like that. It’s just different viewpoints.’

  ‘Nothing could ever happen to us, could it?’ asked the woman, with sudden concern. ‘Nothing to upset the life we now have, I mean.’

  Berenkov laughed at her again, in reassurance this time. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask a thing like that?’

  Valentina shook her head, refusing the question. ‘I wouldn’t want anything to upset the way we are now,’ she said.

  31

  A pattern quickly developed and Emil Krogh relaxed further as he became accustomed to the work surroundings at the Isle of Wight factory. When he returned the second day Robert Springley took him on a tour of the moulding rooms and explained in detail the difference between the British-evolved thermoplastic resin process, which enabled the carbon fibre to be reshaped without any loss of strength, and the more easily shattered and unchangeable thermoset system that had been employed at Krogh’s plant in California. He watched the fibre and resin matrix being created in a temperature- and climatecontrolled environment and even before studying the waiting blueprints in detail was able to understand how this section was going to assemble with what they were building in America to create the missile housing for the defence system.

  The promised side office was made available to him and at first Springley stayed close at hand to take him through the drawings, which was an intrusion Krogh didn’t want but could do nothing about. It was well into the afternoon before the man left him alone and Krogh was finally able to make the notes he considered necessary to reproduce the manufacturing plans. He did so in a way to satisfy Petrin and take the pressure off himself. He separated the drawings according to Springley’s definition and concentrated first upon the eleven easy ones. It took him that day and most of the following to make sufficient notes and late that afternoon returned with Petrin to the Kensington house to begin work.

  Vitali Losev was already there with the frightened Yuri Guzins, and in the first half hour other men entered and left the room which had been set up as Krogh’s drawing office. The American prepared his board and clipped his notes to it and set his lights, all the while feeling like a laboratory experiment under the scrutiny of so many people.

  The progress was slower than Krogh anticipated. As soon as the American started to draw, Guzins, to whom he was never introduced, came and stood at his elbow and practically at once began asking highly technical questions which had to be painstakingly translated back and forth between them by Petrin. When Krogh, exasperated, asked what the hell was going on Petrin said it was a precaution they believed worthwhile to prevent any mistake, to which Krogh complained that his constantly being interrupted risked mistakes being made instead of being guarded against. Petrin accepted the protest and told Guzins to wait until a drawing was finished before querying it, which was the method they adopted, but by midnight Krogh had produced only six copies and was aching with exhaustion. His announcement that he couldn’t draw any more provided the catalyst for the row that had simmered between Petrin and Losev from the moment of their first meeting.

  Krogh spoke to Petrin when he said he wanted to stop but it was the unidentified Losev who responded.

  ‘Work on!’ ordered Losev, brusquely and in English.

  ‘I said I’m too tired,’ repeated Krogh.

  Losev went to speak but Petrin got in first. ‘I’ll decide how he works,’ said Petrin. He spoke in Russian.

  ‘He’s got to do more!’ insisted Losev, also speaking in Russian. ‘Who gives a damn how he feels!’

  ‘Idiot!’ said Petrin. ‘Didn’t you hear the conversation about mistakes? Tired men make mistakes!’

  Krogh couldn’t understand what was being said but their tone was sufficient for him to realize it was an argument.

  ‘You don’t have the authority to overrule me!’ said Losev.

  ‘Nor you to supercede me,’ Petrin shouted back. ‘So let’s get it ruled from Moscow. Until which time I decide what Krogh will do and what he won’t: he’s my responsibility.’

  Guzins stood with nibbled fingers to his mouth, looking apprehensively between the two men, bewildered by the sudden eruption. Surprisingly trying the role of peacemaker, he said: ‘What’s an argument like this going to achieve?’

  Ignoring the scientist Losev said: ‘I am the rezident in this country. Mine is the ultimate authority.’

  ‘Which I am refusing to recognize,’ said Petrin. ‘Moscow can decide.’

  Losev regretted the dispute now, suspecting Dzerzhinsky Square would favour Petrin in the choice. Retreating, he said: ‘OK. Let him finish for the night.’

  ‘There was never a question of his not doing so,’ persisted Petrin. ‘I’ll want to see the cable exchanges with Moscow.’ That was an encroachment upon the local KGB chief and Petrin knew it but he decided to make the challenge anyway: he wasn’t frightened of what Moscow might decide and he was curious how far Losev would take the dispute.

  ‘You’ll see what’s appropriate,’ said Losev.

  Not a capitulation, judged Petrin: but not the outright rejection it should have been, either. So the other man wasn’t sure o
f himself. Wanting the exchange to end on his terms Petrin said disparagingly: ‘Be here the same time tomorrow night,’ and hurried Krogh from the room with his hand cupped to the American’s elbow.

  ‘What went on back there?’ asked Krogh when they were out in the street.

  ‘Nothing important,’ said Petrin dismissively. ‘A stupid difference of opinion.’

  Berenkov was irritated by the message when it reached him from London. Passingly he had thought of the possibility of friction between the two equally ranked men but put it from his mind. Now he looked upon it as an unnecessarily distracting squabble between two prima donnas who should have known better. Berenkov’s immediate reaction was to give Petrin overall command but he held back. Losev was the British station chief. For the man to have Petrin appointed over him would be a blatant demotion and exacerbate the ill feeling which clearly already existed between them. The counter-balance was that the control of Emil Krogh had to remain with Petrin, who had succeeded – and was continuing to succeed – brilliantly in suborning and manipulating the American industrialist. So there could be no question of his surrendering that role to someone else.

  Berenkov attempted to resolve the clash of vanities by neither giving nor taking from either, which was no resolve at all. He replied that Vitali Losev was head of the KGB rezidentura in London and should be accorded that authority. But that in the unusual circumstances of the assignment Alexandr Petrin retained unchallengeable control of the American and that nothing would be permitted to affect that. In an effort at long-distance head-banging Berenkov reminded both of the importance of what they were doing and said he did not wish to referee any further demarcation disputes.

  The effect was for Petrin to consider his attitude vindicated and for Losev to believe his authority had been diminished.

  ‘Satisfied?’ demanded Losev when the reply came.

  ‘Very,’ said Petrin. That day Krogh completed the remaining drawings he considered easy and got more than halfway through the first of those he considered more difficult.

  Natalia was allocated a window seat and Gennadi Redin, whom she had already decided to be one of the KGB escorts, sat next to her – which she regretted because his nervousness became even more apparent on an aeroplane. He fidgeted and sweated excessively and drank a lot of vodka, which appeared to do nothing to allay his fears. It didn’t make him drunk, either.

  ‘Have you been to London before?’ he asked her.

  Natalia shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Looking forward to it?’

  More than she had anticipated anything for a very long time, reflected Natalia, even though she was trying to keep her hopes tightly controlled. ‘It will be an interesting experience,’ she said guardedly. She was anxious to identify the other KGB personnel: she did not consider she had a lot to fear from this man.

  ‘Tweed and woollen wear,’ announced the man. ‘That’s what my wife has told me to bring her back.’

  Natalia wondered again if she would be able to get out to buy more clothes at the beginning of the trip. ‘I’ll take her advice.’

  There was a pilot’s announcement that they had crossed the English coast and Natalia stared down at the pocket handkerchieves of fields set out far below.

  ‘It’s a very small country,’ volunteered Redin. ‘It’s always difficult to imagine how important it once was.’

  ‘Isn’t it important any more?’ asked Natalia mildly.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Redin, convinced. ‘It’s just one of the states of Europe now.’

  ‘I suppose it depends upon what you hope to find there,’ said Natalia, more to herself than to him.

  32

  Charlie considered carefully how to stage the recognition with Natalia, knowing how vital the timing and the circumstances were. He knew the scheduled arrival of the Moscow flight, and his initial idea was simply to be in the seating area of frayed brocade when she entered with the rest of the party. And then he decided against it. He had no way of knowing if she wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see her but it was logical she would have thought of the possibility. But for him to be openly in the foyer, practically making it a confrontation, was too abrupt. He had to guard against any startled reaction to his presence because she would be with the rest of the delegation on arrival, and among that delegation would be KGB watchers alert for any unusual response, to anything. It was better that he be nowhere around for whatever registration formalities were to be completed: that she had time to settle in and adjust, however slightly, to her surroundings.

  Charlie debated with himself, waiting unobtrusively outside the hotel, just to see her, and actually repeated the reconnoitre of the previous days, seeking out vantage points. There were some – the doorway of a towering Regency house converted into offices and a tiny, centre-of-the-road coppice of trees preserved by a parks department – but Charlie was uncomfortable being outside the hotel after the Russians had entered. One or maybe more of those KGB watchers would inevitably establish a surveillance position in the foyer, noting who followed the party in. And over long years of experience Charlie had found it was human nature – certainly the human nature of supposedly trained intelligence officers, which it shouldn’t have been – to be more interested in people following behind than in people already established ahead. So he abandoned that intention as well.

  Instead, for the Russian arrival, Charlie kept completely out of the way. He sat in his room and tried to read newspapers, which didn’t work because his concentration wouldn’t hold, and he tried to become interested in his flickering television, but that didn’t work either although he managed an hour watching horse racing from Goodwood and was glad he wasn’t there in person because every horse upon which he placed a mental bet got lost in the field. He considered dialling one of the in-house movies but abandoned that, too. At last, more than thirty minutes before the delegation should have got to the hotel, Charlie went to his window, which was at the side of the hotel with only the narrowest view of the main Bayswater road along which they would travel. He had to press very closely against it to see anything at all and there was a constant traffic stream of cars and coaches and buses from which it was impossible to distinguish one from another and Charlie quickly gave that up, like everything else.

  He was downstairs in the bar within five minutes of its opening for the evening, the first in and able to get the previously chosen seat, the stool at the corner of the bar and the abutting wall. Unasked the barman poured the scotch and said: ‘They’ve arrived.’

  ‘Did it all go smoothly?’

  The man gave a shrug, a gesture which seemed to be close to an affection with him. ‘I gather it was a bit chaotic, but then it normally is when a big party checks in.’

  ‘How many are there?’ asked Charlie, immediately alert.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ reported the informative man, just as quickly. ‘Quite a few women as well as men.’

  Where, wondered Charlie, was the only one who mattered? He said: ‘They going to be difficult to look after as guests? I mean are there any special requests, that sort of thing?’

  The barman replenished Charlie’s glass. ‘Not that I know of. There’s a few policemen about, in case there are any protests. There are sometimes, apparently.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  The barman moved away to serve another arriving customer, a man. From the suit Charlie guessed he wasn’t Russian and got the confirmation when the newcomer ordered in a heavy Scots accent. The first Russians entered soon afterwards, two men and a woman. Charlie was easily able to hear and understand the conversation, although he gave no indication of being able to do so. They were embarrassed at their uncertainty of whether to order at the bar or be seated for the barman to come to them. The difficulty was resolved when the man did go to them. The woman, who had urged that they be seated, said she’d known all along that she was right. The older of the two men stumbled out the order, for beer and scotch. The Soviet conversation ranged over the flight
from Russia to how different London was from what the woman had expected – ‘a lot of buildings as big as in Moscow, which I hadn’t thought there would be’ – to where Harrods was and how worthwhile the forthcoming air show was going to be.

  Their conversation became increasingly difficult for Charlie clearly to eavesdrop as other Russians came into the bar and either joined the original group or established their own parties and set up a conflicting chatter of cross-talk.

  Charlie’s earlier friendliness paid dividends because increasingly busy though he became the barman didn’t forget him. Charlie sat alert to every new customer, each time feeling the bubble of half expectation when it was a woman he couldn’t at first properly see but none was Natalia. He was alert for other things, too. He watched for recognitions from the other already identified members of the delegation or listened for the recognizable language, to assure himself that each newcomer was Russian and not an independent, unassociated guest at the hotel. Having established from the barman the total number in the Soviet party Charlie kept count, so that he was constantly aware of how many were missing. And instinctively self-protective, he set about locating the KGB escorts. After half an hour he was convinced about two, an uncertain, hunchshouldered man who tried to join two separate groups which closed against him and a younger, aloof person with rimless spectacles and fair, almost white hair, who didn’t try to join in at all but who sat studying everyone over an untouched glass of mineral water. There would be more, Charlie knew. He wondered if they were travelling with the party or would be drafted in from the embassy less than a mile away.

  Around seven thirty the first arrivals started to move and Charlie overheard several references to food and understood from the conversation that a section of the hotel dining room had been partitioned off for them. At no time had the number in the Soviet party amounted to more than fifteen, Natalia had never been among them and Charlie felt a sink of disappointment. Which he recognized to be unrealistic, because from their time together in Moscow Charlie knew that she scarcely drank at all and that a bar was not an automatic place for her to visit. But it had clearly been the assembly point and Charlie had built up a conviction in his mind that was where he would see her. He grew quickly impatient at his professional lapse. He was behaving like an immature, lovesick teenager instead of an experienced operative who had already risked too much by exposing himself to a great many unknowns where unknowns shouldn’t have been allowed. It was time to stop. To reverse the situation, at least: professionalism first, personal involvement second. Which was how it should be. And always had been, even with Edith. Charlie felt something approaching shock at realizing how his priorities had got out of sequence. Thank Christ he’d become aware of it this soon.