Comrade Charlie

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Later.’

  ‘You’ve got to decide.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You said you loved me.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So what’s left to decide?’

  ‘You decided: you came back. You wouldn’t stay in Moscow.’

  ‘I told you it was a mistake I’ve regretted, a million times.’

  ‘And I’ve told you I’m frightened.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’

  ‘Of course I do!’ said Natalia impatiently.

  Charlie wished he had not been so glib. ‘We can do it!’ he implored.

  ‘I don’t want to talk any more, not tonight.’

  ‘Or last night, either.’

  ‘Please!’ she said again.

  ‘I want you to stay. I want you to stay and marry me,’ he declared.

  Natalia stared at him, knowing that was exactly what she wanted, too, but unable to bring herself to say the actual words. She said: ‘Let me think.’

  ‘There’s nothing to think about!’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘What’ll be different then from now?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she insisted.

  ‘I…’ started Charlie and then stopped. Enough again, he decided.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s late; I should go back.’

  ‘You were later going back last night,’ he reminded her.

  ‘I don’t feel…’

  ‘…that wasn’t what I meant.’

  Once more they stared at each other for several moments, neither speaking. Then Natalia said: ‘It’s been my fault.’

  ‘Mine,’ contradicted Charlie.

  She made an impatient gesture. ‘Both our faults then!’

  ‘I don’t want there to be another mistake, not like last time.’

  Natalia stood, impulsively. ‘Tomorrow,’ she repeated.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Charlie accepted.

  There was a minuscule escalation, the requirement for the London embassy to reply on the same eavesdropped code. The message from Berenkov, in Moscow, said: HAS PAST VISITOR MET GUEST? Losev, obedient to his instructions, replied: ENCOUNTER CONFIRMED.

  ‘It’s building up!’ insisted Harkness.

  ‘A visitor is a guest,’ pointed out Witherspoon.

  ‘Legend identities?’ queried Harkness.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ suggested Witherspoon.

  ‘Work on the supposition,’ said Harkness.

  35

  Emil Krogh believed it would be the last day he’d need at the factory and he was glad because he thought Springley had started to become suspicious. On the last visit the man had hung around the tiny temporary office like he had on the first occasion but his attitude was different: then he had been solicitous and eager to help but now he was querulous and towards the end had openly questioned why the American wanted access to a set of drawings he had already studied. The true reason was that Krogh had taken insufficient notes from his previous examination and had two drawings unfinished at the Kensington house, adding to the backlog that the finicky Russian was creating. Krogh improvised, inventing a story of possibly finding an incompatibility between what the two factories were creating and needing absolutely to check. He actually sketched the American companion piece to which the English part was to be joined, supposedly to substantiate his query, and Springley had eventually appeared satisfied – but only just.

  Petrin kept pressing him for a completion date for the drawings which Krogh at the moment was refusing to give, convinced that if he provided a deadline the Russians would insist he meet it, and he didn’t want any more pressure than he was already under. But in his own mind he had decided another week. It was a foregone conclusion that the technical expert with the moustache would insist upon his usual translated interrogations, so a positive return to California was impossible to fix yet but Krogh was hopeful the delay wouldn’t extend for more than three days beyond his own finishing estimation. Then home. Home to Peggy, with all this settled and behind him.

  He’d written to Peggy, two long letters which he’d never done on a trip away from home before, telling her how much he wanted to get back. Which he did. Desperately. Back to the safety of people and places he knew. To be treated properly, like a human being, not disparaged and sneered at, like they constantly sneered at him now. He’d told Peggy he loved her, too, which was something else he hadn’t done for longer than he could remember. And he did. He was going to prove it when he got back: make it up to her for all the half-assed screwing about and the neglect. He’d written that he was tired and wanted to rest – which he did, aching from fatigue although Petrin’s pills were giving him some sort of sleep at nights – and that he intended they should take a vacation together. That’s what he needed. To get away, just he and Peggy. Somewhere they could just relax, sleep a lot. Eat good food. Get well. The reflection came quite naturally but it surprised Krogh and then he wondered why it should. That was how he did feel about what had happened in America and was continuing here: like he was suffering a debilitating illness during which he’d done things over which he did not have complete control and which therefore he couldn’t be called upon to account for. A person couldn’t be blamed – accused of anything – when they were ill. That wasn’t fair. But it was going to be all right. He was going to get well again soon now.

  He announced when he arrived at the Isle of Wight factory that he thought this would be his last visit and that maybe he should say goodbye to Bishop and the other directors who’d welcomed him, which had the effect Krogh wanted, of getting Springley away from constantly looking over his shoulder. The project chief returned to say the chairman wanted to give him a farewell lunch and Krogh said he thought he would be through in time and that he’d be happy to accept.

  Because it was a last-minute arrangement it was not so stiffly formal as the day he arrived, with less people in the directors’ dining room. The chairman wanted the assurance that he’d had access to everything he wanted, which Krogh gave the man, recounting his invented story of an unfounded incompatibility to make it seem his trip had been worthwhile and hoping further to satisfy Springley, who was at the lunch. Bishop said if there were any uncertainties that arose later in his mind he was always welcome to return and Krogh promised to remember that. There was small talk about how much longer he intended remaining in England, and Spear, the managing director, agreed that another week in London would be nice at this time of the year. Then Spear disclosed he hoped to visit the West Coast in the near future and Krogh responded as he knew he was expected, inviting the man to be his guest both in California and at the plant, and they exchanged contact cards.

  Krogh – with Petrin as his constant travelling protector – was back in London by late afternoon, although as had become their custom there was no open contact between them until they got to Kensington and the usual reception committee of Russians. To whom, generally and without sufficient thought, Krogh announced he did not need to visit the British factory any more.

  ‘Good!’ said Petrin at once and ahead of Losev, his open satisfaction reminiscent of the moment Krogh wrongly declared he was finished, in San Francisco’s McLaren Park. ‘So what’s the positive completion date?’ The demand had arrived from Moscow overnight: there’d been no explanation but the request had the highest priority designation and was in Berenkov’s name.

  Krogh gestured towards Guzins, hunched at the large document table over the drawings already completed but still unreleased, scribbling reminder notes for later queries in a lined notebook. ‘Shouldn’t you be asking him?’

  ‘I’m asking you!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ refused Krogh, enjoying his flimsy superiority. ‘The completion if I am allowed to work uninterrupted will be very different from when I can possibly finish if we have to endure the nonsense of these nightly question-and-answer sessions.’

  Losev had officially received the completion date demand, as the
London rezident, and was enjoying the difficulty of his American counterpart. Wanting to exacerbate it he used English to talk to Petrin, so that the American could understand. Losev said: ‘Moscow was very insistent, remember?’

  Petrin ignored the intrusion. ‘I’ll say…’ he started and then hesitated, showing his uncertainty.

  Krogh was immediately aware of it. Cutting in quickly he said: ‘It doesn’t really matter what you say, does it? I am the person doing the job and I say I can’t give you a positive date yet.’

  Guzins seemed to become aware of a dispute going on in the room, although he could not understand what was being said. The moustached space scientist blinked up from his drawings, eyes moving between each of the other men in the room. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Be quiet,’ dismissed Petrin, exasperated at how he’d so easily lost control of the situation and knowing there was little he could do to recover. Capitulating, he said to the American: ‘Give me your estimate, then?’

  ‘I can’t,’ insisted Krogh adamantly, buoyed with unexpected courage.

  ‘That’s going to irritate Moscow,’ suggested Losev, again talking to the other Russian but still in English.

  Petrin looked contemptuously at the man, groping for a necessarily crushing retort. ‘But not as much, I’m sure, as your abysmal failure to get what was required from here in the first place,’ he managed. It was not as good as he would have liked but it was good enough. Losev’s face flared at once and Petrin thought, contentedly: More than good enough.

  ‘I have a lot of questions,’ said Guzins from the work table.

  ‘Later,’ ordered Petrin curtly.

  ‘Do you want me to talk? Or draw?’ demanded Krogh.

  ‘Draw,’ said Petrin. Heavily he added: ‘Draw quickly.’

  ‘There’s Moscow’s cable, which requires an answer,’ said Losev, trying to fight back.

  ‘Which I want to see before it is transmitted,’ said Petrin.

  Alexei Berenkov was displeased by the difficulties that appeared to be arising in England but not as seriously as either of the Russian rezidents in London imagined he would be.

  Photographs of what was being stolen from Britain had always been an important part of the ensnarement Berenkov was plotting for Charlie Muffin. The abrupt and delaying insistences of Yuri Guzins merely required their being taken sooner and more extensively than he had originally intended, but in many respects that would be a useful rehearsal. The need for the introduction at all also showed that any delay was caused by the obstructiveness of the Baikonur scientists, not from any inability of the First Chief Directorate of the KGB, which was a positive bonus.

  The impossibility yet to get a specific date when they could expect to have a full set of drawings for the Star Wars missile housing was slightly more aggravating, because Berenkov could not move against Charlie Muffin as he intended until the drawings were safely completed. But here again there was a lot more for Berenkov to establish before the trap could be effectively and destructively sprung, so the inconvenience was minimal.

  Berenkov did not inform London of either easy reaction, however. He demanded that Krogh be constantly pressed, to provide a finishing date, and in the same batch of instructions – sent not through the intercepted channel but in the unread diplomatic bag – ordered Losev to re-establish contact with Henry Blackstone and advise the man to expect a new control under a new codename, Visitor. The same day as Berenkov dispatched those instructions he sent a message over the open channel. It read: ALERT VISITOR SOUTHWARDS.

  36

  All she could do was apologize, decided Natalia: admit to Charlie she’d behaved ridiculously and that she didn’t know why and ask him to forgive her and say of course she wanted to stay and be with him for ever. Which she’d always known she did and dreamed about and all she’d thought about from the day he’d left her in Moscow and made even more ridiculous what had happened the previous night. Of course she was frightened: would be, for weeks and months and years. But that wasn’t sufficient reason for what she’d done and said. Or rather, hadn’t said. Natalia hadn’t known then and didn’t know now why she’d been so stupid. Stupid and ridiculous and…her mind seized, trying to find words in either Russian or English brutal enough to fit her idiocy and self-anger and failing. Just apologize: hold him and love him and apologize.

  Natalia was impatient for the day to be over, to put things right between them. She was distracted at the air show, which she didn’t enjoy anyway because there was too much noise and too much technical discussion and because she couldn’t really see the purpose of her being there at all. And unconsciously – but dangerously – dismissive to others in the Soviet delegation until Gennadi Redin asked if something were wrong or if she were unwell, and Natalia made a belatedly determined effort to show she was neither and take attention – and curiosity – away from herself. She was early in the hotel bar that night and among the last to leave for the dining room, and table-hopped in their enclosed section until she was sure she was no longer the focus of any particular interest from the KGB escorts.

  But always, to the minute, aware of the time. She pleaded tiredness to free herself from the tactile Golovanov over coffee in the lounge and was back in her room by eleven, careful to travel up to the sixth floor with another female interpreter and be seen to enter her room. Inside she stayed close to the door, intent upon the sounds from the corridor. The lift arrived, forcing her to withdraw, the first time she tried to leave. Natalia allowed five minutes before attempting to leave again. This time the corridor was deserted. She locked her door and in seconds was at the central stairway which looped around the lift-shaft, pushing through the firedoors but stopping on the landing, listening now for the sound of anyone climbing up to confront her. She heard nothing and started down, walking quite openly, the explanation of changing her mind and deciding to rejoin the late-night group in the coffee lounge or the bar already prepared, as it had been every night she had descended like this. Natalia encountered no one going down to the third floor, where she stopped, listening once more. There was still no sound from below. And the corridor along the third floor was empty. Now she hurried, thrusting through the firedoors and scurrying the short distance to Charlie’s door, which was ajar as it had always been.

  He was half on the bed, his back against the headboard, the television on but with the volume low. He got up at once, coming to her, and Natalia reached out and clung to him, her head against his chest, and found herself crying – like so much else without knowing why.

  Charlie smoothed her hair and she felt his lips against her forehead. He said: ‘You’re OK. You’re safe. What is it?’

  Natalia shook her head, still against his chest, and said: ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re crying!’

  ‘I could hardly wait to get here. I’ve been so miserable, so angry, with myself all day. I don’t know…’ Natalia foundered to a halt. Why were the words in her head at other times never there when she needed them!

  ‘I don’t…’ started Charlie.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Natalia interrupted, wanting to say it all. ‘So very, very sorry. Last night was a nonsense – I was nonsensical – and I can’t understand…’ There was another momentary stumble. ‘…I’m ashamed and sorry and say you’ll forgive me.’ Babbling like a fool, Natalia thought: I’m babbling like a fool – I am a fool – and making myself appear a bigger idiot.

  Charlie pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length. Natalia was red-eyed and red-nosed and serious-faced. He said: ‘That it?’

  She jerked her head up and down, not speaking because she couldn’t get the words in the correct order.

  He smiled at her and said: ‘You’ve got a dew-drop on the end of your nose.’

  Natalia gave a cry and swivelled away from him, scrubbing her hand across her face and said: ‘My god…I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Actually you didn’t have.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I ha
d to do something to stop you cutting your wrists and bleeding to death.’

  She smiled back at him shyly. ‘Oh I love you so much!’ And she did: utterly and completely. How could she have the previous night…she began to think and then stopped, because she didn’t have to go on. He’d forgiven her, made a joke about it and he was the most wonderful man she’d ever known and she was going to be with him for the rest of her life. For ever and ever and ever.

  He led her further into the room, to the only easy chair again, and said: ‘Last night was a nonsense, wasn’t it?’

  Natalia gave a helpless shoulder lift. ‘I don’t know why…’

  ‘… You already told me.’

  ‘You haven’t said you forgive me.’

  ‘You haven’t definitely said you’re going to stay.’

  ‘I’m going to stay, my darling,’ assured Natalia fervently. ‘Of course I am going to stay.’

  ‘You haven’t told me about Eduard,’ Charlie reminded solemnly.

  ‘Perhaps because I don’t want to.’

  ‘What happened!’ demanded Charlie, misunderstanding.

  Natalia told him of Eduard’s last leave and of her son’s coarseness and of how much the boy had reminded her of her abandoning husband. ‘He was awful! Disgusting! I hated it!’

  ‘He’s still your son,’ frowned Charlie, in another reminder.

  ‘He doesn’t want me, need me, any more,’ insisted Natalia. ‘I’m sure his only reaction to my not going back will be to worry about his career. And under Gorbachev I don’t think that will be affected: that he’ll be affected.’

  ‘There’s a lot to plan. To work out,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll do it all.’

  ‘I won’t defect,’ Natalia announced.

  Charlie stared at her, bewildered. ‘What!’

  ‘I’ll run with you. Stay with you. But I won’t go through the debriefing routine: tell your people things that will make me a traitor.’ The determination had not been so positively formed in her mind the previous night – she hadn’t had such a determination the previous night – but Natalia abruptly wondered if subconsciously that hadn’t been partially responsible for what she now considered an aberration. Maybe Charlie would understand. Maybe he wouldn’t. It was, after all, illogical, although not at all to her. Technically she would be a defector, a traitor: fit the description of all the denunciations that might be made against her. But not in reality, according to her own definition. She was remaining in a foreign, alien country with the man she loved and who loved her, in return. But that was all. She didn’t intend disclosing any details of her previous operational life, any secrets. She felt for the Soviet Union as only a Russian could feel: could understand, even. She wouldn’t betray or disgrace it.