‘Why wait?’ demanded Witherspoon urgently. ‘Why not arrest him immediately? He’s a serving intelligence officer, like you said. In a hotel, without orders, containing a group of Russians! That’s enough, surely!’
‘No,’ refused Harkness. ‘It would be premature. I know it’s a risk, perhaps a terrible risk and that I’ve just warned against risks. But I’m not being inconsistent. We’ve got to take the chance because when we arrest Charlie Muffin I want every piece of evidence assembled and ready. I want everything so ready and prepared there won’t be an answer or an excuse he can even consider offering.’
‘All right,’ accepted Witherspoon doubtfully.
‘We’ve got him, Hubert! This time we’ve really got him!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Witherspoon. It was the first time the man had called him by his christian name.
‘And you’re the person who’s made it possible,’ said Harkness, in apparent recollection. ‘Well done! Very well done indeed.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Witherspoon.
‘I’ll see to it that credit is properly accorded.’
‘Thank you sir,’ said Witherspoon again.
Charlie made his now customary excursion from the hotel, reflecting how things and surroundings soon became predictable in people’s minds, and how dangerous it was. The telephone he’d used before was unoccupied and unvandalized. He dialled the direct number, as before, and recognized William French when the man replied.
‘Any luck?’ asked Charlie at once, guarded on the open line.
‘Luck doesn’t come into science and mathematics,’ rejected French.
‘It did with my mathematics,’ said Charlie. ‘I was bloody lucky if I got anything right at all.’
‘I’ve got it,’ announced the expert.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve asked a lot from you.’
‘I’ve been thinking that for days!’
‘Why don’t you let me have an official account? But keep it vague: no memo to or memo from. Just the number.’
‘I thought this was unofficial.’
‘It’s always a problem, deciding the difference, isn’t it?’ said Charlie. ‘If you let me have a report then you’re covered against censure if anyone demands an explanation, aren’t you?’
‘Sometimes I can’t understand you at all,’ protested the man.
‘It’s a trick of the trade,’ said Charlie.
‘Enjoying the holiday?’
‘Could be better,’ said Charlie.
38
The Kensington house became a bearpit of snarling, teeth-bared Russians each biting and clawing at the other. Emil Krogh remained as aloof and separate from it as possible, although there was a satisfaction from their falling out despite his not being able to understand the arguments because when the bickering began they reverted to their own language. But mostly the American sealed himself off from his surroundings: like an exhausted and about-to-sink swimmer just able to make out dry land in the distance, Krogh fixed his mind solely upon the soon arriving day when the drawings would be finished. His only real contribution to the dissent – which he hope contributed to it – was to go on refusing to answer the daily repeated demand to know when that finishing day would be. Krogh thought it did contribute because rows frequently erupted between Petrin and Losev within minutes of the refusal conversation taking place. Like they invariably did later in the day, which became the set-aside time to stop drawing to go through the nitpicking queries assembled by the moustached space expert. Once more Krogh was not able to follow the constant disputes with the man but again he didn’t have to. It was clear that Petrin and Losev considered the line-by-line review to be a completely time-wasting obstruction and again Krogh attempted to worsen it, taking longer than was truly necessary to answer some points.
Despite the constant antagonism – an antagonism that developed into a contempt towards him from his countrymen – Yuri Guzins persisted with the nervous insistence, uncaring that the backlog was increasing, hoping that it was causing problems for the huge intelligence official who’d out-argued them at Baikonur. Guzins was sure it was that man who was responsible for his being in England. His release of drawings dwindled to one a day for inclusion in the diplomatic bag. And sometimes not even one.
These frictions were peripheral, however. The constant, unremitting fury was between Alexandr Petrin and Vitali Losev, the near hatred growing foolishly – and worse, ridiculously unprofessionally – to the extent that there no longer needed to be an identifiable reason for them to clash. Just to be together in a room was sufficient: thrust together they circled and goaded each other, literally like snarling bears in a pit.
It got so that Losev snatched illogically at small things in an effort to prove his superiority and when Berenkov’s easy resolution to the problem of Yuri Guzins’ delays arrived from Moscow the London station chief saw it as just such an opportunity. He went to Kensington ahead of the KGB technicians and announced the moment he entered the room: ‘Moscow’s patience has been exhausted waiting for what they’re supposed to be receiving from you. As from today I am going to get this operation working as it should do.’
‘The delay isn’t my fault!’ protested Petrin and regretted it at once because it made him sound petulant.
Losev smiled, isolating the whine. ‘If you want to protest to Moscow you can, through the embassy channels,’ he offered in apparent generosity, furthering Petrin’s regret.
‘How, precisely, are you going to speed up delivery?’ demanded Petrin.
‘Yes, how?’ came the demand from across the room from the listening Guzins.
‘Wait!’ insisted Losev. The effect would have been better if he’d tried to time the technicians’ arrival to coincide with this moment but he decided, gratefully, that he had recovered some of the earlier ground lost to Petrin.
Guzins abandoned his inspection and note-taking, crossing the room towards them. ‘There is no way the delivery can be speeded up,’ he insisted. ‘I won’t allow the system to be changed!’
‘Moscow considers it can,’ said Losev cursorily, looking not at the space expert but at the door through which he expected the other Russians to enter.
‘I demand to know how!’ insisted Guzins, with frail bravery built upon his detailed inspection so far remaining unchallenged.
Losev came back to the man, smiling in open contempt. ‘I told you to wait,’ he repeated.
‘You’re posturing again…’ began Petrin irritably, but was halted by the arrival at last of the Soviet team.
The first to enter the room, looking around curiously, was Yevgenni Zazulin, the professionally trained photographer who had copied the contents of Robert Springley’s briefcase on the Isle of Wight. The second was Andrei Aistov, one of the men who had entered Charlie Muffin’s apartment and who was nominally attached to the rezidentura’s technical section. Zazulin carried two briefcase-size camera boxes constructed from lightweight metal. Aistov brought the more easily recognized equipment, two extendable light tripods, a selection of fan-opening reflector shades and high-wattage lights.
‘No!’ said Guzins at once, too loudly, guessing what was going to happen without having to be told now. ‘I won’t allow it! It defeats the purpose of what I’m doing…!’
The two new arrivals looked questioningly between the arguing men, halting halfway towards Krogh’s drawing board and the long drawing table.
Losev looked back at them, nodding. ‘Go ahead and set your equipment up,’ he ordered. Turning to Guzins, he said: ‘You’re not in a position to allow or disallow anything. Moscow want technical photographs of all the outstanding drawings and those that follow.’
‘But they won’t have been checked!’ said Guzins, still too loudly. ‘That’s why I was sent in the first place!’
Losev was back centre stage and clearly in charge, which was how he liked to be but hadn’t been for far too long. Petrin did not think this particular dispute involved him and had
walked away, towards Krogh who had stopped drawing and was swivelled on his chair, watching.
Losev said: ‘But which you’re not doing fast enough. So now there have got to be changes…’ He allowed a pause for the intended point to register. ‘Why should it upset you? This way there is an added check. It’ll be fully understood that the photographed drawings aren’t approved by you: that they are, if you like, unauthorized until the confirmation comes from you. But this way there’s the chance of an additional approval – queries too, if necessary – from your colleagues at Baikonur. Yours isn’t the sole responsibility any more: and that’s what you’re shit scared about, isn’t it?’
Guzins shook his head, unconvinced by the rationalization and ignoring the sneer. ‘It’s going to be confusing,’ he insisted. ‘It won’t be possible to keep a proper check, working this far apart. We’ll end up not knowing what I’ve approved or what Baikonur has approved and whether we agree or disagree. And what, ultimately, is it intended we construct from? The original drawings or these new photographs! If something is put into production based on the photographs and I find a fault then it’s a complete waste of time: absolutely counter-productive!’
Losev blinked at the flurry of objections, accepting that some had validity. None of the possible confusion Guzins had picked out could personally affect or be blamed on him, he analysed gratefully. They couldn’t adversely affect Petrin, either, which was regrettable. Impatiently he said: ‘A checking system is perfectly easy to evolve! You simply number the drawings you’re holding back from release. And those numbers will be reproduced when they’re photographed. They can be cleared by you, by quoting the reference number. And the reference number can be quoted again by Baikonur, if they need any further clarification.’
‘I want a protest registered,’ said Guzins, weakening but with little convincing argument left. ‘The reasons for my objections, too.’
‘As you wish,’ sighed Losev, making his boredom very clear.
On the far side of the room Krogh looked to the approaching Petrin and then the two men assembling their photographic gear and said: ‘What the hell’s going on now!’
‘We’re going to photograph your drawings,’ said Petrin, obviously.
‘Why?’
‘A quicker, alternative way of getting them to Moscow.’
‘So you’re doing away with the nightly questionand-answer sessions?’ asked the American hopefully. He could be through very soon if that delay were obviated: three or four days at the outside.
‘No,’ said Petrin. ‘That’s to continue. I guess that the masters will remain your original drawings. This merely gives our people an idea of the complete concept.’
At last Losev and Guzins crossed the room, bringing them all together. Zazulin straightened from positioning his lights and arranging his cameras to focus directly down over the commandeered drawing table. He smiled and said: ‘I need an absolutely firm surface.’
‘Use whatever you need,’ said Losev, uncaring.
‘How many are there?’
‘Those,’ said Guzins, gesturing to the pile at the end of the table furthest away from the newly erected equipment.
‘All of them!’ exclaimed the photographer, the smile going.
‘What’s the problem?’ demanded Losev.
‘No problem,’ assurred Zazulin. ‘Just don’t expect it done quickly, that’s all.’
Losev looked apprehensively at Petrin, expecting a sneering resumption of their argument. The American rezident looked back but said nothing.
The prospect of a continuing delay took away some of Losev’s earlier satisfaction of being in control, because he’d wanted to advise Moscow that night of a consignment of photographs already in the diplomatic bag, but it did not diminish the feeling by much.
It wavered further, however, when he did get back to the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens to find the change-over shift of Charlie Muffin observers waiting to report the obviously significant build-up of British surveillance on the Soviet delegation hotel.
‘More than it’s normal to expect?’ demanded Losev at once.
‘Much greater,’ declared Viktor Nikov, who hopefully saw a chance of getting off the boring surveillance duty. ‘This isn’t a customary counter-intelligence operation at all. This is intensive targeting.’
‘Upon one of our people? Or something to do with Charlie Muffin?’ wondered Losev.
‘Maybe that’s the reason for our being there all this time?’ suggested the other man. ‘Maybe he’s been spotting one of our people. At the moment I think the risk of our being identified by them makes it dangerous for us to remain like we are. I think we should withdraw before we get swept up in whatever’s going on.’
Why the hell hadn’t Moscow better advised him what the observation of Charlie Muffin was all about in the first place, thought Losev, the temporarily subdued anger surging up again. He was being held back by unfair and unnecessary restrictions. There was only one course that he could take: the only course he ever seemed able to take these days.
He had to report to Moscow and seek guidance.
As Charlie trudged the street – actually shuffled better described his progress – he thought back to the hobby he’d had when he was young, collecting train engine numbers. Proper trains they’d been then: steam engines that spat out grit and embers so you had to be careful you didn’t get bits in your eyes. They’d all been graded then, into classes and models, all with important-sounding names. Not like the diesel and electric rubbish today, all the same, like identical items on a supermarket shelf. Would train number collection still be a kids’ hobby today? Maybe, he thought, although he couldn’t remember seeing any youthful collectors during any trips he’d recently taken. Maybe not, then. Charlie didn’t think it would be as much fun today, with trains like there were around.
Before he went back to the hotel he went to his bank.
39
‘What was Edith like?’
‘I told you, in Moscow.’
‘Not really,’ contradicted Natalia. ‘Just that you’d had a wife and that she had been killed. Not about her: what she was like.’
In the darkness Charlie felt Natalia pull slightly away from his shoulder, against which she had been lying, and knew she was looking at him, waiting. He said: ‘Blonde. Not very big: quite slight, actually. She had a funny way of changing expression, very quickly. One minute she could be laughing, the next very serious. When that happened her face changed, like she was two different people.’
‘Pretty?’
Charlie hesitated, seeking the proper reply. ‘Not pretty pretty, the way some women are: not cute or actress pretty. I thought she was beautiful.’
‘Do you still miss her?’ Natalia had been unsure about initiating the conversation, not wanting to offend him, but she told herself that they were going to be married and that she had the right to know. Charlie didn’t sound upset, although she couldn’t see his face, and she was glad now she’d asked.
Again Charlie hesitated. ‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ he said honestly.
‘I don’t miss Igor,’ Natalia disclosed. ‘I thought about him quite a lot just before I came here but that was because I was comparing him to Eduard. But I haven’t missed him for a very long time: maybe I never did. I guess yours was a different sort of love.’
‘Perhaps,’ conceded Charlie. ‘There’s a lot of regrets.’ He’d never admitted it before but didn’t feel embarrassed to talk about it with Natalia.
‘I don’t understand what you’ve just said.’
‘I didn’t treat her like I should have done,’ conceded Charlie, in further admission. ‘Behaved badly. Took a lot – too much – for granted. I regret that now.’
‘Is that a clumsy way of telling me you had affairs?’
‘Some. Not a lot.’
‘Are you going to have affairs when we’re married?’
‘No.’
‘You’d have hardly confessed it in advance, would you?�
� It was a light remark, not accusing.
‘Why’d you ask then?’
‘Just wanted to hear what you’d say.’
‘I won’t,’ said Charlie. ‘Ever.’
‘Did she know what you did?’
Charlie nodded in the darkness, momentarily forgetting she couldn’t see the gesture. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s how we met, in the department.’
‘How do your people feel about department romances?’
Charlie paused yet again. Then he said: ‘I don’t know that there’s a department policy. It happens, but not a lot.’ As far as Charlie was aware it wasn’t a subject upon which Harkness had issued an edict: he supposed the man would get around to it, some time.
‘It’s practically encouraged in the KGB,’ revealed Natalia. ‘Particularly in the First Chief Directorate, if an officer is going to follow the diplomatic route by being assigned to embassies or to consulates. When they’re posted abroad the husband or wife goes as well and it puts two operatives in place rather than one. Cuts down the chances of seduction by a counter-intelligence plant, too.’
‘Very practical indeed,’ agreed Charlie.
‘Did she worry? Did Edith worry?’
‘I suppose so…’ started Charlie, and stopped. ‘No, that’s stupid. Of course she worried. She just didn’t talk about it a lot.’
Natalia noticeably shuddered. ‘It must have been horrible, having someone you love working God knows where and having the access to what was happening to him: not knowing when you arrived in the morning if there’d be a dry, cold message from some embassy station saying that your husband had been arrested. Or killed’
‘Actually she was in a different section, so she didn’t have access,’ said Charlie. ‘And I never got arrested: not on a department assignment, that is.’
‘Do you mind talking about it?’ asked Natalia belatedly.
‘No,’ said Charlie.
Comrade Charlie Page 28
