‘I’m sure it will be followed in the case of my interview with Berenkov,’ he continued. ‘Once established, procedures are rigidly followed. And you’ve decreed that, of course.’
Cuthbertson nodded, cautiously. The left eye twitched and Charlie thought he detected Wilberforce looking surreptitiously at him.
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded the Director.
He was beginning to become unsettled, Charlie decided, happily, detecting the apprehension in that unpleasant voice.
‘The detailed analysis,’ said Charlie. ‘By psychological experts, not only of the tapes but of the film that was shot in the interview room.’
‘What about it?’
‘Your reaction to the meeting and your recommendation was made without waiting for the results of that analysis?’
‘There was no need to wait,’ defended Cuthbertson.
‘As I said,’ reminded Charlie. ‘A silly thing to have done.’
They were all frightened, he knew, without being able to appreciate their mistake. It was time to change his approach, he determined.
‘My meeting with Berenkov was one of the most productive I can remember having had with a captured spy,’ asserted Charlie, brutally. ‘And the analyst’s department will confirm it …’
He paused, deciding to allow himself the conceit.
‘… they always have in the past,’ he added.
Wilberforce was back at his pipe but the other three were staring at him, unmoving.
‘Close examination of the transcript,’ continued Charlie, hesitating for another aside, ‘… much closer than you’ve allowed yourselves … will confirm several things. Berenkov admitted his nerve had gone. If he knew it, then Moscow certainly did. And the Kremlin would have acted upon that knowledge. A replacement would have been installed in London, long before we got on to Berenkov. He’s important, certainly. But because of what he’d done in the past, not for what he might have done in the future. We haven’t broken the Russians’ European spy system. I estimate his successor will have been here for a year, at least … so you’ve got to begin all over again …’
The vibration in Cuthbertson’s eye was now so severe he put his hand up to cover it.
‘There are a number of his existing network whom we haven’t caught, either,’ enlarged Charlie. ‘Consider the film and watch the facial reaction when I announced, quite purposely, that we have caught five. Slow the film: it will show a second’s look of triumph, indicating there are some still free …’
Charlie stopped again, swallowing. They were so innocent, he thought, looking at the four men. Wilberforce was like them, he decided, institutionalised by training according to a rule book and completely unaware of what they should be doing.
‘… And he told us how to find them,’ Charlie threw out.
He waited. They would have to crawl, he determined.
‘How?’ asked Cuthbertson, at last.
‘By boasting,’ explained Charlie. ‘Letting them have their wine wholesale wasn’t a smart, throw-away remark. It was exactly the grandiose sort of thing that an extrovert like Berenkov would have done. And he would have kept scrupulous records: a spy always complies with every civil law of any country in which he’s operating. Check every wholesale outlet against income tax returns and you’ll find the rest of the network. The five we’ve got are all on it — I checked while my socks were drying.’
He looked carefully at each man, allowing his head to shake almost imperceptibly.
‘I’m really sorry that the meeting was regarded by you all as such a failure,’ he insisted, straining for the final insult. ‘And I’m sure the Minister will be surprised when he considers your views against those of the detailed analysis. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll clear my desk …’
He drew almost to attention, coming back to Cuthbertson.
‘Have I your permission to leave, sir?’
The Director seemed intent on the papers lying before him and it was several minutes before he spoke.
‘We could have been a little premature in our assessment,’ he conceded. The words were very difficult for him, Charlie knew. He noted the pronoun: within the day, the mistake would be shown not to be Cuthbertson’s but someone else wrongly guiding him.
Charlie said nothing, knowing that silence was his best weapon now.
‘Perhaps,’ continued the Director, ‘we should re-examine the tape and discuss it tomorrow.’
‘Re-examine the tape by all means,’ agreed Charlie, deciding to abandon the ‘sir’: Cuthbertson didn’t deserve any respect. ‘I’m sure the Minister will expect a more detailed knowledge of it at the meeting you will inevitably have,’ he added. ‘But tomorrow I’m going on leave … you’ve already approved it, you’ll remember?’
‘Of course,’ said Cuthbertson, groping on the desk again, as if seeking the memorandum of agreement.
‘So perhaps we’ll discuss my future in a fortnight?’
Cuthbertson nodded, half concurring, half dismissing. His presence embarrassed them, Charlie knew. They would welcome the two-week gap more than he.
‘I can go?’ pressed Charlie.
‘Yes,’ said Cuthbertson, shortly.
Outside the office, Charlie turned right, away from his own room, feeling very happy. Janet was sitting expectantly at her desk, solemn-faced.
‘I’ve been dumped,’ announced Charlie.
‘I know,’ said Cuthbertson’s secretary. ‘I typed the report to the Minister. Oh Charlie, I’m so sorry.’
‘So are they,’ said Charlie, brightly. ‘They’ve made a balls of it. Tonight still okay?’
The girl stared at him, uncertainly.
‘Does it mean you won’t be demoted to some sort of clerk?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘Seven o’clock?’
She nodded, bewildered.
Whistling tunelessly, Charlie wandered back to his cramped room. The affair with Janet had only begun four weeks ago and still had the excitement of newness about it. Pity the holiday would intrude: but that was important. Edith needed a vacation, he decided, thinking fondly of his wife.
And so did he, though for different reasons.
General Kalenin pushed aside the file containing the questionable plans for Berenkov’s release, lounging back in his chair to look over the Kremlin complex. Most of the office lights were out, he saw. How different it had been in Stalin’s time, he remembered, when people remained both day and night at their desks, afraid of a summons from the megalomaniac insomniac.
He looked back to the unsatisfactory dossier. He was more apprehensive now than he had ever been then, he decided. The Berenkov affair could topple him, Kalenin realised. It wasn’t the purge and disgrace that frightened him. It was being physically removed from the office in the Lubyanka buildings in Dzerzhinsky Square. Without a job, he would have nothing, he thought. He’d commit suicide, he decided, quite rationally. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of such a thing and there was no fear in the consideration. A revolver, he determined. Very quick. And befitting an officer.
He sighed, hearing midnight strike. Slowly he packed the papers into his personal safe, trying to arouse some anticipation for the war game he had prepared when he got to his apartment.
Tonight he was going to start the Battle of Kursk, the greatest tank engagement in history. But his mind wouldn’t be on it, he knew.
(4)
Charlie had seen advertised in the New Yorker the orange Gucci lounging pyjamas, with the matching rhinestoneencrusted sandals in which Janet greeted him.
She smelt fresh and expensive and when he kissed her, just inside the doorway of the Cadogan Square flat, he could feel she was still warm from her bath. It was nice of her to go to all the trouble, thought Charlie.
‘I’ve bought some wine,’ he announced.
She accepted the bag from him and extracted the bottle.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Spanish burgundy.’
‘They did
n’t have Aloxe Corton,’ he said. They had, but it had been priced at?4.
‘What?’ she said, moving further into the flat.
It wasn’t important, decided Charlie. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
Janet was using him, he decided, as he entered the antique-adorned living-room behind her, watching her body beneath the silk. She had a lovely ass.
Had she been born in a council house instead of on a country estate and attended a state school instead of Roedean, Janet would have been a slag, Charlie decided. She had an amorality sometimes found in the rich that made her sexually promiscuous, experimental and constantly avaricious. Rich enough — first from an aunt’s, then a cousin’s inheritance — to do nothing, Janet worked for?4,000 a year as Cuthbertson’s private secretary and never had any money. To get it, she had even whored, in a dilettante, friends-only way — ‘making a hobby pay for itself’ — and enjoyed boasting about it, imagining Charlie would be impressed or excited by it. Charlie felt she was exactly his sort of woman. And in addition, very useful. And she really was very good at her hobby between those silk sheets that always slipped off the bed, so that his bum got cold.
Quite unoffended, Charlie knew he was another experiment, like working for Sir Henry Cuthbertson, who was her godfather, and drinking warm bitter, which she had done for the first time on their initial date in the dive bar of the Red Lion, near Old Scotland Yard, and declared it, politely, to be lovely. Charlie was ‘other people’, a person to be studied like she had examined dissected frogs at her Zurich finishing school after leaving Sussex.
‘Like the duchess screwing the dustman,’ he reflected, aloud, stretching his feet towards the electric fire. They were still damp, he saw, watching the steam rise.
She reappeared from the kitchen, corkscrew in hand. She was a tall girl, hair looped long to her shoulders, bordering a face that needed only a little accent around the deep brown, languorous eyes and an outline for the lips that were inclined to pout.
‘What about a duchess?’ she queried.
‘You look like one,’ said Charlie, easily.
Who was using whom? he wondered, smiling up at her. Poor Janet.
He pulled the wine, filling the glasses she offered.
‘Love or what you will,’ he toasted.
She drank, swallowing heavily.
‘Very nice,’ she said bravely.
They had bred good manners in Switzerland, thought Charlie. He smiled, imagining Berenkov’s reaction to the wine. It was bloody awful.
‘For a man who has been demoted, you’re remarkably unconcerned,’ said Janet, sitting opposite. She wasn’t wearing a bra, he realised.
‘I told you, they’ve made a balls,’ he said. Rough talk would fit the image she wanted, he decided. He refilled his glass, ignoring her: it was unfair to expect her to drink it.
‘How?’
‘Completely misread the interview,’ he reported. ‘They have determined to get rid of me, certainly. But it won’t work this time.’
‘Cuthbertson won’t apologise,’ predicted Janet.
The fact that she was his god-daughter was incredibly useful, reflected Charlie: no one in the department knew the man like she did.
‘He’ll have to.’
She shook her head.
‘I know Sir Henry. He’s a bastard.’
‘So am I,’ responded Charlie. ‘Funny thing is, nobody has realised it. It’ll be the ruin of them.’
She smiled at the boast. It was a normal reaction, she supposed. His pride must be badly bruised: he’d once been the most important operative in the department.
‘I’ve cooked a meal, so we can eat here,’ she announced, wanting to move him away from the afternoon.
And not run the risk of being seen by any of your friends, thought Charlie. She would be very embarrassed by him, he knew. He was very happy with the proposal: there was no outing they would mutually enjoy and whatever they tried would have cost money and he didn’t have any. And she would never think of paying.
‘What happened after I left?’ asked Charlie, spreading the salmon mousse on the toast.
The girl sighed. The preoccupation was to be expected, she thought, but it made him boring.
‘They went potty,’ said Janet. ‘Wilberforce was sent to retrieve the report to the Minister, but it had already gone. So Sir Henry dictated a contradicting amendment, then scrapped it because it seemed ridiculous. When I left, he was making arrangements to dine the Minister at Lockets to explain everything.’
‘And who got the blame?’ queried Charlie.
‘Wilberforce,’ answered Janet. ‘Poor man. Uncle treats him almost like a court jester.’
‘Masochist,’ identified Charlie. ‘Gets a sexual thrill out of being tongue-lashed.’
She believed him, realised Charlie, seeing the interested look on her face. To correct the misunderstanding seemed too much bother.
He cut into the steak au poivre, sipping the wine she had provided.
‘This is good,’ he complimented.
‘Margaux,’ explained Janet, patiently. ‘Daddy takes the production of the vineyard. This is ’62.’
Charlie nodded, as if he’d recognised the vintage.
‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’
‘They thought it important at school.’
‘What have Snare and Harrison been told to do?’ he probed, insistently. She obviously hadn’t understood the wording of the Official Secrets Act she had promised to obey seven months earlier.
‘Interrogate Berenkov again.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Charlie, putting aside his knife and fork. ‘That’s a tape I’d love to hear.’
She pushed away her plate, fingering the stem of her wine glass.
‘I’m very fond of you, Charlie,’ she announced, suddenly.
At least she didn’t make any pretence of love, he thought. He hoped she wasn’t moving to end the affair; he wasn’t ready for it to end yet. He gazed across the table, admiring her. Certainly not yet.
He waited, apprehensively.
‘What are you going to do? They’re determined to get you out,’ she said.
Charlie stopped eating, appetite gone.
‘I know,’ he said, completely serious. ‘And it frightens me to death. They won’t let me go, because they want me under observation. Or stay, because they detest me. So I’m faced with working for the next fifteen years as a poxy clerk.’
‘You couldn’t stand that, Charlie.’
‘I’ve got no bloody choice, have I? I’ve devoted my life to the service. I love it. There’s not another sodding thing I could do, even if they’d let me.’
He did love the life, he decided, adding to both their glasses. Because he was so good at it.
It had been wonderful before Cuthbertson and the army mafia had arrived, when his ability had been properly recognised.
The Director had been Sir Archibald Willoughby, who’d led paratroopers into Amhem with his batman carrying a?20 hamper from Fortnum amp; Mason, and Venetian goblets for the claret in special leather cases. He was cultivating Queen Elizabeth and Montana Star roses in Rye now, hating every moment of it. There’d been two written invitations to visit him since his summary retirement, but so far Charlie had avoided it. They’d drink to much whisky and become maudlin about previous operations, he knew. And there was no way they could have kept the conversation off Bill Elliot.
On the day of the purge, Elliot had been sent home early because Cuthbertson, who read spy novels, imagined he would find evidence of a traitor if he turned out every desk and safe in the department.
So the second-in-command had arrived in Pulborough three hours earlier than usual for a Tuesday to find his wife in bed with her brother.
Elliot had walked from the room without a word, gone directly to the hide at the bottom of the garden from which he had earned the reputation of one of Britain’s leading amateur ornithologists and blown the top of his head away with an army-issue Webley fired through the
mouth. He had been crying and he’d made a muck of it, so it had taken two days for him to die.
The suicide had slotted neatly into Cuthbertson’s ‘who’s to blame’ mentality, despite the wife’s unashamed account to the police, and Elliot had been labelled responsible for the Warsaw and Prague debacles. It would be nice, reflected Charlie, to prove Cuthbertson wrong about that. Like everything else.
‘Sure they wouldn’t let you retire, prematurely?’ asked Janet, breaking Charlie’s silent reminiscence.
‘Positive,’ asserted Charlie. ‘And I don’t think I’d want to. At least rotting as a clerk would mean a salary of some sort. I wouldn’t live off a reduced pension.’
‘I thought Edith had money.’
‘She’s loaded,’ confirmed Charlie. ‘But my wife is tighter than a seal’s ass-hole.’
She smiled, nodding. It really was the sort of language she expected, Charlie realised.
‘Do you know there are receipted bills at home dating back ten years. And if you asked her the amount, she could remember,’ he added.
‘Why not leave her?’
‘What for?’ challenged Charlie. ‘Would you have me move in here, a worn-out old bugger of forty-one without a bank account of his own who can only afford Spanish plonk.’
She reached across, squeezing his hand.
‘From the performance so far, you’re hardly worn out,’ contradicted Janet. ‘But no, Charlie. I wouldn’t.’
‘So I’ve got to stay, haven’t I? — tethered to a job that doesn’t want me. And at home, to a wife who’s not very interested.’
‘Poor Charlie,’ she said. She didn’t sound sad, he thought.
He gestured round the apartment, then nodded towards her.
‘All this will end, when I’m transferred, won’t it?’
‘I expect so,’ she said, always honest, looking straight at him.
‘Pity.’
‘It’s been fun,’ she said. She made it sound like a skiing lesson or a day out at Ascot when she’d picked a winner.
‘Shall we go to bed?’ he suggested.
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