‘It would be an absolute disaster for the West if anything went wrong,’ bullied Ruttgers.
‘I’m quite confident nothing will,’ said Cuthbertson, dabbing his lips with the linen napkin. The two men sat looking at each other.
‘I shall be staying in London for some time,’ said Ruttgers, maintaining the smile. ‘Now that we’ve opened up this personal contact between our two services, I think it should continue.’
‘Oh,’ prompted Cuthbertson, uncertainly.
‘By regular meetings,’ expanded Ruttgers.
‘Of course,’ agreed the British Director, surprised that the other man had capitulated so easily. ‘I’d like that.’
And he would, decided Cuthbertson, leaving the club for his waiting car. People appeared remarkably easy to handle: this job wasn’t going to be as difficult as he had feared, after all.
He smiled, settling back against the leather upholstery. It had been game, set and match, he decided.
The greetings weren’t the same any more, recognised Charlie, as Berenkov entered the interview room. The Russian’s exuberance was strained, as if he were constantly having to force his attitude and recall the exaggerated gestures. His skin had that grey, shining look of a man deprived of fresh air for a long period, and the familiar mane of hair was flecked with grey, too. The prison denims were freshly laundered and pressed, but the hands that lay flaccid on the table between them were rough, the once immaculate nails chipped and rimmed with dirt.
‘It’s good of you to come so often, Charlie,’ thanked Berenkov.
Since his return from holiday, Charlie had visited the spy every week: the decline in that time could be almost measured on a graph, thought the Briton.
‘How is it?’ Charlie asked, concerned.
Berenkov shrugged. He sat hunched over the table, as if he were guarding something between his fingers. Charlie saw the palm of his right hand was nicotine-stained where he smoked in the prison fashion, cigarette cupped inwards against detection. A year ago, thought Charlie, Berenkov had had a gold holder for the Havana Havanas. The Russian appeared to notice the dirtiness of his nails for the first time and began trying to pick away the dirt.
‘It’s not easy to adjust to a place like this, Charlie.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Charlie, immediately offended by his own platitude.
Berenkov looked directly at him for the first time, a sad expression.
‘I’m sorry,’ apologised Charlie. He should be careful to avoid banal remarks, he decided.
‘What’s happening outside?’ asked Berenkov.
‘It’s a rotten spring,’ replied Charlie. ‘More like winter — bloody cold and wet.’
‘I used to like the English winters,’ said Berenkov, nostalgically. ‘Some Sundays I used to go to Bournemouth and walk along the seafront, watching the sand driven over the promenade by the sea.’
Bournemouth, noted Charlie. Too far for a casual, afternoon stroll. So Berenkov had had a source at the Navy’s Underwater Weapons Establishment at Portland. He’d have to submit a report to Cuthbertson: they thought they had plugged the leak by the arrest of Houghton and Gee after the detection of Lonsdale, back in the 1960s.
‘You’ve been taken off the active rota,’ challenged Berenkov, unexpectedly.
Charlie smiled. The Russian wasn’t completely numbed by his imprisonment, he thought. But it was a fairly obvious deduction from the frequency of the visits.
‘I suppose so,’ admitted Charlie.
‘What happened?’
‘Face didn’t fit,’ reported the Briton. ‘There was a new regime: I upset them.’
The Russian carefully examined the man sitting before him, easily able to understand how he could have offended the British caste system.
Charlie Muffin was the sort of man whose shirt tail always escaped from his trousers, like a rude tongue.
Apart from the flat-vowelled accent, Charlie wore his fair hair too long and without any style, flopped back from his forehead. He perspired easily and thus rarely looked washed and the fading collars of his shirts sat uncomfortably over a haphazardly knotted tie, so it was possible to see that the top button was missing. It was a department store suit, bagged and shapeless from daily wearing, the pockets bulging like a schoolboy’s with unseen things stored in readiness for a use that never arose.
Yet about this man, decided the Russian, there was the indefinable ambience of ruthless toughness he had detected among the long-term prisoners with whom he was having daily contact. In Charlie it was cloaked by an over-all impression of down-at-heel shabbiness. But it was definitely there.
It was almost impossible to believe the man possessed such an incredible mind, thought Berenkov.
‘Is it a change for the good?’ asked the Russian.
The recorders were probably still operating, thought Charlie, despite the lack of interest now in Berenkov.
‘They’ve a different approach,’ sidestepped Charlie. ‘Very regimental.’
‘Soldiers can’t run spy systems,’ declared Berenkov, positively, picking up the clue that Charlie had offered.
‘You’re a General,’ said Charlie. ‘And so is Kalenin.’
‘Honorary titles, really,’ said the Russian, easily. He seemed to brighten. ‘More for the salary scale and emoluments than for anything else.’
‘Just like the capitalist societies,’ picked up Charlie, noting the change of attitude. ‘Every job has got its perks.’
The Russian became serious again.
‘You haven’t forgotten what I said, Charlie,’ he urged, reaching across the table and seizing the other man’s wrist. ‘Be careful … even though they’ve pushed you aside, be careful.’
Charlie freed his wrist, embarrassed.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. He sounded like a child protesting his bravery in the dark, he thought.
The Russian stared around the interview room.
‘Don’t ever let yourself get put in jail,’ he said, very seriously.
‘I won’t,’ agreed Charlie, too easily.
‘I mean it,’ insisted Berenkov. ‘If you get jailed, Charlie, your lot wouldn’t bother to get you out. Kill yourself rather than get caught.’
Charlie frowned at the statement. He would have thought Berenkov could have withstood the loss of freedom better than this. He felt suddenly frightened and wanted to leave the prison.
‘Come again?’ pleaded Berenkov.
‘If I can,’ said Charlie, as he always did. At the door he turned, on impulse. Berenkov was standing in the middle of the room, shoulders bowed, gazing after him. There was a look of enormous sadness on his face.
‘Charlie,’ he told himself, waiting in du Cane Road for the bus. ‘You’re getting too arrogant. And arrogance breeds carelessness.’
A woman in the queue looked at him curiously. She’d seen his lips move, Charlie realised.
‘So it didn’t work?’ queried Braley, perched on the windowsill of the room that had been made available to them in the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.
‘No,’ snapped Ruttgers. His face burned with anger. ‘Pompous bugger spent most of the time trying to teach me how to eat oysters.’
Braley frowned, trying to understand, but said nothing.
‘We can’t do anything unless they let us in,’ said the Moscow Resident.
‘I know,’ agreed Ruttgers, slowly.
‘So what now?’ asked Braley.
Ruttgers smiled, an expression entirely devoid of humour.
‘Lean on them,’ said the Director. ‘In every way.’
Braley waited, expectantly.
‘And if something started happening to their operatives,’ continued Ruttgers, ‘then they’d need assistance, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Braley. ‘They would.’
Ruttgers, he thought, looking at the mild little man, was a rare sort of bastard. It was right to be frightened of him.
(8)
Gene
ral Valery Kalenin entered the Leipzig Convention Hall at precisely 11.15 a.m. on March 11. Harrison noted the exact time, determined to prepare an impeccable report to Cuthbertson on his first absolutely solo operation. A bubble of excitement formed in his stomach and he bunched his hands in his pockets, trying to curtail the shaking.
The Russian was in plain clothes, a neat, fussy little figure who appeared to listen constantly, but say hardly anything. The deference towards him was very obvious, Harrison saw.
The General moved in the middle of a body of men, three of whom Harrison had seen during the previous two days at the Fair. The recognition annoyed him: he hadn’t isolated them as secret policemen. One had got quite drunk at the opening ceremony and Harrison had marked the three as relaxing communist businessmen. The episode would have been a ploy, he realised now, a clever attempt to tempt people into unconsidered words or action. The mistake worried him. Charles Muffin would have probably recognised them.
Kalenin appeared in no hurry, hesitating at exhibition stands and closely examining products. Any questions, Harrison noted, were usually addressed through one of the other people in the party, so avoiding direct contact.
Harrison’s entry documents described him as an export specialist in the Department of Trade and Industry, enabling him free movement to any British exhibition. Impatiently, he shifted between the stalls and platforms, accepting the nods and smiles of recognition; with the obedience instilled by his army training, he had dutifully followed instructions and befriended those businessmen providing his cover.
‘Let Kalenin take the lead’ — He recalled Cuthbertson’s orders, watching the agonisingly slow progress of the Russian party, but holding back from direct approach. It would have been impossible to achieve anyway, he thought: there needed to be an excuse for the meeting to prevent surprise in the rest of the party.
At noon, by Harrison’s close time-keeping, Kalenin was only two stalls away, lingering with the Australian exhibitors. The Briton imagined he detected growing attention from the diminutive, squat man at the approach to the British section. Harrison positioned himself away from the first display, an office equipment stand, remaining near an exhibit of farm machinery. It comprised tractors and harvesters, among which it was possible for a man to remain inconspicuous, Harrison reasoned.
At the office equipment stall, Kalenin abandoned for the first time the practice of talking through the men with him, instead posing direct questions to the stallholders.
‘Wants to show off his English,’ commented the salesman by Harrison’s side. The operative turned sideways, smiling. The man’s name was Dalton or Walton, he thought. Prided himself as a wit and had spent the previous evening telling blue jokes at the convention hotel.
‘Any idea who he is?’ floated Harrison.
‘Looks important from the entourage,’ guessed the salesman.
Harrison went back to the Russian party, detecting movement, but the farm machinery salesman was ahead of him, beaming.
‘Reminds me of a T-54,’ Kalenin said hopefully, pointing to a combine harvester and looking to his companions in anticipation. There was a scattering of smiles and Kalenin appeared disappointed at the response.
‘But more useful than a tank, surely, sir,’ intruded Harrison, seeing the blank look on the stallholder’s face.
Kalenin stared directly at him, gratefully.
‘Do you know tanks?’ asked the General. ‘They’re a hobby of mine.’
‘Only of them,’ said Harrison.
‘A man of peace, not war,’ judged the Russian, smiling.
‘A man whom my country much admires, once remarked that through trade there will be peace, not war …’ tried Harrison, quickly, wondering if the man would remember quoted verbatim what he had said at the American embassy reception. If Kalenin missed the significance, he would have to be more direct and that would be dangerous in such an open situation.
Harrison was conscious of a very intense examination. Please God, don’t let him misconstrue it, thought the Englishman.
‘A wise comment,’ accepted Kalenin.
He had remembered, decided Harrison. He felt very nervous, aware that the attention of the entire party was upon them and that the tractor salesman was desperately attempting to edge back into the conversation, believing Kalenin to be a trade official. The man thrust forward a square of pasteboard, eagerly.
‘Bolton, sir,’ he introduced. ‘Joseph Bolton.’
‘And a remark my country remembered,’ over-rode Harrison, desperate not to lose the opportunity. He was attempting to reduce the sound of his voice, so it would not be heard by the others.
‘Perhaps there should be a wider exchange of views between the two?’ suggested Kalenin.
‘They’re looking forward very eagerly to such a possibility,’ responded Harrison. Elation swept through him. The last time he had experienced such a sensation, he remembered, was when he had collected his Double First at university and seen his parents, who had been separated for ten years, holding hands and crying.
He’d done it, he knew. In four minutes of apparently innocuous banter, he had brilliantly achieved what he had been sent to do.
Kalenin turned to the salesman, accepting the card at last. None of the others would have suspected anything, decided Harrison. It was perfect.
‘Show me the engine,’ said Kalenin, then immediately proceeded to ask three technical questions showing his knowledge of machinery. The visit was consummately timed, assessed Harrison, admiringly. The Russian allowed exactly the proper amount of attention before disengaging himself to move back into the group.
‘It was a pleasant meeting, sir,’ said Harrison, walking with him towards the edge of the stand. ‘Perhaps on another occasion?’
‘I don’t know,’ countered Kalenin. ‘I’m leaving Leipzig tonight.’
The Russian spoke in the short, precise sentences of a dedicated man who had learned English in a language laboratory.
‘It would be nice, possibly, to extend the conversation,’ said Harrison, dangerously.
‘Yes. I’d like that,’ replied Kalenin, already moving on.
Harrison stood, savouring the knowledge of success, watching the party involve themselves in other displays. From no one came a backward glance that would have hinted suspicion.
‘If you’d spend less time getting in the bloody way, I might have made some progress there.’
Harrison turned to the annoyed salesman: Bolton, he remembered.
‘He took your card, Mr Bolton,’ pointed out Harrison.
‘You damned D.T.I. men are all the same,’ went on Bolton, unmollified. ‘Out for a bloody social occasion. Some of us live by selling, not as parasites off the taxpayer.’
Harrison was conscious of the amused attention of the adjacent stalls and smiled. Nothing could upset him after the preceding fifteen minutes.
‘He devoted more time to you than any other English exhibit,’ offered Harrison, moving away.
‘For sod all,’ echoed behind him.
Harrison spent the afternoon preparing a verbatim transcript of the encounter, sipping frequently from the duty-free whisky he’d bought on the outward journey and which he felt he deserved, in celebration. Charlie Muffin, whom everybody had considered so damned good, couldn’t have done as well, he convinced himself, belching and grimacing at the fumes that rose in his throat. The whole meeting had been magnificent; it didn’t matter if the others with Kalenin had heard every word. To anyone but the two of them, it was just a meaningless exchange of pleasantries.
He felt quite light-headed when he located the rest of the government party and entrusted the security-sealed envelope to the courier for transmission to the East Berlin embassy and then the diplomatic bag to London next day.
He had a five-day holiday, he realised, suddenly, sitting in the hotel bar that evening. He looked around the drab room. Hardly the place he would have chosen to spend it.
In the far corner, Bolton was in his accus
tomed role, the centre of a raucous group and involved in a story which needed much hand-waving.
Harrison smiled and nodded, but the tractor-salesman pointedly ignored him.
The C.I.A. cover for the Fair was through a legitimate firm of timber exporters based in Vancouver, British Columbia. From their observer, five stools further down the bar, had already gone the report of the unexpected presence that day of General Kalenin, following Ruttgers’s alert to all Warsaw Pact stations to react immediately to the appearance of the man whose face they knew after twenty-five years’ anonymity.
‘Bolton’s bloody angry,’ reported the Australian with the stall adjoining the British office equipment exhibit, nodding along the bar.
‘Why?’ asked the C.I.A. man, politely. The Australian’s tendency to drink beer until he was sick offended the American.
‘Reckons the bloody man screwed up an order from that important-looking Russian delegation that came through this morning.’
The C.I.A. man looked towards Harrison with growing interest.
‘Who is he?’ asked the American.
The Australian, who had served in Vietnam and retained the vernacular like a medal, wanting people to recognise it, moved closer and affirmed, ‘I reckon a spook … a bleedin’ pommie spook. From the questions he’s been asking the exhibitors, he knows fuck all about trade.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the C.I.A. man. ‘Reports to write for head office.’
Four days later, Harrison set off alone in a hired Skoda, driving slowly, unsure of the way, wishing within an hour of departure he had curbed his boredom and returned in convoy with the main British contingent.
He was moving along the wide, tree-lined highway about twenty miles outside of East Berlin when he first became conscious of the following car in his rear-view mirror. It was too far away to determine the number of occupants and Harrison kept glancing at the reflection, expecting it to overtake. It appeared to be keeping a regular distance and Harrison experienced the first jerk of fear. Immediately he subdued it; his trade cover was perfect and he carried no incriminating material whatsoever. There couldn’t be the slightest danger.
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