Comrade Charlie Read online

  The barman approached, mopping the counter, looking inquiringly at Charlie’s glass. ‘It’s been the quietest night for a long time,’ he said. ‘Quiet all day.’

  ‘They’re the best sort though, sometimes,’ insisted Charlie. ‘Days when nothing at all happens.’

  It was, however, far from being a day when nothing happened. It was the day when the US Defense Committee met at the Pentagon and approved the construction of the missile intended to form the nucleus of America’s Strategic Defense Initiative, more commonly known as its Star Wars programme.

  The approval session – and the identity of those Defense-approved contractors to whom development of the prototype missile was to be awarded – carried the highest security classification. But Washington DC is a porous place where rumours, even over something so sensitive, are balanced for their political advantage. After so many concessions from a Moscow and a Soviet hierarchy different from any they had known or dealt with before, the State Department saw no harm in the smallest of leaks, hopefully to influence the continuing Conventional Arms Limitation discussions in Geneva.

  That most influential of aeronautical magazines, Aviation Weekly, was the first to publish an indication of the Star Wars decision, quickly followed by other monitoring publications and other monitoring commentators.

  It was also monitored in Moscow, which was the State Department intention, although not at all in the way that they had expected.

  2

  No established order of Soviet society has suffered a greater upheaval by the ascent to power of Mikhail Gorbachev than the KGB, which is the most established of all orders of Soviet society. From the moment of its inception, within a month of the 1917 revolution, the Russian intelligence apparatus, through all its name changes, developed into the essential core of government yet insularly aloof from it. An elaborate spider’s web of internal directorates and sections and departments, each enveloping strand interlocking with another enveloping strand to control the Soviet people, was spun to maintain the power of successive leaders and their Politburo. And those leaders were always made gratefully aware of the fact. In 1953 Nikita Krushchev – the man later responsible for its last name change to the KGB – successfully challenged the autonomy of the organization by defeating the bid of its then chairman, Lavrenti Beria, to succeed Stalin. Krushchev’s mistake was introducing at the same time the edict that the Politburo approve every major international espionage activity before its commencement.

  The KGB has always been chameleon-like in its ability to adjust its appearance to merge into its current surroundings. For a while, even after Krushchev’s demise, the system of control appeared to operate, although those within the organization continued as they had since 1917, a people apart from other Russian people, with access to concessions and luxuries and privilege, untouched by the perpetual shortages and deprivations suffered by the rest. The adjustment to circumstances and surroundings took place at the very top: if the KGB had instinctively to know the attitudes of the Politburo, ran the persuasion, then its chairmen needed to be members of that ultimate controlling, policy-forming body. So the successive appointments were made, which put the KGB where it always sought to be, at the absolute heart and mind of things. Making the organization, in fact, stronger and more powerful than it had ever been before.

  Then came Mikhail Gorbachev. And glasnost. And perestroika. And after freedom and openness came the most unimaginable change of all. The KGB was demoted, by every definition of the word. Chairman Viktor Chebrikov was transferred to another ministry and his successor, Colonel-General Vladimir Kryuchkev, was denied that all-important elevation to the ruling Politburo. The republics of Estonia and Latvia and Lithuania were allowed publicly to vote against Moscow’s central control and thousands paraded in the streets in support of autonomy. Yet bigger demonstrations were permitted – and even more incredibly, seen on Soviet television to be permitted! – between Azerbaijan and Armenia.

  The chameleon changes colour when it’s frightened but this time the frightened KGB didn’t know which hue to adopt: internal and external directorates and divisions instead scuttled around in disarray, seeking concealment and disguise.

  There were two KGB executives, intimate friends yet pragmatic even in friendship, for whom the American Star Wars revelations destroyed any chance of the hoped-for, regroup-and-think concealment. One was General Valeri Kalenin, a slightly built Georgian and First Deputy of a service to which he had devoted his life to the exclusion of all else, even marriage. The other was his immediate subordinate, Alexei Berenkov, also a general, and head of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate, its overseas espionage arm.

  It was a mark of their friendship that Kalenin had alerted Berenkov at the moment of the Kremlin summons, bringing the man from the First Chief Directorate on the Moscow ring road to the KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square.

  The chief executive offices of the KGB are on the seventh floor of the original pre-revolutionary building, quite separate from the wartime, prisonlaboured extension added by Stalin. Berenkov waited for Kalenin’s return at a window overlooking the square, with its beard-tufted statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky, the service’s founder, and at the lights pricking on against the evening’s dusk in the GUM department store beyond, wondering how many others had stood at windows in the building as he was now, mourning the passing of previous traditions. A lot, he guessed: just as a lot more would, in the future, whatever that future was for their organization.

  Berenkov was a giant of a man, big in every way, booming-voiced and flamboyant-gestured. He was rarely affected by personal doubt, even during a period of imprisonment in Britain and thought that the current apprehension was unnecessary, supremely confident of his own ability to survive government policy changes. Which made Berenkov an unusual person. But then he was already unusual at his level within the KGB, someone with practical, gutchurning experience of what it was like to be an espionage officer in the field. From a London base he had operated clandestinely for more than ten years. Apart from rare snatched reunions under KGB guard in the hideaway places, he’d endured for all those years the separation from Valentina, the wife whom he adored. And still remained a getting-to-know stranger to Georgi, the son whose growing up from a child into a near-adult teenager he’d never known. Now Berenkov, a florid-faced man still heavy from the indulgence of being a Europe-wandering wine importer, which had been his London cover, enjoyed his equally indulgent and elitist existence in Moscow. He justifiably considered he had earned it all; the city centre apartment and the summer dacha in the Lenin Hills and the favoured Black Sea holidays and the Chaika limousine and the concessionary store facilities.

  The door into Kalenin’s office was electronically secured and Berenkov turned from the window at the faint sound of it being disengaged. Kalenin, a bearded man who did not often smile, appeared more serious than usual: he wore his full uniform, which indicated the formality of the encounter from which he had returned. He unbuttoned the tunic as he crossed the room, slumping into the high-backed chair.

  ‘Well,’ he said, resigned. ‘We’ve been set our challenge by the new order!’

  Berenkov walked closer, finding a chair of his own. ‘The Directorate? Or ourselves?’

  ‘It’s one and the same, isn’t it?’ said Kalenin, whose primary function was chief tactician of the KGB’s overseas activity.

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘The Strategic Defense Initiative,’ announced Kalenin, shortly. ‘We will not only match but beat the American development.’

  ‘What!’ said Berenkov, temporarily off-balanced.

  ‘Those were the words,’ elaborated Kalenin wearily. ‘We are to identify the builders. We are to discover every detail of their technology and manufacture. Having obtained it we are to turn it over to our space technicians who will construct whatever the Americans are developing but in advance of that American development. And we will launch ahead of the Americans, proving yet again that the Soviet Union are lead
ers in space exploration.’

  ‘Have they any conception of what they’re asking?’ said Berenkov bitterly.

  They’re not asking,’ corrected Kalenin. ‘They’re demanding.’

  There was no other man whom Berenkov regarded as a closer or better ally than Kalenin. They had attended spy academy together and Kalenin had been the supporter at his wedding to Valentina and was Georgi’s guardian in the event of their deaths. Kalenin had played a considerable personal part in freeing him from imprisonment in Britain and protected him greatly on one particular occasion after his repatriation. ‘The order names me personally?’ he anticipated.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Kalenin reluctantly. ‘You can have whatever facilities you require: manpower, resources, money… anything.’

  ‘Luck,’ said Berenkov. ‘I’ll need a lot of luck.’

  Which he got and was not unduly surprised at because Berenkov believed himself an inherently lucky man. But in the beginning a great deal was achieved through basic intelligence procedures.

  The KGB maintains its biggest external espionage system in the world within the United States, despite the public displays of relaxation between Washington and Moscow. In Washington itself the rezidentura operates from the Russian embassy on 16th Street, less than a mile from the White House. But by far the greater concentration of intelligence officers work from the United Nations in New York: estimates vary but American counter-intelligence guess there are two hundred agents installed supposedly as international civil servants in the green-glassed skyscraper overlooking the East River. And as international civil servants they are not subject to the travel restrictions that apply to the Washington embassy or to the other spy centre, the Soviet consulate at 2790 Green Street, in Pacific Heights district of San Francisco.

  Following the Dzerzhinsky Square meeting, Alexei Berenkov activated every one, ordering all other intelligence-gathering activity suspended and drafting ten officers immediately from New York to Washington. Aviation Weekly really is the foremost and best-informed aeronautical publication, and three of the New York operatives were deputed to read through the previous year’s magazines for all references to Star Wars technology. Others from New York focused upon every government department even remotely likely to be involved in such development. The overall government budgets and then its financial breakdown between those various departments – all public documents – were pored over in the Senate and House libraries in the search for an allocation to any company awarded space technology contracts. The Congressional libraries also provided the previous year’s record of every hearing of every committee of the two chambers involved in space exploration.

  A chart was created from budget details and newspaper and magazine listings of all Pentagonapproved defence contractors, the logic being that bureaucracy moves on straight and well-regulated lines and that the development was likely to be awarded to a corporation which had already undergone a full security clearance and proved itself reliable in the past.

  The dictionary-recorded word lobbying was invented in Washington, to describe favour-seekers who waylaid a nineteenth-century US President in the lobby of the Willard Hotel. Since that time lobbying has progressed into an accepted and recognized profession in the American capital, with the majority of national industries and companies paying substantial retainers to people specializing in their subjects to influence Congressmen and purchasing authorities into directing business their way. The KGB make full use of innocent lobbyists, retaining them through American-incorporated front companies to learn as much as possible about all scientific and technological advances that become known on Capitol Hill. Every Soviet-retained lobbyist in space or space component development was canvassed.

  On the West Coast of America lobbyists are called consultants and their function varies slightly. They monitor and keep abreast of trends in that crucible of American high-tech concentrated in California’s Santa Clara County and known as Silicon Valley. Their utilization by the KGB is, however, exactly the same: unknowingly retained through Russian front companies but for convenience usually controlled through the consulate in San Francisco.

  The information that Berenkov sought was built up fragmented and piecemeal. Several lobbyists and two consultants tried to earn a fee by regurgitating the Aviation Weekly article but two Washington-based specialists confirmed inquiries from other, genuine US aeronautical component manufacturers. From those earlier inquiries the lobbyists were able to provide the names of companies that had not tendered for the Star Wars work, narrowing the list of those who might have done. The possible identity was further narrowed by filleting from Congressional inquiry hearings the names of five corporations who had been barred from future government work for overcharging on some previously awarded contracts.

  A breakthrough pointing to the West Coast came from a four-line reference to private-but-approved contractor use of existing shuttle landing facilities in the Mojave Desert in an Appropriations Committee report. There were three potential West Coast manufacturers remaining on the reducing list of possibilities. From Moscow Berenkov ordered that all three companies and their senior executives should be targeted.

  The KGB head at the San Francisco consultate, Alexandr Petrin, took over the investigation of a company which a man named Emil Krogh was chairman.

  Petrin, a darkly handsome native of Turkmenitya, which made it easy for him to pass as someone of Mediterranean birth, came to regard it as the best intelligence assignment of his KGB career.

  Richard St John Harkness was a person elevated by a combination of convenient circumstance and personal good fortune to the fullest extreme of his abilities, although he would never have conceded it because the judgement had never occurred to him. The most recent example of that combination was the illness of Sir Alistair Wilson. The Director Generalship was being held open but Harkness believed that merely to be a temporary and cosmetic gesture, a reassurance to avoid causing the man any further, dangerous worry. And that his own promotion to ultimate control was inevitable. It was a role he craved desperately and was implacably determined to get. And when he did he intended restoring the department to one of proper order and respect. Sir Alistair and some Directors before him had been far too unconventional, tolerating riffraff and adventurers. It was all going to change when his position was confirmed. The riffraff, one in particular, was going to be weeded out and dispensed with: Harkness was impatient with the continuing delay.

  3

  Charlie Muffin was aware he had to tread warily, which with his feet he always did anyway. The more he thought about it the more he came to believe the hundred quid he’d spent risking food poisoning with Laura Nolan was money well spent in the war with Harkness. I think he’s trying to make life so unpleasant that you’ll quit. An all-important disclosure because Laura was around the pompous old fart all the time, picking up the inner feelings, overhearing all the chance remarks. Charlie hadn’t realized Harkness’ campaign was as positive as that. At worst he’d believed the bloody man was showing off, during a brief opportunity of power: that all he had to do was keep his head down, shovel the shit without complaint and await the return of Sir Alistair Wilson. But with more time to think about it Charlie recognized that the dispute over the Records access could be viewed two ways, not confined to the simple view he’d first taken. Sure the continued restriction could be interpreted as indicating that Sir Alistair would be coming back. But the immediate challenge from Harkness, a form-filling bureaucrat piss-pants scared of challenging anything, could equally indicate the Director General was never returning, which made Harkness confident enough to launch the purge he’d had wet dreams about for so long.

  The Director General’s summons light was blinking demandingly when Charlie got to Westminster Bridge Road and what he regarded as a box but which government requisition documents described as office space, single occupancy for the use of, Grade III desk, chair, two highest security filing cabinets and polyester carpet square, two foot by two foot. A
vocado was the official colour description: Charlie thought it closer to puke green.

  With a new resolve not to provide Harkness with any gratuitous ammunition, Charlie went straight up to the ninth floor. The lift opened on to a sealedoff, protected area where he had to identify himself, although he knew the security guards by their christian names as they knew him by his. Beyond the check were carpets soft under soundless if awkward feet, the richly dark panelling, interspersed with original oil portraits of frock-coated or uniformed men in wigs, reassuringly old. Men may come and men may go but the British Establishment lasts for ever, thought Charlie. He wondered if there would ever be a formal picture of Richard St John Harkness staring down reprovingly. Some of the far-away looking men Charlie was passing were captured against globes of the world or with navigational compasses in their hands, tools of their trade. Charlie supposed that if Harkness were ever painted he’d be shown with an expenses sheet in one hand and an erasing pen in the other.

  Laura was waiting at the door of the outer office, her pretty face twisted with concern. She said: ‘Remember what I said about showing respect!’

  ‘Engraved on my heart,’ said Charlie. ‘How’s Paul?’

  ‘This isn’t the time or the place to talk about Paul,’ refused the girl cursorily. Denying herself at once she said: ‘As a matter of fact he’s red raw with prickly heat.’

  ‘Sure it’s prickly heat?’ said Charlie. ‘You can catch some terrible things from toilet seats in South America.’