Charlie M cm-1 Read online

  ‘Will you come to see me?’ asked the Russian. Quickly he added: ‘Socially, I mean.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ promised Charlie.

  ‘I’d appreciate it,’ replied Berenkov, honestly. ‘They have given me a job in the library, so I’ll have books. But I’ll need conversation.’

  The Russian would suffer, thought Charlie, looking around the prison room: the whole place had the institutionalised smell of dust, urine and paraffin heaters. It was a frightening contrast to the life he had known for so long. Charlie heard the scuff of the hovering warder outside the door. It had been a useful meeting, he decided. He wondered if Cuthbertson would realise it.

  He rose, stretching.

  ‘I really will try,’ he undertook.

  Again there was the bear-hug of departure: the man still retained the odour of expensive cologne.

  ‘Remember what I said, Charlie,’ warned Berenkov. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Charlie, easily.

  Berenkov held him, refusing to let him turn away.

  ‘I mean it, Charlie …’

  He dropped his restraining hands, almost embarrassed.

  ‘… You’ve got a feel about you, Charlie … the feel of a loser …’

  General Valery Kalenin was a short, square-bodied Georgian who regarded Alexei Berenkov as the best friend he had ever known, and recognised with complete honesty that the reason for this was that the other man had spent so much time away from Russia that it had been impossible for him to tire of the association, like everyone else did.

  General Kalenin was a man with a brilliant, calculating mind and absolutely no social ability, which he accepted, like a person aware of bad breath or offensive perspiration. Because of a psychological quirk, which had long ceased bothering him, he had no sexual inclination, either male or female. The lack of interest was immediately detected by women, who resented it, and by men, who usually misinterpreted it, and were offended by what they regarded as hostile coldness, verging on contempt for their shortcomings compared to his intellect.

  With virtually nothing to distract him apart from his absorption in the history of tank warfare, in which he was an acknowledged expert, Kalenin’s entire existence was devoted to the Komitet Gosudarsivennoy Bezopasnosti and he had become a revered figure in the K.G.B. of which he was now chief tactician and planner.

  Utterly dedicated, he worked sixteen hours a day in Dzerzhinsky Square or in any of the capitals of the Warsaw Pact, of which he was over-all intelligence commander. Any surplus time was spent organising solitary war games with his toy tanks on the kitchen floor of his apartment in Kutuzovsky Prospekt. Only during the war games did General Kalenin feel his loneliness and regret his inability to make friends: it was always difficult to perform as the leader of both sides, even though he was scrupulously fair, never cheating with the dice.

  The arrest of Berenkov had affected him deeply, although it would have been impossible for anyone to have realised it from his composure in the small conference chamber in the Kremlin complex.

  ‘Berenkov must be exchanged,’ said the committee chairman, Boris Kastanazy, breaking into the General’s reflections.

  Kalenin looked warily at the man who formed the link between the Praesidium and the K.G.B. It was the fourth occasion he’d uttered the same sentence. Kalenin wondered if he were completely secure or whether he should be worried by this man.

  ‘I know,’ responded Kalenin. There was no trace of irritation in his voice.

  ‘And will be,’ he added. He wasn’t frightened, he decided. And Kastanazy knew it. The man would be annoyed. He enjoyed scaring people.

  ‘Not if the attempt to ensnare a British operative is handled with the stupidity surrounding the East Berlin border crossing.’

  ‘The officers who reacted prematurely have been reprimanded,’ reminded Kalenin.

  Kastanazy moved, irritably.

  ‘That’s a stupid gesture; it wasn’t the right man, so what does it matter? The important thing is that one of the best operatives the service ever had is rotting in a filthy jail and we’re doing nothing about it.’

  Kastanazy was a pinch-faced, expressionless man who wore spectacles with which he fidgeted constantly, like some men use worry beads.

  ‘At the last full session of the Praesidium,’ said the chairman, slowly, gazing down at the revolving spectacles, ‘a lengthy discussion was held on the matter.’

  ‘I am aware how this committee was formed,’ said Kalenin. He would not be intimidated by the man, he decided.

  ‘But I don’t get the impression, Comrade General, that you fully appreciate the determination to retrieve General Berenkov.’

  ‘I assure you, Comrade Chairman,’ retorted the tiny K.G.B. chief, ‘that I do.’

  ‘Have plans been made?’

  ‘I am in the course of formulating proposals,’ Kalenin tried to avoid.

  ‘You mean you’ve done nothing?’ demanded Kastanazy, sharply.

  ‘I mean I do not intend embarking on anything that will worsen, rather than improve, the position of General Berenkov.’

  Kastanazy sighed, noisily, staring directly at the other man. When he spoke, he did so with, care, wanting the words to register. He talked directly to the secretary sitting alongside, ensuring everything was correctly recorded for later submission to the Praesidium.

  ‘I want you to leave the meeting understanding one thing …’

  He paused, but Kalenin refused to prompt him, knowing it would show nervousness.

  ‘I want you to fully appreciate,’ said Kastanazy, ‘that if General Berenkov isn’t being received with full honours at Sheremetyevo airport reasonably soon, the most stringent enquiry will be held …’

  He hesitated again and Kalenin knew he had not finished.

  ‘… an enquiry, Comrade General, in which you will be the central character …’

  (3)

  Charlie Muffin wedged the saturated suede boots beneath the radiator, then spread his socks over the metal ribs to dry. There was a faint hissing sound.

  The bottoms of his trousers, where the raincoat had ended, were concertinaed and sodden and he felt cold, knowing his shirt was wet where the coat had leaked. It was the newer of the two suits he possessed and now it would have to be dry-cleaned. It wouldn’t be long before it started getting shiny at the seat, he thought, miserably.

  Charlie wondered if he would catch influenza or a cold from his soaking: it would provide an excuse to stay away from the office for a few days. He stopped at the hope. The last time he’d had such a thought he had been a fifth former, trying to avoid an English examination at Manchester Grammar School.

  ‘Steady, Charlie,’ he advised hilself. ‘Things aren’t that bad.’

  He would have kept drier, he reflected, had he caught a taxi back from Wormwood Scrubs, instead of travelling by bus and underground from Shepherd’s Bush. The sacrifice had been worth it, he decided. It meant an expenses profit of?2 and a bottle of wine for tonight.

  ‘Aloxe Corton,’ he reminded himself. ‘Mustn’t forget the name.’

  The dye had come out of his boots, staining his heels and between his toes a khaki colour. Barefoot, he padded into the lavatory opposite his office, from which he could always hear the flush and usually the reason for it, filled a water glass with hot water and returned towards his office, pausing at the door. He’d only occupied it for three months, since Cuthbertson had decreed that the room adjoining his own suite and in which Charlie had worked during home periods for the past twenty years was big enough for two men. So Snare and Harrison had got the airy, oak-panelled room with its views of the Cenotaph. And Charlie — ‘as a senior operative, you’ll have to be alone, old boy’ — had been relegated to what had once been the secretaries’ rest room, overlooking an inner courtyard where the canteen dustbins were kept. On the wall by the window there was still a white outline where the sanitary-towel dispenser had been: Janet had identified the mark and Charlie refused to have it painted ove
r, knowing it offended Cuthbertson.

  He entered the cramped room, sitting carefully at the desk, which was wedged tight against one wall. The wet trousers clung to his ankles and he grimaced, unhappily. Even with two men in it, he remembered, his old office was still bigger than that he was now forced to occupy. And it had had an electric fire, too, where he could have dried his trousers.

  He stripped some blotting paper, soaked it in the glass and began sponging his feet, reflecting on his meeting with Berenkov. Had the Russian meant to tell him so much? he wondered. It could hardly have been a mistake; he wasn’t the sort of man to allow errors. He’d been caught, contradicted Charlie. That had been a mistake. Or had it? Had Berenkov been incredibly clever, accepting his self-confessed fear and man?uvred the whole thing, confident of repatriation as a hero after sentence?

  He paused, left ankle across his right knee. Were his feelings for Berenkov admiration or envy? he wondered, suddenly.

  ‘Good God!’

  Snare stood at the doorway, gazing down at him.

  ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ demanded the younger man.

  ‘Washing my feet,’ retorted Charlie, obviously. Snare’s expressions of horror were encompassing the entire religious gamut, Charlie thought. He was embarrassed at being caught by the other man.

  Snare leaned on the doorpost, knowing the discomfort and enjoying it.

  ‘Very biblical,’ mocked Snare. ‘Can you do miracles, too?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie, irritably. ‘I can come back from the dead out of burning Volkswagens.’

  The smile left Snare’s face and he moved away from the doorway. The bastard had known, Charlie decided, even before they’d gone into East Berlin.

  ‘The Director wants to see you,’ said Snare. Quickly he added, wanting to score, ‘With your shoes on.’

  ‘Then he’ll have to wait,’ said Charlie. A faint mist was rising from his drying socks and shoes. And there was a smell, realised Charlie, uncomfortably.

  ‘Shall I tell him ten minutes?’

  ‘Tell him what you like,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m waiting for my socks to dry.’

  He was ready in fifteen minutes, but was delayed another ten by comparing two sheets in the Berenkov file.

  ‘Charlie boy, you’re a genius,’ he assured himself.

  They were waiting for him, Charlie saw. Snare was standing at the window, appearing preoccupied with the view below. Harrison was sitting by the small table containing the newspapers and magazines, his back to the wall, determined to miss nothing. Wilberforce was in the leatherbacked lounging chair to the side of Cuthbertson’s desk, disembowelling a pipe he never seemed to light, with a set of attachments that retracted into a single gold case. The second-in-command was a slightly built but very tall, finefeatured man with fingers so long they appeared to have an extra joint and of which he was over-conscious, frequently making washing movements, covering one with the other, which drew attention to their oddness. He invariably wore gloves, even in the summer, and had a predilection for pastel-shaded shirts that he always wore with matching socks. Probably dryer than mine, thought Charlie, who still felt damp. He decided Wilberforce carried the pipe as a symbol of masculinity.

  ‘More comfortable now?’ greeted Cuthbertson, heavily.

  The new Director was a very large but precise man, with a face permanently reddened by a sub-lieutenant’s liking for curry at the beginning of his career in Calcutta, and a later tendency to blood pressure on the British General Staff. He had a distressingly phlegmy voice, which meant he bubbled rather than spoke words. Charlie found this offensive. But then he found most things about Cuthbertson offensive. The man’s family was provably traceable back to Elizabethan times and there had been generals in it for three hundred years. It was with that rank, plus a D.S.O. and the inherited baronetcy originally conferred by George III, that Cuthbertson had left the Chief of Staff to head the department. His outlook and demeanour were as regimented as his brigade or Eton tie, the family-crested signet ring and the daily lunch at Boodle’s. Which was precisely why he had been appointed, a government experiment to improve by strict discipline and army-type order a department that had suffered two humiliating — and worse, public — mistakes in attempting to establish systems in Poland and Czechoslovakia.

  Charlie wondered how long it would take before they suffered their biggest mistake to date: not long, he decided, confidently.

  ‘Much more comfortable, thank you, sir,’ replied Charlie. The term of respect sounded offensive. No one offered him a chair, so he stood casually at ease. On a parade ground, he thought, Cuthbertson would have put him on a charge.

  ‘Which is more than I can say for myself,’ said Cuthbertson, softly. It was an affectation never to be seen to lose his temper, so it was impossible to gauge any mood from the gurgling tone in which the man spoke.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It has been my misfortune …’

  He paused, gesturing to the others in the room.

  ‘… and the misfortune and embarrassment of my colleagues, to have listened to a tape recording that many people might construe as being almost treasonable …’

  He stopped again, as if expecting Charlie to speak, but the man remained silent, eyes fixed on the Director’s forehead. If he wriggled his toes, Charlie discovered, he could make a tiny squelching sound with his left boot.

  ‘Psychologically,’ continued Cuthbertson, ‘today was the ideal time to interrogate Berenkov … bewildered and frightened by the severity of his sentence, cut off from life and eager to exchange every confidence with someone conducting an examination in a proper, sympathetic way …’

  Charlie wondered at the text-book from which Cuthbertson would have read that thesis. It was probably a do-it-yourself paperback from W. H. Smith’s, he decided. Snare turned away from the window, wanting to see Charlie suffer.

  ‘Instead,’ continued the former army officer, ‘we got the meanderings of two men play-acting for the benefit of the recorders … recorders that Berenkov could only have learned about from you …’

  It would have been a severe exercise of will to maintain the monotone, thought Charlie. He wondered why the man never cleared his throat. A nerve in Cuthbertson’s left eyelid began twitching, indicating his anger. The man felt on his desk for a transcript.

  ‘… The Russian made a remark about age,’ said Cuthbertson, apparently reading. He’d rehearsed this part, Charlie realised.

  The Director stood up, trying to hold Charlie’s eyes.

  ‘For you, it was a prophecy,’ declared Cuthbertson. ‘I’ve already sent to the Minister a copy of the transcript and my appreciation of it, together with my recommendation of your immediate, premature departure from any position of authority in this department … I don’t want traitors working with me, Muffin.’

  Snare and Harrison were smirking, Charlie saw.

  Silence settled like frost in the room. Charlie stayed unmoving, wanting Cuthbertson to finish completely, with no opportunity for retreat. What idiots they all were, he thought.

  ‘Have you anything to say?’ demanded Wilberforce, still rummaging into the bowl of his pipe. He would find it impossible to confront directly anyone being disciplined, Charlie realised. The permanent civil servant had waited a long time for this scene, Charlie knew. Why, he wondered, did Wilberforce hate him so?

  ‘Does that mean I’m fired?’ he asked, hopefully. He purposely omitted the ‘sir’.

  ‘It does not,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘I want you under constant supervision, where I can ensure you don’t forget the terms of the Official Secrets Act by which you’re bound for a lifetime but which, judging from this morning’s performance, you have forgotten.’

  ‘Demotion?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘As far down as I can possibly achieve,’ confirmed Cuthbertson.

  ‘So my allowance and salary will be cut?’

  Cuthbertson nodded.

  ‘And you’ve suggested all this in the letter to
the Minister?’ demanded Charlie. He was enjoying himself, he realised.

  ‘That’s an impudent question,’ said Cuthbertson huffily. ‘But yes, I have.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Charlie. ‘That was a silly thing to have done.’

  The silence this time was far more oppressive than that of a few moments before when Cuthbertson had announced his decision on Charlie’s future. Wilberforce had stopped working on his pipe, but remained staring fixedly at it, as if he expected to find a clue in the blackened bowl. Harrison shifted uncomfortably in the chair, as if he wanted to use a lavatory, and Snare looked hurriedly from person to person, seeking a clue from the others on what reaction to make. The lobes of Cuthbertson’s ears flushed and the nerve in his eye increased its tic.

  ‘Impudence will not gain the dismissal to get whatever redundancy pay you imagine is owed you,’ rejected Cuthbertson, haughtily.

  For the first time, Charlie lowered his eyes from the man’s forehead, staring directly at him. Cuthbertson appeared to realise Charlie was not scared and blinked, irritably. It was very rare for Cuthbertson to encounter somebody not in awe of him, Charlie guessed.

  He’d make them suffer, he decided: he had very little to lose. Nothing, in fact. Their decision about Charlie Muffin had been made months ago. He supposed he should consider himself lucky he was still alive.

  ‘There is a procedure,’ he began, slowly. ‘Innovated by your predecessors … a procedure that the Minister likes followed because it has shown such success in the past …’

  ‘… but one which was overlooked in the Polish and Czechoslovakian disasters,’ tried Snare, eager to impress his mentor.

  Charlie turned to him, frowning.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he said, knowing the effect would be destroyed if the man were forced to repeat it.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Snare. ‘Just a comment.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlie. He still waited, as if expecting Snare to repeat himself. Wince, you bastard, he thought. At last he looked back to Cuthbertson.