‘A colleague?’ Kalenin was questioning, accepting champagne from a passing tray. He didn’t drink, Snare noted, holding his own glass untouched. Kalenin was a careful man, he decided, unlikely to make any mistakes.
‘Yes. At the British tractor stand.’
‘Ah,’ said Kalenin, like someone remembering a chance encounter he had forgotten.
Taking the lead, he said: ‘Have you seen your friend lately?’
‘No,’ said Snare, intently. ‘But I know fully of your conversation.’
Kalenin had his head to one side, examining him curiously, Snare saw. His reply did not appear to be that which Kalenin had anticipated, he thought.
‘My friend found the conversation most interesting,’ he tried to recover, momentarily unsettled.
‘Did he?’ responded Kalenin, unhelpfully.
Snare felt the perspiration pricking out and wanted to wipe his forehead. It would be wrong to produce a handkerchief, he knew, resisting the move. There could only be a few minutes left before an inevitable interruption and the damned man was making it very difficult.
Harrison had been bloody lucky.
‘In fact,’ Snare went on, ‘he would very much like to continue it.’
The curious look persisted.
‘But that would be difficult, wouldn’t it?’ said Kalenin. He smiled for the first time, an on-off expression like someone following an etiquette manual that recommended a relaxed expression exactly five minutes after the first meeting.
‘Difficult,’ agreed Snare. ‘But not impossible.’
Kalenin frowned again, then shrugged. What did that mean? wondered Snare. Quickly he pulled his hand over his forehead; the sweat had begun to irritate his skin. Kalenin would have seen it, realising his nervousness, he thought, worriedly.
‘Perhaps that’s a matter of interpretation. And differing opinion,’ said Kalenin, obscurely.
Cuthbertson was right, thought Snare. There were to be conditions.
‘I’m sure the difficulties could be resolved to the satisfaction of both interpretations,’ assured Snare.
Kalenin had probably survived for so long by being so cautious, decided the Briton. He felt happier at the new direction of their conversation.
‘It would need the most detailed discussion.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Snare.
‘And would probably involve expense.’
Snare swallowed, nervously. The meeting would be as successful as Harrison’s, he determined. Despite the outward calm, he guessed Kalenin was a desperately scared man.
‘I don’t see expenditure being a problem,’ said Snare.
‘Not half a million dollars?’ questioned the General, eyebrows raised.
Snare paused, momentarily. ‘Anything,’ Cuthbertson had said. ‘Anything at all.’
‘Certainly not half a million dollars,’ guaranteed Snare.
Kalenin smiled, a more genuine expression this time.
‘Do you know the Neskuchny Sad, Mr Snare?’
For a moment Snare didn’t understand the question, then remembered the gardens bordering the Moskva River. He nodded.
‘I’ve taken to walking there most Sundays,’ reported the Russian. ‘I feel it’s important for an inactive man to get proper exercise.’
‘Indeed,’ concurred Snare, wondering the route towards which the Russian was guiding the conversation.
‘I’ve made it a very regular habit. Usually about 11 a.m.’
‘I see,’ said Snare, relaxing further. It was almost too simple, he thought.
‘I really am most anxious about my health,’ expanded Kalenin. ‘I’m quite an old man and old men believe that misfortune will befall them any day.’
Wrong to relax, corrected Snare. There was a very real reason for this apparently aimless conversation.
‘But that is often a groundless apprehension,’ he responded. ‘I’ve every reason to suppose that your health will remain good for a number of years.’
‘It really is most important that I know that,’ insisted Kalenin. ‘In fact, if I thought these Sunday constitutional walks were doing me more harm than good, I’d immediately suspend them.’
‘I think the walks are most beneficial. Certainly at this time of the year,’ said Snare.
From his left, the Briton detected Colonel Wilcox returning, conforming to their rehearsal. Snare turned to greet Cuthbertson’s friend.
‘We’ve been discussing health,’ threw out Kalenin, eyes upon Snare.
‘Very important,’ said the attaché, unsure of the response expected.
‘I’ve been telling Mr Snare of exercises I’ve begun, to ensure I remain healthy for many years.’
Wilcox hesitated, waiting for Snare’s lead.
‘And I’ve been assuring the General,’ helped the operative, ‘that continuing good health, into a very old age, has become a subject of growing interest in England.’
Wilcox frowned, baffled by the ambiguity. What a stupid occupation espionage was, he decided. Silly buggers.
‘Quite,’ he said, hopefully.
Kalenin looked across the room, to the rest of the Russian contingent.
‘I must rejoin my colleagues,’ he apologised.
‘I’ve enjoyed our meeting,’ said Snare.
‘And so have I,’ said Kalenin. ‘And remember the importance of good health.’
‘I will,’ accepted Snare. ‘In fact, I might take up walking for the few remaining weeks I have in Moscow.’
‘Do that,’ encouraged Kalenin. ‘I can recommend it.’
‘Appeared to go well,’ said Braley, watching the two men part. ‘I’d just love to get my hands on Snare’s report.’
‘We will,’ predicted Cox, stationary now. ‘When the British are forced to admit us, officially, we can demand the files already created.’
‘We’ve got to get in first,’ cautioned Braley.
Snare coded his report that night, determined it would exceed in detail and clarity Harrison’s account from East Germany. It hadn’t been difficult to prepare a better report, decided Snare, reading the file that had taken him three hours to complete. The evidence was incontestable now. When this operation was successfully concluded, he decided, Britain would be regarded as having the best espionage service in the Western world. He sealed the envelope, personally delivering it to the ambassador’s office for the diplomatic pouch. And I will be known to be part of that service, he thought, happily. A vitally important part. He would keep the Sunday appointment with Kalenin, he decided, then return to London the following week; perhaps Cuthbertson would insist that he accompany him to the personal briefing of the Prime Minister.
As the weekend approached, Snare felt the euphoria of a man ending a prison sentence, ticking off the last days of his incarceration. Just eight more days and he would be back in London, he consoled himself: it would be a triumphant homecoming.
On the Thursday, he decided to buy souvenirs, assembling the currency coupons that would give him concessions in the foreign exchange shops. Some of the intricately painted dolls, he decided, preferably in national costumes.
He was arrested walking along Gorky Street, towards the G.U.M. department store. It was meticulously planned, taking little more than two minutes. The leading Zil pulled up five yards ahead, disgorging four men before it stopped and when he half turned, instinctively, he saw the second car, immediately behind. Four men were already spread over the pavement, blocking any retreat.
To his back was the wall. And the gap between the two cars was filled by both drivers, standing side-by-side and completing the box.
‘Please don’t run,’ cautioned a man, from his right. He spoke English.
‘I won’t,’ promised Snare. There was no fear in his voice, he realised, proudly.
‘Good,’ said the spokesman and everyone seemed to relax.
Charlie gazed around the lounge of his Dulwich home, revolving the after-dinner brandy between his hands.
‘You’ve made
a good home, darling,’ he said. There was an odd sound in his voice, almost like nostalgia.
Edith smiled, a mixture of gratitude and apprehension. Her money had bought everything.
‘I try very hard to please you, Charlie,’ she reminded.
He concentrated completely upon her, reaching over and squeezing her hand.
‘And you do, Edith. You know you do.’
‘I don’t mind about affairs, Charlie,’ she blurted.
He remained silent.
‘I’m just frightened it’ll go wrong, I suppose.’
‘Edith,’ protested Charlie, easily. ‘Don’t be silly. How could that happen?’
‘Love me, Charlie?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘You’re the only man I see colours with, Charlie,’ she said, desperately. ‘I wish to Christ I’d never inherited the bloody money to build a barrier between us.’
‘Don’t be silly, Edith,’ he said. ‘There’s no barrier.’
The phone rang, a jagged sound.
‘That girl from the office,’ said Edith, accusingly, holding the receiver towards him.
‘Sorry to trouble you at home so late,’ said Janet, formally.
‘What is it?’ demanded Charlie, irritation obvious in his voice.
‘You were to go directly to Wormwood Scrubs tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sir Henry wants that cancelled. You’re to be at the office at nine o’clock. Sharp.’
Very military, mused Charlie; just like her godfather’s parade ground.
‘But that…’ began Charlie.
‘Nine o’clock,’ repeated the girl, peremptorily. ‘I’ve already informed the prison authorities you won’t be coming.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, but the telephone had been replaced, destroying the sarcasm.
‘What is it?’ asked Edith, as he put down the telephone.
‘My meeting with Berenkov has been scrapped,’ reported Charlie. ‘I’ve got to see Sir Henry at 9.0 a.m.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked the woman, worriedly.
‘What I’ve argued for the past ten months,’ replied Charlie. ‘That you can’t run the service like an army cadet corps. I told you they’d need me.’
‘Don’t get too confident, will you, Charlie?’
‘You know me better than that.’
‘It’s just so bloody dangerous.’
‘It always has been,’ said Charlie, tritely.
(10)
It took Sir Henry Cuthbertson an hour to explain the operation upon which they had been engaged for the past four months, culminating in Harrison’s death and Snare’s capture.
Charlie sat relaxed in the enormous office, aware of Wilberforce’s eyes upon him, his face masked against any emotion. Several times the Director stopped during the account, but Charlie’s complete lack of response kept forcing him into further details.
‘That’s it,’ completed Cuthbertson, at last. The whole story.’
Still Charlie said nothing.
‘I was very wrong about you, Muffin,’ offered the Director, finally.
‘Really?’ prompted Charlie. Now I know how Gulliver felt among the little people of Lilliput, he fantasised. Edith’s warning of the previous night presented itself and he subdued the conceit. It would be stupid to get too confident, as she had warned.
‘Your debriefing of Berenkov has been brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I’ve written a special memorandum to the Minister, telling him so.’
He must remember to question Janet about it, he thought. Cuthbertson was a lying sod.
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.
‘And you were quite right about Berenkov having a contact at the research station at Portland. Naval intelligence got him a week ago.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Charlie. Berenkov would be upset at the cancelled visit, Charlie knew.
Silence descended in the room like a dust sheet in an empty house. Charlie gazed over Cuthbertson’s shoulder, watching the minute hand on Big Ben slowly descend towards the half-hour position. It would be the size of four men, he guessed; maybe even bigger. It would be a noisy job, cleaning it, he decided. How Wilberforce, with his irrational dislike, would be hating this interview, he thought.
Cuthbertson looked at Wilberforce and Wilberforce returned the stare.
‘I would like you to accept my apology,’ capitulated Cuthbertson.
‘I was to be demoted,’ reminded Charlie. He’d let Cuthbertson get away with nothing, he determined.
‘Another mistake,’ admitted the Director. ‘Of course there’s no question of that now.’
Because your balls are on a hook, completed Charlie, mentally.
‘And some expenses …?’ coaxed Charlie.
Cuthbertson stared directly at him. He really hates my guts, thought Charlie.
‘Already reinstated,’ promised Cuthbertson.
Another query to put to Janet, thought Charlie. Wilberforce shifted. Was it embarrassment for his superior or irritation? wondered Charlie.
‘I will accept that although they initially did well, I sent inexperienced men into the field on this latest operation,’ confessed Cuthbertson. He snapped his mouth shut after the sentence, like a man realising he was dribbling.
Never before in his life, Charlie knew, would Cuthbertson have been forced to make so many admissions of error. He would not be a man to forget such humiliation. His head pulled up, so that he was looking directly across his desk.
‘So we need your help, Charles.’
‘Charlie,’ corrected the operative.
‘What?’
‘Charlie,’ he repeated, unrelentingly. ‘My friends call me Charlie’
Cuthbertson swallowed. The man would have enjoyed standing on one of those elevated platforms, watching over the Wall the body of the man he believed to be me burning beside the Volkswagen, Charlie decided. What, he wondered, had happened to the girl called Gretel?
‘We need your help, Charlie,’ recited Cuthbertson, the words strained.
Charlie looked at him, allowing the surprise to show.
‘How?’ he asked.
Cuthbertson covered the exasperation by concentrating on the blank blotter before him. After several moments, he looked up again, under control.
‘I want you to establish the link with Kalenin and bring him across,’ announced the Director.
It was a mocking laugh from Charlie, an amazed refusal to accept the words he was hearing.
‘There is nothing – nothing at all – that is funny about what I’ve said,’ insisted Cuthbertson, taut-lipped.
Impulsively, Charlie stood up, pacing around his chair.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Nothing funny whatsoever …’
He stood behind the chair, hands resting on its high back, like a man at a lecture.
‘… It is just madness,’ completed Charlie. ‘Stark, raving madness …’
‘I don’t see …’ tried Wilberforce, but Charlie refused the interruption.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please, just listen to me. A year ago we broke a European spy ring, headed in this country by Alexei Berenkov …’
‘For God’s sake, forget the bloody man Berenkov,’ erupted Cuthbertson, releasing his anger. ‘He’s got nothing to do with what we’re discussing …’
‘He’s got everything to do with it,’ rebuked Charlie, emphatically. ‘Can’t you see it, for Christ’s sake?’
Cuthbertson winced, but said nothing; a court martial offence, judged Charlie.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Wilberforce, trying to buffer the feeling between the two men.
Ignoring Edith’s warning of the previous night, Charlie burst on, ‘I’m astonished you can’t see what’s happening …’
The outburst had gained him the attention of both men, he saw. Cuthbertson would be worried he’d made the wrong assessment, like all the others.
‘We destr
oyed their system … a system that had cost them time and money and which we now know was enormously important to them,’ elaborated Charlie. ‘Suddenly, from the shadows, appears General Kalenin, the genius of the K.G.B., a man no one has seen for two decades, asserting he wants to defect. With the same remarkable timing, there are stories in all the major communist publications that he’s under pressure, giving the defection credence.’
He stopped, looking to both men. Neither spoke.
‘Like a rabbit coming out of a hat, he appears at Leipzig, exactly as he’s indicated to Colonel Wilcox …’
Cuthbertson was doodling flowers on to his blotter and Wilberforce had begun mining his pipe: as a child, the second-in-command would have had a comfort blanket, Charlie decided.
‘… and, like simple innocents, we grab at it,’ took up Charlie. ‘We expose an operative, get fed a load of defection bullshit and then our man, who has identified himself, gets shot. As if this weren’t warning enough, we go through the same procedure a month later in Russia and lose a second man.’
They weren’t accepting his arguments, Charlie realised.
‘It’s the oldest intelligence trick there is,’ Charlie insisted. ‘Make the bait big enough and so many fish will swarm you can catch them by hand.’
Cuthbertson shook his head. ‘I can’t agree … we’ve been unlucky, that’s all. Others agree with me.’
‘Others?’ jumped Charlie, immediately.
‘The analysis section, upon which you place such reliance,’ said Cuthbertson, quickly.
There was more, Charlie knew, remaining silent.
‘The initial approach was made at the American embassy,’ reminded Cuthbertson, reluctantly. ‘The C.I.A. assessed the media attacks on Kalenin and made the same decision as we did.’
Charlie threw back his head, theatrically, braying his laughter.
‘Oh Jesus!’ he said. ‘This is too much. Don’t tell me the Americans are riding shotgun on the whole operation.’
‘They’ve sought involvement,’ conceded the Director. ‘But I’m keeping the whole project British; they can have access to the debriefing in the course of time.’
Charlie made much of walking back around the chair and seating himself. Washington would be furious at being kept out, he knew.
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