Comrade Charlie cm-9

by Brian Freemantle

  The problem, isolated Berenkov: at last! His mind moved immediately on from that realization, throwing up other, connected thoughts and there was, too, a surge of annoyance at being before this anonymous group of men in this fashion, paraded literally like some guilty incompetent. He didn’t know the role of any of them, any more than he knew their names apart from Noskov, but he guessed they didn’t have any more influence than he did. It was a protection exercise, he decided, guessing further. He didn’t doubt there was something incomplete with the British drawing — they wouldn’t risk being caught out on something so easily challenged — but whatever was missing was the excuse, not the reason, for this overly dramatic summons. This group — an inner committee, probably — were taking out insurance against any disasters in the future. The arguments at this meeting could be produced in future — which meant it was being witnessed or recorded — if anything went wrong, hopefully to show that the fault had been that of the information-gatherers, not of the technicians and specialists assigned to translate that information into viable space equipment. Time to provide lessons in practical, personal survival, thought Berenkov, feeling relaxed for the first time in hours. He said: ‘I’m not at all surprised.’ Everyone else was: even Kalenin, Berenkov suspected.

  ‘What did you say!’ demanded Noskov. His forced outrage overrode the impediment, so the words came out quite clearly again.

  ‘I said that I am not at all surprised that information is coming incomplete,’ elaborated Berenkov. ‘How can it be otherwise, if I am expected to work as I am at present! I am a trained intelligence officer, controlling other trained intelligence officers. None of us are scientists. How can we be expected to know whether what we get is complete or otherwise, separated as we are? I need the facility every time to check and consult, guaranteeing you people here get everything you need properly to fulfil what you have to do.’ Pedantically verbose, conceded Berenkov. But very necessary. The onus was now entirely reversed, switching the responsibility on to them, and from the expressions around the table they realized it.

  ‘Which is an argument I have advanced from the very beginning,’ came in Kalenin, further entangling the scientists. ‘It is an objection I have firmly registered in Moscow, although it was prior to our meetings there, Comrade Noskov. I would have advised you, of course, if I had been approached before this meeting instead of being simply instructed to attend it by the Politburo Secretariat.’

  Noskov actually flushed. His mouth worked, desperately, but the words wouldn’t come. He gave another hand gesture, a plea for help, and a studious, heavily moustached man to his left said: ‘We were unaware of this.’

  ‘We don’t have the advantage of your name?’ questioned Kalenin, with a cold smile.

  ‘Guzins,’ said the man. ‘Yuri Ivanovich Guzins.’

  ‘And you complained without any reference?’ said Kalenin.

  ‘This is regarded as extremely important,’ tried Guzins in attempted explanation.

  ‘All the more reason for proper liaison,’ repeated Kalenin.

  Relentlessly re-entering the conversation, Berenkov said: ‘We’ve been shown one drawing: one out of forty-three I know so far to have been supplied. Is that the only one with which you find fault?’

  ‘So far,’ managed Noskov.

  ‘The drawing you are rejecting was the last to be provided,’ persisted Berenkov. ‘You must have examined the others. Are they fully satisfactory! Or not!’

  ‘They are satisfactory,’ conceded the moustached Guzins.

  ‘I consider this has been a very premature protest,’ said Kalenin. ‘Quite unnecessary at the level at which it was initiated, in fact.’

  They’d won, decided Berenkov. Practically to the extent of it being no contest. He said: ‘How do you know the British drawing has omissions?’

  ‘We have the complete section of drawings from America to accommodate what arrived from Britain,’ said Guzins. The British appear to be manufacturing the hinged arm to pivot the release doors, when an American destruct missile is fired upon any hostile attack rocket. There are no details of fitment, between one to the other.’

  ‘What about another drawing which we don’t yet have?’

  ‘It should be upon this blueprint,’ insisted Noskov.

  ‘You were speaking with qualification,’ picked out Berenkov, to the man with the moustache. ‘You said the British appear to be constructing the release arm.’

  Guzins looked briefly towards the man with the speech difficulty, who nodded. Guzins stoop up, going to the laid-out blackboards, and with a wooden pointer indicated two artist’s impressions. The man said: ‘Study carefully the armature drawn here. Each is identical to the other: it’s the positioning that’s different. It would accord it entirely different functions. One way it would literally operate the garage door. The other it could be forming part of a combined arm-device, to activate two doors.’

  ‘What’s the significance between the two?’ asked Berenkov.

  ‘The Americans have always insisted their Strategic Defence Initiative is entirely defensive,’ lectured Guzins. ‘One design makes this a comparatively simple, manoeuvrable container, conforming exactly to that insistence. The other gives it the combined capacity, to fire offensive missiles from space upon any target it chooses. You understand the importance of that difference?’

  There were several moments of utter silence in the room. Then Berenkov said: ‘Yes, we understand.’

  On their way back to Moscow in the cold transporter, uncomfortable on their hard-ridged webbing seats, Kalenin announced: ‘They’ll be more cautious with complaints the next time.’

  ‘I can understand the importance that’s being attached to this if the apparatus has dual capacity.’

  ‘There’s no confirmation yet that it has.’

  ‘What the hell went wrong, in Britain!’

  ‘Something you’ve got to find out,’ said Kalenin. ‘And make sure it doesn’t happen in the future.’

  Laura demanded to arrange the evening and when he arrived to collect her from the Chelsea house Charlie found she’d prepared dinner in. The attempt at domesticity vaguely unsettled him, like her husband’s photograph. She had cooked duck with black cherries and told him where to find the grand cru Margaux to go with it. Charlie opened the bottle to breathe, and said: ‘so Paul’s a wine connoisseur?’

  Laura was at the separating doorway when he spoke, half turned towards the kitchen. She looked back into the room and then returned further into it, smiling and shaking her head. She stopped directly in front of him and said: ‘Sit down, Charlie Muffin.’

  He did as he was told, looking up at her questioningly.

  ‘From everything I hear and from what I’ve read in reports I probably shouldn’t have looked at, I’m prepared to accept you’re a pretty shit-hot operative, hard as nails and twice as sharp,’ said Laura. ‘But you know something else that you are?’

  He didn’t want this conversation, Charlie decided. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘You’re a romantic,’ declared Laura. ‘A genuine red roses, pink doves and violin-string romantic. Which you’ll probably deny because you don’t regard it as manly but which I think is lovely. But there’s a risk of it getting in the way between us. I know you’re uncomfortable being in another man’s house and I’m sorry about that, although not as sorry as I was when I discovered how sweet-faced, innocent-looking Paul was cheating on me, because I loved him very much. I suppose I still do, in a way: my problem…’ She swept her arm around the room. ‘He won’t consider leaving me because I’ve got the inherited money to provide all this. And I won’t risk telling him finally to get out because I’ve got this stupid fantasy that he might suddenly change and it’ll be all right again. So at the moment we lead polite but separate lives. And I’m using you, Charlie Muffin. Like we both know you’re using me, for what you want. If you like, we’re both at the moment using each other for protection. So we’re quits. I know this isn’t love: that it won’t b
e. I’m not even sure I’d want that encumbrance. OK?’

  ‘Quite a speech,’ said Charlie, nonplussed.

  ‘I didn’t set out to make one. It just happened.’

  ‘There’s a lot to discuss.’

  ‘No there isn’t,’ rejected Laura. ‘It’s all said: no need for any more in-depth conversation. And I’m out of breath, anyway.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘…don’t,’ she stopped.

  So he didn’t.

  The food was superb, the wine excellent and for the first time Charlie felt completely relaxed. When she poured the brandy, afterwards, Laura pointedly put Paul’s photograph in a drawer and said: ‘There! Better?’

  ‘Much better,’ he said, letting her fit herself against him on the couch as she liked to do.

  ‘The person who interrogated your mother is named Smedley,’ she announced, her head against his chest. ‘David Smedley. The other one is Philip Abbott.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And Witherspoon is spending a lot of time with Harkness.’

  ‘You think he was involved?’

  ‘I don’t know: just that he keeps being called into the office.’

  ‘He’s Harkness’ protege,’ remembered Charlie.

  ‘Don’t do anything silly about it. Promise?’

  ‘Never crossed my mind.’

  Later — much later — in bed Charlie said: ‘I don’t think I’m a red roses, pink dove, violin-string romantic’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t, but you are,’ insisted the girl.

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘How many times have you been in love?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘Paul’s got a child, a little boy. By a girl he sees, onand-off, in Fulham. I can’t have children. That hurts me worst of all, that he’s had a baby by someone else. He didn’t have to do that, did he?’

  ‘And you’d still try to make things work!’

  ‘If Paul asked me to.’

  Bloody incredible, thought Charlie. And she was wrong in her personal assessment of him: he wasn’t really the romantic she thought him to be.

  Some girls never understood men.

  Harkness lived like a bachelor, although he was not. He had been married for twenty years to a woman as devout a Catholic as himself and although the marriage had irreparably collapsed into non-speaking acrimony there had never been any question of divorce. She lived in isolation on the top floor of the Hampstead house and he occupied the lower half: on Sunday mornings and evenings they attended different churches.

  Harkness therefore ate at his club, which he did most evenings, and customarily alone. He did so that night angrily, frustrated that it was taking him so long to be confirmed as Director General. What was necessary, he knew, was a success that could unquestionably be shown to be his: something that would stir the Joint Intelligence Committee into finally making the inevitable decision.

  The problem was finding it.

  Chapter 18

  The encounter was arranged for the seafront car park where they’d met before but which Losev hadn’t used for a handover yet. It was perfect for today, a very large, open space which it was easy to keep under observation. Losev packed the area with operatives, but didn’t approach it himself until well after the scheduled time and only then when one of his people reported Blackstone was there, quite alone.

  The tracer was pacing nervously up near the entrance from the road, hands deep in his raincoat pockets, not visibly carrying anything. It was a hire car again, so Blackstone didn’t recognize it and only came hurrying over when Losev sounded his horn. The Russian leaned across to open the passenger door and Blackstone came in gratefully out of the wind.

  ‘Wondered where the hell you’d got to,’ Blackstone complained. ‘I’ve been waiting for hours.’

  ‘Thirty minutes,’ corrected Losev, taking the car on into the car park and stopping as he had on the first occasion, so they could see the island squatted on the horizon. ‘And I had to be sure, didn’t I?’ The Russian’s voice was tight in his fury.

  ‘Sure of what?’

  ‘That you’d be by yourself.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Good,’ said Losev. ‘I wouldn’t be very happy if you did.’

  ‘What are you going on about!’ Blackstone twisted in his seat so that he was looking across the car at the Russian, trying not to show the apprehension bubbling through him.

  Losev didn’t reply directly. Instead he said: ‘You brought something for me today, Henry?’ He would very much have liked to hit the man, slapped some sense into his stupid head.

  ‘Of course,’ said Blackstone, almost proudly. He took from inside his raincoat the envelope containing the second drawing he’d made from his tracing of the backing paper, eagerly handing it across the vehicle.

  Losev took it but didn’t open it. ‘What about this one, Henry? Is it complete?’

  ‘What sort of question is that!’ Blackstone thought the outrage sounded genuine enough: inwardly he was numbed at being caught out and at the fear of losing the money he wanted so much.

  ‘You know exactly what sort of question it is, Henry. The last drawing you gave me…the drawing for which you got five hundred pounds…didn’t make sense to the experts,’ said Losev calmly. ‘There were some specification details missing.’

  Blackstone reckoned there to be four lines he hadn’t been able to read: five at the most. But he was sure he’d concealed the omission by the way he’d re-created the blueprint as an apparent original. He said: ‘I thought it was all there! Believe me I did!’

  ‘That’s our problem, isn’t it?’ said Losev, still calm but finding it difficult because he’d lost personal credibility with Moscow over what had happened. ‘How are we going to believe you in the future? Like now, for instance. Now I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Listen!’ pleaded Blackstone. ‘Please listen! I got a quick look at some blueprint material and I honestly thought I had everything. I wasn’t trying to cheat.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we think you tried to do,’ said Losev. ‘Either that or set up some trap for me to fall into. Do you know what we had to do today: we had to bring a lot of men down here to make sure I was safe. Huge expenditure of manpower. All very inconvenient.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’m really very, very sorry.’

  ‘That’s what we are: very, very sorry. We thought we had an arrangement and it seems we don’t have anything.’

  ‘There’s nothing missing from what you’ve got today,’ said Blackstone, which was the truth. ‘It’s all there.’

  ‘I hope so, Henry. You’ve no idea how much I hope so,’ impressed Losev. Exaggerating, he said: ‘If this one isn’t right we’re going to get very angry. We’re going to think that our arrangement is over. You know what that means, don’t you?’

  ‘Don’t do it!’ said Blackstone, pleading again. ‘Just wait and see.’ Why had he taken such a chance: been so foolish!

  ‘It’ll need a lot now to convince me.’

  And how in God’s name was he going to get it! thought Blackstone desperately. He said hurriedly: ‘I’ve got temporary access, into the secure section.’

  ‘Where the work is actually being done!’ seized Losev instantly. This was better, if it were true.

  Blackstone nodded. ‘And I’ve re-applied, like you told me. I haven’t had a reply yet.’

  ‘How long is this access going to last?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Blackstone.

  ‘So we’ve got to use it,’ decided Losev, recognizing the chance to recover in Dzerzhinsky Square. ‘I want the missing details for that first drawing. And whatever else you can lay your hands on. Don’t forget what I said. I want a lot.’

  Blackstone realized at once that the demand was impossible, but knew it would be foolish to say so. ‘Sure,’ he said, instead. ‘I’ll do it. You’ll see.’

  The aer
ospace worker looked pointedly between the just delivered envelope and Losev, who stared back, aware of the expectation. The Russian thought: You stupid, greedy bastard. He said: ‘You can go now. Ruth will be home soon, won’t she?’

  ‘I thought…’ started Blackstone, then stopped.

  ‘What?’

  Blackstone shook his head, understanding. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right, Henry. There is nothing: no more money, no more bonuses. Not until I’m sure. You please me, I’ll please you. That clear?’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ promised Blackstone, moving from the car.

  ‘Make it soon,’ urged Losev. ‘I want it to be very soon.’

  So did Blackstone. He wasn’t broke, not by a long way yet, but he’d become accustomed to having money around and he wanted the security to go on, just knowing that it was there. Blackstone’s constantly shifting emotions affected his reasoning: he was far more concerned to maintain the money supply than he was about being unmasked as a bigamist. Although that had begun the blackmail it had quickly ceased to matter in the way he thought. If only he could get the transfer he’d asked for! Praying for miracles, like he’d prayed for miracles before all this latest business began. But surely the fact that Springley hadn’t replied yet indicated there was some consideration being given to his re-application! So there had to be a chance. Make sure the money kept coming, so he could go on feeling its comforting security.

  Blackstone calculated his entry into the restricted work area the following evening around the same time as before, but on this occasion there was the benefit of his having the layout established in his mind. Unable to use the direction-seeking excuse again, he had to avoid the small office from which he’d stolen the original backing paper. He went along a corridor diametrically opposite from his first entry, which took him to the far side of the communal work room. As he walked Blackstone saw the end-of-the-day men shuffling from their separate sections to stow their blueprints in the same main drawing locker. But, more confident of his surroundings, Blackstone became aware of something else, too. The outer, bordering cubicles appeared to be where the prototype drawings were checked and refined, from their creation in the larger room. Which meant that the larger room was likely to contain a bigger selection of material, impressed upon backing paper or maybe discarded sketches in waste-paper baskets in advance of security collection. I want a lot, he remembered: like he remembered the threats that went with it.