Which took him beyond personal reflections. What the hell was Natalia doing, flying around the world described as a translator? She was an exhaustively trained, highly qualified, very expert KGB debriefer: so highly trained and expert that in the end it had been Natalia who realized his flight from British imprisonment to the Soviet Union wasn’t genuine but a complicated London espionage operation. But by which time, thank God, she’d felt more for him than about whatever it was he was doing. Dzerzhinsky Square didn’t shift specialized people like Natalia around: no intelligence service did. So why? And not just reassigned to one department: Foreign Ministry in Australia, Trade Ministry in Canada and the United States. Something else that didn’t make sense. Unanswerable, insoluble question after unanswerable, insoluble question. Which prompted another: Would he ever be able to find the answers?
A feeling came at last, an excitement of anticipation, but Charlie curbed it, refusing to fantasize, aware of an oversight and annoyed by it because keeping her safe was important and he didn’t know if she still were. Charlie hadn’t identified Natalia during his debriefing after the Moscow episode. If he had done, her name would have gone on to the general register and been shared with the CIA and maybe other Western intelligence agencies and exposed her to Christ knows how many hostile operations. She’d covered for him, in Russia. So he’d covered for her, back in the West. And for the same reason. And for that same reason he had to continue to make sure Natalia was still clean.
Charlie returned to the analysts’ reports that had accompanied what he had already studied, smiling that no ‘KGB Known’ tab had been set against Natalia’s name; there was a comment upon the trade visit confirming continuing Soviet grain shortages, but that was all. It wasn’t, however, absolute proof that Natalia had escaped positive identification because there were always other, separate analyses. Charlie had accessed computer records shortly after his repatriation, determined to protect her, so he only had to go back over the two immediate preceding years to discover if her name had been added to the register. Which he did. It hadn’t.
Still safe, thought Charlie, back in his chickencoop office. And how she’d stay. The publicationmonitoring was designed precisely to achieve the sort of identification that Charlie had made: to add names to lists, Harkness’ idea of intelligencegathering. Fuck Harkness, Charlie decided, that most frequent of conclusions. He had not identified Natalia before and he was buggered if he would now.
Was that it then, an exercise in cleverness for his own personal satisfaction, like The Times crossword? For the moment, Charlie supposed. But only very much for the moment. He’d known the determination from that first sighting of her photograph and then her name, but hadn’t bothered to confront it. But now he did, because it was time. The private, untidy file carefully locked in the bottom drawer of his tin desk contained three announcements of her intended trips in advance of Natalia making them. So what would he do if he came across another such announcement, alerting him to a forthcoming overseas visit? Charlie welcomed a question he could answer at last. And easily. Wherever, however, whatever, Charlie knew he’d try to get to her. Get to her. See her. Speak to her. Try to…Charlie stopped, braking the sudden rush of decisions. Too much, too quickly.
Were there to be the miracle – were they to meet again – how different was it likely to be from before, in Moscow? Another impossible question, with too many subsidiary queries and doubts and considerations. What about the consideration: the only thing that mattered. Whether this time she would stay with him.
Eduard had been the barrier before. How old would the boy be now? Eighteen: maybe nineteen, he wasn’t sure because he couldn’t remember the actual birthday. Whatever, no longer a boy: no longer the dependent barrier behind which she’d once hidden, frightened like it was understandable she should have been frightened.
Something else he would attempt, if there were ever a second chance. Beg her, plead with her, try to explain better and more convincingly than he had in Moscow. Anything, just to get her to stay.
Charlie finally let the fantasies, like the nostalgia, flow unchecked. They could be happy together, he knew. Not immediately, because that wasn’t sensible to expect, but the difficulty wouldn’t exactly be unhappiness. It would be uncertainty, while she adjusted and came to trust a new life: became accustomed to all the changes because it was Natalia who would be called upon to make more sacrifices than he would.
There was, though, one sacrifice that would be the same: maybe, even, greater in his case. He’d have to give up the service, the beloved existence in which he’d immersed himself and never imagined himself ever leaving, despite peripheral irritations like Harkness. He would have to give it up. It was unthinkable – quite inconceivable – for him to delude himself into thinking that if he and Natalia ever came together again he could somehow continue as he was.
Was he prepared to do that for her, like he would be asking her do, for him: like he’d already, once, asked her to do for him? Yes, Charlie decided at once, without any lingering doubt or caveat. To have Natalia permanently with him, to marry her and live with her as naturally as they would ever be able to do anything naturally in their particular circumstances, Charlie knew he was prepared to give it all up. Everything. Without a moment’s hesitation.
It was the weekend before the reflective Charlie completed his search for references to Natalia, the weekend he’d arranged the long-delayed date with Laura, after going down to Hampshire. Now he wished he hadn’t. It was a reluctance he was quickly to put aside.
Charlie sat for almost half an hour holding the paper-skinned, unmoving hand and talking of whatever came into his head, trying for some shared reminiscence to lure her out from the private world into which she had retreated again, but his mother sat propped up in bed staring into emptiness, unaware he was there. He gave up, finally, leaving the chocolates with hard centres near where her hand lay on the bed, and made his way to the matron’s office.
Ms Hewlett looked up as he entered and said at once: ‘I’m sorry. It looked so promising, too.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Quite soon after your last visit. She kept on about the pension inspectors but it became confused, of course. Twisted in her mind. She came to think she’d done something wrong and that they were going to punish her: that she was going to have to leave here. Kept saying she didn’t want to go. I tried to explain it wasn’t so, that they didn’t mean any harm, but I don’t think I really got through to her…’ The woman paused, shaking her head. ‘I was so hopeful.’
‘I want to know something,’ said Charlie, very slowly. ‘Those inspectors. In your opinion was their visit responsible for my mother regressing, as she has?’
The matron adopted a doubtful expression, turning down the corners of her mouth. ‘Impossible to say,’ she said. ‘Maybe. Then again, maybe not. People your mother’s age, senile like she is, their minds fasten on the strangest things.’
‘But if they hadn’t come, there wouldn’t have been the incident to fasten on to in the first place, would there?’
The matron frowned. ‘You can go through life saying “if only…” but it doesn’t get you very far,’ she said philosophically.
‘What are the chances of her coming out of it, like she did before?’
‘There’s always the possibility.’
‘You don’t sound as if you expect it to happen?’
‘I never lose hope.’
‘I left the chocolates on her bed.’
‘I’ll keep them safe here in the office, just in case.’
Charlie returned determinedly to London, glad after all he’d made the date for that evening. He got to the bar sufficiently ahead of Laura to have two drinks before she arrived. She offered herself to be kissed, so he did, and this time they went to a restaurant that had not been recommended in any food guide, and the meal was fine. He let Laura lead the conversation because he did not want to appear to do so in anything, agreeing it was fortunate the hospit
al had discovered Paul’s infection to be caused by a virus and not by the heat, particularly as Paul had to spend a month in Brazil.
‘Harkness is wary of you now,’ she suddenly disclosed. ‘There really was the most awful row, you know?’
‘It did get to the Joint Intelligence Committee, didn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘He didn’t even have me type up the memorandum of explanation. He insisted on doing it himself.’
Charlie smiled contentedly. ‘Serves the bastard right.’
‘I don’t think he’ll stop picking on you,’ judged the girl. ‘I think he’s just waiting…catching his breath.’
‘So am I,’ said Charlie. ‘And I’ve had more practice than he has.’
‘I feel that I’ve been waiting for ever,’ said Laura provocatively.
There were no messages this time on the answering machine at the Chelsea house. She poured brandy and wormed her way very close to him on the small couch and kept insisting that he kiss her, which Charlie did, wishing Paul didn’t appear to be watching from the studio photograph.
‘I’m so glad we’re here like this at last,’ she said.
‘Would you do something for me?’ asked Charlie, choosing his moment.
‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ she said, misunderstanding.
‘The two who went down to the nursing home to question my mother,’ said Charlie. ‘Do you think you could get their names, off the file? They would have submitted reports, wouldn’t they?’
‘What do you want to know that for?’
‘Just curious,’ said Charlie.
‘Catching his breath?’ queried Harkness.
‘That’s what he said,’ confirmed Laura.
‘Without any indication of what that meant?’
‘None,’ said the girl.
The acting Director General came around from behind his desk, so that he was closer to her. ‘You really are doing remarkably well,’ he said. ‘I’m most grateful.’
15
It was an important conference, the first assessment session between the KGB chairman and Valeri Kalenin to consider the Star War material collected so far, and once again Berenkov travelled from the Moscow outskirts to wait for his friend at Dzerzhinsky Square.
Berenkov recalled the last occasion he had waited like this, standing before this same window overlooking the square, and decided he’d done very well obtaining what he had. Well enough, in fact, for headquarters etiquette to have been eased for him to be invited to the conference instead of being kept waiting cap-in-hand for the outcome to be relayed to him. Berenkov resented being kept out. It made no sense: it could actually be counterproductive always for there to be an intermediary despite that intermediary being someone he trusted as completely as Kalenin. Having spent so much of his operational life absolutely alone Berenkov felt difficulty in relying upon anyone else. It was all the more frustrating that he could do nothing about it, but to attempt to do so – suggest he should be included in the future, for instance – risked offending the other man. And worse, hinting that there was not complete trust between them. What about Kalenin’s trust in him, he thought uneasily. There was no comparison: whatever happened, he wouldn’t call upon Kalenin’s protection.
It was the working of the electronic door that again warned Berenkov of his friend’s return. The diminutive, bearded man stopped just inside, expressionless and momentarily unspeaking. Then Kalenin’s face broke and he announced: ‘We’ve done it!’ and strode across to embrace Berenkov in a bear-hug of congratulation.
‘There’s sufficient for them to reach a conclusion?’ queried Berenkov cautiously.
Kalenin nodded. ‘There was a meeting of the Politburo this morning to consider the preliminary report of our space people at Baikonur on what we’ve so far got from America. Their view is that the American development is unquestionably the “garage” part of their Star Wars programme.’
‘Garage?’
‘The actual space facility to store the destructive missiles that would be triggered against any offensive rocket,’ explained Kalenin simply.
It was obvious from the blueprints and drawings they’d already received from San Francisco that it was some sort of satellite but Berenkov hadn’t guessed at this. He said: ‘They’re sure?’
‘Convinced, according to the chairman,’ said Kalenin. ‘Which is as bad as it is good. It’s good that we’ve told them what it is. But we’ve created our own burden to get all of it, so that Russia can win the race…’ The man paused. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, smiling more broadly. ‘You’ve been officially commended by name. There should be celebrations!’
Kalenin produced the vodka bottle from a drawer of his desk. Berenkov accepted the drink, feeling a stab of guilt at the way he was still keeping the Charlie Muffin pursuit from his friend. He said: ‘Let’s hope we can go on as we’ve started.’
‘The technical instructions are that Britain is vitally important,’ cautioned Kalenin. ‘It’s essential to know how their carbon fibre is being utilized. The guess is that it’s a thermoplastic resin process but they need to do more than guess.’
‘We’re well established in America,’ reflected Berenkov. ‘With the man Krogh we could hardly be better placed: within his own organization he can do virtually what he likes, demand access to whatever he wants, without challenge.’
‘But what about England?’
‘Untried, as yet,’ admitted Berenkov honestly. ‘We’ve got an employee desperate for money: a women situation again. But he hasn’t anything like the access seniority that Krogh commands in America.’
‘He can’t be allowed to fail,’ said Kalenin, the warning all the more ominous for its quiet simplicity. ‘Everything is dependent upon us. We stand or fall by what happens now. Personally, I mean.’
‘I know,’ accepted Berenkov.
‘You told the British rezidentura to be careful?’
Now was the opportunity to talk about Charlie Muffin and of baiting his trap with Natalia Nikandrova. At once came the barrier: it was still too soon to be sure that Kalenin would support him. And Berenkov was determined against being ordered to abort the idea. He said: ‘I’ve taken every precaution.’
Blackstone thought excitedly that perhaps it was not going to be quite as difficult as he’d feared. He hadn’t tried getting into the secure area yet, but there was the inevitable talk now that the project was under way. By listening instead of talking in the canteen and the social club he’d learned the basic matrix was going to be made by impregnating the carbon fibres with a polyetheretherketone petrolbased resin and that the sizing appeared quite large, although he couldn’t risk asking actual dimensions or how many layers were being considered for the lamination. It was still enough, for a start. And to show he was trying. Blackstone considered it imperative that he appear to be trying, so that the money didn’t dry up.
Blackstone found a public kiosk about three miles outside Newport and as Losev had promised the telephone was answered quickly, on the second ring, although not by the Russian he knew. Blackstone identified himself and said: ‘I’ve got something.’
‘We’ll come to collect,’ said the voice.
16
It was better now. He didn’t feel good about it – he knew the enormity of what he was doing and the horrifying danger he faced in doing it – but as the days and then the weeks passed Emil Krogh lost the hollow-stomached terror of that first exchange encounter with Petrin on the San Francisco wharf. He was becoming accustomed to it, Krogh guessed. Or maybe it was because he could see an end to it: another month and it would be over. Christ, wouldn’t that be a wonderful moment! Everything over. Finished. He’d be safe again. The Russian had been pretty reassuring about that: talked about their watching and monitoring the meeting places, checking it all out before making a move, every time. There’d been a lot of meeting places. The wharf, a couple of more times. Hotels, in the city and a motel, across in Berkeley. A roadside rest area, over the Golden Gate Bridge. Always
the same, protective routine: he getting there first and waiting for Petrin’s approach which wouldn’t come until they were sure. Like today.
It was the wharf again, the pier-end restaurant with the view of the bay and the tourist helicopter fluttering over Alcatraz. Krogh got there right on time and said he’d wait at the table for his guest and ordered a martini with a lemon twist, very dry with no ice. It was good and he tasted the burn of the gin and felt the tension ease off slightly. Two helicopters passed each other, going to and from the island penitentiary no longer in use. Was it there that they’d sent people who did what he was doing, when it had been a prison? Krogh didn’t think so but he wasn’t sure. Maybe there was a special place, all spies together. That’s what he was, Krogh accepted. A spy against his own country, the sort of crime they’d executed people for, not so long ago. All because of the damned girls. Whores, both of them. Something else that had to end. Not yet, not until this business was well and truly over. One thing at a time. But certainly kiss them off. He hadn’t seen either Barbara or Cindy much, since it had started: Cindy a couple of times, because he’d been in Los Angeles anyway, Barbara on two or three afternoons when she wasn’t at art school. He thought Barbara was already getting the message, acting extra nice to him, eager to please. Barbara first, he decided. Then Cindy. No hassle, no hard feelings. Give them a few bucks, plenty of time to look around and find themselves somewhere else to live. He guessed there’d be crying scenes because that was the way it went, but that was all. They both knew the score: knew it had to happen some time. Krogh felt an odd relief at the decision to get rid of them. He didn’t think he’d look around for anyone to replace them, either: pointless to get out of one blackmail situation and create another. Might as well go on as he was. Which he wouldn’t, Krogh determined, positively. Time he straightened himself out, stopped acting like a jerk.
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