Comrade Charlie

by Brian Freemantle

  Krogh considered for some time leaving a note, actually working out the rambling phrases in his mind, stuff about pressure of work and how he found it increasingly difficult to cope. But then he reckoned that made him appear weak and he didn’t want any weakness being publicly discussed so he decided not to leave any message.

  He took a lot of trouble, building up the stockpile of pills, driving for miles to different pharmacies to spread the purchases and avoid any challenge from a curious dispenser. And despite their separate sleeping arrangements he didn’t set out to do it at home, where Peggy might have interrupted and screwed it all up by discovering him too quickly and getting medical help.

  Instead he made the sort of overnight business trip excuse he’d used a hundred times before and Peggy accepted it without question, like she’d accepted it those hundred times before. Krogh set out without any positive direction, driving up from Monterey towards San Francisco. He found himself on the Bay View side so he crossed over the Oakland Bridge and recognized the surroundings because one of the meetings with Petrin had been this way, at a motel that really had had Hell’s Angels motorcycles in the car park. And then Krogh thought: Why not? It would be his way of shoving up the middle finger to the Russians when they learned what had happened. He started to concentrate and found the motel again. This time there were no Hell’s Angels bikes.

  Krogh paid in full and in cash and the clerk asked with smiling expectancy if there were going to be anyone else joining him, and was clearly surprised when Krogh said there wasn’t. From the earlier motorcycles and the question about company Krogh expected the cabins to be whorehouse dirty but they weren’t. Everything was pressed-cardboard cheap but it was clean, the bedding fresh and with even an unbroken wrapper band over the toilet seat to prove it had been sanitized after the last occupant.

  Krogh toured it all and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, seeking something different in the image gazing back at him but finding nothing. Except that he did look like hell, as Petrin kept complaining: the carefully tucked skin seemed sagged, especially around his neck, and his eyes were watery and veined. Krogh wondered what sort of photograph the newspapers would use: he hoped it was one of the early ones from his publicity portfolio. They’d been a good set and he’d liked them.

  Back in the bedroom Krogh looked about him uncertainly, not sure what to do next. How did you kill yourself? Just did it, he supposed. He unzipped the overnight bag and took out the pill bottles and stacked them neatly on the table beside the bed, like he’d stood his soldiers up as a kid. At the bottom of the bag there was the quart of Jack Daniels he’d brought as well, because he thought he remembered it was a more effective way to kill yourself, mixing pills and booze, and he figured he might need a little Dutch courage anyway. In fact he’d do just that: just a little nip by itself first, to relax him. Krogh poured a stiff one in a wrapper-sealed bathroom glass, grimacing slightly as the liquor burned its way down, and thought he’d take a second by itself, because why not? He decided to undress, for no particular reason, neatly hanging his suit in the closet, and sitting on the edge of the crisp bed in his shorts, feeling quite calm about what he was going to do. Halfway through the second drink he began emptying the pills out on the side table, so that he wouldn’t have to fumble with childproof stoppers when he got fuzzy-headed, and then thought what the hell was he waiting for? So he started taking them. He did it patiently, not shovelling handfuls into his mouth or anything silly like that; a pill, a sip of whisky, a positive swallow, then waiting a few seconds before taking another.

  Soon after he started Krogh began to belch, as if he had indigestion. He stopped for a while, mouth clamped shut. He had expected to be feeling some effect by now, a drowsiness, but there was nothing. There appeared to be an enormous number of pills in front of him, a mountain range. He started again, slowly like before, but after two the whisky caught in his throat and he coughed and a lot came up, sour and bitter tasting. Krogh swallowed and got them down and waited longer this time. When he resumed again he was feeling something, nothing like positive sleep but a tingling numbness to the back of his hands and his cheeks.

  He threw up just after that. Krogh tried desperately not to, biting his lips closed and cupping his hands in front of his face but he realized he couldn’t hold it down and so he rushed to the bathroom. The damned wrapper-band got in the way and he didn’t quite make it but didn’t cause too much of a mess.

  He didn’t think he’d lost everything so there would still be some effect from the pills, and certainly the numbness hadn’t gone. He’d clung to the toilet bowl in the end so he stayed on the floor, crawling back into the bedroom and propping himself against the bed edge. Had to start again; get it right on this attempt. He developed the same pattern as before, a pill, a sip, a pause, but there was no indigestion and he didn’t feel nauseous and the heaviness came, his eyelids too full to keep open. Krogh fought against it, wanting to be sure, trying to maintain the routine, vaguely conscious of spilling the drink over himself and several times dropping a pill he couldn’t find because it rolled away so that he had to fumble for another.

  He wasn’t aware of losing consciousness. His realization was rather of waking up, his head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton wool, but knowing at once where he was and that he hadn’t taken enough and had to do more. The whisky now was foul to taste and he gagged and it ran down his chin. On rubber legs he staggered into the bathroom to get water in a second glass and started swallowing the pills with that, which was better and although he was beyond counting he knew he’d taken a lot and then there was blackness again.

  The retching brought him out of his unconsciousness once more, although that wasn’t his immediate impression because there was a dream that he was ill, dying, and everyone was gathered around and people were saying what a wonderful man he had been and what a great loss it would be. He tried not to vomit in front of all the sympathetic visitors because it was disgusting but he couldn’t stop himself and then he was somehow back in the bathroom, sprawled by the toilet which he hadn’t reached soon enough. Krogh rolled over in his own filth, unable to move any more, unable to make his body do anything, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  It was absolutely quiet when he finally awoke, nothing moving in the early morning stillness. Krogh was bitterly cold, shivering violently, and he felt like the death that he’d tried to achieve but knew he couldn’t. He stayed lying where he was, tears sobbing from him at his complete, aching helplessness.

  The men were clearly frightened to be called before him which was what Berenkov wanted because fear was a great guarantor of orders being strictly obeyed.

  ‘Is it quite clear what you are to do?’ he demanded.

  The nervous Gennadi Redin, whose major’s rank put him in charge of the KGB escorts accompanying the delegation to Britain, said: ‘Whatever happens we are to do nothing whatsoever to interfere with Comrade Natalia Nikandrova? She is to be allowed to do whatever she chooses, without question or challenge.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Berenkov. ‘Whatever she chooses.’

  27

  It was three days after the failed suicide attempt – almost four taking the overnight flight into account – when Emil Krogh landed in London. He still felt ghastly. And looked it, too. His face was grey and even more sagged, his eyes rheumy and with an occasional apprehensive tic pulling at the right side of his face, near his mouth, so that he seemed to be smiling, but grotesquely. There was a tremble to his hands, as well: there was an almost permanent shake and at times a more profound jump, actually lifting his hands in small convulsions. Again it was his right side.

  He didn’t sleep at all during the flight and arrived gravel-eyed and sour mouthed, a throbbing ache moving beyond his head to run down the back of his neck into his shoulders. Although his eyes were open and his body moving there kept being momentary breaks in his awareness of his surroundings, so that he kept twitching back in apprehension at finding himself in a pla
ce – like the immigration check and the Customs hall and outside the terminal building, seeking a taxi – without knowing how he got there.

  He sat with his head back against the seat on the drive into London, oblivious and uncaring about the route or anything on it. At the hotel he went robot-like through the registration formalities: in his suite he jerked up, like a man awakening, unable to remember getting there from the downstairs lobby. He slumped into a chair in the sitting room, not bothering to unpack, drifting in and out of positive awareness, dreaming but not dreaming and never a proper dream at all. His mind was blocked by the squalor of the Oakland motel, and that was all he kept thinking of: the smell and the filth and how he’d scrabbled around on his hands and knees the following morning, trying to clean away the mess he’d caused and then to clean himself and after that sneaking out, still early, without being seen and then driving aimlessly around, trying to recover. Incredibly Peggy seemed to accept his explanation of some gastroenteritis bug and he’d stayed away from the plant that day and played out the charade with his concerned father-in-law that evening, insisting it was only a passing, twenty-four-hour thing and that there was no reason at all for him to cancel the trip to England.

  And now he was here, Krogh realized, in a sudden, coherent moment. Here, like he’d been told to be: obedient and waiting for them to snap their fingers for him to do whatever they wanted done, like a dog performing tricks. He supposed that’s what he was: their performing animal, here boy, good dog, fetch boy, fetch.

  Krogh’s right hand leapt high in fright at the sound of the telephone. He sat, transfixed by the strident sound but not responding to it for several moments. When he did, finally, he just lifted it from its cradle, not able to speak to identify himself.

  ‘Emil?’

  Krogh still couldn’t make a proper response. He grunted, a guttural sound, and Petrin repeated: ‘Emil?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Krogh, at last. The word croaked out.

  ‘How was the flight?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Krogh stupidly.

  ‘You don’t know!’

  ‘All right, I guess.’

  ‘You tired?’

  Krogh almost said again that he didn’t know, but stopped. He said: ‘Sort of.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to rest for a while. But now there are things to be done. You called the Isle of Wight factory yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Things like that,’ said Petrin. ‘And I want you to look at what we’ve set up for you. Make sure you’ve got everything you want.’

  Krogh grunted again.

  ‘Telephone the factory at three. Make an appointment for tomorrow: they’re expecting you so it’ll be convenient enough. But don’t tell them where you’re staying, unless they press. I don’t want them to have an address,’ ordered the Russian. ‘Be downstairs at three thirty. I’ll take you to where you’re going to work.’

  Krogh gave a third grunt.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Petrin.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You understood what I’ve said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Repeat it back to me.’

  Krogh did and Petrin said: ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

  Krogh stayed for several moments by the telephone but at last willed himself to move. He finally unpacked. Then he showered and shaved and felt marginally better, but only marginally. He was hungry and nauseous at the same time. Fleetingly he considered getting something on room service but discarded the idea. His suite overlooked the outer road. He stood at the window, gazing in the direction of the unseen Berkeley Square. Grosvenor Square was unseen, too, to his left, but still close, not more than three or four hundred yards. Krogh knew the American embassy was there: the American embassy where the CIA and the FBI would have station officers. You don’t know me but my name is Emil Krogh and I have leaked to the Soviets everything I so far know about the ultimate destruction weapon forming part of the Strategic Defence Initiative. I’d like you to kill me because I’ve tried to do it myself but I couldn’t do it right. I’m utterly inadequate, you see. He felt more hungry than sick and wished he’d ordered something. Too late now. Have to wait until tonight: maybe a steak then. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper, full meal: certainly a proper, full meal that he’d managed to keep down. Krogh went into the bathroom, where the lighting was better than the bedroom, and examined himself. The shower and shave had helped and he didn’t think he looked as bad as he had when he’d arrived that morning. Definitely the pallor was better, not so grey. His eyes were still awash, though, and not just wet but very red. Drops, if he’d had any with him, might have helped. Something else that was too late. Almost three, he thought. He tried to remember the name of the project chief at the factory and couldn’t, his mind an impenetrable blank. There was a stomach-opening panic and he scrambled through the letters and addresses in his briefcase, closing his eyes in the prayer-like hope that it was there, then suddenly came upon it. Springley: Robert Springley. Quite unusual. Stupid of him to have forgotten it. Couldn’t afford to forget anything in the coming days. Had to remember everything, difficult, technical detail, and make the drawings. Get rid of the bastards, once and for all.

  Krogh gave a tiny cry of surprise, a sharp intake of breath, when the telephone sounded again. Nervously, as if the receiver were hot and he risked burning himself from contact with it, Krogh picked it up. Once more he didn’t say anything.

  ‘Emil?’

  Krogh squeezed his eyes shut, another praying gesture, absurdly relieved to hear Petrin’s voice. Even more absurd, he wanted very much to have the man with him, looking after him, telling him what to do. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to sleep on, if in fact you were asleep. It’s close to three.’

  ‘I was awake. I know what time it is.’

  ‘Good. Just wanted to make sure. I’ll be waiting downstairs.’

  ‘Is that where you are now?’

  ‘No. Make your call now, OK?’

  The line went dead. Fetch boy, fetch, thought Krogh. Staging his own infantile protest he waited until a couple of minutes past three before dialling the number. He was connected at once to Robert Springley. The exchange was predictable: how was he, and thanks he was fine in return and it had been a pleasant enough flight and yes the English weather was a contrast with what he was used to in California and – lying – he didn’t feel too bad at the moment but he guessed the jet-lag would hit him any time now. Springley insisted he was looking forward very much to the meeting and thoughtfully dictated the train times from Waterloo station that would connect with a hydrofoil service from the mainland to get him to the Isle of Wight by eleven the following morning, if that weren’t too early. Krogh assured the Englishman the schedule was convenient, replaced the telephone and hunched forward on the chair, thinking how easy it had all been. His hands weren’t moving as much as they had been, earlier: not really a discernible shake any more. Just the vaguest movement of uncertainty.

  Krogh tried another protest, remaining unnecessarily in his suite until three thirty, which put him downstairs in the lobby five minutes late. Petrin was waiting in the smaller of the two drawing rooms, to the right of the doors, actually looking at a copy of Country Life as if he were studiously reading the magazine. As he usually did, Petrin appeared quite relaxed and at ease. The man didn’t look up until Krogh was quite close. When he did so at last he smiled and stood and quite illogically extended his hand, as if they were friends meeting after a long period. Instinctively Krogh responded to the offered handshake, wishing too late to stop that he hadn’t. He was aware of the Russian studying him and waited for the complaint about how rough he looked but Petrin said nothing about his appearance. He didn’t seem aware of the lateness, either.

  ‘You call the factory?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘That’re expecting me at eleven tomorrow.’

  ‘That
’s good, Emil. I’m very pleased.’

  Krogh remembered reading that dog owners got better performances from their animals by expressions of encouragement. Trying to sound dismissive, he said: ‘Shall we get on with it?’

  Petrin smiled and defeated him, as he always did. The Russian said: ‘I like your enthusiasm.’

  The Soviet safe house was just off Rutland Gardens, a comparatively small property among the imposing five- and six-storeyed Regency buildings which are no longer individual houses but split-up and divided apartment and sometimes office conversions, each occupied by anonymous and indifferent strangers content to remain anonymous and indifferent, which made the location ideal for the Russians’ unobserved use.

  Virtually an entire room had been set aside for Krogh, although the equipment by no means filled it. Krogh’s impression was that the contents of a commercial or industrial drawing supplier’s showroom had been emptied, which was almost what had happened. There was a large, flat table bisecting the room across its centre and stacked with cartons of original drawing film and trace paper running from size A1 to A4. There were several containers of pencils and drawing pens, in varying colours. The large drawing board was a traditional design, with top and bottom rollers connecting a complete foldaway parallelogram drawing machine which was adjustable, to move either up or down or across a drawing. In front of the assembly was a swivelling drawing chair and there were two large, anglepoise lights and a more elaborate third illumination, with a series of manoeuvrable lamps attached to a bar from which lamps could be set and positioned to direct light in any particular direction or spot.