Comrade Charlie

by Brian Freemantle

Springley was walking slightly ahead of him so the man was unaware of Krogh’s frown. The project chief said: ‘The chairman, managing director. Most of the other directors and the senior people in the project team.’

  Krogh supposed he should have anticipated a social situation but stupidly – preoccupied, he excused himself – he hadn’t. Confronting the thought for the first time Krogh conceded he hadn’t known what to expect, at all, apart from some half-formed idea of being with Springley and getting to the drawings. There was nothing he could do but go along with whatever they had laid on. Krogh hoped it wouldn’t last long. Although he hadn’t prepared himself with expectations there was one positive intention: Krogh wanted to get it over with, in the same urgency with which he’d wanted to finish what the Russians had forced him to do with the material from his own plant. He said: ‘We will get around to seeing the actual work, won’t we?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Springley, vaguely.

  The boardroom was on the top floor of the main, three-storey building, a pleasantly large room glassed on two sides for a panoramic view of the river and the yacht moorings at its mouth. Inside the room the elongated conference table had been moved to one side and some chairs removed, to enable more standing room, and Krogh guessed the two smaller tables, one for the canapés, another for an array of drinks, were an addition to the usual furniture. Krogh later put the number at about eight but his first impression on entering the room was that a crowed of people awaited him. He succeeded in getting the chairman’s name as John Bishop and that of the managing director as James Spear or Dear but after that the introductions were too quick and the identities blurred. Krogh accepted a scotch and soda, needing it, but declined the frequently offered snacks because there was a faint suggestion of sickness. The conversation began almost as aimlessly general as it had been with the project leader on the way from the hydrofoil terminal, but then a positive direction did start to emerge, initiated by the chairman. Bishop talked of his company’s awareness of the importance of the shared contract and the managing director, whose name turned out to be Spear, picked up the theme and smiled anxiously and said they hoped it became not only entirely satisfactory but the beginning of a long and mutually beneficial association. And Krogh realized that Petrin’s surmise the previous day, that the British firm saw him as an essential conduit for further American defence contracts, was correct.

  Krogh seized upon it, deciding the cocktail party was not the waste of time he’d initially considered it to be but a useful opportunity to make easier what he was being blackmailed into doing. Carefully ensuring that Springley was close enough at hand to hear the discussion, Krogh assured those grouped around him that he and his company were equally conscious of its importance. He disclosed, truthfully, that it was the most substantial order they had ever received from the Pentagon. And insisted it was because they were so determined that everything would be entirely satisfactory and create the confidence sufficient for new contracts in the future that he had come all the way from California, for this consultation.

  Bishop responded precisely as Krogh wanted, turning to Springley when he said: ‘I couldn’t agree more; liaison is essential.’

  ‘I want to guarantee the complete compatibility of what we’re manufacturing over there and the work you’re doing here,’ said Krogh. ‘I know we’ve individually got sets of master drawings which are supposed to connect, one to the other, and that in theory they should marry together but I’ve known split defence undertakings before where that hasn’t happened…’ He smiled, shaking his head in invitation to a common experience. ‘… And you know what happens every time? The mistake is never the fault of the Pentagon designers or draughtsmen: always the buck is passed to the contractors’ interpretation and the next contract goes to somebody else.’

  The chairman smiled, taking Krogh’s cue. ‘Bureaucracy! It’s the same the world over.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree my visit is necessary,’ said Krogh.

  ‘I think it’s imperative,’ insisted Bishop. Again the man spoke half looking at Springley.

  Krogh decided, satisfied, that it was practically an order to the project chief to share and disclose everything that was demanded of him. Protecting himself further Krogh said: ‘I’ll probably want to come more than once…’ He paused, sweeping his hand to embrace the reception put on for his benefit ‘… and I don’t mean to all this, for which I thank you: you’ve been most kind. I mean to come back to spend some time with Mr Springley here to make sure we’ve got the compatibility we want…’ Krogh allowed another pause, to establish his argument. He concluded: ‘… to guarantee the re-orders and new contracts we want.’

  There were smiles from everyone in the room and Krogh realized, astonished, that he was welcoming the attention and admiration. It made him feel good: important. Which was preposterous: preposterous and ridiculous, and Krogh was embarrassed even to think it.

  Spear, the managing director, said: ‘Mr Krogh, you’re welcome at this establishment as many times and for as long as you like.’

  There were more drinks, which Krogh enjoyed, and then a call to lunch in a small directors’ dining room, which was another social extension the American hadn’t foreseen. He sat between Bishop and Spear, and was content to let the two men dominate the conversation. The talk was of other space developments with which their company had been associated in Europe and the surprisingly poor commitment to space technology shown by the British government which expected profit return upon investment within a year or two and was never prepared to wait any time beyond. Krogh sympathized and agreed it was small-minded and short-sighted, and allowed himself to be drawn about his own company and the previous spacework they had completed for the American government. Towards the end, when he was talking of those defence contracts, Krogh’s fragile confidence began to slip at the spectre of what he had already done and was continuing to do that day and at what would happen to him if he were ever caught. The meal ended with a rather embarrassing formal speech which the chairman rose to give, concluding with a toast to Krogh who, unprepared for this as with everything else, groped to his feet and muttered how pleased he was to be there and how gratified he was by everything that had been said.

  Throughout the meal Springley sat opposite, although contributing little to the discussion. After the speech Bishop leaned across the table to the man and said: ‘It’s going to be full cooperation and liaison, OK?’

  ‘I understand,’ said the project chief. ‘I’m sure Mr Krogh and I are going to get along together just fine.’

  It was approaching four o’clock before they left the dining room and finally made their way towards the secure division of the factory. As they walked Krogh said: ‘That went on a bit, didn’t it?’

  Springley smiled in understanding but didn’t openly criticize. Instead he said: ‘This contract is regarded pretty highly here. And you with it.’

  Moving to capitalize upon the promises from the chairman, Krogh said: ‘So how many drawings do I have to consider, in all?’

  ‘Twenty-four,’ said Springley at once. ‘Some very simple, some not so simple.’

  Not as many as he had feared, from the lunchtime talk, thought Krogh. But still enough. It wasn’t possible, until he saw them, to estimate how long it would take him to reproduce them all. He said: ‘There’s insufficient time left today for me to get anything but the most general overview.’

  ‘If that,’ agreed Springley.

  Inside the division Krogh was introduced to those in the project team he had not yet met and as he went through the ritual he decided against any attempt in the last hour to memorize the drawings he had come to see. Instead, rather than concentrate upon one blueprint, he scanned them all, mentally categorizing them to assess the degree of work involved and the amount of time that would be involved in doing it. It was still only a rough calculation but he divided the drawings into eleven that were comparatively easy, little more than links between one to another of the remaining, much more i
ntricate and difficult thirteen: although separate, some of the drawings were enlarged and more detailed specifications of other, more general plans. Krogh calculated that working flat out he could reproduce the easier, linking designs in two days, three at the outside, but that the other thirteen would each take him the minimum of a day and in several cases even longer.

  ‘How’s it look?’ asked Springley, at his shoulder.

  Krogh shrugged. ‘Impossible to say, from a quick look like this: naturally it’s all familiar…’ He paused, looking around the facility, determined upon every advantage. ‘Is there a place I can work, out of everybody’s way, when I come back?’

  ‘Of course,’ assured Springley, gesturing to one of the smaller offices at the side of the communal drawing room. ‘There are two or three rooms that aren’t being used.’

  ‘Thank you, for everything,’ said Krogh.

  Springley smiled faintly. ‘We haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘But it’s going to work out, isn’t it?’ said Krogh. ‘Work out just like we want it to.’

  By lunchtime that day the news of Krogh’s presence – ‘the head of the American company, he’s actually here!’ – had spread throughout the factory. Henry Blackstone heard about it in the canteen and spent the afternoon close to a convenient window, so he saw Krogh cross into the secret division with Springley after the boardroom greeting. For no positive reason Blackstone lingered after finishing work, not immediately outside where he would have been recognized and possibly aroused curiosity by hanging about but along the road by a pub named after Queen Victoria, who had favoured the island as a holiday home, and so he had a perfect view of Krogh as the limousine swept by, returning the man to the mainland ferry terminal. Blackstone decided, pleased, that it was definitely something to report to the London number he now knew by heart. It obviously wasn’t important enough to earn him the sort of money he would have got for a blueprint but he was sure it deserved some payment. He hoped so: he was desperately short of money, back in the sort of position he’d thought he’d escaped for ever. Blackstone was actually humming to himself as he drove towards Newport in the car upon which he was already two months behind with the payments.

  Krogh didn’t locate Petrin on the return journey, not even on the hydrofoil where it should have been easy, which he found unsettling but not positively worrying after what he regarded as the encouraging success of the day. He first became aware of the Russian when the train reached Waterloo and then he did not see him. Krogh had an awareness of a presence, very close, and a voice he recognized to be Petrin’s said: ‘Are we going straight to the house?’

  Krogh jumped, involuntarily, despite the concourse noise of the main-line station. He stopped, turning to face the other man, and said: ‘I wondered where you were: I looked but couldn’t find you.’

  ‘I don’t make a habit of being easily seen,’ said Petrin arrogantly. ‘I asked if we were going straight to the house.’

  ‘There’s nothing for me to draw,’ said Krogh.

  The American purposely phrased the declaration, trying to disturb the Russian, but Petrin gave no alarmed response. Quite controlled, he said: ‘How’s that, Emil?’

  With passengers swirling around them and metalvoiced announcements of train movements and delays echoing overhead, Krogh recounted what had happened that day. Petrin listened with his head slightly bowed, not looking directly at him, but started nodding as Krogh finished. The Russian looked up then and smiled and said: ‘That’s good: that’s very good indeed. You’ve done well.’

  Satisfaction stirred through Krogh at the congratulation, despite his trying to prevent it: he was like a child anxious for praise from an adult he sought to impress. He said: ‘From what I’ve seen it’s going to take at least a fortnight, maybe longer.’

  ‘Just as long as we get it all,’ reminded the Russian.

  Vitali Losev listened patiently to Blackstone, at the other end of the line, sighing at the length at which the man was talking in a blatantly obvious attempt to increase the importance of what he was saying. When Blackstone eventually finished, the Russian said: ‘Thank you. That’s very interesting.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know right away,’ said Blackstone hopefully. ‘I thought you’d consider it important.’

  ‘Like I told you, it’s interesting,’ qualified Losev. ‘It’ll help to get that permanent payment organized.’

  There was a long pause between them, Losev waiting contemptuously. At last, desperately, Blackstone said: ‘You haven’t heard anything yet then?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Losev. ‘Soon, I hope.’

  30

  It was a hotel clinging by its fingertips to the middle range of the package-tour market, reconciled to the number of couples named Smith who booked in for one night and left earlier in the morning, and wary of a health inspection swoop on the kitchens because you couldn’t keep cockroaches completely from hotel kitchens, could you?

  The foyer was a brave attempt at something it was not. There was an imitation marble floor of yellowy amber and the motif was continued with two imitation marble pillars in a matching colour. At various strategic points there were tall plants with large leaves which went well with the marble effect and just got away with conveying an interior garden atmosphere. The reception area was quite small and to the right of the double-fronted glass doors: behind the reception clerk all the rooms were itemized by open cubbyholes into which the keys fitted with their number tags hanging down, to show whether they were occupied or not, and which Charlie marked right away as a burglar’s dream. There was a sitting area to the left, a couch and a set of chairs with ornately carved legs and arms and with upholstery featuring French pastoral scenes of pomaded men and crinolined women unaware of the rumbling tumbrils of revolution. It was the sort of brocade material Charlie had seen on genuine antiques and looked quite good when slightly frayed, which this was.

  The clerk, a smiling girl, wondered if he were on holiday and Charlie agreed he was and she asked if he knew London well and Charlie said well enough. She gestured to some unseen desk behind a potted plant and said it was manned between ten and four every weekday to get theatre tickets or tour trips and Charlie promised to remember.

  He was given room 35 and taken to it by an elderly porter whose false teeth didn’t fit and who therefore lisped when he talked. On the way up in a hicupping, metal-grilled lift Charlie patiently went through the here-for-a-holiday, first-time-in-London ritual. The old man showed him how to operate the television and opened the bathroom door to prove the room had one and said if there were anything at all Charlie wanted he only had to ask. Charlie thanked the man and tipped him two pounds because he invariably found hotel porters useful allies to have.

  The room was small but adequate. There was a double bed at one side of which was a tray with a kettle and a selection of tea, coffee and powdered milk sachets for a do-it-yourself breakfast drink, a built-in clothes closet, a low table bordered with two easy chairs and the already identified television had a dial device for in-house movies. One was described as adult viewing and didn’t become available until after 10 p.m. Charlie guessed the management had got a job lot with the fake marble tiles because the bathroom was a replica of the lobby. The bath was clean, there were enough towels and there was a tray of soaps and shampoo and conditioner in their individual packets. He was going to be quite comfortable, Charlie decided.

  He unpacked and with instinctive professionalism set out to explore his surroundings. He followed the signs and discovered his room was conveniently positioned near the fire escape. It was an internal system, a back-stairs spiral of bare concrete steps with a metal hand rail. Charlie pushed through the door on his floor and descended the three flights to find where it emerged, out into the open. It was on to a tiny rear car park, where the dustbins were kept as well as vehicles. There was an alley leading from the front of the hotel, towards the park, but another feeder road for service lorries ran at right angles, as well: Char
lie guessed the feeder road supplied several other hotels in the area.

  It would have been convenient to have emerged through the fire door on the ground level but it would have made the clerk or the porter curious, so Charlie limped back up the three flights to use the public, rickety lift: by the time he’d been up and then down his legs as well as his feet ached, and Charlie felt the need to restore himself.

  The bar was on the same side as the reception area but further back into the hotel, past more plants and the theatre ticket desk he now located. Charlie, not only a man of quick impressions but a degreeholding judge of hostelries, liked it at once. The colour scheme was predominantly restful red, with hunting scenes and prints of eighteenth-century London around the walls. The bar itself looked as if it were made from aged and heavy wood, which was probably plastic imitation like the outside tiles but Charlie thought it worked well enough. It was along the inner wall and impressively stocked with little-known brand-name scotch, which Charlie always considered a good sign. There were a few bar stools, a spread of tables and some benched seats.

  Charlie expertly chose the corner stool, right against the wall, from which he had an immediate view of anyone entering but from whom he would not be easily seen until they got their bearings. He ordered an Islay malt and the barman said he didn’t want ice or water did he and Charlie agreed that he didn’t and was further impressed. A barman who knew how properly to serve Islay malt and was able instantly to discern someone else who did as well was no newcomer to his trade. And practised hotel barmen were even better allies than porters because as well as proficiency with drinks they were usually proficient with gossip. The barman, whose name emerged as John and who, from the bracelets and the neckchain, was a lover of gold, let Charlie lead the conversation, which was another indication of experience and which Charlie started to do after the second drink. The man started to volunteer what Charlie sought by the time of the third drink, prompted by Charlie disclosing how long he intended staying.