‘Unfortunate,’ said Levy. ‘Now look what you’ve got. You’re the man who made it possible for the Swiss to seize a provable Soviet agent and publicly show to the world the link between Moscow and Arab terrorism. It’s a coup, Charlie. Enjoy your reputation.’
‘Christ, it was clever,’ said Charlie. ‘Pressured by America to take part in a conference including Palestinians with whom you’re committed never to become involved you allowed a fanatic to be part of their delegation knowing there’d be some outrage to wreck everything: wreck it for years.’
‘The positive Russian intrusion was a bonus,’ allowed Levy. ‘If you had not got him it would have been put down to a lone Palestinian assassin. And when the rifle was eventually found the suspicion would have been of American, not Soviet involvement.’
‘Why did Russia become involved!’
‘Moscow doesn’t want peace in the Middle East,’ said Levy. ‘Certainly not peace orchestrated by Washington and an American President. Syria would have ceased being a client state, for a start.’
‘Doesn’t Israel want peace?’
Levy smiled, adding to both their glasses. ‘It’s an odd fact, but Israel exists better as a cohesive society with a … what is it your British call it? A Dunkirk spirit?’
‘There’s got to be more in it than that.’
‘The American administration were backing away from us,’ disclosed Levy. ‘There were private assurances that the aid would continue, as well as the arms supply, but we had our doubts. This way everybody wins. Anderson is the man who came closer than anyone else to achieving peace, Russia is exposed as the villain and we go on getting all the American support we ask for.’
‘Weren’t you frightened she’d move against one of the Israeli delegates, rather than the American Secretary of State?’
‘That was always the biggest risk,’ admitted Levy. ‘She wouldn’t have succeeded, of course. We were always ready.’
‘Your people shot her?’
‘Of course,’ said Levy. ‘But there’s more than one wound, apparently. Seems like the Russian had orders to kill her, as well. The same bullets as we used: they tried to think of everything.’
So they had expected someone to die. Charlie said: ‘What do you imagine the American reaction would be if they ever learned you’d allowed their Secretary of State — and a protective CIA man — literally to be led like a lamb to the slaughter?’
‘Proof, Charlie: where’s the proof? This conversation never took place. You know that.’
‘Bastard!’
‘You already said that,’ reminded the Israeli. ‘Let’s just say that this time I won.’
Like fuck, thought Charlie.
The preliminary enquiry had been in one of the small committee chambers of the Praesidium building of the Kremlin and afterwards Berenkov and Kalenin drove back to Dzerzhinsky Square in the same car, the KGB chairman’s Zil. They travelled with the curtains drawn and the separating window raised between themselves and the driver.
‘They were right,’ said Kalenin, ‘it’s an unmitigated disaster.’
‘It was a wise precaution for Comrade Lvov to be so openly acknowledged as the architect of the entire operation,’ said Berenkov. ‘And personally regrettable for him to be recognized as the strongest opponent of it being cancelled.’
‘We’ll have to deny Zenin, of course.’
‘He carried nothing connecting him to Russia,’ said Berenkov.
‘What if he confesses?’
Berenkov shook his head. ‘His entire training is against that.’
‘I’d feel happier if he were eliminated.’
‘It would be difficult, in jail. And a lot of people would regard it as confirmation of his being a Soviet agent if he were killed,’ suggested Berenkov.
Kalenin nodded, accepting the argument, looking expectantly towards the yellow-stucco front of the approaching KGB headquarters. He said: ‘There’s still the British.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Berenkov.
‘There’s no way of assessing how much they know?’
‘Absolutely none.’
‘The greatest uncertainty then?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘What about Charlie Muffin?’
‘It was definitely him,’ disclosed Berenkov. ‘Remember we stepped up the intercepts to the British embassy here?’
‘Of course.’
‘We managed a computer break on one of the codes we had not previously been able to read,’ said Berenkov. ‘Charlie Muffin sent queries concerning Novikov to a man here called Gale: we had not positively identified Gale as the rezident at the embassy, so it was a double bonus.’
‘You are right,’ said Kalenin. ‘Charlie Muffin has to be eliminated: he’s a recurring nuisance.’
‘I’m handling it personally.’
‘Have you devised a way yet?’
‘Not yet,’ conceded Berenkov. ‘I’m considering one possibility.’
‘No more mistakes,’ warned Kalenin. ‘It would not be wise if either of us were associated with another mistake.’ It was fortunate, Kalenin thought, that he possessed all those incriminating biographies of so many men in positions of power and importance.
‘I won’t make any move until I’m sure,’ said Berenkov.
‘You liked Charlie Muffin, didn’t you?’ said Kalenin, aware of the background of his friend, like he was aware of all the other backgrounds.
‘He was a very clever operator,’ said Berenkov.
‘Regrettable in some ways that he has to be removed.’
‘Unavoidable,’ said Berenkov.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The polygraph test was the final part of Charlie’s positive vetting and he entered the technician’s room satisfied that so far he had done pretty well. He would know soon enough, he supposed: the appointment with the Director was scheduled for that afternoon. He was wearing the bank interview shirt that he’d had laundered at the Beau-Rivage.
‘Long time since I had one of these,’ he said to the technician.
‘You know the rules then?’ He was a doleful, long-faced man so accustomed to uncovering human frailties that he could no longer be shocked.
‘Yes or no answers to everything with a lot of sexy stuff at the beginning to see if I’m telling the truth,’ said Charlie. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we try to speed things up a bit? I’ve masturbated since I was nine, try to get my leg over as often as possible and I’ve never had a homosexual relationship but I’ve always been curious.’
The man sighed, wearily. ‘Let’s just do it my way, shall we?’
Charlie let himself be hooked up to the sensors that would monitor his sweat, pulse and heart beats and said: ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
It took two hours. Throughout Charlie sat quite relaxed, Hush Puppies extended before him, his legs crossed at the ankles, part of his mind not concentrating upon the examination but what he still wanted to do about Switzerland. That afternoon’s appointment was at Sir Alistair Wilson’s demand but if it had not come Charlie would have sought a meeting anyway. He hoped Wilson would agree. What was the greater spur, he asked himself objectively. His hurt pride or his offended sensibilities over what had happened in Geneva? It didn’t really matter. Getting the Director’s approval was all that mattered. Charlie was damned if he were going to be beaten.
Charlie was almost surprised when the test ended. As the technician unhooked him Charlie said: ‘How did I do?’
‘Well enough,’ said the man.
‘Mum always said that honesty was the best policy,’ said Charlie.
‘I’m not impressed,’ said the man. ‘Why don’t you save the independence bullshit for elsewhere?’
Arseholes, thought Charlie. His inclination was to go to the pub at lunchtime but he resisted it, remaining instead in his office to complete his Swiss expenses, smiling at the confetti of receipts and bills he had amassed. Keep Harkness happy for hours, he thought. Charlie squinted through the opaque gl
ass, trying to see if Witherspoon were in his office. It appeared to be empty. Charlie wondered if the man had been switched back to Novikov or put on something else: school crossing warden, for instance.
Charlie arrived at the Director’s office promptly on time and was admitted at once, immediately conscious of something being different but not initially able to recognize what it was. And then he became aware that the room was devoid of roses.
Wilson saw Charlie looking curiously around the room and said: ‘Some sort of aphid: chafer grub seems the most likely.’
‘Sorry to hear it,’ said Charlie.
‘Causing havoc,’ said the Director.
‘I’ve heard that it does.’
‘Some of the stems will die.’ The Director, at the windowsill, leaned absent-mindedly downwards, massaging his stiff leg.
‘Sorry,’ said Charlie again, unable to think of anything else.
‘It’s Islay malt, isn’t it?’ said the Director, limping towards the drink cabinet, enclosed behind a bureau door.
‘For preference,’ accepted Charlie.
‘Never could acquire a taste for whisky,’ said Wilson, with the sadness of someone confessing a failing. ‘Pink gin man, myself. The Russian isn’t saying anything, you know.’
‘I didn’t expect him to.’
‘The photograph of Koretsky’s surveillance that day in Primrose Hill is a positive link to Moscow,’ said Wilson. ‘And there is the corroborative affidavit from Novikov.’
‘We’d have to move against Koretsky, if he were identified as the London rezident,’ reminded Charlie.
The Director nodded. ‘That’s the bugger: means MI5 would have to spend a lot of time identifying his replacement. But the Cabinet feeling is that causing as big a sensation in Switzerland as possible is worth the sacrifice.’
‘Probably,’ concurred Charlie.
‘If you hadn’t got him, the whole thing would have been put down to a suicide assault by a Palestinian zealot: there would not have been any proof of Soviet involvement because all the hollow-nosed ammunition flattens out and is impossible to differentiate forensically.’ Wilson hesitated and said in begrudgingly professional acknowledgement: ‘You’ve got to give them credit, the bloody Russians are nothing if not devious.’
‘There was a second plot,’ announced Charlie, abruptly. ‘Or maybe it was the first, I don’t know. The Israelis set the whole thing up. Let the woman run, to wreck everything. Whether the Russians had been involved or not really wouldn’t have mattered a damn.’
Wilson turned, the whisky bottle suspended over Charlie’s glass, but not pouring. He said: ‘I think you’d better explain that.’
Charlie did, not once trying to disguise or gloss over his own mistakes. By the time he finished Wilson was nodding. He finished making the drinks, handed Charlie his glass and said: ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ responded Charlie.
‘Levy admitted that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bastards!’
‘That’s what I said. Several times.’
‘Despite everything, you still did well,’ praised the older man.
‘I want to do something more.’
‘What?’
Charlie told him, in as much detail as he’d given in the earlier explanation and when he finished Wilson said: ‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s no benefit for us,’ protested the Director, objectively.
‘Yes there is,’ disputed Charlie. ‘Levy was right, saying that I was the flavour of the month with the CIA. It would make them more grateful: not to me personally, but to the service as a whole.’
‘Maybe,’ said Wilson, doubtfully.
‘People died,’ said Charlie. ‘People needn’t have died.’
‘No,’ accepted Wilson. ‘No, they didn’t have to let it go to that extreme.’
‘So can I go to Washington?’
Wilson gazed for several moments down into his glass, like a fortune teller trying to forecast an event from the arrangement of tea leaves. Then he looked up and said: ‘Why not? Let’s strengthen the bonds of Atlantic friendship.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.
Wilson put his glass down positively on the desk in front of him and said: ‘You passed your positive vetting.’
‘I’m grateful for your telling me so soon,’ said Charlie.
‘You were worried?’
‘One never likes having one’s honesty and integrity doubted.’
‘Were you surprised that one was ordered?’
‘Such decisions are always at the discretion of senior management,’ said Charlie, feeling safety in formality.
Wilson sat in silence, observing Charlie over the rim of his glass. He said: ‘You made application for a bank overdraft? For?10,000?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie, cautiously.
‘Harkness has refused to provide the necessary reference.’
‘Oh,’ said Charlie.
‘And you’ve been passed over, in the last two grading assessments?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve written a memorandum today correcting that,’ said the Director. ‘You’re upgraded, with backdated effect from 1 January. The salary increase is?5,000 a year.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Charlie was uneasy.
‘I want you to tell me something.’
‘What?’
‘Do you think I am a stupid man?’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘Do you think I am a stupid man?’ insisted Wilson.
‘No, sir.’
‘Good,’ said the Director. ‘Now I am going to tell you something. I think you knew that any overdraft application like that needed a reference and that it would be referred to the Deputy Director. I think you knew regulations automatically required an investigation and a vetting procedure, which would declare you one hundred per cent clean. I think you knew that I would be involved in discussions upon it and that during those discussions the oversight of your promotion would become known to me … you got anything to say about that?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You never wanted a bloody overdraft in the first place, did you? You were playing silly buggers, making sure I got to know you’d had a rotten deal.’
‘Still nothing to say, sir.’
‘Don’t you ever try a trick like that again, Charlie. I don’t care who else you try to con — and I know you con everybody — but don’t you ever try it again with me, you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now get out!’
‘Yes, sir.’ All in all, decided Charlie, descending to his own office on the lower level, it really hadn’t been a bad day. Not a bad day at all.
The bodies had been kept in Geneva for the necessary autopsy and forensic examination and Clayton Anderson re-routed his return from Venice personally to escort the coffins and the widows home, to the United States.
There was a full military guard of honour when the coffins, both draped with the Stars and Stripes, were loaded aboard the aircraft and the President stood bowed-headed with his arms around Martha Bell and Barbara Giles. During the days of medical delay Martha had managed to buy a black mourning suit and a black hat, complete with full veil. Barbara wore one of the grey dresses she’d bought for the holiday she was now never going to have. The escorting press corps had remained with the presidential party, of course, and the television pictures were relayed live by satellite back to America for the main evening news.
Anderson ushered both women ahead of him on to the aircraft, personally ensuring that they were seated and telling both that if there was anything they wanted, anything at all, they just had to ask.
The President was in the rear of the aircraft before it cleared Swiss air space, giving unattributable briefings to selected correspondents about a renewed American commitment to combat international terrorism and the unquestionable Soviet links with that terrorism. He also gave the New York Times and Newsweek
front page and cover stories on his regret that a settlement to the Palestinian problem in the Middle East appeared impossible to resolve, despite every effort he had made.
In the front of the plane Martha Bell turned to the woman alongside and said: ‘Don’t you just love Air Force One!’
Barbara looked back and said, dully: ‘What?’
‘This plane, Air Force One? Isn’t it magnificent?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Barbara, disinterested. ‘Very nice.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
Harry Johnson had taken over the rear room of the Brace of Pheasants for his farewell party, which had been going for an hour before Charlie arrived. The place was full of noise and smoke and men few of whom knew each other and were too professional to propose introductions. Johnson’s wife was with him, a wisp-haired, sharp-featured woman wearing a hat decorated with cherries and a confused expression, never before having met her husband’s friends and seeming surprised he had so many.
Charlie insinuated himself to the bar and was told they were still drinking off Johnson’s kitty so he chose a pint of beer, not wanting to deplete it too much too quickly.
The retiring Watcher saw Charlie as he turned back into the room and shouldered his way forward, beaming.
‘You made it!’ said Johnson. ‘That’s great.’
‘Promised I would,’ reminded Charlie.
‘All over now,’ announced Johnson. ‘No more leaking doorways or aching haemorrhoids from sitting too long on cold seats.’
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘Can’t wait,’ said Johnson. ‘I got a rotavator as a farewell present.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s kind of a digging machine: I’ve taken over more allotment.’
‘No more peas out of a tin, eh?’
‘What about you, Charlie? You looking forward to retirement?’
‘Long time yet,’ said Charlie, uncomfortably. No, he thought, he wasn’t looking forward to retirement. Harry had a wife with a funny hat and a smallholding to grow his own vegetables. What did he have to look forward to, when it was time to go? Nothing, he thought. There was a huge difference between working alone and being alone.
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