Charlie’s Apprentice cm-10

by Brian Freemantle

  He couldn’t do it, Snow determined. Father Robertson was being medically cared for, as safe as he could possibly be at this time and in this place. That was all he was entitled to tell Rome. To do anything more – to try to use the illness for his own selfish, personal benefit – would be monstrously wrong, betraying any and every principle with which he had been indoctrinated as a priest: principles which, if he were brutally honest, he might already have put into doubt by his secondary activities which, at times like this, almost seemed more important than his first and proper calling. It had been agonizing trying to salve his conscience over the confessional: he couldn’t, at the moment, sacrifice any more of his unsteady integrity.

  Snow began to write at last, keeping the account absolutely factual and strictly limited to the collapse. He made a carbon copy, for Father Robertson to know everything Rome had been told. And having completed the letter Snow left the envelope open for the doctor’s return, hoping to add a suggested diagnosis, reluctant for Rome to regard the illness as a mystery.

  It was not, however, properly resolved when the doctor did return.

  It was mid-afternoon before Pickering came back, initially shouldering past them with the briefest nod of greeting, interested only in the now peacefully sleeping priest. While the other two men watched, Pickering went progressively through the earlier temperature, blood pressure, somnolent eye reaction and nerve sensitivity tests before removing the saline drip from Father Robertson’s arm. He gently dressed the induced puncture wound – which showed no tendency to bleed – and as he dismantled the drip frame finally said: ‘He’s a lot better. Certainly won’t need this. Everything seems to be stabilizing nicely.’ At last he turned to them, smiling proudly.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Samuels, again.

  The smile faded into the familiar irritable scowl. ‘I don’t know what it is. But I know what it’s not. Definitely not infectious.’

  Snow said: ‘I want to give an indication to my Order in Rome.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ repeated Pickering. ‘It could be a virus: maybe we’ll never scientifically know.’

  ‘What about the seriousness?’ persisted Samuels.

  ‘He’s an old man and he’s quite frail,’ declared the doctor, unnecessarily. ‘At his age and in his condition, a virus has got to be regarded seriously. But the improvement is quite remarkable in the last few hours: almost dramatically so. Which is encouraging. His temperature is practically normal, and for his age I regard his blood pressure as practically normal, too.’

  ‘Is there any risk … I mean, could he die?’ stumbled Snow.

  ‘Good God, no!’ erupted the man, who appeared permanently on the point of exasperation. ‘He’ll need care, certainly. But I don’t think he’s in any danger.’

  ‘What’s the treatment?’ asked Samuels.

  ‘Simple antibiotics, as far as I can see. He’s no longer unconscious: this is just a sleep of exhaustion, nothing more.’

  ‘So we’ll move him to the infirmary,’ declared the diplomat.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Pickering, querulously.

  ‘Why not?’ said Samuels, equally forcefully. ‘He’s not infectious. But he needs care. It’s obvious he should be moved where he is closer to you.’

  ‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay here,’ refused Pickering. ‘In fact, it’s far better than trying to move him, which we’d have to do by car, because to wait for days for the Chinese to provide ambulance facilities would be ridiculous …’ He nodded towards Snow. ‘He’s more than capable of doing what’s necessary, which is just seeing the medication is administered at the proper time. And I can make all the daily visits that are necessary …’ Again Snow was indicated with a nod. ‘I can give him my home as well as official number, for when the telephone gets fixed, so he can call me at any time if there’s any relapse. Which I don’t believe there will be.’

  ‘I think he should be moved,’ said Samuels, doggedly.

  ‘It’s not your decision to make!’ rejected Pickering. ‘I am responsible here for the medical care of British nationals.’

  ‘And I am responsible for that and every other care,’ yelled Samuels, in a surprisingly undiplomatic outburst. Striving at once for control Samuels said: ‘I can’t see any reason why Father Robertson can’t be taken somewhere better medically equipped than this place.’

  Snow thought the diplomat sounded like someone offering a defence to a later accusation, which perhaps he considered he was. Concerned himself with Father Robertson’s well-being, Snow said to the doctor: ‘Wouldn’t it be better to take him into a hospital?’

  ‘If I thought it would be I’d do it!’ said Pickering. ‘At the moment this man is medically better here, where …’

  The sentence was never finished. Behind the doctor Father Robertson gave a snuffling sigh, shifted uncomfortably and finally opened his eyes, staring without focus for several moments at the cracked and dirt-rimmed ceiling directly above his bed. The blank face and the blank eyes cleared at last. He turned his head sideways and saw them. ‘What?’ he said, in a vague, one-word demand.

  It was Pickering who conducted everything, without ever offering Father Robertson an answer to his question. With the elderly priest able at last minimally to communicate sensibly, Pickering took the man through a series of verbal examinations, greatly extending the neurological tests. He expanded the medical in step with Father Robertson’s recovery. Within fifteen minutes the mission head was taking by mouth the antibiotics the doctor produced from his bag. Over his shoulder, generally to both of them, Pickering said: ‘An even greater recovery!’ This time the pride was in the voice, not in a smile.

  Samuels and Snow approached the bed together. Father Robertson was fully conscious. Again, repeatedly, he begged their forgiveness for whatever trouble he had caused, at one stage reaching out imploringly, which unintentionally revealed to them both the sticklike fragility of his arms.

  ‘You feel better?’ pressed Samuels.

  ‘Tired. That’s all. Just tired. I am so sorry.’

  ‘I was worried,’ came in Snow.

  ‘Forgive me. So stupid.’

  ‘He’ll need rest, for several days,’ bustled Pickering. ‘I will prescribe a mild sedative, to go with the antibiotics. And come every day: as often as I consider necessary …’ The look to Samuels was dismissive. ‘Everything will be done that needs to be done.’

  Ignoring the doctor, Samuels said to the sick man: ‘I feel you should come to the embassy: that would be best, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I really think …’began the indignant Pickering, behind them, but Father Robertson cut in over the doctor. ‘I really feel much better. It’s here I should be. I will be all right here: quite all right.’

  ‘Thank God that’s settled!’ declared Pickering. Careless of the small audience, the doctor said to Samuels: ‘I resent your interference.’

  Snow didn’t think further examination was necessary, but was instead a gesture physically to relegate Samuels, and guessed from the colour of the diplomat’s face that Samuels thought the same.

  Snow listened intently to the doctor’s instructions about the dosages and medication and accepted the offered telephone numbers, making a mental note to check whether the already reported fault had been corrected.

  Throughout there was no conversation between the doctor and the diplomat. Both men remained unspeaking when they left the mission.

  The sedative had taken effect and Father Robertson slept for another three hours before stirring again. He was heavy-eyed.

  ‘I’m getting old,’ he said, sadly.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ assured Snow.

  ‘Did I cause much trouble?’

  ‘Nothing,’ dismissed Snow.

  Father Robertson’s eyes began to close. ‘Old,’ he said, indistinctly.

  ‘So this is a farewell feast!’ Marcia had been for more than a week at an exhibition in Birmingham, so they’d only talked by telephone of his going to Beijing.<
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  ‘Hardly farewell,’ said Gower, smiling across the restaurant table. ‘I’ve yet to get a visa.’

  ‘And I thought you were just some lowly clerk: would be for years!’

  ‘I was surprised, too,’ admitted Gower. He accepted that formalities had to be completed – visas particularly – but he was impatient at the delay. He had expected to leave practically at once after the promised final briefing: every day that passed surely increased the danger if their source had been exposed.

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘It’s an on-the-spot survey of embassy facilities,’ said Gower. ‘I shan’t really know until I get there.’

  ‘It’s odd they have to send someone from London.’

  ‘They seem to think it’s necessary.’

  The girl offered her glass, for more wine. With innocent prescience, she said: ‘This could be a big chance for you, though, couldn’t it?’

  ‘If I get everything right.’ I hope, thought Gower.

  Marcia looked away, nodding agreement for the waiter to clear her plate. When the man left, she said: ‘It’s worked well, these last few weeks, hasn’t it? You and me, I mean.’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Gower. The Beijing assignment was obviously important. So for him to have been given it must indicate he was highly regarded: maybe even one of a selected few. He could make all sorts of plans and commitments if he were that well established.

  ‘The lease to my place is due for renewal right away. I’ve had a letter asking what I want to do.’

  ‘I remembered the dates.’ He’d been expecting her to raise it.

  ‘There doesn’t seem much point in my going on with it. Unless you want me to, that is.’

  Gower reached across for her hand, making her look at him. ‘I don’t want you to go on with it,’ he said, decisively. ‘I want you to give notice and move all your stuff in with me and I want us to start thinking of getting married.’

  Marcia’s face opened into more than a smile, practically laughing in her excitement. ‘I accept!’

  ‘Everything’s going to be perfect,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll sort it out while you’re away,’ promised Marcia. ‘Can I tell the family?’

  Gower nodded, enjoying her excitement. ‘I’ll tell mother, before I go.’

  Charlie Muffin looked up curiously at the tentative knock, smiling when Gower pushed his cubicle door.

  ‘Hoped I’d catch you,’ said Gower, smiling back. ‘Wanted you to know I’ve got an assignment.’

  Charlie regarded the younger man seriously across the desk, not speaking.

  Gower’s smile widened. ‘Don’t worry! I’m not going to say what it is! Don’t properly know myself, not completely. Just that I’m soon to be operational.’

  Charlie remained serious. ‘Get it right,’ he said. ‘There’s usually only one chance.’

  ‘I’ll get it right,’ assured Gower. ‘You taught me how, didn’t you?’

  Had he? wondered Charlie. He’d sometimes found it difficult to look after himself: he didn’t like the responsibility of having to do it for somebody else. The more he thought about it, the more he hated this bloody job. Jealousy, he acknowledged, honestly. It should have been him going operational, not this young, inexperienced kid.

  Was he so inexperienced? He’d passed all the tests much better than Charlie had expected. Which wasn’t the point, rejected Charlie, determinedly. The point was that Charlie wanted whatever it was Gower was being assigned. Christ, how he hated being a teacher.

  Twenty-two

  There was a lot of slow-moving traffic on the country roads and Charlie was glad to loop up on to the motorway at last, settling in the cruising lane at just five miles over the speed limit, fast enough to get him back to London on time without seriously risking police interference. One of life’s elementary precautions was to obey the obvious civil laws: all part of never drawing unnecessary attention to himself. He was unsure whether he’d given John Gower that advice. He should have done. Too late now. On his own, about to become operational. From now on Gower had to learn for himself, develop his instincts. It wouldn’t be easy because operational assignments never were: sometimes boring, too often abject failures, but never easy. Charlie hoped this would not be as difficult as some could be. Always useful to have a fairly simple ride the first time, to build up just the right amount of confidence.

  Enough reflection, Charlie cautioned himself. Wrong to let himself get personally involved, as he’d told the man himself. Lied, too, saying he’d refused to think in terms of liking or disliking. He hadn’t intended to, but he had liked John Gower. Have to guard against it happening with the next one. He’d thought there would already have been someone to follow Gower: expected his still unfamiliar, thoroughly unwanted role to be ongoing, one apprentice approved, another waiting to follow. Something else he hadn’t properly understood about the job. He hoped there’d be someone soon: the boredom factor was creeping up on him, although he hadn’t yet started playing with paper darts.

  Charlie checked the dashboard clock, contentedly ahead of the evening traffic build-up. He wanted to go back to Primrose Hill before meeting Julia: shower if he had time. He’d considered suggesting she come with him this time, not to the nursing home but just for the ride: there were enough antique shops in Stockbridge to browse around while he was seeing his mother. Then they could have spent the rest of the day in the country. Then again, perhaps it wouldn’t have been a good idea. He wouldn’t have wanted her to think he was suggesting a night as well as a day in the country, because he wouldn’t have been.

  Charlie was enjoying the friendship with Julia. It had practically been a reflex to offer it that night in the Hampstead restaurant, and for some time afterwards he hadn’t been sure what either of them had agreed upon. So far it was fine. She’d accepted the cinema invitation, laughing in disbelief when he admitted it was his first visit for over a year, and having decided against inviting her to the country he’d bought theatre seats that night for a play she’d said she wanted to see. He’d been tempted to make it a surprise, but decided against it as he’d decided against asking her to drive down to Hampshire. Hopeful lovers created surprises: friends discussed things in advance, ensuring outings were mutually convenient, with no need to impress.

  Charlie was comfortable with Julia, just as she seemed comfortable with him, neither having to try too hard. Best of all, there was no sexual tension, which would have made everything difficult. After the restaurant confession she’d spoken once or twice about the divorce and the double despair she’d felt at the betrayal, but as a catharsis, not in any way as an invitation. Never once had she asked a direct question about himself. Cynically Charlie had wondered if Julia might have known all there was about him from the red boxes and manila envelopes for which the deputy Director-General had shown such contempt on the day of his reassignment. Just as quickly he dismissed the suspicion. When he had talked of Edith, briefly and only then to let her know he was familiar with loneliness too, Julia had given no indication of being aware of Edith’s death or of its circumstances, and he didn’t think she was a good enough actress – or liar – to have done that.

  No one would learn everything about him from the archival records, of course. Remarkably little, in fact. And definitely not about Natalia, who had been the most important part of his life after Edith.

  Perhaps confusingly, although not to himself, Charlie believed the forever lost Natalia had made it easy for the friendship with Julia. The way he felt – and would always feel – about Natalia meant he didn’t want, romantically or sexually or on any other level, an involvement with anyone. Any more than Julia did, for her part. Charlie supposed he and Julia qualified as the perfect platonic couple. A marriage, almost, without the difficult, messy parts. He didn’t imagine it an analogy easy for anyone else to follow.

  The word – marriage – stayed with Charlie. What about the involvement of the beneficially married Peter Miller with the unmar
ried Ms Patricia Elder? Charlie had maintained his occasional and therefore inadequate observation of the Regent’s Park mansion. And confirmed that Peter Miller used it as a London base. But so far always alone. The woman who had also used the private penthouse door – but only on two occasions – had not been Patricia Elder, so he assumed her to be Lady Ann: she’d certainly looked a lot like the horses she was said to breed. Remembering his earlier doubts, Charlie thought again that maybe Miller didn’t use the place for his affair with his deputy: even wondered, indeed, if they were having an affair. Another earlier doubt, like the possibility that Patricia Elder’s apartment or house could much more safely be the love-nest. And as she wasn’t listed in any of the biographical reference books – and there was no way he could search department records without the request becoming known – he didn’t have any idea where she lived.

  All of which made it a fairly good bet that he was wasting his time, playing at nothing more than amateur surveillance, like playing with paper darts. But then time seemed to be something he had a lot of to waste. And he did, after all, have practically to go past Miller’s London home to his own flat in Primrose Hill.

  What would he do if he did confirm an affair? Strictly according to regulations, he had to report it as a security risk. But doing things according to regulations wasn’t the point of Charlie’s exercise: it rarely was. The point was personal protection, hoarding any ammunition available. And ammunition wasn’t any good thrown away in advance of the battle: far better to wait until the shots were fired in his direction. Charlie accepted at once that with their power and authority, Miller and Patricia Elder outgunned him. But if they seriously moved to bring him down – permanently to get rid of him, for instance – he would, if he could, bring them down, too. So he’d go on hanging around outside the lavish mansion.

  The warning proof from what he’d done all those years ago when he’d been offered up for sacrifice was clearly there in those red boxes and manila files, but Charlie doubted they fully understood that if he believed himself under attack he was an overwhelmingly vindictive bastard. And proud to be so. Sometimes he even practised.