Brian Freemantle - Comrade Charlie

Krogh believed he was being patronized and it irritated him. He said: ‘It’ll only take about another month: that was one of the things I was thinking about.’

‘And it’s gone as smoothly as I promised it would, hasn’t it?’

‘I want it to be over,’ said Krogh.

There was a break while they ordered and it enabled Petrin time to reflect. Poor fool, thought the Russian, although without the slightest genuine sympathy. Krogh was theirs — more precisely his — to do with what they liked when they liked and how they liked. From now on Moscow had permanent access to every US classified document or defence contract with which Krogh and his company ever became associated, a forever-bubbling spring of secret information that Petrin was going to do his best to see never dried up. Because Petrin had already recognized the personal benefit that went way beyond the most recent commendation. That, he’d decided, was just the first of many that was going to come from each new disclosure he was going to get from this man, long after all Star Wars material. Which was not the end of that personal benefit. To remain Krogh’s case officer would naturally entail his staying on in Los Angeles long after his expected tour of duty would normally have finished. Which Petrin, who liked America and the Californian climate and most of all the Californian girls, was more than happy to do. He said: ‘I liked the cover article, in Newsweek .’

So had Krogh, despite what was happening to him. The photograph had been very good, making him look younger than he was, and the focus of the main article was of his epitomizing the American dream, the thrusting shopfloor worker rising to become the millionaire boss. With forced modesty Krogh shrugged and said: ‘It was OK.’

‘Help me with something beyond the drawings,’ said Petrin. ‘How’s the actual construction work going?’

Krogh had wondered how long this sort of questioning would take: the bastard could go to hell. He said: ‘Well enough.’

‘That’s not a direct answer, Emil.’ The Russian had discarded the supposed politeness of surnames after the first meeting.

‘That’s the best there is,’ insisted Krogh.

‘No major snags or hold-ups?’ persisted Petrin.

‘No.’

‘Not at all?’

‘Not so far.’

Petrin stopped the impatience becoming obvious: he didn’t want, this soon in their relationship, to have to let Krogh know he didn’t have any independence any more. For the moment Krogh had to be allowed to retain some slight degree of self-respect. Petrin said: ‘So what’s the scheduled launch date?’

‘It’s too soon to be firm on that,’ Krogh continued to evade. ‘There still could too easily be hold-ups we can’t anticipate. There’s a lot of shopfloor testing to go through yet.’

‘Provisionally then?’ pressed Petrin.

‘Maybe a year.’

‘The Pentagon wouldn’t go along with something as vague as that, Emil, would they?’ said Petrin, finally deciding there had to be some correction after all. ‘I know and you know that on a document or in a letter I haven’t seen yet there’s a suggested date when this thing is going to be put into space. So what is it?’

The man was a bastard, slapping him down like some junior clerk. Miserably he said: ‘September, next year.’

‘How’s Barbara?’ said Petrin. ‘And Cindy?’

‘I don’t want to talk about them,’ refused Krogh.

‘Well then I think it’s important that you talk to me properly about other things when I ask,’ said Petrin. ‘I don’t want to have to prise things out like that in future. You understand?’

Krogh flushed with anger but their food arrived, delaying the response. Krogh had only ordered Cobb salad and he pushed it aside almost at once. Lying, he said: ‘I wasn’t trying to be difficult.’

‘It wouldn’t benefit anyone for you to be, would it?’ said Petrin. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by us falling out, is there?’

Patronizing again, thought Krogh. He said: ‘What the hell do you expect! For us to be friends?’

‘Why not?’ said Petrin, open-faced. ‘We’ve got to work together, haven’t we?’

‘Only for about another month, like I said.’

Now was as convenient a moment as any, thought the Russian. He said: ‘We’ll still have to meet regularly, won’t we?’

‘What do you mean!’ demanded Krogh, fresh alarm flaring through him.

‘I’ll want to keep in touch,’ said Petrin. ‘Some of your testings might show the need for redesign, for instance. I’d need those redesign drawings, wouldn’t I? I’m going to want the results of all the testings, too.’

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ insisted Krogh. ‘Everything ends with the last drawing.’

Let the poor fool dream, thought Petrin, recalling his earlier thoughts.

He said: ‘Just as long as it takes, that’s all. That’s why I don’t want any antagonistic nonsense beween us. It doesn’t achieve anything: gets in the way.’

Christ, how he’d like to teach this son-of-a-bitch a lesson, Krogh thought: physically beat the shit out of him, get the satisfaction of hurting him. He said: ‘Suits me, I guess.’

Petrin smiled brightly, finishing his lobster. He said: ‘Shouldn’t I have the gyro drawing then?’

Krogh passed the package across the table and Petrin put it quickly into his briefcase. Krogh said: ‘I’ll have the drawings of the other two sets in a week.’

‘You know that little park where the cable cars terminate on the other side of the hill, near Saks?’ demanded Petrin.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s where we’ll meet, next Friday. You be there by noon.’

Just like a junior clerk, every time a finger-snapping command. He said: ‘All right.’

‘I’m glad we’ve had this little talk,’ said Petrin. ‘Cleared the air between us. I think that’s a good thing, don’t you?’

Krogh lifted and dropped his shoulders, wanting to get away from the other man. He said: ‘I suppose so. I’ve got to get back to the plant.’

Petrin smiled again, signalling for the waiter. ‘Let me settle the bill this time,’ he said. ‘After all, I’m the satisfied customer, aren’t I?’

It was just the sort of luck that Henry Blackstone was seeking and he seized it at once, actually feeling more excited than guilty when it happened. There was scarcely guilt at all.

He never found out the reason but late one Thursday the request came from the secret project section to the general drawing office for some specimen and no-longer-classified blueprints of a fin design for which the firm had unsuccessfully tendered during the European Ariane space programme. And Blackstone, who’d taken part in the European development, was deputed to be the intermediary. Which gave him temporary security accreditation to get inside the fenced-off area.

Blackstone carried more drawings than were necessary, all enclosed in cardboard storage tubes. Inside the secure building he intentionally took the wrong route along the wrong corridor, trawling for anything he could find. There were a number of small offices equipped with drawing boards, built around a larger, communal design and tracing area. He stopped at two on the pretext of getting directions for where he wanted to go, and saw the chance at once. Blackstone had timed his entry to be very close to clocking-off time, when everyone was packing up for the day, and at both small offices Blackstone identified the procedure being followed to protect what was being created. Each draughtsman and tracer was taking whatever was on his board into the larger, communal room to be logged and stored in a drawing locker sealed by a combination device. But only the top sheet design, leaving the impressedupon backing paper still upon the board. Blackstone lingered in the corridor near the second office, supposedly checking the tubes he was carrying to decide which he had to hand over, until the occupant of the second office left to secure his day’s work. It took Blackstone less than a minute to re-enter the room, roll up the undipped backing paper and fit it into one of the superfluous tubes and regain the corridor again.