Brian Freemantle - Comrade Charlie

Heart hammering, Blackstone completed what he was officially there to do, apologized for bringing the unnecessary extra drawings and was back in his own office within the half hour. Done it! he thought euphorically: he’d done it and got away with it!

By working lightly over the paper with a softleaded pencil Blackstone was able to trace the outline of the blueprint that had been created on top of it — of a support arm and connecting rods — although some of the specification lettering was too indistinct for him to decipher. It was not important, he decided. He had sufficient to re-create the blueprint. And not just one. He’d divide it into two and deliver them separately, to get two payments. And the temporary security access lasted until he had to collect the Ariane designs! So he could go inside again, before he was summoned to make that collection!

When the summons came for Berenkov to meet directly with scientific officials utilizing the American Star Wars information, without having everything filtered through Kalenin, the circumstances emerged to be not at all what he wanted, in any respect. There was initially, however, no hint of what was to come. The demand that he be prepared within two hours to leave Moscow, for the space centre at Baikonur, was perhaps peremptory but there had been such short-notice requests in the past, on other things, so he felt no particular concern driving out to Vnukovo airport. Rather, there was a satisfied anticipation: the first blueprint from England had arrived three days before so they were receiving material from the two sources at last. The likeliest explanation could only be personal congratulation, although another commendation so soon was probably too much to expect. His rank and position placed Berenkov beyond the airport formalities required even for internal travelling in the Soviet Union. That he expected. He did not expect it to be a special military flight: it was the first indication of an emergency suggested by the two-hour departure limit. Kalenin was already in a VIP lounge reserved for government officials, serious-faced but calm, one of the Havana cigars he so much enjoyed filling the room with its aroma.

‘What is it?’ demanded Berenkov at once.

Kalenin made an uncertain shoulder movement. ‘I’ve not been told. Just to come, like you.’

Berenkov’s customary ebullient confidence dipped. He said: ‘It has to be serious for us to be called all the way to Baikonur.’

‘That’s pretty obvious,’ said Kalenin.

‘But what!’ said Berenkov. ‘We’re getting it all now, from both sources!’

Kalenin shook his head. ‘It’s ludicrous, trying to speculate. We’ll just have to wait.’

An airport official came hesitantly into the room, accompanied by a man in an undesignated military uniform to say their flight was ready. Berenkov hunched behind the other man out to the transporter, a shrouded grey-green shape in the darkness. There was no pretence at all about comfort. Only three sets of webbing seats had been rigged across the empty hull, which elsewhere remained cavernous and empty. The chemical toilet was behind a pull-round canvas curtain, the smell of its germicidal disinfectant quite heavy already. A coarse strap was looped across the seats to secure themselves for take-off. Neither Kalenin nor Berenkov bothered. A flight sergeant came to them almost at once after they cleared Moscow airspace to offer food but neither Kalenin nor Berenkov bothered about that, either. Fleetingly Berenkov considered asking if there were anything to drink but decided against it.

Kalenin shifted uncomfortably in his seat and said: ‘It would have been good if we could have got some rest.’

‘There’s no point in trying,’ said Berenkov. Could Kalenin really have slept, going towards so much uncertainty? The other man had lighted another cigar and Berenkov was grateful because it smelled better than the toilet chemicals. There appeared to be no heating and Berenkov thrust his hands into his topcoat pockets and burrowed his head down deeply into its collar. What! he demanded of himself. What could have gone wrong, so soon after the praise of the commendation? Kalenin was right about the stupidity of speculating, but Berenkov wanted something , some warning how to prepare himself for what was to come. He looked across the cold, vibrating aircraft to where Kalenin was huddled, like himself apart from the hand holding the cigar. It might be safer to follow Kalenin’s lead, Berenkov thought, with rare modesty. The bearded man was a survivor of several previous regimes, adept at adjusting to headquarter circumstances and politics. One thought prompted another, this one disquieting. He’d been excluded from all such meetings until now, when it appeared there might be a problem. Was his inclusion the decision of the KGB chairman or the Politburo? Or of Kalenin, seeking a scapegoat?

A curtained limousine, a Zil, was already drawing towards the steps when the door swung back for their disembarkation. As he descended towards it Berenkov saw they were at neither a civilian nor a military airfield but at the facility for the space centre itself. It was far more extensive in ground area than a normal airport and there was none of the usual closetogether cluster of administration buildings or hangars. What office quarters there were appeared very distant, to their left. There were at least three radar towers, each with static and revolving antennae, and a fenced-off expanse of various-sized storage tanks. Around the fencing were a lot of signs warning of the danger of highly inflammable contents: some of the bigger tanks had a shimmering aura of mist or steam, the sort of reaction Berenkov associated with something very cold being exposed to air.

It was thankfully warm inside the car. The vehicle set off towards the far-away office block and as they got nearer Berenkov saw quite close to it an odd assortment of crane-like structures which he assumed at once to be mobile support gantries, for rockets, but which to him looked more like the skeletal derricks of oil exploration equipment.

‘You know what this looks like to me?’ said Kalenin, beside him. ‘This is how I’d imagine some moon station to be. You see how very few people there are about?’

The place was oddly deserted, acknowledged Berenkov. He said: ‘I suppose it’s a fitting appearance for the sort of work that goes on.’

At the main buildings, which turned out to be of two storeys with a glassed dome forming a third level, they were escorted by security personnel through a zig-zag of corridors before being ushered into a small conference room. Already waiting inside were four men, all civilians. They were grouped around a table set in front of a slightly elevated second section upon which there were two blackboards, on stands, with diagrams and charts already neatly pinned up. There were other papers strewn about the table and Berenkov believed he recognized some at least to be what had arrived from Petrin, in America. Kalenin pushed into the room ahead of Berenkov, nodding although not smiling to the assembled men, and Berenkov guessed there had been earlier meetings between them. Berenkov was only introduced formally to one of the four and assumed the man to be the senior of the group. His name was Nikolai Noskov. He was a stooped, carelessly dressed man with a difficult speech impediment: he had to struggle to get most words out, eyes closed with a combination of effort and frustration. It necessarily made him economical in everything he said, although another impression could have been that Noskov was rudely autocratic.

There were hand waves towards seats, almost impatient gestures of politeness. Noskov made several attempts and at last managed: ‘Your coming here is very necessary.’