Brian Freemantle: Comrade Charlie

The information that Berenkov sought was built up fragmented and piecemeal. Several lobbyists and two consultants tried to earn a fee by regurgitating the Aviation Weekly article but two Washington-based specialists confirmed inquiries from other, genuine US aeronautical component manufacturers. From those earlier inquiries the lobbyists were able to provide the names of companies that had not tendered for the Star Wars work, narrowing the list of those who might have done. The possible identity was further narrowed by filleting from Congressional inquiry hearings the names of five corporations who had been barred from future government work for overcharging on some previously awarded contracts.

A breakthrough pointing to the West Coast came from a four-line reference to private-but-approved contractor use of existing shuttle landing facilities in the Mojave Desert in an Appropriations Committee report. There were three potential West Coast manufacturers remaining on the reducing list of possibilities. From Moscow Berenkov ordered that all three companies and their senior executives should be targeted.

The KGB head at the San Francisco consultate, Alexandr Petrin, took over the investigation of a company which a man named Emil Krogh was chairman.

Petrin, a darkly handsome native of Turkmenitya, which made it easy for him to pass as someone of Mediterranean birth, came to regard it as the best intelligence assignment of his KGB career.

Richard St John Harkness was a person elevated by a combination of convenient circumstance and personal good fortune to the fullest extreme of his abilities, although he would never have conceded it because the judgement had never occurred to him. The most recent example of that combination was the illness of Sir Alistair Wilson. The Director Generalship was being held open but Harkness believed that merely to be a temporary and cosmetic gesture, a reassurance to avoid causing the man any further, dangerous worry. And that his own promotion to ultimate control was inevitable. It was a role he craved desperately and was implacably determined to get. And when he did he intended restoring the department to one of proper order and respect. Sir Alistair and some Directors before him had been far too unconventional, tolerating riffraff and adventurers. It was all going to change when his position was confirmed. The riffraff, one in particular, was going to be weeded out and dispensed with: Harkness was impatient with the continuing delay.

Charlie Muffin was aware he had to tread warily, which with his feet he always did anyway. The more he thought about it the more he came to believe the hundred quid he’d spent risking food poisoning with Laura Nolan was money well spent in the war with Harkness. I think he’s trying to make life so unpleasant that you’ll quit . An all-important disclosure because Laura was around the pompous old fart all the time, picking up the inner feelings, overhearing all the chance remarks. Charlie hadn’t realized Harkness’ campaign was as positive as that. At worst he’d believed the bloody man was showing off, during a brief opportunity of power: that all he had to do was keep his head down, shovel the shit without complaint and await the return of Sir Alistair Wilson. But with more time to think about it Charlie recognized that the dispute over the Records access could be viewed two ways, not confined to the simple view he’d first taken. Sure the continued restriction could be interpreted as indicating that Sir Alistair would be coming back. But the immediate challenge from Harkness, a form-filling bureaucrat piss-pants scared of challenging anything, could equally indicate the Director General was never returning, which made Harkness confident enough to launch the purge he’d had wet dreams about for so long.

The Director General’s summons light was blinking demandingly when Charlie got to Westminster Bridge Road and what he regarded as a box but which government requisition documents described as office space, single occupancy for the use of, Grade III desk, chair, two highest security filing cabinets and polyester carpet square, two foot by two foot. Avocado was the official colour description: Charlie thought it closer to puke green.

With a new resolve not to provide Harkness with any gratuitous ammunition, Charlie went straight up to the ninth floor. The lift opened on to a sealedoff, protected area where he had to identify himself, although he knew the security guards by their christian names as they knew him by his. Beyond the check were carpets soft under soundless if awkward feet, the richly dark panelling, interspersed with original oil portraits of frock-coated or uniformed men in wigs, reassuringly old. Men may come and men may go but the British Establishment lasts for ever, thought Charlie. He wondered if there would ever be a formal picture of Richard St John Harkness staring down reprovingly. Some of the far-away looking men Charlie was passing were captured against globes of the world or with navigational compasses in their hands, tools of their trade. Charlie supposed that if Harkness were ever painted he’d be shown with an expenses sheet in one hand and an erasing pen in the other.

Laura was waiting at the door of the outer office, her pretty face twisted with concern. She said: ‘Remember what I said about showing respect!’

‘Engraved on my heart,’ said Charlie. ‘How’s Paul?’

‘This isn’t the time or the place to talk about Paul,’ refused the girl cursorily. Denying herself at once she said: ‘As a matter of fact he’s red raw with prickly heat.’

‘Sure it’s prickly heat?’ said Charlie. ‘You can catch some terrible things from toilet seats in South America.’

‘I don’t need to worry,’ said Laura enigmatically.

Richard Harkness, who’d moved into the Director General’s office on the same day that Wilson suffered his heart attack, was sitting personally immaculate behind an impeccably clean desk that unfortunately appeared too big for him. He was pink-faced, grey hair fantailed over his ears, and faultlessly tailored in a foppish kind of a way, the black suit broad chalkstriped and the pastel yellow shirt set off against a matching yellow tie and pocket handkerchief. Charlie couldn’t see because the man’s feet were hidden beneath the desk, but he guessed the socks would be some sort of coordinated yellow: Harkness tried hard to finish everything off.

There were no chairs conveniently near to the desk, which meant Charlie had to stand: Prick, he thought, smiling towards the man. Harkness looked back blank-faced.

‘You’ve no outstanding assignment, have you?’ Harkness asked expectantly.

‘Holding myself in readiness,’ said Charlie. He believed the cocky, Jack-the-lad routine got up Harkness’ nose, which was why he did it.

‘There’s a request from the Other Place,’ announced Harkness, using the inter-departmental jargon for MI5, Britain’s counter-intelligence service. ‘They’ve got a bit of a staff shortage and have asked for some temporary secondment for embassy observation.’

Which was roughly equivalent to parking meter warden or leaf sweeper in public parks, Charlie assessed: freezing your ass off in a supposed secure house overlooking communist embassies, monitoring and photographing the comings and goings of one day and comparing them to the comings and goings of the previous day. Spot-the-Spy, the latest quiz game the entire family can play, brought to you courtesy of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. He said: ‘Sorry to hear that: must be a problem for them.’

‘I’m transferring you, until further notice,’ announced Harkness with self-satisfied contentment.

No you’re not, asshole, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Oh dear!’