Brian Freemantle - Comrade Charlie

‘The delay isn’t my fault!’ protested Petrin and regretted it at once because it made him sound petulant.

Losev smiled, isolating the whine. ‘If you want to protest to Moscow you can, through the embassy channels,’ he offered in apparent generosity, furthering Petrin’s regret.

‘How, precisely, are you going to speed up delivery?’ demanded Petrin.

‘Yes, how?’ came the demand from across the room from the listening Guzins.

‘Wait!’ insisted Losev. The effect would have been better if he’d tried to time the technicians’ arrival to coincide with this moment but he decided, gratefully, that he had recovered some of the earlier ground lost to Petrin.

Guzins abandoned his inspection and note-taking, crossing the room towards them. ‘There is no way the delivery can be speeded up,’ he insisted. ‘I won’t allow the system to be changed!’

‘Moscow considers it can,’ said Losev cursorily, looking not at the space expert but at the door through which he expected the other Russians to enter.

‘I demand to know how!’ insisted Guzins, with frail bravery built upon his detailed inspection so far remaining unchallenged.

Losev came back to the man, smiling in open contempt. ‘I told you to wait,’ he repeated.

‘You’re posturing again…’ began Petrin irritably, but was halted by the arrival at last of the Soviet team.

The first to enter the room, looking around curiously, was Yevgenni Zazulin, the professionally trained photographer who had copied the contents of Robert Springley’s briefcase on the Isle of Wight. The second was Andrei Aistov, one of the men who had entered Charlie Muffin’s apartment and who was nominally attached to the rezidentura’s technical section. Zazulin carried two briefcase-size camera boxes constructed from lightweight metal. Aistov brought the more easily recognized equipment, two extendable light tripods, a selection of fan-opening reflector shades and high-wattage lights.

‘No!’ said Guzins at once, too loudly, guessing what was going to happen without having to be told now. ‘I won’t allow it! It defeats the purpose of what I’m doing…!’

The two new arrivals looked questioningly between the arguing men, halting halfway towards Krogh’s drawing board and the long drawing table.

Losev looked back at them, nodding. ‘Go ahead and set your equipment up,’ he ordered. Turning to Guzins, he said: ‘You’re not in a position to allow or disallow anything. Moscow want technical photographs of all the outstanding drawings and those that follow.’

‘But they won’t have been checked!’ said Guzins, still too loudly. ‘That’s why I was sent in the first place!’

Losev was back centre stage and clearly in charge, which was how he liked to be but hadn’t been for far too long. Petrin did not think this particular dispute involved him and had walked away, towards Krogh who had stopped drawing and was swivelled on his chair, watching.

Losev said: ‘But which you’re not doing fast enough. So now there have got to be changes…’ He allowed a pause for the intended point to register. ‘Why should it upset you? This way there is an added check. It’ll be fully understood that the photographed drawings aren’t approved by you: that they are, if you like, unauthorized until the confirmation comes from you. But this way there’s the chance of an additional approval — queries too, if necessary — from your colleagues at Baikonur. Yours isn’t the sole responsibility any more: and that’s what you’re shit scared about, isn’t it?’

Guzins shook his head, unconvinced by the rationalization and ignoring the sneer. ‘It’s going to be confusing,’ he insisted. ‘It won’t be possible to keep a proper check, working this far apart. We’ll end up not knowing what I’ve approved or what Baikonur has approved and whether we agree or disagree. And what, ultimately, is it intended we construct from? The original drawings or these new photographs! If something is put into production based on the photographs and I find a fault then it’s a complete waste of time: absolutely counter-productive!’

Losev blinked at the flurry of objections, accepting that some had validity. None of the possible confusion Guzins had picked out could personally affect or be blamed on him, he analysed gratefully. They couldn’t adversely affect Petrin, either, which was regrettable. Impatiently he said: ‘A checking system is perfectly easy to evolve! You simply number the drawings you’re holding back from release. And those numbers will be reproduced when they’re photographed. They can be cleared by you, by quoting the reference number. And the reference number can be quoted again by Baikonur, if they need any further clarification.’

‘I want a protest registered,’ said Guzins, weakening but with little convincing argument left. ‘The reasons for my objections, too.’

‘As you wish,’ sighed Losev, making his boredom very clear.

On the far side of the room Krogh looked to the approaching Petrin and then the two men assembling their photographic gear and said: ‘What the hell’s going on now!’

‘We’re going to photograph your drawings,’ said Petrin, obviously.

‘Why?’

‘A quicker, alternative way of getting them to Moscow.’

‘So you’re doing away with the nightly questionand-answer sessions?’ asked the American hopefully. He could be through very soon if that delay were obviated: three or four days at the outside.

‘No,’ said Petrin. ‘That’s to continue. I guess that the masters will remain your original drawings. This merely gives our people an idea of the complete concept.’

At last Losev and Guzins crossed the room, bringing them all together. Zazulin straightened from positioning his lights and arranging his cameras to focus directly down over the commandeered drawing table. He smiled and said: ‘I need an absolutely firm surface.’

‘Use whatever you need,’ said Losev, uncaring.

‘How many are there?’

‘Those,’ said Guzins, gesturing to the pile at the end of the table furthest away from the newly erected equipment.

‘ All of them!’ exclaimed the photographer, the smile going.

‘What’s the problem?’ demanded Losev.

‘No problem,’ assurred Zazulin. ‘Just don’t expect it done quickly, that’s all.’

Losev looked apprehensively at Petrin, expecting a sneering resumption of their argument. The American rezident looked back but said nothing.

The prospect of a continuing delay took away some of Losev’s earlier satisfaction of being in control, because he’d wanted to advise Moscow that night of a consignment of photographs already in the diplomatic bag, but it did not diminish the feeling by much.

It wavered further, however, when he did get back to the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens to find the change-over shift of Charlie Muffin observers waiting to report the obviously significant build-up of British surveillance on the Soviet delegation hotel.

‘More than it’s normal to expect?’ demanded Losev at once.

‘Much greater,’ declared Viktor Nikov, who hopefully saw a chance of getting off the boring surveillance duty. ‘This isn’t a customary counter-intelligence operation at all. This is intensive targeting.’

‘Upon one of our people? Or something to do with Charlie Muffin?’ wondered Losev.

‘Maybe that’s the reason for our being there all this time?’ suggested the other man. ‘Maybe he’s been spotting one of our people. At the moment I think the risk of our being identified by them makes it dangerous for us to remain like we are. I think we should withdraw before we get swept up in whatever’s going on.’