Brian Freemantle - Comrade Charlie

He had to tell her tonight, remembered Charlie. He said: ‘And now you won’t.’

‘What?’ she frowned at him.

‘I’m checking out tomorrow.’

‘But I…oh…’

‘I’ve got to, haven’t I?’ urged Charlie. ‘You just can’t run, without some planning in advance.’

‘Of course,’ accepted Natalia at once. ‘I just hadn’t thought.’ Or wanted to, she acknowledged, to herself. She felt safe, cocooned, in this bedroom: locked away where no one could get to them, hurt them. And more. His moving out, to make positive arrangements, finally committed her. And while she wanted to cross and was determined to cross she was still frightened. Frightened of being intercepted at the last minute and frightened of the unknowns of trying to live a new life in an environment and a country where she was a stranger and frightened of things she couldn’t even conceive but feared would be ahead of her, lurking in dark corners.

‘You don’t sound sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure: you know that…’ Natalia trailed off. Then she said, hopefully. ‘Can’t you imagine how I feel?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlie.

‘What must I do?’ she asked quietly.

‘Do you know the rest of your itinerary?’

‘Farnborough, for the remainder of the trade days. The afternoon of the last but one day here in London, for official receptions. The last day is packing up — the shopping I told you about — and then the plane back to Moscow in the late afternoon.’

Charlie sat nodding, not looking at her. ‘The shopping expedition,’ he decided. ‘That creates the best opportunity: the safest…’ he turned to her. ‘Has there been any talk of groups being organized? Any arrangements made?’

‘Loosely,’ said Natalia. ‘Everyone’s talking about Harrods.’

‘Make yourself part of it,’ insisted Charlie. ‘If your plane is going in the afternoon the outing will have to be in the morning. Just go with the group. It’s a big store, usually crowded. Which is ideal. Let yourself become separated: it’s got to appear completely accidental, to avoid any suspicion. There are a lot of exits and entrances. Make for the one directly opposite the underground — what you call metro — station. It’s named Knightsbridge, after the district. Because it is a station it’s busy, so there’ll be a lot of cover from people using it.’

‘What do I do then?’

‘Just wait,’ instructed Charlie. ‘I’ll be ready, whatever the time.’

‘It all seems too…’

‘…simple,’ finished Charlie. ‘It’ll work.’

She smiled at the reminder. ‘I’ll learn,’ she promised.

‘Do you want me to go through it again?’

Natalia shook her head, serious-faced. ‘No.’

‘This is always the worst part, just before everything starts,’ warned Charlie.

‘I’ve never known it,’ said Natalia. ‘I wasn’t trained as a field agent, like you. It’s different for me: more difficult.’

‘Just a few more days,’ said Charlie. ‘After that it’ll all be over. We’ll be settled.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know, not yet.’

‘I wish…’ started Natalia, and stopped. Enough! she told herself, irritated. There was no other way — no safer way — and it was ridiculous to start saying she wished that there were. He was a professional who knew what he was doing. She had to trust him. There was surely no one else in whom she could better put that trust.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Let’s not leave any uncertainty about anything,’ pressed Charlie. ‘We won’t get second chances: neither of us expected this one.’

‘No, really.’ She didn’t want to — she wouldn’t — show any weakness, let him know how really frightened she was. She was behaving like a child.

‘You sure?’ said Charlie, still pressing.

‘Quite sure.’

Charlie looked at her, waiting, but Natalia didn’t continue. He said: ‘I’ll be waiting.’

‘I’ll be there.’

The following morning Charlie telephoned reception from his room, apologizing for ending his booking early, but didn’t go down into the foyer to settle his account until he was sure the Russian delegation would have left for Farnborough. When he got there the porter who’d greeted him the first day was behind his cubbyhole desk and Charlie smiled and said he was leaving and the porter said he was sorry he hadn’t been able to be of more assistance.

‘Not that it would have been easy,’ said the man, his ill-fitting teeth moving as if they had a life of their own. ‘Been a right work-up with all these Russians.’

‘Other people have told me,’ commiserated Charlie.

‘Had to send out for more bar-stock two days ago,’ disclosed the man. ‘Some of them really did need minders!’

Charlie paid his bill and assured the reception clerk and the cashier that he’d enjoyed his stay and walked out into the forecourt towards the road and its taxi stand.

They got him just at its edge. There were three men, one very large, who emerged from a blue Ford. The large one waved a piece of paper towards Charlie but too quickly for him to read it. The man said: ‘Charles Edward Muffin. This is a warrant for your arrest, issued under the necessary section of the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Hands against the car roof, sunshine,’ ordered his immediate companion. ‘It’s always wise to give bastards like you a pat-down.’

Charlie did as he was told, unprotesting. The man ran his hands expertly over Charlie’s body, seeking a weapon, finishing with further expertise by running the search finally down Charlie’s right arm and snapping a handcuff around his wrist before Charlie guessed it was going to be done.

‘Hey! What’s going on!’

They all turned at the shout. The friendly, goldloving barman named John was hurrying along the pavement, on his way to open up for the day.

The big arresting officer sighed and took a small folding wallet from his jacket pocket, holding it in front of the man to halt the approach. ‘Smedley, Special Branch,’ he said to the barman. ‘Piss off!’

Charlie said apologetically to the barman: ‘They’ve got to speak like that all the time otherwise they don’t get the job.’

The man who had attached himself to the other end of the handcuff twisted in, thrusting Charlie into the rear of the car, and the big man got in on the other side, so that Charlie was crushed between them. The third man got in behind the driver’s seat.

‘You’re nicked, you are!’ insisted the large man. ‘You’re in the shit right up to your scruffy bloody neck.’

‘I often am,’ confided Charlie mildly. He looked at the man and said: ‘So if you’re Smedley…’ He paused, turning to the man to whom he was tethered. ‘…then I suppose your name will be Abbott? You people normally stay together as partners, don’t you?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about!’ demanded Smedley.

‘Bullied any senile old ladies lately?’ asked Charlie, in a very personal question of his own.

From that first alert, which came from the Soviet observers still in the hotel before Charlie was properly in the Special Branch car to be driven away, Vitali Losev had to do everything personally, specifically refused authority to delegate anything to any other Soviet intelligence officer and by so doing diminish or spread his own responsibility. Which was, he accepted, an open, threatening warning against his making the slightest error. He was not, however, unduly worried: identifiable responsibility against mistakes carried corresponding credit for success. And he did not consider what he had to do as particularly difficult. His predominant consideration, in fact, was that it put him very much in a position of superiority over everyone in the Kensington safe house but most importantly over Alexandr Petrin.