Brian Freemantle - Charlie M

Ruttgers grew discomforted at Keys’s complete lack of reaction.

‘… And if that isn’t odd enough,’ the Director hurried on, desperately, ‘a man of whom no photographs are known to exist, willingly poses for his picture to be taken …’

‘How do we know it is Kalenin,’ butted in Keys, ‘if there haven’t been any pictures.’

‘ Known pictures,’ qualified Ruttgers. ‘We’ve had photographs compared with every Praesidium group taken over the last twenty years. The one established fact about Kalenin is his incredible survival … he appears in official pictures dating back two decades …’

Ruttgers waved his own file, like a flag. ‘… examine it,’ he exhorted the Secretary. ‘Six photographs of the most secretive man in the Soviet Union …’

Keys sighed. On amorphous interpretations such as this, he thought, the policies of a nation could be changed. It was little wonder there were so many crises.

‘All this,’ stressed Ruttgers, ‘just three days after one of the most vicious diatribes ever published in Pravda and by Izvestia about lack of State security … an attack that can only be construed as a direct criticism of Kalenin …’

Keys waved a hand, still unconvinced.

‘What do you think, Mr Braley?’ he asked. He was not interested, but it would give him time to consider what he’d read in the file and consider it against Ruttgers’s conviction.

‘It’s strange, sir,’ managed the fat man, breathily. ‘I know it appears vague. But I seriously interpret it as indicating that Kalenin is considering the idea of coming across. Which is what worries me …’

‘Worries you …?’

‘Our reception was the only Western diplomatic function that week … Kalenin used us, just to reach the British. As soon as we realised who he was, I and the ambassador tried to get involved. The man was positively rude in rejecting us.’

Keys pursed his lips, with growing acceptancy. On the other side of the desk, Ruttgers frowned, annoyed the Secretary wasn’t showing the enthusiasm he had expected. He gestured towards the dossier.

‘And don’t forget the Viennese reports,’ he continued encouragingly. ‘In Prague, according to our Austrian monitor, Rude Pravo have actually named Kalenin. No newspaper in the East does that without specific Praesidium instructions … the man’s being purged. There can’t be any doubt about it. He knows it and wants to run.’

‘To the British?’

‘That’s how it looks.’

‘I’d like more information upon which to make a judgment,’ complained Keys, cautiously. He’d use the antiseptic spray in the office when the two had gone: Braley looked as if he could be consumptive.

‘As far as Russia is concerned, sir,’ offered Braley, ‘the indications we’ve got so far and those which are in the last report, are amazingly informative.’

‘Have you tried the British?’

‘Of course,’ said Braley. ‘Their attitude encourages our conviction.’

Keys waited.

‘They’ve gone completely silent,’ reported Braley. He paused, like Ruttgers expecting some reaction. When none came, he added: ‘For a closed community like Moscow, that’s unheard of. We live so cut off from everything that embassy-to-embassy contact, particularly between ourselves and the British, is far greater than anywhere else. For the past five days, I’ve tried to encourage a meeting, on any level …’

‘And?’

‘The British Embassy is tighter than the Kremlin itself.’

‘It certainly looks unusual,’ conceded Keys, finally. ‘If Kalenin is thinking of coming over, for whatever reason, how close are we to the British for access?’

Ruttgers controlled the sigh of impatience. He wasn’t waiting until the British had finished, he had decided. That could take years.

‘That’s what made me request this meeting,’ said the Director. ‘The British have just had a major overhaul, throwing out nearly everyone.’

‘So?’

‘I don’t think they could properly handle something this big. It’ll go wrong.’

‘How important is Kalenin?’ asked Keys.

Ruttgers hesitated. At last, he thought, the doubtful son of a bitch is coming round.

‘I don’t think,’ he replied, slowly, ‘that I can think of a Russian whose defection would be more important in the entire history of communism … except perhaps Stalin.’

Keys sat back, bemused at the analysis. Ruttgers was absolutely convinced, he decided.

‘But surely …’ he started to protest.

‘… he’s lived through it all,’ insisted Ruttgers. ‘Stalin … Beria … Krushchev and Bulganin … Brezhnev … there is not one single Russian better able to tell us not only what happened in the past, but what might occur in the future. His value is incalculable.’

Ruttgers had been right in seeking the meeting, decided Keys. He’d tell the President at the afternoon briefing.

‘I agree,’ said the Secretary. ‘We’ve got to get involved.’

Ruttgers smiled and Braley found his breathing easier.

‘But be careful,’ added Keys. ‘If the shit hits the fan, I want us wearing clean white suits. Hand-shakes in space and detente is important at the moment.’

‘I know,’ assured Ruttgers. He paused, uncertain about the commitment at the final moment of making it. The risks were enormous. But then so was the chance of glory.

‘I thought I’d do it personally,’ he announced.

Keys stared at the C.I.A. chief, the words jamming in the back of his throat.

‘Do you think that’s wise?’ he queried, finally.

‘It’s got to be someone of authority … someone who can make decisions on the spot,’ argued Ruttgers.

Keys looked down at the photographs of Kalenin smiling up at him from the desk. Such an ordinary little man, he thought. Was he really worth it?

‘I think it’s very dangerous,’ judged Keys.

‘So do I,’ agreed Ruttgers. ‘But I think the potential rewards justify it.’

Keys nodded slowly, indicating Braley.

‘I think you should be seconded to it, as well,’ he said. ‘You’ve encountered Kalenin, after all. And if the need to go into Moscow arrives, your visa is valid.’

Braley smiled and felt his lungs tighten again.

The Secretary of State turned back to the Director.

‘Keep me completely informed … at all times,’ he instructed. ‘I don’t like it… I don’t like it at all.’

Kalenin crouched on the kitchen floor of his apartment, frowning at the tank displacement before him. He’d been fighting the Battle of Kursk for over a week now and it wasn’t going at all well. Unless there was a sudden change of luck, the Germans were going to reverse historical fact and win. He stood up, bored with the game.

What, he wondered, would be his worth to the West? It was important to calculate the amount to reflect his value, without being ridiculous. He smiled, happy at the thought. Five hundred thousand dollars, he decided. Yes — that was just about right.

The Customs inspector at Southampton located the second litre of brandy in Charlie’s overnight case and sighed, irritably. Why was there always a bloody fool? He held up the bottle, not bothering with the question.

‘Forgot,’ offered Charlie, shortly. ‘Bought it on the way out and forgot.’

‘Even though it’s wrapped in underwear you packed last night?’ accused the official. He made them unpack all their luggage, searching it slowly, so their departure would be delayed. If his dinner was going to be ruined, so would their homecoming.

‘It’ll cost you?4 in duty,’ he said, finally, surveying their wrecked suitcases.

It was another hour before they reached the M3 on the way to London.