Brian Freemantle - Charlie M

He waited.

‘Remember the last time you saw Berenkov … the day your shoes leaked …?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cuthbertson has cut the taxi fare off your expenses. He dictated a memo today, saying you’d obviously walked.’

The girl went silent, expecting an angry reaction. Instead she detected him laughing and smiled, too. Charlie was such an unpredictable man, she thought, fondly. She would take him to Jennifer’s 21st.

‘I did miss you, Charlie.’

‘Yes,’ he said, distantly, his mind on other things.

‘Charlie.’

‘What?’

‘Make love to me again … the way I like it …’

The trouble with her preference, thought Charlie, pushing the sheet away, was that he always got cramp in his legs.

He sighed. And it was going to be a cold walk home, he thought. He’d been relying on those expenses: now he couldn’t afford a taxi.

Hesitant and uncomfortable, like a couple selected by a computer dating service, the two Directors finally met at Cuthbertson’s club in St James’s Street, agreeing its security. Each had had detailed biographies prepared by their services on the other, and had memorised them. Purposely, phrases were introduced into the small talk, showing the preparation, each wanting the other to know that he was aware it wasn’t really a social occasion.

He’d been right, decided Ruttgers, smiling across the lunch table at the man. Sir Henry Cuthbertson was lost outside the barrack square and the benefit of Queen’s Regulations.

The Kalenin approach had been made at an American embassy function, recalled Cuthbertson, answering the smile. Their awareness and the consequent approach was hardly surprising. That the Director had come from Washington was unexpected, though. He’d impress Ruttgers, like he’d impressed the Prime Minister, three weeks earlier, determined the Briton.

‘These Arbroath smokies are very good,’ complimented the American, boning the smoked fish. ‘It’s something we don’t have in America.’

‘I’m very fond of your cherry-stone clams,’ countered Cuthbertson. Advantage Cuthbertson, he decided.

‘I was very glad when the Secretary of State suggested I come to make your acquaintance.’

The American lifted the Chablis at the end of the sentence.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ accepted Cuthbertson. ‘Yes, liaison is very important.’

‘Vitally important,’ said Ruttgers.

Deuce, decided Cuthbertson, irritably.

The waiter came to clear the plates, saving him.

‘In every field,’ he generalised.

‘But I’m interested in one particular aspect,’ pressed Ruttgers. ‘The immediate future plans of a certain General.’

Cuthbertson stared around him, alarmed. He was going to lose the encounter, he thought, worriedly.

The artificial reaction amused the American, who waited until the other man had come back to him. This was going to be comparatively easy, thought Ruttgers.

‘We know all about it,’ exaggerated the C.I.A. chief. ‘We know you’re expecting further contact within a week or two.’

It had been easy in the closed environment of Moscow to discover the impending arrival of the man named Snare. Already, the operative who had been Braley’s deputy in the Soviet capital had been ordered to keep the Briton under permanent observation once he arrived. They’d know immediately there was a move, Ruttgers hoped.

‘I find it difficult to understand what you’re talking about,’ said Cuthbertson, stiffly. This wasn’t going at all like the Downing Street meeting. No one had pushed him then, just listened in polite attention.

‘Come now, Sir Henry,’ protested Ruttgers, lightly, carefully lifting the mollusc from the top of his steak and kidney pudding and frowning at it.

‘It’s an oyster,’ said the Briton helpfully. ‘You’re supposed to eat it with the pudding.’

Ruttgers pushed it to the side of his plate.

‘There is no other man in the world to whom I would dream of talking as directly as this,’ continued Ruttgers, flatteringly, holding Cuthbertson’s eyes in a gaze of honesty. ‘We don’t have to be coy with each other, surely?’

Cuthbertson speared several marinated kidneys, filling his mouth so he could avoid an immediate reaction. The other man’s directness flustered him, as it was intended to do.

‘There is a development in the East which is quite interesting,’ conceded the Briton, at last. He sipped his Chateau Latour reflectively. ‘And I’m sure you won’t be offended,’ he hurried on, disclosing his apprehension, ‘when I say I don’t see that at the moment it affects you in the slightest …’

He paused, growing bolder.

‘… There is an excellent liaison between us, as we have agreed. If anything transpires, you’ll hear about it through the normal channels.’

Bloody prig, thought Ruttgers, smiling broadly in open friendship. He hadn’t believed people talked of ‘normal channels’ any more.

‘Sir Henry,’ he placated, let’s not misunderstand each other.’

‘I don’t think there’s any misunderstanding,’ insisted Cuthbertson. The game was swinging back his way, he decided.

Ruttgers spread his hands, recognising the cul-de-sac.

‘The Kalenin affair is spectacular,’ he announced, selecting a different path and trying to shock the man into concessions.

Cuthbertson curbed any concern this time.

‘It really is too much for one service,’ said the American.

‘I can recommend the Stilton,’ said Cuthbertson, twisting away. ‘With a glass of Taylors, perhaps?’

Ruttgers nodded his acceptance, feeling the anger surface. Arrogant, stupid old bugger. How, he wondered, desperately, would the professional soldier react to the suggestion of higher authority?

‘I have it on the direct instructions of the President himself,’ disclosed Ruttgers, grandly, ‘that I can offer the full and complete services of the C.I.A. on this operation;’

‘That’s very nice,’ replied Cuthbertson.

The American was unsure whether he was referring to the offer or the cheese.

‘It would be an absolute disaster for the West if anything went wrong,’ bullied Ruttgers.

‘I’m quite confident nothing will,’ said Cuthbertson, dabbing his lips with the linen napkin. The two men sat looking at each other.

‘I shall be staying in London for some time,’ said Ruttgers, maintaining the smile. ‘Now that we’ve opened up this personal contact between our two services, I think it should continue.’

‘Oh,’ prompted Cuthbertson, uncertainly.

‘By regular meetings,’ expanded Ruttgers.

‘Of course,’ agreed the British Director, surprised that the other man had capitulated so easily. ‘I’d like that.’

And he would, decided Cuthbertson, leaving the club for his waiting car. People appeared remarkably easy to handle: this job wasn’t going to be as difficult as he had feared, after all.

He smiled, settling back against the leather upholstery. It had been game, set and match, he decided.

The greetings weren’t the same any more, recognised Charlie, as Berenkov entered the interview room. The Russian’s exuberance was strained, as if he were constantly having to force his attitude and recall the exaggerated gestures. His skin had that grey, shining look of a man deprived of fresh air for a long period, and the familiar mane of hair was flecked with grey, too. The prison denims were freshly laundered and pressed, but the hands that lay flaccid on the table between them were rough, the once immaculate nails chipped and rimmed with dirt.

‘It’s good of you to come so often, Charlie,’ thanked Berenkov.

Since his return from holiday, Charlie had visited the spy every week: the decline in that time could be almost measured on a graph, thought the Briton.