Brian Freemantle - Charlie M

‘Shall I help?’

‘I think I can manage,’ said the General, using two hands to hold the case. The tiny Russian paused before the barrier, lowering the bag to the ground.

‘The moment of commitment,’ he said, turning to Charlie.

‘Yes,’ agreed the Briton.

Kalenin sighed, then positively shoved the bag beneath the post with his foot. It grated over the road, an irritating, scratching sound.

‘Too late to go back now,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I thought that on the way over.’

They bent together beneath the bar and walked easily towards the Mercedes. Braley had turned the car, Charlie saw. He would have expected to have heard the sound of the engine.

Marshall was in the border post now, Charlie noticed, gazing hopefully over their shoulders for pursuit. His men would be deployed on either side of the road, Charlie knew. They were very professional: it was impossible to isolate them against the blackness of the woods.

Charlie escorted the Russian past the point without looking, suddenly anxious to get away from the area. Braley was waiting, the car doors already open.

‘I’ll travel in the front,’ selected Kalenin. He turned to Charlie.

‘Are you the driver?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

The Russian nodded, as if the information were important.

Braley held the door for him and Kalenin seated himself fussily, arranging his coat comfortably about him before lowering the case on to his lap.

Charlie and the American paused briefly, looking at each other. Then Braley closed the door and Charlie hurried to the driver’s seat.

He started badly, accelerating too quickly and felt Kalenin’s eyes upon him. Charlie gripped the wheel and slowed, staring at the twisting road.

‘A pleasant evening,’ remarked Kalenin, conversationally.

‘Yes,’ said Braley, after waiting for Charlie to respond. ‘Very pleasant, sir.’

Charlie reached the Ernstbrunn turning and came off the road to Mistelbach. On the highway far behind he could just detect the lights of the cars returning Marshall and his unhappy commandos.

‘I’m glad there was no trouble, sir,’ tried Braley embarrassed by the silence in the car.

‘I was confident there wouldn’t be,’ said Kalenin, immediately. ‘If I decree a border post remain unmanned, then it is unmanned.’

The lights of Korneuburg fireflied in front. The teams at Stockerau and Wolkersdorf would have already been informed that it had been a quiet crossing and be moving in to cover him, Charlie knew. And Marshall’s cars were quite close behind now. The protection was complete.

‘We’re well guarded?’ queried Kalenin, presciently.

‘Utterly protected,’ assured Charlie. ‘It would be impossible to stop us now.’

‘What about a routine Austrian police patrol?’

‘They would only want my driver’s documents,’ said Charlie. ‘And they’re in order.’

Langenzerdorf was deserted and they were on the outskirts of Vienna in the time that Ruttgers and Cuthbertson had estimated during their trial run. They crossed the Danube canal and passed the post office, turning right into Fleischmarktstrasse to get into the old part of the city. Over the rooftops, he could see the spire of St Stephen’s Cathedral. It looked very peaceful, thought Charlie.

Every unit would be on full alert now; and Ruttgers and Cuthbertson would have quit the first floor lounge and be in the radio room, he guessed, charting their progress street by street.

He turned slowly into Wipplingerstrasse. Marshall’s team had stopped at the junction behind him, blocking it until the Russian had entered the house.

‘Escort the General in,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll take the car on.’

The American left the car and opened Kalenin’s door. The tiny Russian got out immediately and stopped, waiting for Braley’s lead. The secured gate opened the moment the American spoke into the grill. Subserviently, he allowed Kalenin to lead as they went along the darkened pathway. The door was opened by Hubert Jessell as Braley knocked. The American led up the stairway, the breath squeaking from him.

The lounge door was already open, light shafting into the corridor.

Ruttgers and Cuthbertson stood side by side, the table separating them from the Russian. Braley entered and then closed the door, standing directly inside. For several seconds, no one spoke, apparently unable to believe the crossing had gone so well.

Ruttgers recovered first, hurrying around the table, hand outstretched.

‘General,’ he greeted. ‘Welcome! Welcome indeed.’

Kalenin smiled at the greeting, accepting his hand.

‘You must be …?’ he invited.

‘Ruttgers,’ identified the C.I.A. Director. ‘Garson Ruttgers. And allow me to introduce my English counterpart, General Sir Henry Cuthbertson.’

The Briton had followed him around the table, hand held forward.

‘A pleasure, General,’ assured Cuthbertson. ‘A very great pleasure.’

Kalenin shrugged off his topcoat and held it awkwardly. Immediately Braley was at his arm, taking it.

Ruttgers took the Russian by the elbow, moving him further into the room.

‘A perfect crossing,’ congratulated Cuthbertson. ‘A copybook operation.’

‘I have the necessary power,’ reminded Kalenin, modestly.

‘A drink,’ suggested Cuthbertson. ‘I think a celebration is in order.’

‘I enjoy your Scotch whisky very much,’ accepted Kalenin, hopefully. ‘And I agree, we’ve got something to celebrate.’

Ruttgers and Cuthbertson were tight with excitement, each aware of the incredible prestige of their coup. The Briton over-filled the glasses, only remembering Braley as an after-thought.

‘We had taken every precaution to ensure nothing would interfere on this side,’ guaranteed Ruttgers, eager to boast.

‘A plane is waiting, at Schwechat,’ added Cuthbertson, ‘we’ll be safely in London by dawn tomorrow.’

From the communications centre below, notification of Kalenin’s safe arrival had already been sent to Wilberforce and Downing Street. By now, guessed Cuthbertson, a personal telephone call would have been made by the Premier to the American President.

‘Your health,’ toasted Kalenin, raising his glass.

‘And yours,’ responded Ruttgers, sincerely.

Kalenin moved to one of the more comfortable chairs arranged around the table.

‘It was important that you came personally to greet me,’ he said, to both Directors.

‘It’s unthinkable that we would not come,’ replied Ruttgers.

Kalenin sipped the drink, appearing quite relaxed.

‘Tell me your plans,’ he ordered.

‘There is accommodation waiting in England,’ reported Cuthbertson. ‘Four completely safe houses in each of which you’ll live from time to time.’

‘It will be a long process,’ suggested Kalenin. Apparently reminded of time, he looked at his watch.

‘Yes,’ agreed Ruttgers. ‘But during it you will live in absolute luxury and complete safety. Your security will be a joint American-British responsibility.’

‘Of course,’ said Kalenin.

‘We’ve taken every step to ensure your comfort,’ expanded Cuthbertson. He smiled, a man about to produce the best present at a party.

‘You enjoy war-games with tanks, I believe?’ he asked.

Kalenin frowned, then nodded.

‘They’ve been provided for you, at every house,’ smiled the English Director.

‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ thanked Kalenin.

‘We are anxious that you will be completely happy … we’ve complied with your every request so far …’

‘Indeed,’ said Kalenin. ‘I’ve been very grateful.’

He looked pointedly at his empty glass and Cuthbertson moved immediately to fill it.