Brian Freemantle - Charlie M

‘But Charlie is so … I don’t know. It just seems to fit,’ she protested.

‘Not any more,’ insisted the man. He squatted, reflectively. He would take the Christian name of the old Director, he decided.

‘It will be Archibald,’ he announced, grandly. ‘I’ll keep the first name, but from now on it will be Charles.’

What a pity that Cuthbertson would never know, he thought. He rolled the words uncomfortably in his mouth.

‘Charles Archibald,’ he declared. ‘With a very definite accent on the “Charles”. Charlie Muffin is dead.’

The Home Office car drove directly on to the airstrip, ten minutes after the rest of the passengers had boarded BE 602 to Moscow.

Berenkov got unsteadily from the vehicle and stood for several minutes, supported by one of the officials, gazing for the last time at the Heathrow complex. Finally he turned and shuffled with difficulty up the steps and into the specially curtained first class section.

The steward approached him after they had cleared the airport and the seat-belt sign had been turned off.

‘A drink, sir?’ he suggested.

Berenkov looked up, whey-faced, considering the invitation.

‘It’s been so long,’ he said, quietly. ‘So very long.’

The steward waited.

‘You’d only have claret in those little bottles, of course,’ said the Russian, professionally. ‘And that wouldn’t be what I’d enjoy. I’ll have a miniature champagne.’

He watched apprehensively as the drink foamed in the glass, then waited for the bubbles to settle.

Finally he lifted it, then paused, glass almost to his lips.

‘Your health, Charlie Muffin,’ he said.

‘Sir?’ enquired the steward, half turning.

‘Nothing,’ said Berenkov. ‘Nothing at all.’