Brian Freemantle - Charlie M

‘Berenkov must be exchanged,’ said the committee chairman, Boris Kastanazy, breaking into the General’s reflections.

Kalenin looked warily at the man who formed the link between the Praesidium and the K.G.B. It was the fourth occasion he’d uttered the same sentence. Kalenin wondered if he were completely secure or whether he should be worried by this man.

‘I know,’ responded Kalenin. There was no trace of irritation in his voice.

‘And will be,’ he added. He wasn’t frightened, he decided. And Kastanazy knew it. The man would be annoyed. He enjoyed scaring people.

‘Not if the attempt to ensnare a British operative is handled with the stupidity surrounding the East Berlin border crossing.’

‘The officers who reacted prematurely have been reprimanded,’ reminded Kalenin.

Kastanazy moved, irritably.

‘That’s a stupid gesture; it wasn’t the right man, so what does it matter? The important thing is that one of the best operatives the service ever had is rotting in a filthy jail and we’re doing nothing about it.’

Kastanazy was a pinch-faced, expressionless man who wore spectacles with which he fidgeted constantly, like some men use worry beads.

‘At the last full session of the Praesidium,’ said the chairman, slowly, gazing down at the revolving spectacles, ‘a lengthy discussion was held on the matter.’

‘I am aware how this committee was formed,’ said Kalenin. He would not be intimidated by the man, he decided.

‘But I don’t get the impression, Comrade General, that you fully appreciate the determination to retrieve General Berenkov.’

‘I assure you, Comrade Chairman,’ retorted the tiny K.G.B. chief, ‘that I do.’

‘Have plans been made?’

‘I am in the course of formulating proposals,’ Kalenin tried to avoid.

‘You mean you’ve done nothing?’ demanded Kastanazy, sharply.

‘I mean I do not intend embarking on anything that will worsen, rather than improve, the position of General Berenkov.’

Kastanazy sighed, noisily, staring directly at the other man. When he spoke, he did so with, care, wanting the words to register. He talked directly to the secretary sitting alongside, ensuring everything was correctly recorded for later submission to the Praesidium.

‘I want you to leave the meeting understanding one thing …’

He paused, but Kalenin refused to prompt him, knowing it would show nervousness.

‘I want you to fully appreciate,’ said Kastanazy, ‘that if General Berenkov isn’t being received with full honours at Sheremetyevo airport reasonably soon, the most stringent enquiry will be held …’

He hesitated again and Kalenin knew he had not finished.

‘… an enquiry, Comrade General, in which you will be the central character …’

Charlie Muffin wedged the saturated suede boots beneath the radiator, then spread his socks over the metal ribs to dry. There was a faint hissing sound.

The bottoms of his trousers, where the raincoat had ended, were concertinaed and sodden and he felt cold, knowing his shirt was wet where the coat had leaked. It was the newer of the two suits he possessed and now it would have to be dry-cleaned. It wouldn’t be long before it started getting shiny at the seat, he thought, miserably.

Charlie wondered if he would catch influenza or a cold from his soaking: it would provide an excuse to stay away from the office for a few days. He stopped at the hope. The last time he’d had such a thought he had been a fifth former, trying to avoid an English examination at Manchester Grammar School.

‘Steady, Charlie,’ he advised hilself. ‘Things aren’t that bad.’

He would have kept drier, he reflected, had he caught a taxi back from Wormwood Scrubs, instead of travelling by bus and underground from Shepherd’s Bush. The sacrifice had been worth it, he decided. It meant an expenses profit of?2 and a bottle of wine for tonight.

‘Aloxe Corton,’ he reminded himself. ‘Mustn’t forget the name.’

The dye had come out of his boots, staining his heels and between his toes a khaki colour. Barefoot, he padded into the lavatory opposite his office, from which he could always hear the flush and usually the reason for it, filled a water glass with hot water and returned towards his office, pausing at the door. He’d only occupied it for three months, since Cuthbertson had decreed that the room adjoining his own suite and in which Charlie had worked during home periods for the past twenty years was big enough for two men. So Snare and Harrison had got the airy, oak-panelled room with its views of the Cenotaph. And Charlie — ‘as a senior operative, you’ll have to be alone, old boy’ — had been relegated to what had once been the secretaries’ rest room, overlooking an inner courtyard where the canteen dustbins were kept. On the wall by the window there was still a white outline where the sanitary-towel dispenser had been: Janet had identified the mark and Charlie refused to have it painted over, knowing it offended Cuthbertson.

He entered the cramped room, sitting carefully at the desk, which was wedged tight against one wall. The wet trousers clung to his ankles and he grimaced, unhappily. Even with two men in it, he remembered, his old office was still bigger than that he was now forced to occupy. And it had had an electric fire, too, where he could have dried his trousers.

He stripped some blotting paper, soaked it in the glass and began sponging his feet, reflecting on his meeting with Berenkov. Had the Russian meant to tell him so much? he wondered. It could hardly have been a mistake; he wasn’t the sort of man to allow errors. He’d been caught, contradicted Charlie. That had been a mistake. Or had it? Had Berenkov been incredibly clever, accepting his self-confessed fear and man?uvred the whole thing, confident of repatriation as a hero after sentence?

He paused, left ankle across his right knee. Were his feelings for Berenkov admiration or envy? he wondered, suddenly.

‘Good God!’

Snare stood at the doorway, gazing down at him.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ demanded the younger man.

‘Washing my feet,’ retorted Charlie, obviously. Snare’s expressions of horror were encompassing the entire religious gamut, Charlie thought. He was embarrassed at being caught by the other man.

Snare leaned on the doorpost, knowing the discomfort and enjoying it.

‘Very biblical,’ mocked Snare. ‘Can you do miracles, too?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, irritably. ‘I can come back from the dead out of burning Volkswagens.’

The smile left Snare’s face and he moved away from the doorway. The bastard had known, Charlie decided, even before they’d gone into East Berlin.

‘The Director wants to see you,’ said Snare. Quickly he added, wanting to score, ‘With your shoes on.’

‘Then he’ll have to wait,’ said Charlie. A faint mist was rising from his drying socks and shoes. And there was a smell, realised Charlie, uncomfortably.

‘Shall I tell him ten minutes?’

‘Tell him what you like,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m waiting for my socks to dry.’

He was ready in fifteen minutes, but was delayed another ten by comparing two sheets in the Berenkov file.

‘Charlie boy, you’re a genius,’ he assured himself.

They were waiting for him, Charlie saw. Snare was standing at the window, appearing preoccupied with the view below. Harrison was sitting by the small table containing the newspapers and magazines, his back to the wall, determined to miss nothing. Wilberforce was in the leatherbacked lounging chair to the side of Cuthbertson’s desk, disembowelling a pipe he never seemed to light, with a set of attachments that retracted into a single gold case. The second-in-command was a slightly built but very tall, finefeatured man with fingers so long they appeared to have an extra joint and of which he was over-conscious, frequently making washing movements, covering one with the other, which drew attention to their oddness. He invariably wore gloves, even in the summer, and had a predilection for pastel-shaded shirts that he always wore with matching socks. Probably dryer than mine, thought Charlie, who still felt damp. He decided Wilberforce carried the pipe as a symbol of masculinity.