Brian Freemantle - Charlie M

‘More comfortable now?’ greeted Cuthbertson, heavily.

The new Director was a very large but precise man, with a face permanently reddened by a sub-lieutenant’s liking for curry at the beginning of his career in Calcutta, and a later tendency to blood pressure on the British General Staff. He had a distressingly phlegmy voice, which meant he bubbled rather than spoke words. Charlie found this offensive. But then he found most things about Cuthbertson offensive. The man’s family was provably traceable back to Elizabethan times and there had been generals in it for three hundred years. It was with that rank, plus a D.S.O. and the inherited baronetcy originally conferred by George III, that Cuthbertson had left the Chief of Staff to head the department. His outlook and demeanour were as regimented as his brigade or Eton tie, the family-crested signet ring and the daily lunch at Boodle’s. Which was precisely why he had been appointed, a government experiment to improve by strict discipline and army-type order a department that had suffered two humiliating — and worse, public — mistakes in attempting to establish systems in Poland and Czechoslovakia.

Charlie wondered how long it would take before they suffered their biggest mistake to date: not long, he decided, confidently.

‘Much more comfortable, thank you, sir,’ replied Charlie. The term of respect sounded offensive. No one offered him a chair, so he stood casually at ease. On a parade ground, he thought, Cuthbertson would have put him on a charge.

‘Which is more than I can say for myself,’ said Cuthbertson, softly. It was an affectation never to be seen to lose his temper, so it was impossible to gauge any mood from the gurgling tone in which the man spoke.

‘Sir?’

‘It has been my misfortune …’

He paused, gesturing to the others in the room.

‘… and the misfortune and embarrassment of my colleagues, to have listened to a tape recording that many people might construe as being almost treasonable …’

He stopped again, as if expecting Charlie to speak, but the man remained silent, eyes fixed on the Director’s forehead. If he wriggled his toes, Charlie discovered, he could make a tiny squelching sound with his left boot.

‘Psychologically,’ continued Cuthbertson, ‘today was the ideal time to interrogate Berenkov … bewildered and frightened by the severity of his sentence, cut off from life and eager to exchange every confidence with someone conducting an examination in a proper, sympathetic way …’

Charlie wondered at the text-book from which Cuthbertson would have read that thesis. It was probably a do-it-yourself paperback from W. H. Smith’s, he decided. Snare turned away from the window, wanting to see Charlie suffer.

‘Instead,’ continued the former army officer, ‘we got the meanderings of two men play-acting for the benefit of the recorders … recorders that Berenkov could only have learned about from you …’

It would have been a severe exercise of will to maintain the monotone, thought Charlie. He wondered why the man never cleared his throat. A nerve in Cuthbertson’s left eyelid began twitching, indicating his anger. The man felt on his desk for a transcript.

‘… The Russian made a remark about age,’ said Cuthbertson, apparently reading. He’d rehearsed this part, Charlie realised.

The Director stood up, trying to hold Charlie’s eyes.

‘For you, it was a prophecy,’ declared Cuthbertson. ‘I’ve already sent to the Minister a copy of the transcript and my appreciation of it, together with my recommendation of your immediate, premature departure from any position of authority in this department … I don’t want traitors working with me, Muffin.’

Snare and Harrison were smirking, Charlie saw.

Silence settled like frost in the room. Charlie stayed unmoving, wanting Cuthbertson to finish completely, with no opportunity for retreat. What idiots they all were, he thought.

‘Have you anything to say?’ demanded Wilberforce, still rummaging into the bowl of his pipe. He would find it impossible to confront directly anyone being disciplined, Charlie realised. The permanent civil servant had waited a long time for this scene, Charlie knew. Why, he wondered, did Wilberforce hate him so?

‘Does that mean I’m fired?’ he asked, hopefully. He purposely omitted the ‘sir’.

‘It does not,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘I want you under constant supervision, where I can ensure you don’t forget the terms of the Official Secrets Act by which you’re bound for a lifetime but which, judging from this morning’s performance, you have forgotten.’

‘Demotion?’ asked Charlie.

‘As far down as I can possibly achieve,’ confirmed Cuthbertson.

‘So my allowance and salary will be cut?’

Cuthbertson nodded.

‘And you’ve suggested all this in the letter to the Minister?’ demanded Charlie. He was enjoying himself, he realised.

‘That’s an impudent question,’ said Cuthbertson huffily. ‘But yes, I have.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Charlie. ‘That was a silly thing to have done.’

The silence this time was far more oppressive than that of a few moments before when Cuthbertson had announced his decision on Charlie’s future. Wilberforce had stopped working on his pipe, but remained staring fixedly at it, as if he expected to find a clue in the blackened bowl. Harrison shifted uncomfortably in the chair, as if he wanted to use a lavatory, and Snare looked hurriedly from person to person, seeking a clue from the others on what reaction to make. The lobes of Cuthbertson’s ears flushed and the nerve in his eye increased its tic.

‘Impudence will not gain the dismissal to get whatever redundancy pay you imagine is owed you,’ rejected Cuthbertson, haughtily.

For the first time, Charlie lowered his eyes from the man’s forehead, staring directly at him. Cuthbertson appeared to realise Charlie was not scared and blinked, irritably. It was very rare for Cuthbertson to encounter somebody not in awe of him, Charlie guessed.

He’d make them suffer, he decided: he had very little to lose. Nothing, in fact. Their decision about Charlie Muffin had been made months ago. He supposed he should consider himself lucky he was still alive.

‘There is a procedure,’ he began, slowly. ‘Innovated by your predecessors … a procedure that the Minister likes followed because it has shown such success in the past …’

‘… but one which was overlooked in the Polish and Czechoslovakian disasters,’ tried Snare, eager to impress his mentor.

Charlie turned to him, frowning.

‘I’m sorry?’ he said, knowing the effect would be destroyed if the man were forced to repeat it.

‘Nothing,’ said Snare. ‘Just a comment.’

‘Oh,’ said Charlie. He still waited, as if expecting Snare to repeat himself. Wince, you bastard, he thought. At last he looked back to Cuthbertson.

‘I’m sure it will be followed in the case of my interview with Berenkov,’ he continued. ‘Once established, procedures are rigidly followed. And you’ve decreed that, of course.’

Cuthbertson nodded, cautiously. The left eye twitched and Charlie thought he detected Wilberforce looking surreptitiously at him.

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded the Director.

He was beginning to become unsettled, Charlie decided, happily, detecting the apprehension in that unpleasant voice.

‘The detailed analysis,’ said Charlie. ‘By psychological experts, not only of the tapes but of the film that was shot in the interview room.’

‘What about it?’

‘Your reaction to the meeting and your recommendation was made without waiting for the results of that analysis?’

‘There was no need to wait,’ defended Cuthbertson.