Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘I said sherry,’ remembered Lady Billington. ‘But I prefer gin. What about you?’

‘Scotch please,’ said Charlie.

‘Shouldn’t do it, you know,’ she said.

‘Do what?’

‘Drink in this climate; the Romans always watered their wine, but then look what happened to them.’

Charlie liked her. Lady Billington was the Rolls Royce to Jane Williams’s Daimler, he decided, accepting the drink from the returning secretary. His nose was itching.

‘Cheers,’ said Lady Billington.

‘Cheers,’ said Charlie.

‘Must have been an awful nuisance for you, coming all the way from London.’

‘It was necessary for the valuation adjustment,’ said Charlie, hoping that was the way proper insurance men spoke.

‘Hector fusses so!’ she said. ‘Half the time people don’t know the difference between the real thing and paste.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not finished,’ said Jane Williams. ‘It seems you have to be personally present when the jewellery is checked.’

‘Whatever for!’

‘You’re the owner,’ said Charlie. ‘I can only accept proof of identity from you: it’s a term of the policy.’ He sneezed, just getting the handkerchief to his face in time.

‘Can’t do it today,’ said Lady Billington. ‘Due in Rome for lunch. Hector treats lateness as a diplomatic incident.’ She was sitting on a wide couch. The cats snuggled up beside her and she began to fondle them.

‘Your secretary explained,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sorry. I should have explained on the telephone.’

‘No matter,’ said Lady Billington. She frowned at her empty glass and offered it to the other woman. ‘And look at the diary, will you?’

She came back to Charlie. ‘What have you done?’

‘Checked the security, which was the main point of the visit,’ said Charlie. ‘It seems extremely efficient.’

‘I heard the bells.’

Charlie realized she had a tendency to over-stress her sibilants and was unsure whether it was an impediment or the gin. ‘From what I’ve seen I should think you’re safe enough.’ He sneezed again.

‘Have you got a cold?’

Charlie looked towards the cats. ‘Bit asthmatic,’ he said. ‘Reaction to animal fur.’

Jane Williams returned with the drinks and the appointments diary. Lady Billington held up the animals. ‘Take them out dear, will you?’

Sighing, the secretary carried both animals out into the corridor. She returned picking fur from her skirt.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

She said to Lady Billington. ‘You could fit it in tomorrow.’

Charlie thought she made it sound like agreeing to a hack being shod.

‘Come for sherry,’ invited Lady Billington, sipping her gin.

The cats were clustered at the door, awaiting readmission when he left. Jane Williams showed him out. At the drive, Charlie said, ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘I doubt it,’ she said, determined upon the last word.

Charlie sneezed, not managing the handkerchief in time.

Alexander Hotovy had stressed his wife’s health when he made the request and had been given permission to travel to London airport to meet her on her return from Czechoslovakia. He sat in the rear of the car, confident neither the driver nor the escort who accompanied him would discern the excitement that was throbbing through him. It wouldn’t be so easy with Lora: his wife knew him too well. He’d rehearsed the whispered warning for when they embraced, so she would not question him until they got somewhere secure to talk. Dear God, he prayed, let her be well enough to accept it without challenge. In a day – two at the most – they would all be safe.

The vehicle circled the roundabout and sped beneath the huge welcoming sign above the tunnel leading into the airport. Hotovy smiled at it briefly. That’s what he was being welcomed to: a new life. A new life without restrictions or suspicion or worrying about an indiscreet word or thought. Freedom! His hands were wet with sweat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them under the pretence of blowing his nose.

Safeguarded by the CD plates, the car parked on the double yellow lines outside the European arrivals building and Hotovy got out. He walked with deliberate slowness into the terminal, staring up at the indicator board for the flight from Prague.

‘You are Comrade Hotovy?’

‘Yes,’ In his surprise, Hotovy answered before he realized that the question had been asked in Russian. There was a man either side of him and as he turned he saw three more close behind. ‘What do you want?’

‘Look there, please,’ said one of them politely.

About a hundred and fifty yards along the concourse Hotovy saw his two boys being led into the building. There were three men and a woman with them. They went to the desk handling the Aeroflot flight. Tickets and boarding passes were handed to them without any checking formalities.

‘You’re not going to make a fuss, are you?’ said the man.

‘No,’ said Hotovy.

It was two hours after the Aeroflot departure that Clarissa Willoughby arrived at Heathrow. With the porter trailing her she went straight by the check-in counter for the Nice flight to the ticket desk.

‘I’d like to change my flight,’ she said to the clerk.

The man in the grey suit, still with his umbrella, busied himself among the magazines at the bookstall. He found he read a lot in his line of business.

General Kalenin would have preferred more time to assemble the material but he was confident he had forgotten nothing. He arranged it before him on the desk top, checking against the carefully prepared list, for the final scrutiny. The medal ribbon designated a Hero of the Soviet Union and was accompanied by a long official citation made out in Charlie Muffin’s name. There was a Soviet identity card, with a picture of Charlie and an authorization, again with a picture, for admission to the restricted concessionary stores. The passport contained Charlie’s picture and was date-stamped for the relevant countries where the Britons had been killed. There was five thousand dollars in cash and several congratulatory cables, two referring to the assassinations in Delhi and Ankara. The longest document was the briefing about Rome. It ran to two full pages and Kalenin concentrated upon that most of all, because it had to complete the entrapment.

He summoned the courier to take it to the Foreign Ministry for inclusion in that night’s diplomatic pouch to London, shrugging into his topcoat while he waited. He followed the messenger from his office but descended in the private lift directly into the basement where the car was waiting in an area of guaranteed absolute security. The journey to Kutuzovsky Prospect took only minutes and Kalenin dismissed the driver for the evening.

It was one of the largest apartments in the government complex, too big for his solitary needs but awarded to him because of his rank. The size enabled Kalenin to devote an entire room to his hobby. From habit he went immediately to it, staring down at the contoured papier-mache layout and the positions of the miniature tanks with which he had been recreating the Battle of Kursk in the most recent war game. It was over a fortnight since he’d abandoned it. Normally he would have invited Alexei Berenkov to complete it with him, but had decided against it tonight.

Reminded of his guest, Kalenin went back into the main room and opened two bottles of Aloxe Gorton to let them breathe. Berenkov preferred French to Russian wine and Kalenin enjoyed using his official position to indulge his friend. He lit a low heat beneath the bortsch and added meat and dumplings when it began to steam. He had just completed laying out the caviar and smoked fish when the bell sounded.