Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

Berenkov entered as exuberantly as always, enveloping Kalenin in his burly arms. The only legacy of the man’s British imprisonment was the white hair. The cowed apprehension of his immediate return had disappeared and under Valentina’s care all the weight had been restored. He looked like a bear, thought Kalenin. But elderly and docile, the sort that live in children’s fairy stories.

‘Valentina is sorry,’ said Berenkov, repeating the apology of their telephone conversation earlier in the day. ‘I think Asian flu is the best weapon the Chinese have.’

‘Tell her I hope she’s better soon,’ said Kalenin. ‘But I wanted to talk to you alone anyway.’

For the caviar and fish there was vodka. Before they began eating they touched glasses, toasting Russian-fashion.

‘That sounds intriguing,’ said Berenkov, heaping his plate with fish.

‘It’s Charlie Muffin.’

Berenkov stopped eating, ‘What about him?’ There was a sadness of anticipation in his expression.

Berenkov had the highest security clearance for his appointment as senior lecturer at the spy college on the outskirts of Moscow, so Kalenin recounted in detail the Rome exposure and what he intended to do to save it. Berenkov sat hunched forward, huge hands cupped around his vodka glass, his food temporarily forgotten.

‘He couldn’t have been better for our purpose,’ said Kalenin. Charlie Muffin had been responsible for trapping the other man and Kalenin knew that, during the debriefing which followed, a professional respect had developed between them.

‘How did you find him?’

‘In America, about a year ago,’ said Kalenin. ‘He was involved in the insurance protection of a Tsarist stamp collection. I’ve had him under observation ever since.’

‘A convenient coincidence.’

‘The British will be completely convinced.’ Kalenin brought the bortsch and wine to the table. Berenkov poured, sniffing the bouquet appreciatively.

‘What do you think of the plan?’

Berenkov made an uncertain rocking gesture with his hand. ‘It seems good.’

‘Kastanazy is being purged.’ Kalenin needed to confide fully. ‘I expect him to be dismissed any day.’

‘Will you get the seat?’

Kalenin smiled. ‘It’s a possibility.’

Berenkov raised his glass. ‘To your success.’

‘Thank you.’

Berenkov put down the glass and said guardedly. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Charlie Muffin.’

‘He might have been good once,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘But not any longer: he’s collapsed pretty badly during the last year.’

Berenkov laughed, a short, humourless sound. ‘He was right about the stick,’ he said.

‘Stick?’

‘A remark he made at the last meeting we had, in prison,’ remembered Berenkov. ‘He said he always got the shitty end of the stick.’

Charlie filled the bath with cold water, rolled up his trousers and perched carefully on the edge, easing his feet in with a sigh of relief. Rubber-soled suede wasn’t good for hot weather: and now his feet hurt like buggery. He flexed his toes, thinking of the ride back to Rome.

Had there been a Lancia following? He’d only been aware of it for part of the journey and when he’d slowed it had overtaken naturally enough. But he hadn’t been going fast in the first place, so why had it crawled along behind?

Maybe he was being over-cautious. By going out to Ostia Charlie had avoided any contact with the embassy, so there couldn’t be the slightest chance of detection. He would have to be careful he didn’t imagine danger where none existed.

There was a knock at the door. It came again, more insistently, as he dried his feet. He padded across the room, without bothering to roll down his trousers.

‘Going to the beach?’ said Clarissa Willoughby.

‘Just as soon as I knot my handkerchief,’ said Charlie.

‘You don’t seem pleased to see me.’

‘I’m not sure that I am.’

Clarissa sat in the middle of the bed with her knees drawn up beneath her chin, so that her skirt gaped, revealing too much leg. Charlie moved a crumpled shirt from the only chair in the room to sit down, wanting to distance himself from her. Charlie was annoyed. At Clarissa, for being so sure of herself. And at himself, for the excitement he felt.

‘This is stupid,’ he said.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I do.’

‘It’s fun.’

She meant it, Charlie knew. People like Clarissa did things simply because they were fun. Like boarding aircraft at dawn in the previous night’s party clothes because breakfast at Focquets seemed fun, or like deciding it was fun to look at a friend’s villa in Acapulco right after lunch at San Lorenzo. Clarissa must worry about her passport like he worried about his feet.

‘What about Rupert?’

‘He thinks I’m somewhere off the coast of Menton, on a yacht.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘Rupert didn’t seem a problem for you in America. What’s so different now?’

‘Look at me,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m a worn-out old bugger at least ten years older than you. If you took me to the house of any of your friends they wouldn’t let me past the kitchens.’

‘You’re an inverted snob!’

‘Would they?’

‘I don’t intend finding out.’ She looked around her. ‘This is a pretty crappy room, Charlie.’

‘I wasn’t expecting to share it.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘Isn’t this a bit too much slam, bam, thank you, ma’am?’

‘Being a prissy hypocrite doesn’t suit you.’

‘Flashing your arse doesn’t suit you.’

A flush of anger picked out on her cheeks but she remained smiling. ‘You thought it was a nice enough arse last time.’

This was how it had been in New York. He hadn’t felt so emasculated by the approach then.

‘We’re the same,’ Clarissa continued. ‘Not quite, but almost. That’s why it was so good. And will be again.’

He’d forgotten the disarming way she looked at anyone she was talking to, with those unnaturally pale eyes. He wanted her like hell. And she knew it.

‘Go away Clarissa,’ he said weakly.

‘I’ve had a long journey,’ she said. ‘I’m tired and I want to go to bed.’

‘They’ve probably got rooms.’

‘I’m in one.’

‘Stop it Clarissa!’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘This is like…’ Charlie waved his hands, as if he were trying to feel for the expression. ‘… it isn’t real.’

‘It’s real enough for me.’

‘Perhaps I haven’t had the practice.’

‘You’re being a bore. You were never that, Charlie.’

‘I was never raped, either.’

‘I was once: it was fun.’

‘Jesus!’ said Charlie.

‘I never knew his name. He was a chauffeur, in Spain. Being raped is a common female fantasy, you know?’

Clarissa rolled off the bed on the opposite side from him and said. ‘Help me with the covers, Charlie.’

He hesitated. Then he got up from the chair and pulled them back on his side. She came over to him. ‘And now unzip me.’

When the dress parted he saw she was not wearing a bra. She faced him as the dress fell to her feet and her hardnippled breasts pushed up for attention. She reached for him and pulled his face to her. ‘You didn’t kiss me when I came in,’ she said.

He did now, biting at her and she came back at him, just as anxiously. She brought her head back, panting and said, ‘See! Just the same.’

‘You make it seem as if you’re trying to prove something.’

‘Come to bed and prove something to me,’ she said.

For Charlie it had been a long time and he was nervous, so he finished too quickly. She let him rest, holding him against her breast and gently stroking his head. Then she pushed him down and said, ‘Now do it properly.’