Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

Charlie sat.

The operator started the tape.

‘Your name is Charles Muffin?’ said Wilson.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. It had been a long time since he’d heard his Christian name properly.

‘You were for eighteen years a Grade 1 operative within the security service of Great Britain?’

‘Yes.’ Had it really been as long as that?

‘And as such signed an undertaking governed by the Official Secrets Act?’

‘Yes.’ Charlie coughed, not wanting his voice to betray any nervousness when he was called upon to respond in any greater detail.

‘Did you at some date in 1977, communicate with the Soviet Union?’

It seemed so damning, put as bluntly as that. ‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

‘How?’ demanded Wilson.

‘Through Vienna. I made contact with the Soviet embassy.’ His voice remained controlled.

‘With whom?’

‘A KGB colonel.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Valery Kalenin.’

‘Did you know of this man?’

‘I knew he was operational head of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezpasnosti.’

‘What was the purpose of the meeting?’

Revenge. To teach arrogant bastards they couldn’t throw him to the dogs, like so much disposable meat. But whichever way he attempted to put it, the explanation would make him what they’d already decided, a traitor. ‘Nine months earlier I had controlled the arrest of a man running a Soviet spy cell in Britain. His name was Alexei Berenkov. During the final stages of that operation we needed documents from East Berlin proving the man’s identity to be Russian. To create a diversion and minimize the risk of the documents being intercepted, the department arranged for my capture. The car they had marked as the one I should have been driving was destroyed. Had I been in it, I would have died.’ Charlie licked his lips. Not bad so far, he thought. ‘I suspected a set-up. An East German who believed I was arranging his crossing into West Berlin drove the car; I returned by U-bahn. The purpose of the Vienna meeting was retribution, against people who had decided I was expendable.’ A bad finish, conceded Charlie.

‘Retribution?’ said Wilson.

‘The Soviet Union never allows captured spies to endure long imprisonment. They wanted an exchange and I provided people for it.’

‘Who?’

‘The British and American directors. Kalenin let it be understood he wanted to cross to the West. Both directors went to Austria to receive him. They were taken by Soviet commandos to be held until there was a swap.’

‘You knowingly betrayed to a hostile power the identity and whereabouts of the two most senior officials?’ said Wilson.

‘An exchange was guaranteed: that was the only reason for their seizure. I knew they wouldn’t be held for more than two or three weeks.’ In a barren room surrounded by impassive men, it sounded a weak plea of mitigation.

‘At the end of 1977, after the seizure of your superior officers, you defected to the Soviet Union?’ said Wilson. Charlie stared blankly across the small table at the director.

‘We got your London address from your driving documents,’ said Wilson. ‘I’ve had the place entered: we found everything.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Charlie. It sounded fatuous, he realized.

‘We know you have killed three British agents during the last ten months. And about your connection with Walsingham.’

‘No!’ Charlie stiffened and instantly felt hands on both his shoulders, forcing him back into his chair. ‘I admit what I did in Vienna,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand anything else you’re saying.’

The asthma banded around his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

It was midnight when the director and the Permanent Under Secretary got to Billington’s office.

‘The Italians are furious,’ said the ambassador. ‘I’ve been officially summoned to the Foreign Ministry tomorrow. They want a full explanation.’

‘We’d rather it wasn’t given,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘That’s preposterous,’ said Billington. ‘You’ve trampled all over the scene of a killing, removed bodies and evidence and disregarded absolutely that any Italian sovereignty exists.’

‘It was necessary,’ insisted Naire-Hamilton.

‘They’ll never accept that.’

‘Ask them to expand the meeting tomorrow,’ suggested Wilson. ‘Include their security people. And promise our attendance.’

‘You?’ The ambassador appeared surprised.

‘It would be easier than briefing you,’ said Wilson. ‘We don’t think the Italians will want a scandal so near the Summit. Any more than we do.’

‘You can’t conceal crime,’ protested Billington.

‘When it’s necessary you can,’ said Naire-Hamilton easily.

Trying to force a little calm, Billington looked towards a drinks tray and said, ‘Would you like anything?’

Both Wilson and Naire-Hamilton chose whisky. The ambassador took nothing. He handed them the drinks and said, ‘On a personal level, I consider I should have been told what was going on.’

‘Until we had proof, everyone was suspect.’

Momentarily Billington’s face clouded. ‘How long had Walsingham been a spy?’

‘According to what we’ve already discovered in London from the flat of the man Muffin, a long time. We might learn more when the banks open here tomorrow. Walsingham had what appears to be a safe deposit key on him: his wife insists she knows nothing about it.’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s still to be questioned,’ said Wilson. ‘It’s likely she was the link, from her past association.’

‘I would have staked my reputation that Walsingham was sound,’ said Billington. ‘Not brilliant, but sound.’

‘That’s the sort of impression spies are trained to convey.’

‘And the other fellow,’ said Billington. ‘What sort of man commits five murders?’

‘A desperate one,’ Wilson replied.

‘Not any more,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘He’s finished.’ The Permanent Under Secretary looked directly at Wilson. ‘And I mean that,’ he said.

The empty place at the Politiburo table stood out like a child’s gap-toothed smile. General Kalenin studiously ignored it, concentrating fixedly upon the First Secretary.

‘An overwhelming success, Comrade General.’

It was fitting to be modest. ‘It will be several days,’ said Kalenin, ‘before we can be completely sure.’

Zemskov frowned at the reservation. ‘How long?’ he said, wanting specifics.

‘Two or three days.’

‘We’ll look forward to the meeting.’

And so would he, thought Kalenin; he’d wear his medals for the ceremony.

The butler, in dressing gown and pyjamas, tried to prevent their entry but the security men were accustomed to delaying tactics, bustling him aside the moment the door was opened into the Eaton Square apartment. Two took the stairs while another two waited for the lift. The fifth man insisted the butler take him through the servants’ quarters and up the back stairs.

Rupert Willoughby awoke startled to find his bedroom full of men. ‘What the…?’

‘Rupert Willoughby?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve a warrant for your arrest, under the Treason Act,’ said one of them.

‘Treason?’

‘We’d like you to get dressed and come with us.’

‘I want to ring my solicitors.’

A security man moved the telephone away from the underwriter. The one holding the warrant said, ‘Later. Just come with us now.’

They hadn’t allowed him any water to wash or shave. Charlie had peed in the bucket and knew that the smell of the room clung to him. Jackson beckoned him from the doorway. Charlie got up slowly from the bed, stretching the cramp from his back. He’d spent the night hunched against the wall, knees beneath his chin, and felt lightheaded from sleeplessness. Charlie clutched at his unsupported clothing and shuffled out into the interrogation room. The arrangements were the same as before, except that there was a second man, in horn-rimmed glasses, at the recording table. He was seated behind a box file. But there was no chair for Charlie this time. Bastards, he thought. He stood with his legs apart, trying to keep his trousers up that way; they bagged at the waist.