Brian Freemantle: Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

Naire-Hamilton laughed, the relief obvious. ‘Such stupid mistakes, weren’t they? Why the hell provide a positive date for America, for God’s sake? If it hadn’t been for that, we wouldn’t have listened to anything else the damned man had to say.’

‘It’s always the small things,’ said Wilson. He paused. ‘And the ability to spot them.’

Reminded of Charlie Muffin, Naire-Hamilton looked toward the closed door of the box-room cell, with two men on guard outside. ‘Brilliant idea if it works,’ he said again.

Charlie was using the bucket when Wilson came into the room. He turned his back, hurriedly zipping his fly. ‘Sorry,’ he said and was then unsure what he’d apologized for.

‘If it hadn’t been for the disparity of the meeting time, he’d have got away with it,’ said the director.

‘It should have occurred to me before,’ said Charlie. ‘It would have, once.’

‘We were lucky with the tape,’ conceded the director. ‘It wouldn’t have meant much without it.’

Charlie realized it was automatic to remain standing respectfully in Wilson’s presence. So much like Sir Archibald Willoughby, he thought. One reflection prompted another. What would happen to Rupert and Clarissa? It was inevit-able, he supposed, but he still regretted being the cause of their collapse.

‘Did Billington break?’

Wilson nodded. ‘Full confession,’ he said.

‘There usually is,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s the relief.’ Now they’d got what they wanted from Billington, there was no reason why they should keep the undertaking. He had no way to make them: in their position he’d have made the same promise without any intention of keeping it.

‘I’m going to turn him,’ disclosed Wilson. ‘I’m going to have him kept here as ambassador and I’m going to watch his every move and I’m going to feed Moscow everything I want.’

Charlie nodded approvingly. ‘For that to work, they’ll need to be convinced the disinformation was successful.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Wilson. ‘They’ve no reason to doubt it.’

‘It’ll need something more,’ insisted Charlie. ‘Something public’

‘A scapegoat,’ said Wilson at once. ‘But I’ve got one, haven’t I, Charlie?’

The occasion demanded medals should be worn, and, as he walked towards the assembled Politburo, Kalenin heard them clinking together. The reception was taking place in the larger, official room, with the enormous portraits of Lenin between the furled Soviet flags. Because it was the only ceremony of the day, the other twelve members were freshly pressed and formal, with none of the casualness of the encounters in the smaller committee room.

‘It’s time for congratulations,’ announced the First Secretary when Kalenin came to a halt before him.

Kalenin bowed his head in a curt greeting but did not respond.

‘The operation has been a complete and overwhelming success,’ said Zemskov. ‘On behalf of the Politburo, I formally thank you.’

‘I did my duty,’ said Kalenin. He wanted the record to show modesty.

‘There has been discussion before your arrival,’ said Zemskov, making the announcement properly formal. ‘It delights me, Comrade General, to declare that, in accordance with the power vested in it between conferences of the Supreme Soviet, the Politburo has today unanimously elected you to serve with it, as a replacement for Comrade Kastanazy.’

The First Secretary thrust out his hand. Kalenin took it and then bent forward for the obligatory kiss on either cheek. The formality eased. There was more handshaking and kissing and then attendants appeared with vodka and champagne.

Zemskov held his glass towards the KGB chief. ‘There is someone else who should rightly be here with us, sharing this celebration,’ he said.

‘There has been a message from Rome,’ said Kalenin. ‘He’s operating normally again.’

‘… Charles Edward Muffin, the charges against you are that being a servant of Her Majesty’s government and a signatory to the Official Secrets Act, you did on divers dates…’

Charlie stood with his hands lightly against the dock rail, only half concentrating upon the drone. He moved his toes in the luxury of expanded suede: they’d allowed him his own clothes for the hearing and for the first time in a week his feet were free from those bloody prison-issue boots.

‘… apply once more for a formal remand for seven days,’ a man in a white wig and black gown was saying, ‘… at such time the Crown would hope to be in a position to propose a date for the full proceedings to begin…’

It was an in-camera hearing, the number of people in court limited. Sir Alistair Wilson was directly behind the prosecuting counsel. There hadn’t been any contact in prison, since the return from Italy, and Charlie expected some indication now, but the intelligence director didn’t turn towards the dock. When the hell were they going to let him know? He’d survived, thought Charlie. But for what?