Brian Freemantle: Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘I’m not any more,’ said Charlie quickly.

The secretary came in, carrying a silver coffee tray, fully laid; even the coffee pot and the jugs were silver. If Willoughby had had a po under his bed, that would have been silver too, thought Charlie.

Willoughby poured. Offhandedly he said, ‘Thought about you a lot: Clarissa often asks after you.’

Charlie remained impassive. ‘How is she?’

The underwriter settled back in his chair. ‘Fine,’ he said.

Charlie decided that Willoughby was nervous and wondered why.

‘After what you did, it was me who should have called you,’ said Willoughby abruptly. There was a surge of guilt and Willoughby reflected that it was a pretty shabby way of repaying someone who had prevented his going bankrupt over a phoney liner fire in Hong Kong or on the loss of a Russian stamp collection during the American exhibition. But then, if Charlie had done what he suspected, that was pretty shabby too.

‘You talked of a problem on the telephone.’ Charlie wanted to get to the purpose of the visit.

‘Ever heard of Lady Norah Billington?’

‘No.’

Willoughby was genuinely surprised. ‘She’s always in the newspapers,’ he said.

‘Not on the racing pages.’

‘She’s the Mendale heiress. There’s an estate in Yorkshire, a villa in Jamaica, as well as Rome and a flat here in London, near us in Eaton Square.’

‘What about her?’

‘Her husband’s got a lawyer’s mind and reads the small print. A year ago I underwrote a replacement cover policy on her jewellery. It’s coming up for renewal. First time value was one and a half million, but the indexed rise will bring it up to two million. I’ve got to agree the adjustment in writing and he’s asked that I do so.’

‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Guarantee the protection,’ said the underwriter. ‘It’s listed in specific detail on the policy, but before I agree the rise I’ve the right to check the alarm system and the protection…’ Willoughby smiled. ‘Father always said you were the most security-conscious man he had on the staff.’

That wouldn’t be the assessment now, thought Charlie. The same bastards who set him up for sacrifice manoeuvred Sir Archibald’s replacement as director, but Charlie knew the old man would never have condoned the retribution. ‘ Morals are important in an immoral business, Charlie.’

When Charlie didn’t reply immediately, Willoughby repeated apologetically, ‘Not quite the sort of thing you did before.’

It wasn’t, thought Charlie. Clerk’s stuff. Senior clerk, maybe, but still a clerk. But it would be better than getting so pissed by nine o’clock every night that he couldn’t count the bridges on the way home.

‘I’d like to do it,’ he said.

‘Sure?’ said Willoughby.

‘Quite sure,’ said Charlie. ‘Where?’

‘Rome,’ said Willoughby. ‘Sir Hector Billington is our ambassador there.’

Charlie felt an abrupt stomach emptiness, the sort of sensation that comes when a lift goes down unexpectedly. Seven years, he thought; nearer eight. Diplomatic turnaround averages three years, four at the most. He’d never been attached permanently to any embassy anywhere, just used the facilities passing through. And never Rome. What he’d done would have remained a secret, apart from those at the very top. So what was the risk? Less than 50 per cent. Acceptable enough, to lift himself out of the shit in which he’d been wallowing for too long.

‘Fine,’ he said. He’d just have to be careful and he’d always been that, until recently.

Willoughby put his hands flat against the desk top, in a tiny slapping motion. ‘I’ve just had an idea,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Instead of checking through the files here, why not come to the flat tonight and look at them there? Then we can have dinner.’

The inclination to refuse was as always almost automatic. Then Charlie thought of warmed-up shepherd’s pie, cardboard sandwiches and another empty evening in an anonymous pub.

‘Sure Clarissa won’t be inconvenienced by the short notice?’ he said.

‘Positive.’

As he passed through the outer office to the reluctant stop and start lift, Charlie was vaguely aware of a man in a grey-striped suit. He was reading a copy of the Sun.

Since the insistent instructions from Moscow, there was no longer any casualness about the observation; they’d even ignored the ABC cafe close to Willoughby’s office, remaining instead in an alcove on the opposite side of the street.

The man who preferred night to day-time shifts, because there was more opportunity for accidental groping, spotted Charlie first.

‘There!’ he said.

The woman, shapeless in sweater, jeans and tennis shoes, let the man move out ahead of her, so there wouldn’t be any body contact; if he attempted to maul her like he had all the others, she’d determined to kick him so hard in the crotch he’d wear his balls for a necklace.

General Valery Kalenin was an ambitious man who recognized the nearness of success and knew, without conceit, that he deserved it. For almost thirty years he had served the KGB faithfully, heading four of the five main directorates and leaving each better than when he had arrived. Latterly it had been the clandestine section responsible for overseas activities, and objectively he considered that branch of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti more highly organized than at any time since its formation.

It was because of that pride that he instinctively opposed the assassination idea, when it was proposed by Boris Kastanazy. As an operation it was futile, a pinprick irritation disposing of men who would be immediately replaced. It was only after Kastanazy, anxious to reinforce his failing influence within the Politburo, had forced the decision through that Kalenin realized the possible advantage.

In a society of indirect conversations and sideways manoeuvring, it had been a positive gamble for Kalenin openly to oppose the scheme, arguing the danger of the Rome detection. There had been moments, in the initial weeks, when he’d regretted the outspokenness. But not any more. The purge had begun and, because of the stance he had taken, he was absolved from it. Kastanazy could be the only sufferer. Which meant a KGB vacancy on the Politburo.

Kalenin prepared himself carefully for the forthcoming encounter, knowing it was probably one of the most important of his career. He was a small man and aware of it, just as he would have been aware of the disadvantage of a speech impediment. To gain the impression of stature, he chose to wear his uniform and debated wearing the Order of Lenin and the Hero of the Soviet Union, eventually rejecting the medals as ostentatious. Ribbons would be sufficient reminder of the honours his ability had earned him in the past.

The driver’s knock came precisely on time. Although he was ready, Kalenin delayed his response, unwilling to give any indication of anxiety: the man had other functions beyond driving, and Kalenin did not want any account of over-eagerness relayed. It was not until the third knock that he answered the door.

As always, the driver hurried out into the reserved central lane and Kalenin settled back in the deep leather seat. The final snows still clung defiantly, white in the chimney crannies and on the roofs, but black and traffic-gritted at the pavement edges and gutters. Helmeted babushkas, so swaddled in layers of cloth and rough-cut sheepskin that it was difficult to imagine a human body beneath the mushroom shapes, chipped and swept and gossiped at their brooms. In another month, thought Kalenin, it would be spring, the hills outside the city still wet but proudly green and with the new flowers under the birch and fir.