Brian Freemantle: Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

The signs said the grass should not be walked upon, so the Alexander Gardens were still white and obediently untrodden. The car passed the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and the Monument to Revolutionary Thinkers and swept into the red-walled Kremlin through the Trinity Tower gate. There were already tourists, crocodiling through the museums and cathedrals to the right, where the public were allowed. There were a few foreigners, animated with cameras and brightly dressed. But the majority were Russian, bundled like the street cleaners and following their tour leaders with dull-faced, placid acceptance. Only the children appeared to be smiling, not seeming to regard the visit as an official comparison of past decadence with the improvements of the present. Why did Russians need vodka to make them laugh, thought Kalenin. That couldn’t be anything to do with the past; they’d drunk as much under the Tsars as they did now. And under the Tsars had been allowed to fall down and freeze to death during winters like this. Now there were nightly street searches around the capital and sobering stations to which drunks could be taken and hosed back to sobriety.

The car turned left, towards the Senate and the cordoned-off area, cutting off Kalenin’s view of the tourists. It was recognized as an official vehicle and gestured through towards the Praesidium wing. There was a guide waiting for him, which was unnecessary, but Kalenin fell into step with the procedure. How many times had he journeyed along these tall, echoing corridors, to appear before ambitious men and inquiring committees? Too many to remember. It would be good, to have others come to explain themselves to him. And it was going to happen, he thought confidently.

It was a room the Politburo used for committee meetings, away from the main, impressive chamber. All thirteen members of the Soviet hierarchy were assembled around the kidney-shaped table. Already there was a fug of cigarette smoke, with pushed-aside cups and glasses on the table; even an occasional loosened collar, he saw. Despite the impression of informality, there was a secretariat table at the side of the room with three stenographers as well as a technician to operate the tape equipment. Kalenin was glad there would be records.

Vladimir Zemskov, the First Secretary, was in the chair. He was a dried-out stick of a man, thin-haired and emaciated, like an erudite vulture. He was smoking – a full-packed, Western-style cigarette, not the half-and-half Soviet version – and when he spoke his voice was thick and phlegmy. ‘There has been some preliminary discussion,’ he said.

As he spoke, Zemskov looked sideways along the table, towards Boris Kastanazy. The man responsible for Politburo control of the KGB was a complete contrast to the First Secretary. Kastanazy was obesely fat, so much so that there was no impression of a neck, making it seem as if his head had been attached as some sort of afterthought. From the perspiration pricked out on Kastanazy’s face, Kalenin guessed the open, damning criticism had already begun: Kastanazy looked as if he were gradually melting in the sun.

‘I have no doubt that Rome has been exposed,’ said Kalenin forcefully. He was aware of Kastanazy’s facial expression, something like a wince.

‘The embassy or the source?’ queried Zemskov.

‘It’s too early to be positive,’ said Kalenin. ‘At the moment I think only the embassy.’

‘Can it be saved?’

‘I’m formulating proposals,’ said Kalenin. ‘The European Summit creates a difficult time limit.’

‘We must have internal access to that conference,’ insisted Zemskov. ‘Decisions will be made affecting every one of our satellite borders in Europe. And not just Europe: Greece will be attending this year for the first time, so it’s the Mediterranean as well. It’s essential we know what happens.’

‘It’s precisely because of that importance that the British will want it settled before it begins,’ reminded Kalenin. Heavily he added, ‘And why the killings should not have been risked.’

‘What do you propose?’ asked the First Secretary.

‘To let them.’

‘What!’ Zemskov’s astonished reaction led the stir that went around the table.

‘I’m going to give them what they’re looking for,’ announced Kalenin. ‘Two, in fact. The British already regard one as a traitor: it’ll make it easy for them to accept the other.’

‘How long?’

‘A week, I hope. A fortnight as the outside.’

‘Which would leave more than a week to the Summit?’

‘Yes.’

Zemskov coughed, an unpleasant sound. ‘A great deal depends upon this, Comrade General.’

‘I know,’ said Kalenin.

Further along the table Kastanazy blew his nose, and quickly wiped his forehead. To Kalenin, Zemskov said, ‘Proper gratitude will be expressed, for success.’

Kalenin showed no reaction to the promise for which he’d been hoping. Save Rome, and the seat would be his.

*

Igor Solomatin worked independently of the Soviet embassy in Rome, under false documentation and identity, and was sure he was undetected; but he still returned to Moscow by the prescribed dog-leg route, flying from Italy to Paris and then from Paris to Amsterdam, to pick up the Aeroflot connection to Moscow. He made the entire journey unaware of the rotating check squad of eight men instructed by Kalenin to act as his protection.

The man entered the spartan office at the rear of Dzerzhinsky Square respectful but not awed by his surroundings, and Kalenin was impressed: to be awed meant to be overly nervous and nervous people made mistakes. As close as he was to success, Kalenin was determined against any mistakes.

For more than an hour Solomatin sat attentively forward in his seat as Kalenin outlined the operation, the only movement an occasional nod. At the end Kalenin said, ‘Well?’

‘It should work,’ said Solomatin.

Kalenin smiled, impressed again; most field operatives would have been fawning in their praise. He lighted a tubed cigarette and said, ‘How is he?’

‘Frightened,’ said Solomatin.

‘A lot rests upon him.’

‘He recognizes that.’

‘Can he do it?’

‘I think so,’ said Solomatin. ‘What about the Englishman?’

‘The flight reservations have been made. Once he’s there, there’s nothing he can do to avoid involvement. Are you sure of the Italian?’

‘He’s ready.’

Kalenin offered a file across the desk. ‘There are all the details of the alarm system and burglar protection…’ He stopped, at a sudden thought. ‘He speaks and reads English, I suppose?’

‘Sufficiently,’ assured Solomatin.

Kalenin depressed the summons button on the desk intercom and said, ‘Someone is returning to join those already with you in Rome. His name is Vasily Leonov.’

Solomatin turned, as the outer door opened. A slim, fair-haired man stood there. He wore Western-style clothes and there was about him a vague, almost distracted, attitude that Solomatin had known among professors at university. It was a fleeting impression, replaced at once by the suspicion that ground control of the operation was being taken from him.

‘What’s your function?’ he demanded, ill-phrasing the question in the spurt of annoyance.

‘I kill people,’ said Leonov.

The conversion of the huge Regency mansion in Eaton Square made Willoughby’s London home a duplex – servants’ quarters and kitchens on the ground floor and a lift to the first where they lived overlooking the central park. The underwriter answered the ground-floor entry bell, instantly releasing the door, and Charlie entered into a polished marble hallway where nobody had ever dumped prams or bikes or left messages on the wall. There was a small vanity mirror in the lift and Charlie stared back at himself, deciding the flush was from hurrying across the square. Now that it was about to happen, his feeling at meeting Clarissa again was eagerness rather than apprehension. New York had meant nothing, he was sure; a between-the-sheets experiment which had worked because they were both good at it. He’d been a bloody fool to imagine it was anything more.