Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘We did, didn’t we Charlie? It was fun!’

‘Fun’ was a favourite word of Clarissa’s, remembered Charlie. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We had a few laughs.’

‘Rupert doesn’t laugh a lot, do you Rupert?’ she said.

‘I don’t have much to laugh about.’

They’d probably squabble over whether every day began with a dawn, thought Charlie. He felt like a piece of rope, being yanked over a dividing line between them.

‘Did you ever?’

‘It seems a long time ago.’

‘I can’t even remember.’

‘I don’t expect much time for sightseeing,’ said Charlie quickly. ‘I’ll only be away for two or three days.’

‘No need to hurry back,’ said Willoughby.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Check the protection of some jewellery.’

‘I’d forgotten,’ said Clarissa, pushing her plate away practically untouched. ‘That’s what you did with Rupert’s father, didn’t you?’

‘Not really,’ said Charlie, side-stepping. ‘I was more in administration: a clerk.’

She disregarded the qualification. ‘ Was it like all the books?’

Charlie considered the question. No, he decided. In the books he’d read there was a beginning and a middle and a neat tidy end. Charlie couldn’t remember many occasions when all the questions were answered and the uncertainties resolved, with the good guys winning and the bad guys losing. He’d always found it difficult deciding who were good and bad anyway. ‘From where I was it seemed all paperwork and records and bureaucracy,’ he said.

‘Sounds dull.’

‘It was.’ He’d never thought it so. Trap or be trapped, trick or be tricked: the normal shitty chess game with too many sacrificial pawns.

‘Charlie must still be governed by the Official Secrets Act,’ warned Willoughby.

And liable under it for what he’d done to a maximum of fourteen years in jail, thought Charlie. He knew he couldn’t be prosecuted under the Treason Act, because it had happened more than three years ago. Charlie had checked that in the reference section of Chelsea public library, between three o’clock pub closing and six o’clock opening.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ demanded Clarissa.

‘That we shouldn’t embarrass him by asking questions.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Rupert!’

They were talking as if he weren’t there, thought Charlie. The nobody man again; it didn’t upset him. Another course was changed and with it the wine. Charlie sipped appreciatively: it had been decanted like the first but he wasn’t good enough to identify it.

‘Rupert has always been in awe of his father,’ said Clarissa, including him at last.

‘So was I,’ said Charlie, irritated at her posturing.

Silence frested around the table and Charlie tried to think of something to say. Then he thought, sod it. If they wanted to behave like spoiled kids, it was all right with him. The pheasant had been just as he liked it, not too high, and the ubiquitous Robert was always at his elbow with the decanter. He’d have a better class of hangover tomorrow.

‘Have you finished your business?’ demanded Clarissa.

‘Yes,’ said Willoughby.

‘So you don’t expect the rigmarole of port and cigars?’

Willoughby looked inquiringly at Charlie, who’d never been to a dinner where women withdrew. ‘Whatever you prefer,’ he said.

‘I prefer you to come with me,’ she said.

Charlie walked with her into the drawing room. The curtains were undrawn and there was just sufficient light to show up the silhouette of the trees. As soon as they entered, Willoughby said, ‘Damn, there isn’t any brandy.’

‘Call Robert,’ said Clarissa.

‘He’s downstairs: quicker if I get it myself.’

Clarissa turned as her husband left the room. ‘Hello Charlie Muffin,’ she said.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s nice to see you again.’

He fell another stir, the feeling he’d known earlier. ‘And vou,’ he said.

‘Why didn’t you call?’

‘I didn’t think it was a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not.’ Charlie looked towards the large doorway through which Willoughby had gone. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you two?’

‘Just normal.’

‘That’s not normal.’

She made an uncaring gesture. ‘Your number’s not in the book. I looked.’

‘Why don’t we leave it as it was, Clarissa?’

‘How was that?’

‘A novelty thing – the dustman and the duchess.’

‘Is that how you thought it?’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘No,’ she said, all the brittleness of the evening gone. ‘I’m surprised you did.’

There was a sound from the corridor and Willoughby reappeared, the refilled brandy decanter in his hand. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

He poured large measures into three balloons and handed them round.

‘Here’s to a successful trip,’ he said.

‘Can’t imagine it being anything else, can you?’ said Charlie.

‘I hope not,’ said the underwriter.

It had been a mistake to accept the invitation, Charlie decided, walking back towards Sloane Square. He still fancied her rotten and she knew it. He wouldn’t see her again.

Clever though it had been, the British entrapment had a flaw and Kalenin seized it. Albania and Yugoslavia were not included in the list of countries to which the damning advisory message had been sent. Which left six. To the foreign ministries and the intelligence services in Warsaw, East Berlin, Prague, Budapest, Bucharest and Sofia he sent demands for any inquiry which had come back from any embassy, once it had been relayed. Kalenin was using the English plan in reverse. It shouldn’t take long; it was very clever, after all.

Between his office and that of his deputy there was a room formerly occupied by someone with the title of Forward Planning Executive, which Sir Alistair Wilson properly regarded as a piece of bureaucratic nonsense and abandoned after his appointment. It was here that he and Harkness created their incident room, bringing in document benches, filing cabinets for analysis folders, and three progress boards on easels to chart the direction of the inquiry. The conference was scheduled for ten and Harkness entered as the clock was striking, dossiers parcelled on his outstretched arms. He dumped them on the prepared table and looked without expression towards the intelligence chief.

‘Well?’ demanded Wilson.

‘Potentially bad,’ said Harkness. ‘Rome had grade two listing on the access list. I’ve gone back three years. If he’s been leaking that long, Moscow has virtually been sitting in on most of the cabinet discussions affecting Europe. And, because of NATO, there’s a lot of cross referencing with America.’

‘So Naire-Hamilton’s right about the possible embarrassment?’

Harkness hesitated, conscious of how the Permanent Under Secretary wanted the matter resolved. Reluctantly he said, ‘Yes. We’d look very stupid.’

‘Damn!’ said Wilson.

‘It’s only an estimate,’ qualified Harkness. ‘He might not have been operating that long.’

‘Or it might have been longer,’ said Wilson objectively. ‘Until we get him and can fix the date. I don’t think we should minimize what might have happened.’ He looked towards the records Harkness had brought with him. ‘Any possibilities?’

‘Two,’ said Harkness.

‘On what grounds?’

‘Moscow service, when they might have been turned. One is our Resident in Rome.’

‘Who’d have personnel movement access?’

‘Yes.’

‘Him first,’ said Wilson.

Harkness took up the file, going to the second table so he could spread out the information. Before he began talking he pinned an official-looking, posed photograph to the first blackboard: the picture showed a heavily built, jowly man, with fair hair and a clipped, military moustache.