Charlie Muffin, ‘think of all the wonderful ballet you’ll be able to see. I hear the Bolshoi are marvellous.’
Snare stayed gazing out of the window into Whitehall. At least those killed in the war had a public monument, he thought, looking at the Cenotaph.
‘I don’t like ballet,’ he said, bitterly.
Back in Cuthbertson’s office, Janet carried in the carefully brewed Earl Grey tea, placing the transparent bone china cups gently alongside the Director and Wilberforce, then returned within minutes with two plates, each containing four chocolate digestive biscuits.
She stood, waiting.
‘What is it?’ demanded Cuthbertson, impatiently.
‘I thought you might have forgotten,’ offered Janet. ‘Mr Muffin returned this morning. He’s been in the office, all day.’
‘Oh Christ!’ said Cuthbertson. He stared at Wilberforce, deciding to delegate. Muffin wasn’t important any more.
‘You see him,’ he ordered the second man.
‘What shall I tell him to do?’
Cuthbertson shrugged, dismissively, taking care to break his biscuits so that no crumbs fell away from the plate.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, consumed by the Kalenin development. ‘Let him see Berenkov again.’
‘So Muffin isn’t to be demoted?’ probed Wilberforce, anxious to avoid being blamed for another mistake.
The Director paused, tea-cup to his lips.
‘Of course he is,’ he snapped, definitely. Even though the man had been right, showing them the way to uncover three other members of Berenkov’s system, Cuthbertson didn’t intend admitting the error.
‘But for God’s sake, man, consider the priority,’ he insisted. ‘The last thing that matters is somebody as unimportant as Muffin. Kalenin is the only consideration now.’
Charlie lay exhausted in the darkness, feeling the sweat dry coldly upon him. He hooked his feet under the slippery sheet, trying to drag it over him, finally unclasping his hands from behind his head to complete the task. He didn’t like silk bed-linen, he decided.
‘So he won’t even see me?’ he said.
‘He’s very busy,’ defended Janet, loyally, intrigued by the self-pity in Charlie’s voice. She hoped he wasn’t going to become a bore: she’d almost decided to take him to a party the coming Saturday, to show him to her friends.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Charlie turning to her. In the darkness, she wouldn’t detect his attention.
‘There’s a hell of a flap,’ reported the girl. ‘We’re trying to get Snare a visa for Moscow. And Harrison into East Germany under Department of Trade cover for the Leipzig Fair.’
‘Why?’
‘Cuthbertson thinks some General or Colonel or something wants to defect from Russia.’
‘Who?’
‘He won’t identify him. Even the memorandum to the Prime Minister refers to the man by code.’
Charlie smiled in the darkness. The bloody fools.
‘You’ll be annoyed tomorrow, Charlie,’ predicted the girl, suddenly.
He waited.
‘Remember the last time you saw Berenkov … the day your shoes leaked …?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cuthbertson has cut the taxi fare off your expenses. He dictated a memo today, saying you’d obviously walked.’
The girl went silent, expecting an angry reaction. Instead she detected him laughing and smiled, too. Charlie was such an unpredictable man, she thought, fondly. She
‘I
‘Yes,’ he said, distantly, his mind on other things.
‘Charlie.’
‘What?’
‘Make love to me again … the way I like it …’
The trouble with her preference, thought Charlie, pushing the sheet away, was that he always got cramp in his legs.
He sighed. And it was going to be a cold walk home, he thought. He’d been relying on those expenses: now he couldn’t afford a taxi.
(7)
Hesitant and uncomfortable, like a couple selected by a computer dating service, the two Directors finally met at Cuthbertson’s club in St James’s Street, agreeing its security. Each had had detailed biographies prepared by their services on the other, and had memorised them. Purposely, phrases were introduced into the small talk, showing the preparation, each wanting the other to know that he was aware it wasn’t really a social occasion.
He’d been right, decided Ruttgers, smiling across the lunch table at the man. Sir Henry Cuthbertson was lost outside the barrack square and the benefit of Queen’s Regulations.
The Kalenin approach had been made at an American embassy function, recalled Cuthbertson, answering the smile. Their awareness and the consequent approach was hardly surprising. That the Director had come from Washington was unexpected, though. He’d impress Ruttgers, like he’d impressed the Prime Minister, three weeks earlier, determined the Briton.
‘These Arbroath smokies are very good,’ complimented the American, boning the smoked fish. ‘It’s something we don’t have in America.’
‘I’m very fond of your cherry-stone clams,’ countered Cuthbertson. Advantage Cuthbertson, he decided.
‘I was very glad when the Secretary of State suggested I come to make your acquaintance.’
The American lifted the Chablis at the end of the sentence.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ accepted Cuthbertson. ‘Yes, liaison is very important.’
‘Vitally important,’ said Ruttgers.
Deuce, decided Cuthbertson, irritably.
The waiter came to clear the plates, saving him.
‘In every field,’ he generalised.
‘But I’m interested in one particular aspect,’ pressed Ruttgers. ‘The immediate future plans of a certain General.’
Cuthbertson stared around him, alarmed. He was going to lose the encounter, he thought, worriedly.
The artificial reaction amused the American, who waited until the other man had come back to him. This was going to be comparatively easy, thought Ruttgers.
‘We know all about it,’ exaggerated the C.I.A. chief. ‘We know you’re expecting further contact within a week or two.’
It had been easy in the closed environment of Moscow to discover the impending arrival of the man named Snare. Already, the operative who had been Braley’s deputy in the Soviet capital had been ordered to keep the Briton under permanent observation once he arrived. They’d know immediately there was a move, Ruttgers hoped.
‘I find it difficult to understand what you’re talking about,’ said Cuthbertson, stiffly. This wasn’t going at all like the Downing Street meeting. No one had pushed him then, just listened in polite attention.
‘Come now, Sir Henry,’ protested Ruttgers, lightly, carefully lifting the mollusc from the top of his steak and kidney pudding and frowning at it.
