one from the observation points near the Wall would have detected him.
A professional. But still an out-of-date anachronism, concluded Snare contemptuously. Muffin was an oddity, like his name, a middle-aged field operative who had entered in the vacuum after the war, when manpower desperation had forced the service to reduce its standards to recruit from grammar schools and a class structure inherently suspect, and had risen to become one of the best-regarded officers in Whitehall.
Until the recent changes, that was. Now Sir Henry Cuthbertson was the Controller, with only George Wilberforce, a permanent civil servant and an excellent fellow, retained as his second-in-command. So from now on it was going to be different. It was going to be restored to its former, proper level and so Charlie Muffin was a disposable embarrassment, with his scuffed suede Hush Puppies, the Marks and Spencer shirts he didn’t change daily and the flat, Mancunian accent.
But he was too stupid to realise it. Odd, how someone so insensitive had lasted so long. Snare supposed it was what his tutor at Cambridge had called the native intelligence of the working class. In the field for twenty-five years, reflected Snare, turning back towards the Wall. An amazing achievement, he conceded, still reluctantly. An exception should be made to the Official Secrets Act, mused Snare, enjoying his private joke, to enable Muffin to be listed in the
Five hundred yards away inside East Berlin, Charlie turned from the Friedrichstrasse on to Leipzigerstrasse, feeling safe. It was important to see Snare cross, he had decided. From the shelter of the doorway from which they’d both watched Harrison go over, he observed the man approach the booth and present his passport, hardly pausing in his stride in the briefest of formalities.
Slowly Charlie released the breath he had been holding, purposely creating a sad sound.
‘Just like that,’ he said, quietly. In moments of puzzlement, when facts refused to correlate, Charlie unashamedly talked to himself, enumerating the factors worrying him, counting them off one by one on his fingers.
He was aware that the habit, as with everything else, amused Snare and Harrison. They’d even used it as an indicator of character imbalance in discussions with Cuthbertson, he knew. And Wilberforce, who had never liked him, would have joined in the criticism, Charlie guessed.
‘Because of Berenkov’s arrest, every border station should be tighter than a duck’s bum,’ Charlie lectured himself. ‘Yet they go through, just like that.’
He shook his head, sadly. So a decision had been made in that teak-lined office with its Grade One fitted carpet, bone china tea-cups and oil paintings of bewigged Chancellors of the Exchequer staring out unseeing into Parliament Square.
Tit for tat.
‘But I’m not a tit,’ Charlie told the empty doorway.
Charlie sighed again, the depression deepening. Poor Gunther.
But he had no choice, Charlie reasoned. It was a question of survival. Always the same justification, he thought, bitterly. Charlie Muffin had to survive, no matter how unacceptable the method. Or the way. Everyone before Cuthbertson had realised that: capitalised upon it even. But Cuthbertson had arrived with his punctilious, Armytrained attitudes and preconceived ideas, contemptuous of what might have happened before him.
But he had been clever enough to realise the importance of Berenkov, thought Charlie, tempering the disparagement. That would have been Wilberforce, he guessed, asshole crawling to ingratiate himself, showing Cuthbertson the way. Neither had had anything to do with it. But three months from now, Charlie knew, the affair would be established as a coup for the new regime. Fucking civil service.
He was purposely letting his mind drift to avoid what he had to do, Charlie accepted, realistically. Charlie’s first visit on the Berenkov affair had been more than a year ago, during the days when he’d been properly acknowledged as the leading operative.
It wasn’t until much later, when the potential of the investigation had been fully recognised and there had been the changes in Whitehall, that Snare and Harrison had been thrust upon him. And by then it didn’t matter because Charlie had established, unknown to any of them, one of the many lifelines along which he could claw to safety, fertilising the protective association with Gunther Bayer, gradually convincing the dissident student who believed him a traveller in engineering components, that one day he would help his defection.
What had happened thirty minutes before at Checkpoint Charlie meant that day had arrived.
Charlie had two brandies, in quick succession, in the gaudy cocktail bar of the Hotel Unter den Linden before calling the memorised number. Bayer responded immediately. The conversation was brief and guarded, conceding nothing, but Charlie could discern the tension in the other man. Poor sod, he thought. Yes, agreed the East German quickly, he could be at the hotel within an hour.
Charlie returned to the bar, deciding against the brandy he wanted. Drunkenness didn’t help: it never did. He ordered beer instead, needing the excuse to sit there, gazing into the diminishing froth.
Did personal survival justify this? he recriminated. Perhaps his fears were unfounded, he countered hopefully. Perhaps he’d end up making a fool of himself and provide more ammunition for the two men already in West Berlin’s Kempinski Hotel. And if that happened, Bayer would be the only beneficiary, a free man.
He shrugged away the reassurance. That was weak reasoning: people died because of weak reasoning.
There had been other instances like this, but it had never worried him so much before. Perhaps he was getting as old and ineffectual as Snare and Harrison were attempting to portray him. Cuthbertson and Wilberforce would be eager listeners, Charlie knew.
Bayer arrived in a rush, perspiration flecking his upper lip. He kept smiling, like a child anticipating a promised Christmas gift.
The two men moved immediately to a table away from the bar, Charlie ordering more beer as they went. They stayed silent until they were served, the East German fidgeting with impatience. I bet he always hunted for his presents early in December, thought Charlie.
‘You’ve found a way?’ demanded Bayer, as soon as the waiter moved off.
‘I think so.’
Bayer made a noise drinking his beer. Snare would have been distressed, thought Charlie, at the man’s table manners.
‘You’ve got the passport?’ asked the Englishman.
Bayer reached towards his jacket pocket, but Charlie leaned across, stopping the movement.
‘Not here,’ he said, annoyed.
Bayer winced, worried by his mistake.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I’m just excited, that’s all.’
It was a good forgery, Charlie knew. He’d had it prepared months before just off West Berlin’s Kurfurstendamm, using one of the best forgers among those who made a business trading people across the Wall. It had cost ?150 and Charlie had only managed to retrieve ?75 back on expenses; even then there’d been queries. He’d make up on this trip, though.
‘How can it be done?’ asked Bayer.
‘When I came in, a week ago, I used the railway,’ said Charlie, gesturing out towards the overhead S Bahn linking East and West. That
Bayer nodded, urging him on.
‘But the samples were brought in by another traveller, by car.’
Bayer frowned, doubtfully.
‘… but …’
‘… And he’s gone back, on foot,’ enlarged Charlie. ‘The car is here and the crossing papers are in order.’
Bayer patted his pocket, where the passport lay.
‘There’s no entry date,’ he protested.
Charlie slid a small packet across the table.
‘A date stamp,’ he said. ‘From the same man that made the passport. It’ll match the documents in the car perfectly.’
Bayer reached forward, seizing the other man’s hand and holding it.
‘I don’t have the words to thank you,’ he said. His eyes were clouded, Charlie saw.
The Briton shrugged, uncomfortably.
