Charlie M

‘My friend found the conversation most interesting,’ he tried to recover, momentarily unsettled.

‘Did he?’ responded Kalenin, unhelpfully.

Snare felt the perspiration pricking out and wanted to wipe his forehead. It would be wrong to produce a handkerchief, he knew, resisting the move. There could only be a few minutes left before an inevitable interruption and the damned man was making it very difficult.

Harrison had been bloody lucky.

‘In fact,’ Snare went on, ‘he would very much like to continue it.’

The curious look persisted.

‘But that would be difficult, wouldn’t it?’ said Kalenin. He smiled for the first time, an on-off expression like someone following an etiquette manual that recommended a relaxed expression exactly five minutes after the first meeting.

‘Difficult,’ agreed Snare. ‘But not impossible.’

Kalenin frowned again, then shrugged. What did that mean? wondered Snare. Quickly he pulled his hand over his forehead; the sweat had begun to irritate his skin. Kalenin would have seen it, realising his nervousness, he thought, worriedly.

‘Perhaps that’s a matter of interpretation. And differing opinion,’ said Kalenin, obscurely.

Cuthbertson was right, thought Snare. There were to be conditions.

‘I’m sure the difficulties could be resolved to the satisfaction of both interpretations,’ assured Snare.

Kalenin had probably survived for so long by being so cautious, decided the Briton. He felt happier at the new direction of their conversation.

‘It would need the most detailed discussion.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Snare.

‘And would probably involve expense.’

Snare swallowed, nervously. The meeting would be as successful as Harrison’s, he determined. Despite the outward calm, he guessed Kalenin was a desperately scared man.

‘I don’t see expenditure being a problem,’ said Snare.

‘Not half a million dollars?’ questioned the General, eyebrows raised.

Snare paused, momentarily. ‘Anything,’ Cuthbertson had said. ‘Anything at all.’

‘Certainly not half a million dollars,’ guaranteed Snare.

Kalenin smiled, a more genuine expression this time.

‘Do you know the Neskuchny Sad, Mr Snare?’

For a moment Snare didn’t understand the question, then remembered the gardens bordering the Moskva River. He nodded.

‘I’ve taken to walking there most Sundays,’ reported the Russian. ‘I feel it’s important for an inactive man to get proper exercise.’

‘Indeed,’ concurred Snare, wondering the route towards which the Russian was guiding the conversation.

‘I’ve made it a very regular habit. Usually about 11 a.m.’

‘I see,’ said Snare, relaxing further. It was almost too simple, he thought.

‘I really am most anxious about my health,’ expanded Kalenin. ‘I’m quite an old man and old men believe that misfortune will befall them any day.’

Wrong to relax, corrected Snare. There was a very real reason for this apparently aimless conversation.

‘But that is often a groundless apprehension,’ he responded. ‘I’ve every reason to suppose that your health will remain good for a number of years.’

‘It really is most important that I know that,’ insisted Kalenin. ‘In fact, if I thought these Sunday constitutional walks were doing me more harm than good, I’d immediately suspend them.’

‘I think the walks are most beneficial. Certainly at this time of the year,’ said Snare.

From his left, the Briton detected Colonel Wilcox returning, conforming to their rehearsal. Snare turned to greet Cuthbertson’s friend.

‘We’ve been discussing health,’ threw out Kalenin, eyes upon Snare.

‘Very important,’ said the attache, unsure of the response expected.

‘I’ve been telling Mr Snare of exercises I’ve begun, to ensure I remain healthy for many years.’

Wilcox hesitated, waiting for Snare’s lead.

‘And I’ve been assuring the General,’ helped the operative, ‘that continuing good health, into a very old age, has become a subject of growing interest in England.’

Wilcox frowned, baffled by the ambiguity. What a stupid occupation espionage was, he decided. Silly buggers.

‘Quite,’ he said, hopefully.

Kalenin looked across the room, to the rest of the Russian contingent.

‘I must rejoin my colleagues,’ he apologised.

‘I’ve enjoyed our meeting,’ said Snare.

‘And so have I,’ said Kalenin. ‘And remember the importance of good health.’

‘I will,’ accepted Snare. ‘In fact, I might take up walking for the few remaining weeks I have in Moscow.’

‘Do that,’ encouraged Kalenin. ‘I can recommend it.’

‘Appeared to go well,’ said Braley, watching the two men part. ‘I’d just love to get my hands on Snare’s report.’

‘We will,’ predicted Cox, stationary now. ‘When the British are forced to admit us, officially, we can demand the files already created.’

‘We’ve got to get in first,’ cautioned Braley.

Snare coded his report that night, determined it would exceed in detail and clarity Harrison’s account from East Germany. It hadn’t been difficult to prepare a better report, decided Snare, reading the file that had taken him three hours to complete. The evidence was incontestable now. When this operation was successfully concluded, he decided, Britain would be regarded as having the best espionage service in the Western world. He sealed the envelope, personally delivering it to the ambassador’s office for the diplomatic pouch. And I will be known to be part of that service, he thought, happily. A vitally important part. He would keep the Sunday appointment with Kalenin, he decided, then return to London the following week; perhaps Cuthbertson would insist that he accompany him to the personal briefing of the Prime Minister.

As the weekend approached, Snare felt the euphoria of a man ending a prison sentence, ticking off the last days of his incarceration. Just eight more days and he would be back in London, he consoled himself: it would be a triumphant homecoming.

On the Thursday, he decided to buy souvenirs, assembling the currency coupons that would give him concessions in the foreign exchange shops. Some of the intricately painted dolls, he decided, preferably in national costumes.

He was arrested walking along Gorky Street, towards the G.U.M. department store. It was meticulously planned, taking little more than two minutes. The leading Zil pulled up five yards ahead, disgorging four men before it stopped and when he half turned, instinctively, he saw the second car, immediately behind. Four men were already spread over the pavement, blocking any retreat.

To his back was the wall. And the gap between the two cars was filled by both drivers, standing side-by-side and completing the box.

‘Please don’t run,’ cautioned a man, from his right. He spoke English.

‘I won’t,’ promised Snare. There was no fear in his voice, he realised, proudly.

‘Good,’ said the spokesman and everyone seemed to relax.

Charlie gazed around the lounge of his Dulwich home, revolving the after-dinner brandy between his hands.

‘You’ve made a good home, darling,’ he said. There was an odd sound in his voice, almost like nostalgia.

Edith smiled, a mixture of gratitude and apprehension. Her money had bought everything.

‘I try very hard to please you, Charlie,’ she reminded.

He concentrated completely upon her, reaching over and squeezing her hand.

‘And you do, Edith. You know you do.’