He retired immediately after the meal, sitting in the window of the room with a tumbler of duty-free whisky, gazing out over the darkened city. A thousand miles away, he ruminated, an old man for whom he would once have happily died was probably sitting in a window holding a larger amount of whisky, staring out over his rose bushes. The degeneration of Sir Archibald had frightened him, accepted Charlie. He snorted, drunkenly, at the thought. And Berenkov had frightened him and the assignment frightened him.
‘Wonder I’m not constantly pissing myself,’ he mumbled.
Spittle and whisky dribbled down his chin and he didn’t bother to wipe it.
‘Got to stop talking to myself,’ he said.
He slept badly, rarely losing complete consciousness and always aware of himself through spasmodic, irrational dreams in which first Ruttgers and then Sir Archibald pursued him wielding secateurs and he panted to evade them, burdened by the wheezing Braley slung across his shoulders.
He abandoned the pretence of sleep at dawn, sitting at the window again, watching the sun feel its way over the ochre, picture-painted buildings in the old part of the city immediately below him.
He had the hangover he had expected. His head bulged with pain that extended down to his neck and his mouth was arid. It had been a stupid thing to have done and would affect his meeting with the Russian, he thought.
He breakfasted alone, in his room, uncontacted by anyone. Finally he approached Collins’s office, determined to control the annoyance.
‘The ambassador has approved the issuing of a revolver,’ said the meticulous diplomat.
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. He felt too ill to compete with the man, anyway.
The weapon lay on the desk and Collins looked at it but refrained from touching it, as if it were contaminated. Charlie picked it up and placed it in the rear waistband of his trousers, at the small of his back, where it would be undetectable to anyone brushing casually against him and not be a visible bulge unless he fastened his jacket.
He was conscious of Collins studying him, critically.
‘I don’t bloody like it, either,’ said Charlie, venting his apprehension.
It was a warm, soft day and if he hadn’t felt so unwell Charlie would have enjoyed the walk down the sloping, sometimes cobbled, streets.
The Charles Bridge is one of the ten that cross the Vltava to link both sides of the city but is restricted entirely to pedestrians. Each parapet is sectioned by huge statues of saints.
Charlie approached early from the direction of Hrad
any, so he loitered before the shops in the narrow, rising approach to the bridge, stopping for several moments apparently to study the fading, pastel-coloured religious painting adorning the outside of the house at the immediate commencement. He was not being followed, he decided.
The bright sunlight hurt his eyes, increasing the discomfort of the headache. He felt sick and kept belching.
Slowly he began to cross the bridge, professionally glad it had been chosen as a meeting place. It was thronged with tourists and provided excellent cover.
He saw the American first.
Braley had approached from the opposite side of the river and had halted by one of the statues. He was wearing sports clothes and an open shirt, with a camera slung around his neck. It was very clever, conceded Charlie, reminded again of the fat man’s expertise. Without creating the slightest suspicion, the American was ideally placed to photograph the meeting between him and Kalenin.
So thick was the midday crowd he almost missed the General. The tiny Russian was standing where they had arranged, wearing a summer Russian raincoat that was predictably too long, staring up towards the sluices. Charlie felt a shudder of fear go through him and he shivered, as if he were cold. He gripped his hands tightly by his side, pushing his knuckles into his thighs.
‘Too late to be frightened, Charlie,’ he told himself. ‘You’re committed.’
As he covered the last few yards, he tried to isolate the watchers in addition to Braley but failed. It was to be expected, rationalised Charlie. Those immediately around the K.G.B. chief would be the absolute best: Ruttgers and Cuthbertson would have people there as well, he knew.
Charlie grinned, despite the nervousness and discomfort. There hadn’t been a moment for the past three months when he hadn’t been under collective surveillance from one service or another, he thought. Presidents didn’t get better protection.
He positioned himself alongside the Russian without looking directly at him.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he apologised. He was still dehydrated from the alcohol and his voice croaked.
‘Not at all,’ assured Kalenin. ‘I was early.’
Charlie felt the other man examining him.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the General. ‘You don’t look well.’
Charlie turned towards him.
‘Fine,’ he lied.
Kalenin nodded, doubtfully.
‘I’m afraid Snare has had a collapse,’ announced the General.
Charlie stayed, waiting.
‘Apparently couldn’t stand solitary confinement,’ reported the Russian. ‘Our psychiatrists are quite worried.’
‘He’s in the Serbsky Institute?’ predicted Charlie.
‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘It’s remarkably well equipped.’
‘So we’ve heard in the West from various dissidents who’ve been brainwashed there,’ responded Charlie, sarcastically.
Kalenin frowned at the remark, then shrugged.
‘My people will be upset at the news,’ said Charlie.
It was quite unintentional, I assure you,’ replied Kalenin. ‘In the circumstances, I couldn’t let him come into contact with anyone, could I?’
‘No,’ accepted Charlie. ‘I don’t suppose you could.’
Kalenin looked back up the river.
‘I’ve always liked Prague,’ he said, conversationally. ‘I think of it as a gentle city.’
Charlie was perspiring, not just from the heat, and the pain in his head drummed in time with his heartbeat.
‘We’re not here to admire the city,’ he reminded, curtly.
Again Kalenin turned to him.
‘Are you
‘Of course.’
‘You’re recording this meeting?’ queried Kalenin, expectantly.
‘Yes,’ said Charlie, patting his pocket. Kalenin nodded.
‘You were very punctilious about the money.’
Further along the bridge, Charlie saw Braley man?uvre for a photograph.
‘I see your companion in Vienna and France is a little further along,’ continued Kalenin, without turning around. ‘Shall I meet him?’
The Russian was smiling, happy at his control of the situation.
‘That’s a matter for you,’ said Charlie, disconcerted.
‘I think we should, in a moment,’ replied Kalenin. ‘I’ve worked out the crossing with great care and I don’t want anything to go wrong: it’s best he hears at the same time as you.’
‘We’ve also done a fair amount of planning,’ guaranteed Charlie.
Kalenin nodded again. He’s patronising me, thought Charlie.
‘The money will be in Austria?’ demanded Kalenin.
‘I’ve already lodged it at the embassy,’ said Charlie.
‘Good,’ praised Kalenin. ‘Good. You really do seem to have put some thought into it.’
The General turned, looking towards the American.
‘To avoid repetition, shall we join Mr Braley now?’
