Charlie M

(2)

The grilled, narrow windows of the special interview room at Wormwood Scrubs were set high into the wall, making it impossible to see anything but a rectangle of grey sky.

Charlie gazed up, trying to determine whether it had started raining. He could feel the edge of the matting through the sole of his left shoe; if the weather broke, he’d get wet going back to Whitehall.

He turned back into the room, studying it expertly. The camera was set into the ventilation grid behind him, he knew. Then there’d be a microphone in the light socket. And another concealed in the over-large locking mechanism on the door. And it would be easy to have inserted another monitor in the edging around the table at which they would sit. Cuthbertson would have had it done, he guessed. The man liked electronic gadgetry.

Welcome the invention of the tape recorder, mused Charlie, his interest waning. He could still remember the days of silent note-takers and the irritable disagreements after a six-hour debriefing between operatives trying to remember precisely what had been said.

He heard footsteps and turned to the door expectantly, looking forward to the meeting with the Russian.

He liked Alexei Berenkov, he decided.

The Russian entered smiling, a shambling man with a bulging stomach, a tumble of coal-black hair and ready-to-laugh eyes set in a florid, over-indulged face. The cover of a wine importer, which had allowed frequent trips abroad, was well chosen, thought Charlie. Berenkov had had his own private wine bin at the Ritz and Claridge’s and a permanent box at Ascot.

‘Charlie!’ greeted the Russian, expansively. He spread his arms and moved forward. Muffin made to shake hands, but Berenkov swept on, enveloping him in a hug. It wasn’t a sham, remembered Charlie. They’d kept the man under observation for six months, before even beginning the concentrated investigation. Berenkov was a naturally exuberant extrovert, using the very attention he constantly attracted as a shield behind which to hide. Charlie stood with the man’s arms around him, feeling foolish.

Thank God Snare and Harrison weren’t there.

‘It’s good to see you, Alexei,’ he said, disentangling himself. He looked beyond, to the warder who stood uncertainly inside the door, frowning at the greeting.

‘You can go,’ dismissed Charlie. Cuthbertson had arranged the meeting with his child-like interpretation of psychology and insisted just the two of them be in the room.

‘I’m quite safe,’ Berenkov told the official. He thought the assurance amusing and shouted with laughter, slapping Charlie’s shoulder. The warder hesitated, uncertainly. After several minutes, he shuffled away, flat- footedly. He’d stay very close, guessed Charlie. Cuthbertson would insist on a report from the man, despite all the recording apparatus.

Berenkov turned back, still smiling.

‘The only thing missing is some wine,’ apologised the Russian, playing the host. ‘It’s a pity. This year I’d selected some really sensational Aloxe Corton.’

Charlie smiled back, enjoying the performance.

‘So they’ve sent you to find out what you can, thinking I’ll be off-guard after the trial. And probably shocked by the sentence,’ attacked the Russian, suddenly. The smile had gone, like a light being extinguished.

Charlie shrugged, sitting in one of the padded chairs by the table. Berenkov was very clever, he decided.

‘T’m sorry,’ said Charlie, in genuine embarrassment. ‘I know it’s bloody ridiculous. But they wouldn’t listen.’

Berenkov moved to the table, glancing up at the heavy light fitting.

‘Probably,’ agreed Charlie, following Berenkov’s look and recalling his earlier thoughts. ‘It’s the most obvious place.’

‘Who are they, these fools who employ you?’ demanded Berenkov.

Charlie settled comfortably. This was going to be enjoyable, he decided.

‘It’s no good, Alexei,’ he said, wanting to prolong it. ‘I made the point, saying you were obviously a professional who wouldn’t break, even now. But they insisted. I’ve said I’m sorry.’

Berenkov puffed his cheeks, indignantly. Aware every remark was being relayed, he rose to the meeting, like the actor he was.

‘They’re cunts,’ he said, offended. ‘I’m a loyal Russian.’

‘I know,’ agreed Charlie, sincerely. ‘But it was easier to come than to argue that you wouldn’t give anything away about your system …’

He smiled, genuinely. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘I wanted to see you again.’

It was an odd relationship between them, reflected Charlie. It was basically deep admiration from one professional to another, he supposed. Berenkov had realised, months before his arrest, that he was under observation. Charlie had made it obvious, in the end, hoping to frighten the man into an ill-considered move. Berenkov hadn’t made one, of course. Instead, the knowledge had piqued his conceit and it had become a battle between them, an exercise in wits, like a game of postal chess. And Charlie had won, proving he was slightly the better of the two. So, added to Berenkov’s admiration was an attitude of respect.

‘Why weren’t you at the trial?’ Berenkov asked, settling at the table and taking, uninvited, one of Charlie’s cigarettes.

‘It was decided it was too dangerous,’ said Charlie, un-convincingly repeating Cuthbertson’s explanation. ‘We didn’t want to risk identification. Your people would have photographed everyone going into the Old Bailey, wouldn’t they?’

Berenkov frowned for a moment, then smiled at Charlie’s lead, looking up at the light.

‘Oh yes,’ he agreed. ‘Every picture will be in Moscow by now.’

That would put the fear of Christ up the Special Branch and Cuthbertson, Charlie knew. They’d had four men of their own photographing everyone within a quarter of a mile vicinity during the week-long trial. It would take them months to identify every face; but Cuthbertson would insist upon it — ‘mountains are just pieces of dust, all gathered together’ was a new catch phrase from the department controller. Now he’d be shit scared there was the risk of his own men being identified.

‘So Snare and Harrison got all the credit,’ jabbed Berenkov.

The Russian was bloody good, thought Charlie. It was not surprising he’d held the rank of General in the K.G.B. for the twenty years he’d operated in the West. His capture would be an enormous blow to Russia: perhaps even greater than they had realised.

‘Something like that,’ agreed Charlie.

‘They’re no good,’ dismissed the prisoner. ‘Too smart … too keen to shine and impress people. Their performance in court was more like Sunday Night at the London Palladium. Send them on a field operation and we’d use it as a training exercise.’

Oh God, how I’d like to be with Cuthbertson when the tapes are played back, thought Charlie. Please God let Snare and Harrison be there.

The Briton thought again of the life style that Berenkov had followed until his arrest six months earlier: despite the apparent bonhomie, the man must be suffering, he decided.

‘What’s it like here?’ asked Charlie, curiously, gesturing to the prison around them.

‘Known worse,’ replied Berenkov, lightly.

And he would have done, Charlie knew. The Russian admitted to being fifty, but Charlie assessed him ten years older. He’d have served in the Russian army during the war, probably as a field officer on the German Front. Certainly it was from Germany that he had appeared, posing as a refugee displaced by the division of his country, to enter Britain.

‘But forty years!’ reminded Charlie.

Berenkov stared at him, frowning, imagining for a moment that the Briton was serious. He shrugged, agreeing to whatever Charlie wanted to achieve.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he answered. ‘I won’t serve forty years and we all know it. I guess two, but it might be shorter: I’m very highly regarded in the Soviet Union. They’ll arrange an exchange. All they need is a body.’