his mentor.
Charlie turned to him, frowning.
‘I’m sorry?’ he said, knowing the effect would be destroyed if the man were forced to repeat it.
‘Nothing,’ said Snare. ‘Just a comment.’
‘Oh,’ said Charlie. He still waited, as if expecting Snare to repeat himself. Wince, you bastard, he thought. At last he looked back to Cuthbertson.
‘I’m sure it will be followed in the case of my interview with Berenkov,’ he continued. ‘Once established, procedures are rigidly followed. And
Cuthbertson nodded, cautiously. The left eye twitched and Charlie thought he detected Wilberforce looking surreptitiously at him.
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded the Director.
He was beginning to become unsettled, Charlie decided, happily, detecting the apprehension in that unpleasant voice.
‘The detailed analysis,’ said Charlie. ‘By psychological experts, not only of the tapes but of the film that was shot in the interview room.’
‘What about it?’
‘Your reaction to the meeting and your recommendation was made without waiting for the results of that analysis?’
‘There was no need to wait,’ defended Cuthbertson.
‘As I said,’ reminded Charlie. ‘A silly thing to have done.’
They were all frightened, he knew, without being able to appreciate their mistake. It was time to change his approach, he determined.
‘My meeting with Berenkov was one of the most productive I can remember having had with a captured spy,’ asserted Charlie, brutally. ‘And the analyst’s department will confirm it …’
He paused, deciding to allow himself the conceit.
‘… they always have in the past,’ he added.
Wilberforce was back at his pipe but the other three were staring at him, unmoving.
‘Close examination of the transcript,’ continued Charlie, hesitating for another aside, ‘… much closer than you’ve allowed yourselves … will confirm several things. Berenkov admitted his nerve had gone. If he knew it, then Moscow certainly did. And the Kremlin would have acted upon that knowledge. A replacement would have been installed in London, long before we got on to Berenkov. He’s important, certainly. But because of what he’d done in the past, not for what he might have done in the future. We haven’t broken the Russians’ European spy system. I estimate his successor will have been here for a year, at least … so you’ve got to begin all over again …’
The vibration in Cuthbertson’s eye was now so severe he put his hand up to cover it.
‘There are a number of his existing network whom we haven’t caught, either,’ enlarged Charlie. ‘Consider the film and watch the facial reaction when I announced, quite purposely, that we have caught five. Slow the film: it will show a second’s look of triumph, indicating there are some still free …’
Charlie stopped again, swallowing. They were so innocent, he thought, looking at the four men. Wilberforce was like them, he decided, institutionalised by training according to a rule book and completely unaware of what they should be doing.
‘… And he told us how to find them,’ Charlie threw out.
He waited. They would have to crawl, he determined.
‘How?’ asked Cuthbertson, at last.
‘By boasting,’ explained Charlie. ‘Letting them have their wine wholesale wasn’t a smart, throw-away remark. It was exactly the grandiose sort of thing that an extrovert like Berenkov would have done. And he would have kept scrupulous records: a spy always complies with every civil law of any country in which he’s operating. Check every wholesale outlet against income tax returns and you’ll find the rest of the network. The five we’ve got are all on it – I checked while my socks were drying.’
He looked carefully at each man, allowing his head to shake almost imperceptibly.
‘I’m
He drew almost to attention, coming back to Cuthbertson.
‘Have I your permission to leave, sir?’
The Director seemed intent on the papers lying before him and it was several minutes before he spoke.
‘We could have been a little premature in our assessment,’ he conceded. The words were very difficult for him, Charlie knew. He noted the pronoun: within the day, the mistake would be shown not to be Cuthbertson’s but someone else wrongly guiding him.
Charlie said nothing, knowing that silence was his best weapon now.
‘Perhaps,’ continued the Director, ‘we should re-examine the tape and discuss it tomorrow.’
‘Re-examine the tape by all means,’ agreed Charlie, deciding to abandon the ‘sir’: Cuthbertson didn’t deserve any respect. ‘I’m sure the Minister will expect a more detailed knowledge of it at the meeting you will inevitably have,’ he added. ‘But tomorrow I’m going on leave … you’ve already approved it, you’ll remember?’
‘Of course,’ said Cuthbertson, groping on the desk again, as if seeking the memorandum of agreement.
‘So perhaps we’ll discuss my future in a fortnight?’
Cuthbertson nodded, half concurring, half dismissing. His presence embarrassed them, Charlie knew. They would welcome the two-week gap more than he.
‘I can go?’ pressed Charlie.
‘Yes,’ said Cuthbertson, shortly.
Outside the office, Charlie turned right, away from his own room, feeling very happy. Janet was sitting expectantly at her desk, solemn-faced.
‘I’ve been dumped,’ announced Charlie.
‘I know,’ said Cuthbertson’s secretary. ‘I typed the report to the Minister. Oh Charlie, I’m so sorry.’
‘So are they,’ said Charlie, brightly. ‘They’ve made a balls of it. Tonight still okay?’
The girl stared at him, uncertainly.
‘Does it mean you won’t be demoted to some sort of clerk?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘Seven o’clock?’
She nodded, bewildered.
Whistling tunelessly, Charlie wandered back to his cramped room. The affair with Janet had only begun four weeks ago and still had the excitement of newness about it. Pity the holiday would intrude: but that was important. Edith needed a vacation, he decided, thinking fondly of his wife.
And so did he, though for different reasons.
General Kalenin pushed aside the file containing the questionable plans for Berenkov’s release, lounging back in his chair to look over the Kremlin complex. Most of the office lights were out, he saw. How different it had been in Stalin’s time, he remembered, when people remained both day and night at their desks, afraid of a summons from the megalomaniac insomniac.
He looked back to the unsatisfactory dossier. He was more apprehensive now than he had ever been then, he decided. The Berenkov affair could topple him, Kalenin realised. It wasn’t the purge and disgrace that frightened him. It was being physically removed from the office in the Lubyanka buildings in Dzerzhinsky Square. Without a job, he would have nothing, he thought. He’d commit suicide, he decided, quite rationally. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of such a thing and there was no fear in the consideration. A revolver, he determined. Very quick. And befitting an officer.
He sighed, hearing midnight strike. Slowly he packed the papers into his personal safe, trying to arouse some anticipation for the war game he had prepared when he got to his apartment.
Tonight he was going to start the Battle of Kursk, the greatest tank engagement in history. But his mind wouldn’t be on it, he knew.
