‘Some was,’ he insisted. Gunther Bayer had had a fiancee in West Berlin, he remembered. Gretel. She’d been preparing a celebration dinner on the night of the crossing and Gunther had wanted him to go.
‘Not all.’
‘But for me, it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘No one would be feeling regrets if you’d died,’ she said. ‘And God knows, they tried hard enough.’
‘Only you,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I’d still be regretting it.’
Did Charlie have the love for her that she felt for him? wondered Edith. She wished he’d tell her so, more often.
‘And the money was a mistake,’ he conceded. ‘It was necessary, to make the Kalenin crossing seem absolutely genuine. But to take it was wrong …’
Because it put a price on his betrayal, decided Edith. Money – his lack of it and her inheritance – had always been a problem for Charlie. He’d accepted the house beyond that which he could have afforded on his Grade IV salary. And the furnishing. But he had always adamantly refused any for his personal needs, keeping shoes until they were worn through and suits until they were shiny at the seat and elbows. He’d actually tried to change, in the early months after the Kalenin affair. He’d bought Yves St Laurent and Gucci and looked as comfortable as Cinderella at five minutes to midnight. The seat and elbows weren’t shiny, but the suit still came from a department store. And the shoes were still Hush Puppies, even though they weren’t down at heel any more. Charlie would always be the sort of person to wear a string vest with a see-through shirt, she thought fondly.
‘Let’s stop living in the past,’ she said.
He nodded, brightening.
‘Right,’ he accepted. ‘At last we’ve got something to consider in the future … I’m going into high finance, Edith.’
She laughed with him, trying to match his enthusiasm. Please God, she thought, make it last. She hadn’t liked Charlie Muffin very much in the last two years.
‘John Packer?’
The safebreaker looked up from his drink, gazing steadily at the man standing at the other side of the table.
‘Yes,’ continued the man, as if satisfying some private question. ‘You’re John Packer.’
Packer sat back, waiting. The man pulled out a chair and sat down, smiling. Smart, decided Packer. But not flash. Good voice; air of breeding, too, so he could make everyone else feel a turd. Confidence trickster, maybe. Nasty scar on his face. Perhaps a job had gone wrong.
‘What do you want?’ asked Packer.
‘Want?’ echoed the man, as if it were an amusing demand. ‘I want to put you into the major league, John Packer.’
TEN
George Wilberforce sat easily at his desk, moving a pipe between his long fingers, letting everyone else settle in the Whitehall office. They’d all come to him, he thought. And that was how it was going to be, until the end of the operation. He was going to be in command.
‘We’re ready to move against Charlie Muffin,’ he announced. ‘Tonight.’
‘Still think it’s a waste of time,’ said Ruttgers defiantly.
‘Not if it makes Charlie Muffin suffer.’
Everyone turned to the speaker, one of the two men whom Wilberforce had accepted for the final planning session. It had taken almost a year for Brian Snare to recover physically from his Moscow imprisonment, Wilberforce remembered. He looked at the man. Perhaps, in other ways, he never would. Snare’s hand had gone automatically to the jagged, star-shaped scar where the skin had burst, rather than been cut, on the left side of his face. A warder’s boot in Lubyanka had caused that, Wilberforce knew. But at least he was still alive. Douglas Harrison had been shot down by East German Grenzschutztruppen.
Wilberforce moved to speak, then paused, halted by a sudden thought It had been Snare and Harrison, following Cuthbertson’s instructions, who had actually set Charlie Muffin up for sacrifice in East Berlin. And Charlie’s retribution had been planned as carefully as that which he himself was now evolving to destroy the man, decided Wilberforcft. In many ways, he thought, he and Charlie were very similar. He was just a little cleverer, determined the Director. As he was going to prove.
‘It would be a mistake to let personal feelings overly affect our judgment on this,’ warned the other newcomer. William Braley had been the C.I.A.’ Resident in the American embassy in Moscow specially appointed to work with Charlie on the last stages of Kalenin’s supposed crossing. Few people knew Charlie better, which was why Braley was being included in the discussion.
Reminded of the association, Wilberforce said: ‘Do you think there’s any undue risk in what has been proposed?’
The man squinted nervously at the direct question. Braley was a man fattened by a glandular malfunction and given to asthma in moments of tension. Predictably, his breathing became jerky and he wondered if he would be able to use his inhaler.
‘There’s always a danger with Charlie Muffin,’ he pointed out. ‘We should never forget that.’
‘But can he react any other way than that which we expect?’
Again Braley delayed replying, feeling his chest tighten further.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve thought about it, putting myself in his place. And I don’t think he can.’
Wilberforce smiled, turning to the others in the room, patting as he did so the thick file that lay before him on the desk.
‘You’ve all read the dossier,’ he said. ‘There hasn’t been a moment since we picked him up at the cemetery when Charlie Muffin has not been under detailed surveillance. There’s not a thing we don’t know about him. And we’ve planned against every eventuality.’
‘He seems to have found a friend in Rupert Willoughby,’ remarked Cuthbertson.
‘For the moment, that doesn’t affect what we are going to do,’ said Wilberforce. But it might, later on, he thought, remembering the report of the Russian exhibition. He was beginning to enjoy the idea of Charlie Muffin dancing in whatever direction he dictated; and if tonight went as he expected, that was all the man would be able to do from now on – perform as ordered.
‘So we go ahead?’ demanded Snare anxiously.
Wilberforce came back to the man who was going to be most dangerously involved in manipulating Charlie Muffin. He seemed desperate for them to agree, thought the Director. Which was out of character, for what he was being expected to do. But then, he’d suffered probably more than any of them. So his need for revenge was stronger.
‘Well?’ queried Wilberforce, taking the question to the Americans. He still had to give them the impression of consultation, he thought, even if it were really he who was making the decisions.
‘You’re still sure that what you propose will bring Charlie Muffin back to England?’ said Onslow Smith.
‘He won’t be able to do anything else.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’ said Ruttgers.
It was time, realised the British Director, to make concessions. Hardly a concession; if Charlie didn’t respond as he expected, then it would have to be done anyway, despite the risk of any incriminating documents Charlie might have prepared.
‘If Charlie Muffin isn’t back in Brighton within three days,’ said Wilberforce, ‘then I agree he should be immediately killed.’
He smiled, deciding to extend the offer.
‘Why not send an assassination squad to Switzerland, just in case?’ he suggested. ‘That way there would be absolutely no risk.’
Onslow Smith shrugged, an almost embarrassed gesture.
‘We already have,’ he admitted.
