Comrade Charlie

sugar sweet, a dessert drink, but neither knew and both thought it was very nice.

Blackstone waited until they reached the pudding before giving Ann her present, a single-strand chain with a solitary pendant pearl. She put it on immediately and kept fingering it, to reassure herself it was there. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

Blackstone, who was in one of his ebullient moods, thought it was, too. Ann, who was dark-haired, still without any grey, had a good skin she didn’t spoil with too much make-up, and the necklace was shown off perfectly against her throat. It had cost far more than he was able to afford. He said: ‘The chain’s eighteen-carat gold. And the man in the shop said it was a cultured pearl.’

‘Beautiful,’ she said again. ‘You shouldn’t have spent so much.’

He shouldn’t, Blackstone knew. He seemed to think of nothing else these days but the expense of running two homes. And it wasn’t as if Ann or Ruth didn’t help. They both worked and each contributed to the housekeeping and neither complained about living in rented accommodation instead of buying their own places, which would well and truly have crippled him financially. Blackstone fought to retain his optimism: at least there was something. Deciding to tell her about it, he said: ‘I’ve applied for a better job.’ He liked impressing both his wives and tried to do so as often as possible. He was a senior tracer at the aerospace factory, although Ann believed him to be a quality control inspector required to tour all their installations in England, which accounted for the time he spent commuting to and from the mainland during the time he spent with Ruth, who trustingly believed the same story.

‘A different one?’ Ann asked.

‘No,’ said Blackstone. ‘Some tie-up with America, a space job. It’s all very hush-hush. There was just a general memorandum inviting applications to become involved.’

‘I think you’re ever so clever,’ praised the woman admiringly. ‘Would it mean you didn’t have to travel around so much?’

‘Oh no,’ said Blackstone, quickly. ‘I’d still have to do that.’ The secret project carried another ?1,000 a year and he reckoned he could just about manage on that.

‘Go to America, you mean?’

Blackstone hesitated, recognizing the opportunity. Holidays, manoeuvring sufficient time for both, was always a problem with the dual lives he led: a supposed fortnight’s business trip to the United States would be the ideal excuse. He said: ‘I don’t know yet. Nobody knows anything apart from the senior scientific staff. I would think it’s a strong possibility I’d have to go, if I got it.’ He was glad he’d started the conversation.

‘When will you know?’

‘Quite soon,’ said Blackstone. ‘There’s a lot of excitement at the factory about it.’

Ann fingered the necklace again. ‘I think you’re the best husband anyone could have,’ she said.

‘And I think you’re the best wife,’ said Blackstone. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

The telephone was answered on the second ring but without any identification beyond the single word, ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t want to be laughed at: to be humiliated,’ said Krogh. His voice was weak and uneven, someone either on the point of tears or who had already succumbed to them.

‘Of course you don’t,’ agreed Petrin soothingly.

‘Nothing will go wrong, will it…? I mean, it’ll be…?’

‘I’ve worked it all out,’ guaranteed Petrin.

Which he had, observing the universally accepted intelligence maxim that an entrapment achieved has to be consolidated. The Russian dictated the contents and the place of the first handover, in a restaurant in that wharf area of San Francisco converted into a tourist attraction of waterside shops, amusements and exhibitions. Their meeting – and particularly when Krogh handed over the envelope – was extensively photographed by carefully placed KGB technicians. So a record was created of a millionaire American defence contractor passing information to someone who, if renewed or additional pressure were ever needed, could be identified as a KGB operative.

8

It should have been a relaxed, contented occasion, but for Berenkov it wasn’t because abruptly – and unusually – he was troubled by doubts about what he intended doing. Not, actually, in initiating the secondary British operation that hopefully was to involve Charlie Muffin but at keeping it, for the moment, from Kalenin.

Kalenin, who disdained a dacha of his own, had in the past shared a visit to the rambling, bungalowstyle country home of the Berenkovs and this weekend there was a particular reason for his being there because Georgi was home from engineering college. Berenkov was inordinately proud of his stranger son and inclined to over- compensate for the long period they had been apart: the boastfulness – urging him to tell his guardian of examination marks and commendations from his instructors – embarrassed the boy. He was tall and thickly dark- haired, like Berenkov, but avoided this father’s girth: Georgi played centre-field in the college soccer team and had also represented the college in cross-country skiing for two seasons.

They read and walked in the woods and staged their own chess championship, with a ten-ruble prize, which Kalenin – who had played at Master level – let Georgi win.

On the Sunday Berenkov and Kalenin sat in reclining chairs on the wood-strip verandah while Valentina and the boy cleared the midday meal. Kalenin said: ‘These are good times: I enjoy them.’

Berenkov, who used the concessionary facilities to their fullest to maintain the lifestyle he had cultivated in the West, poured French brandy heavily into two goblets and left the bottle uncorked, Russian style, for each to top up as they wished. He said ‘We should make more use of this place.’

‘I’m glad Georgi didn’t try to follow you into the service,’ declared the other man. Kalenin regarded Fidel Castro as unpredictable and Cuba therefore a doubtful satellite but the cigars were an unarguable benefit: he kindled one now and exhaled against the glowing tip, threatening brief fire.

‘It was never considered, by either of us,’ said Berenkov. What he was planning in England amounted to deceiving this man, Berenkov thought uncomfortably.

As he sipped his brandy Kalenin twisted towards the dacha, from which they could discern the sounds of Georgi and Valentina although not what they were saying. Kalenin said: ‘I envy you, Alexei. Having a complete family.’

He was complete, accepted Berenkov: he had everything he could possibly want, would ever want. With the awareness came another sink of unease, at the thought of losing it. So rare was uncertainty to the man that Berenkov became impatient with it, hurrying more brandy into his glass. He said: ‘I know my good fortune.’

‘Guard it carefully,’ cautioned Kalenin.

It was almost as if the man suspected what he was about to do and was warning him against it. Berenkov said: ‘You’re attaching too much importance to the changes.’

‘This is different than before,’ insisted Kalenin. ‘This is a genuine upheaval.’

‘Any Russian leader needs two things,’ Berenkov argued back. ‘The support of the military and the support of the KGB. And they know it.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said the doubtful Kalenin. ‘For both our sakes.’

There is a period between the season changes in Moscow when in the late afternoon the river valley fills up with mist, cloaking the buildings, and when they drove down from the Lenin Hills it was like going into some milky, untroubled sea where there were never any storms. At Kutuzovsky Prospekt Kalenin and Georgi embraced and Kalenin said he was a fine boy. Back in the apartment, Berenkov and Valentina helped Georgi to pack and both drove him to Kazan station and waited on the platform until the train departed.

In the car on the way back Valentina said: ‘I thought Kalenin was quiet this weekend.’

‘He worries too much,’ dismissed Berenkov.

‘What about?’

‘Everything,’ said Berenkov. He was glad the weekend was over: the doubts weren’t with him any more, out