Comrade Charlie

who accepted her refusal philosophically and switched his attention at once to one of the accompanying female stenographers who was equally unoffended but still said no. There were eight days in Ottawa, again concluding with press conferences and photographs, and from Canada they flew south to Washington. The scheduled American visit lasted a week and ended with a joint conference with US agricultural and trade officials who disclosed tentative agreement to supply the full amount needed to make up the Russian shortfalls.

In her assessment upon her Moscow return Natalia warned against their becoming over-reliant upon American supplies that could be used as a bargaining lever in some quite separate, later negotiation between the two countries.

Berenkov responded by return, congratulating her upon her analyses – as he had after her correct interpretation in Australia – and assured Natalia her transfer was being regarded even beyond the First Chief Directorate as an unqualified success.

Blackstone could not remember feeling like this before: couldn’t put into so many words exactly how he did feel. He felt comfortable. And supremely confident, without those worrying dips into depression. But most of all there was relief at not having to worry any more. There’d never seemed to be a time in the past when part of his mind wasn’t occupied with money, making calculations on scraps of paper, often virtually fingering the edges of the coins in his pocket to count how much he had. He didn’t have to do that any longer, not any of it. Christ, it was a good feeling! Not something he wanted to lose, ever. So he was going to make bloody sure he didn’t. The drawings so far had been easy. Not that he’d said so, of course. He hadn’t made them look like a quick or simple job, either. He’d done them properly, top-quality stuff, giving good value for what he got.

And he hadn’t flashed the money around, either. Not too much, anyway. The car, a second-hand Ford but a good one, nearly new, had cost more than he’d really planned to spend and he’d had to spread quite a lot on hire purchase, but there’d be no difficulty keeping up the payments, with his extra income guaranteed. And the separate holidays were booked, with Ruth and Ann. And it was good, being able to go into shops with either of them and say things like ‘If you want it, it’s yours’ when they tried on a dress or something.

Blackstone thought back to another time, a time he was never going to know again, when he’d been worried as usual but cheered himself up, thinking of his luck in having both Ann and Ruth. Now everything was perfect, he decided: absolutely perfect.

12

Charlie’s cubicle was on the fifth floor, overlooking an unused courtyard at the back. The corridor and other offices seemed much quieter than usual, with hardly anyone about, as if they’d all heard the airraid siren and rushed off to the shelters before the bombs started to drop. At this door Charlie hesitated, looking through the fluted glass into the facing cubicle. It was nominally the office of Hubert Witherspoon, whom Charlie suspected of being the eager purveyor of his indiscretion to Harkness. It looked, as it always looked, like an entry for the Neat Office of the Year Award, but Witherspoon wasn’t there. If there had been a rush for the airraid shelters Witherspoon would have been way out in front to get the deepest, safest place with his sandwich pack and toilet deodorizer.

Charlie’s quarters looked like the bomb had already scored a direct hit. The non-classified InTraffic that Charlie was listed automatically to receive had continued uninterrupted while he had been away. It overflowed the provided tray, and messengers had made a pile beside, on the desk, and when that got high enough to topple over they had started stacking them on the floor. There was a second tray for signals advising Charlie in his absence that classified material was awaiting his signature and collection from Dispatch. It was empty, like it had been for months. On top of the two filing cabinets, in an empty milk bottle, drooped the skeleton of an atrophied tulip he’d stolen from St James’ Park coming back from lunch one evening; he couldn’t remember where he’d got the empty milk bottle. The Times still lay on his picked-at, cluedotted blotter, folded as he’d left it at the crossword. Someone had filled in with a contrasting red pen the word that had baffled him – ‘Idiot’ – in response to the clue asking who told Macbeth that life was but a walking shadow. Witherspoon, guessed Charlie: the prick was always going on about Double-whatevers from Oxford and trying to prove how clever he was. Charlie didn’t think the answer was right.

Charlie sat heavily in his chair, thrust sideways to get it going and managed a complete circle before the momentum stopped. The story of his recent existence, he thought; going around in circles getting nowhere. But not today. Today there was the confrontation with Harkness. Charlie was looking forward to it more than he’d looked forward to anything for a long time.

His move or Harkness’? His entry past the document check on the ground floor would have been tabbed, for instant notification. So Harkness, four floors above in that taken-over Director General’s office, would know he was in the building. And protocol dictated that he wait in the rabbit hutch until he was summoned.

‘Fuck that,’ said Charlie to himself. He used the internal direct line which sometimes Sir Alistair Wilson had actually answered himself because that was what the line was for, immediate contact. It was Laura who replied.

‘The prodigal returns!’ announced Charlie. There was no immediate response and Charlie said: ‘Hello?’

‘We’ve been advised,’ said Laura. Her voice was rehearsed-sad, the way people sympathize with death.

‘How’s Paul’s prickly heat?’

Laura ignored the question. Instead she said: ‘I thought you might have called in between.’

‘Best I didn’t,’ assured Charlie.

‘You any idea what you did!’

‘Followed procedure,’ recited Charlie. ‘Now I’ve been ordered to report in. Shall I come on up?’

‘Of course you can’t come up just like that. I’ll ask.’

‘Shall I hang on?’

‘I’ll call you back.’

It was a full half hour before the call came. The outside corridors and office were as quiet as before and there was no one else in the lift. It took a further fifteen minutes to negotiate the top-floor security check before Charlie was admitted to the inner sanctum of squashy carpet and bewigged ancestors. They still clutched their globes and compasses and looked hopeful.

Laura was waiting at the door of her own office, through which he had to pass to reach Harkness. As he approached she felt out for his hand, a mourning gesture again, and said: ‘I’ve been as worried as hell about you: I still am.’

‘There’s still a lot I don’t understand,’ lied Charlie.

‘Be…’ started the girl.

‘…careful,’ finished Charlie. ‘Always. Trust me.’

Harkness was leaning forward oddly low against the Director General’s desk, like a trench soldier who disbelieved the Armistice had been declared. The desk was completely clear, the man not bothering with the pretence of any previous or more important paper work: Harkness stared unblinkingly at Charlie as Charlie crossed the expansive office. The interior continued the style of the exterior, up-to-theankle carpet, yesteryear panelling and self-satisfied predecessors who’d always had butter on their bread. Once again there were no conveniently placed chairs, meaning that he had to stand: little cunt intent on little victories, Charlie thought. He was determined against the man achieving many more today.

Harkness cleared his throat and said: ‘You caused a very great disturbance: a very great disturbance indeed.’

‘Strictly adhering to laid-down regulations,’ said Charlie. ‘What’s the result of the investigation, sir?’ The respectful title was open contempt from a man who’d never before called Harkness sir and who’d never in his career observed any of the guidelines. And you know it and there’s fuck all you can do about it, thought Charlie.

‘You are not under surveillance,’ said Harkness, matching formality with formality. The waistcoated suit was blue, the pastel accessories pale mauve.

Charlie let his shoulders fall, a man from whom a burden has been lifted. ‘That’s a relief!’ he said.