Comrade Charlie

a lemon twist, very dry with no ice. It was good and he tasted the burn of the gin and felt the tension ease off slightly. Two helicopters passed each other, going to and from the island penitentiary no longer in use. Was it there that they’d sent people who did what he was doing, when it had been a prison? Krogh didn’t think so but he wasn’t sure. Maybe there was a special place, all spies together. That’s what he was, Krogh accepted. A spy against his own country, the sort of crime they’d executed people for, not so long ago. All because of the damned girls. Whores, both of them. Something else that had to end. Not yet, not until this business was well and truly over. One thing at a time. But certainly kiss them off. He hadn’t seen either Barbara or Cindy much, since it had started: Cindy a couple of times, because he’d been in Los Angeles anyway, Barbara on two or three afternoons when she wasn’t at art school. He thought Barbara was already getting the message, acting extra nice to him, eager to please. Barbara first, he decided. Then Cindy. No hassle, no hard feelings. Give them a few bucks, plenty of time to look around and find themselves somewhere else to live. He guessed there’d be crying scenes because that was the way it went, but that was all. They both knew the score: knew it had to happen some time. Krogh felt an odd relief at the decision to get rid of them. He didn’t think he’d look around for anyone to replace them, either: pointless to get out of one blackmail situation and create another. Might as well go on as he was. Which he wouldn’t, Krogh determined, positively. Time he straightened himself out, stopped acting like a jerk.

Petrin advanced easily through the restaurant, smiling slightly, very self-assured, and sat down in the facing chair.

‘You’ve been lost in thought,’ said the Russian, confirming at once the protective observation.

‘I’d say I had a lot to think about, wouldn’t you?’ said Krogh.

‘But not to worry about,’ said Petrin.

‘So you keep telling me,’ said the American.

‘I want you to believe it,’ said Petrin sincerely. He’d heard from Moscow three days before of the official commendation going on his KGB record and considered Krogh very important to his career. ‘What is it today?’

‘Gyro housings: the system is equipped with two sets, with a third for emergency. This is the first.’

‘That’s very good,’ said Petrin.

Krogh believed he was being patronized and it irritated him. He said: ‘It’ll only take about another month: that was one of the things I was thinking about.’

‘And it’s gone as smoothly as I promised it would, hasn’t it?’

‘I want it to be over,’ said Krogh.

There was a break while they ordered and it enabled Petrin time to reflect. Poor fool, thought the Russian, although without the slightest genuine sympathy. Krogh was theirs – more precisely his – to do with what they liked when they liked and how they liked. From now on Moscow had permanent access to every US classified document or defence contract with which Krogh and his company ever became associated, a forever-bubbling spring of secret information that Petrin was going to do his best to see never dried up. Because Petrin had already recognized the personal benefit that went way beyond the most recent commendation. That, he’d decided, was just the first of many that was going to come from each new disclosure he was going to get from this man, long after all Star Wars material. Which was not the end of that personal benefit. To remain Krogh’s case officer would naturally entail his staying on in Los Angeles long after his expected tour of duty would normally have finished. Which Petrin, who liked America and the Californian climate and most of all the Californian girls, was more than happy to do. He said: ‘I liked the cover article, in Newsweek.’

So had Krogh, despite what was happening to him. The photograph had been very good, making him look younger than he was, and the focus of the main article was of his epitomizing the American dream, the thrusting shopfloor worker rising to become the millionaire boss. With forced modesty Krogh shrugged and said: ‘It was OK.’

‘Help me with something beyond the drawings,’ said Petrin. ‘How’s the actual construction work going?’

Krogh had wondered how long this sort of questioning would take: the bastard could go to hell. He said: ‘Well enough.’

‘That’s not a direct answer, Emil.’ The Russian had discarded the supposed politeness of surnames after the first meeting.

‘That’s the best there is,’ insisted Krogh.

‘No major snags or hold-ups?’ persisted Petrin.

‘No.’

‘Not at all?’

‘Not so far.’

Petrin stopped the impatience becoming obvious: he didn’t want, this soon in their relationship, to have to let Krogh know he didn’t have any independence any more. For the moment Krogh had to be allowed to retain some slight degree of self-respect. Petrin said: ‘So what’s the scheduled launch date?’

‘It’s too soon to be firm on that,’ Krogh continued to evade. ‘There still could too easily be hold-ups we can’t anticipate. There’s a lot of shopfloor testing to go through yet.’

‘Provisionally then?’ pressed Petrin.

‘Maybe a year.’

‘The Pentagon wouldn’t go along with something as vague as that, Emil, would they?’ said Petrin, finally deciding there had to be some correction after all. ‘I know and you know that on a document or in a letter I haven’t seen yet there’s a suggested date when this thing is going to be put into space. So what is it?’

The man was a bastard, slapping him down like some junior clerk. Miserably he said: ‘September, next year.’

‘How’s Barbara?’ said Petrin. ‘And Cindy?’

‘I don’t want to talk about them,’ refused Krogh.

‘Well then I think it’s important that you talk to me properly about other things when I ask,’ said Petrin. ‘I don’t want to have to prise things out like that in future. You understand?’

Krogh flushed with anger but their food arrived, delaying the response. Krogh had only ordered Cobb salad and he pushed it aside almost at once. Lying, he said: ‘I wasn’t trying to be difficult.’

‘It wouldn’t benefit anyone for you to be, would it?’ said Petrin. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by us falling out, is there?’

Patronizing again, thought Krogh. He said: ‘What the hell do you expect! For us to be friends?’

‘Why not?’ said Petrin, open-faced. ‘We’ve got to work together, haven’t we?’

‘Only for about another month, like I said.’

Now was as convenient a moment as any, thought the Russian. He said: ‘We’ll still have to meet regularly, won’t we?’

‘What do you mean!’ demanded Krogh, fresh alarm flaring through him.

‘I’ll want to keep in touch,’ said Petrin. ‘Some of your testings might show the need for redesign, for instance. I’d need those redesign drawings, wouldn’t I? I’m going to want the results of all the testings, too.’

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ insisted Krogh. ‘Everything ends with the last drawing.’

Let the poor fool dream, thought Petrin, recalling his earlier thoughts.

He said: ‘Just as long as it takes, that’s all. That’s why I don’t want any antagonistic nonsense beween us. It doesn’t achieve anything: gets in the way.’

Christ, how he’d like to teach this son-of-a-bitch a lesson, Krogh thought: physically beat the shit out of him, get the satisfaction of hurting him. He said: ‘Suits me, I guess.’

Petrin smiled brightly, finishing his lobster. He said: ‘Shouldn’t I have the gyro drawing then?’

Krogh passed the package across the table and Petrin put it quickly into his briefcase. Krogh said: ‘I’ll have the drawings of the other two sets in a week.’

‘You know that little park where the cable cars terminate on the other side of the hill, near Saks?’ demanded Petrin.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s where we’ll meet, next Friday. You be there by noon.’

Just like a junior clerk, every time a finger-snapping command. He said: ‘All right.’

‘I’m glad we’ve had this little talk,’ said Petrin. ‘Cleared the air between us. I think that’s a good thing, don’t you?’