Comrade Charlie

‘I know the regulation.’

‘And the fullest receipted support for all expenses.’

‘Actually I was surprised how expensive everything was,’ said Charlie, just to antagonize the other man. The air balloon was closer now and Charlie saw it was advertising what was described as a revolutionary new chocolate bar. He wondered if the centre would be hard, like his mother always demanded.

‘Everything is to be receipted,’ repeated Harkness.

‘What’s the latest medical report on Sir Alistair Wilson?’ asked Charlie, with open disrespect.

‘I don’t consider it proper to engage in that sort of conversation with you,’ refused Harkness.

Asshole, thought Charlie.

‘He was openly insolent! Challenging me!’ complained the acting Director General.

‘He’s arrogant,’ concurred Witherspoon. ‘And it’s going to be his arrogance that will be his undoing.’

‘One slip,’ Harkness promised himself vehemently. ‘That’s all he needs to make. Just one slip.’

22

Today it would all be over. After today he could put it all behind him: try to forget about it. That it ever happened. Emil Krogh stopped the run of thought, physically shaking his head as he took the sliproad off the Bay Shore Freeway and started negotiating the narrow streets towards the final meeting with the Russian. Krogh knew he’d never be able to imagine it hadn’t happened. It would always be with him, somewhere in his mind. How people would have laughed at him, sneering, calling him things like a horny old goat if it had ever come out about the girls: getting dumped from the company and dumped by Peggy. Krogh shuddered at the horror of what might have been. He’d done the only sensible, possible thing. Thank God it was all over at last: the end of a bad dream. Now it was clearing up time, Krogh determined, positively. Barbara would be out of the apartment in a week or two, so he could sell that. Sell her car, too. Soon – next week maybe – he’d kiss off Cindy and dispose of everything in Los Angeles. Stop being a stupid son-of-a-bitch and settle down with Peggy. He’d come damned close to falling right off the edge of the cliff and it wasn’t going to happen again.

Krogh detected the green of McLaren Park ahead and started looking for a parking meter. He tried on Burrows, which would have put him close to the entrance he wanted, but there were no spaces so he had to make the turn on to Felton, where he was lucky. He hesitated, putting the money in, unsure how much time he needed. Not long, he decided: there was nothing he had to say to Petrin except goodbye and it would only take a second to do that and part with the last of the blueprints. Over, he thought again: finished. Krogh paid for half an hour and walked back towards the park, entering through the gate Petrin had designated and finding the bench where he had been told to sit. He did so, staring around, wondering who or where the watchers were who always ensured the meetings were safe. There were a lot of people about, strolling or walking dogs or jogging. There were a group of kids playing bad baseball on a makeshift diamond over to his right and Krogh thought he heard the crack of an iron against a golf ball but guessed he must have been mistaken because the municipal course was some way away, too far for the sound to have carried.

When Petrin approached it was from the direction of the course. Krogh saw the man early, walking without any apparent urgency or recognition, not even when he got quite close. When Petrin reached the bench he sat with his legs thrust out and head tilted slightly back, so that his face was to the sun.

‘This is the sort of day that makes you feel good to be alive, isn’t it?’ cliched the Russian.

‘I guess so,’ said Krogh. It was a good day but Krogh knew the way he felt came more from this being the last meeting between them. He hadn’t warned the other man and was looking forward to making the announcement.

‘So how are things?’ said Petrin conversationally.

‘From today they’re going to be terrific,’ said Krogh.

Petrin straightened slightly, looking sideways at the American. ‘How’s that?’

Instead of replying Krogh took the package from inside his jacket and handed it along the bench. He said: ‘Here it is. The last one.’ There was a feeling of satisfaction, but not as much as he’d expected.

Petrin came fully upright now. ‘You mean I’ve got’ it all! There’s no more?’

‘Nothing,’ declared Krogh. ‘We’re through.’ He had a sudden urge to give Petrin some idea of how he felt towards him, like telling the man to kiss his ass or go fuck himself or something.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Petrin, a strange sound of contentment. He pocketed the envelope and said: ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment.’

‘Not as much as I have,’ said Krogh. He wouldn’t foul-mouth the man. He just wanted to get away, end it. He actually started to move but Petrin reached out, putting a restraining hand on his arm.

‘Wait a moment, Emil,’ said the Russian. ‘There’s something we have to talk about.’

‘No there’s not,’ insisted Krogh. ‘I’ve told you. You’ve got it all.’

‘But that’s the problem, you see? We haven’t,’ smiled Petrin.

Krogh settled back on the bench, looking nervously at the other man. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what you told me, all those weeks back. That we don’t have it all, not without the British contribution.’

‘I can’t do anything about that: I gave you all that I had from Britain.’

‘We’ve been thinking about that,’ said Petrin easily. ‘And we decided there is something you can do. Quite a lot, in fact. We want you to go to England and get all the stuff we’re missing. You can do that for us, can’t you, Emil?’

Krogh stared along the park bench, his mouth hanging open, unable to form any coherent thought. When he spoke it was weakly, like a sick man still not recovered from his illness. ‘No!’ he said, a mixture of fear and incredulity in his voice. ‘No, I can’t do that! That’s stupid! Impossible.’

‘No it isn’t,’ soothed Petrin. ‘We’ve worked it all out: decided exactly how it will be done. You’re a trained draughtsman, so you can understand drawings. And you can reproduce them. You’re the chairman of the major manufacturing company here, in America. So you’ve every right to ask to see whatever is being done in England. And you’ve got the highest security clearance, so there can’t be any difficulty with access. It’s really childishly simple. Perfect.’

‘No,’ said Krogh, a man backing away. ‘Please, no.’

‘There’s no other way,’ insisted Petrin.

‘I won’t do it!’ said Krogh in a pitiful attempt at belated bravery. ‘I’ve finished! Done all I’m going to do! Finished!’

‘Let’s not get into a dispute,’ sighed Petrin.

‘Go to hell.’

‘You can’t refuse, Emil. You know that.’

‘I don’t care about all you’ve got on the girls,’ lied Krogh.

Petrin sighed again. ‘You know something, Emil? I really don’t want to go back to Russia: to leave California, where you get days like this, when you feel good to be alive.’

‘What the hell are you talking about now?’

‘Got something else to show you,’ said Petrin, taking a wad of photographs from an outer pocket of his jacket. ‘Good selection, don’t you think?’

Krogh stared down, shuffling with shaking hands through the photographs of himself and Petrin at their various hand-over meetings in and around San Francisco. At every location there was at least one shot of Krogh clearly passing across a package, just like he had that morning. ‘What’s this?’ he said, groping for understanding.

‘What do you think it is?’

‘I know what it is: what they show. What’s the point you’re trying to make?’

‘Not trying, Emil. Making,’ stressed Petrin. ‘You really see what they show? These are photographs of one of America’s leading defence contractors, a man who made the cover of