Comrade Charlie

27

It was three days after the failed suicide attempt – almost four taking the overnight flight into account – when Emil Krogh landed in London. He still felt ghastly. And looked it, too. His face was grey and even more sagged, his eyes rheumy and with an occasional apprehensive tic pulling at the right side of his face, near his mouth, so that he seemed to be smiling, but grotesquely. There was a tremble to his hands, as well: there was an almost permanent shake and at times a more profound jump, actually lifting his hands in small convulsions. Again it was his right side.

He didn’t sleep at all during the flight and arrived gravel-eyed and sour mouthed, a throbbing ache moving beyond his head to run down the back of his neck into his shoulders. Although his eyes were open and his body moving there kept being momentary breaks in his awareness of his surroundings, so that he kept twitching back in apprehension at finding himself in a place – like the immigration check and the Customs hall and outside the terminal building, seeking a taxi – without knowing how he got there.

He sat with his head back against the seat on the drive into London, oblivious and uncaring about the route or anything on it. At the hotel he went robot-like through the registration formalities: in his suite he jerked up, like a man awakening, unable to remember getting there from the downstairs lobby. He slumped into a chair in the sitting room, not bothering to unpack, drifting in and out of positive awareness, dreaming but not dreaming and never a proper dream at all. His mind was blocked by the squalor of the Oakland motel, and that was all he kept thinking of: the smell and the filth and how he’d scrabbled around on his hands and knees the following morning, trying to clean away the mess he’d caused and then to clean himself and after that sneaking out, still early, without being seen and then driving aimlessly around, trying to recover. Incredibly Peggy seemed to accept his explanation of some gastroenteritis bug and he’d stayed away from the plant that day and played out the charade with his concerned father-in-law that evening, insisting it was only a passing, twenty-four-hour thing and that there was no reason at all for him to cancel the trip to England.

And now he was here, Krogh realized, in a sudden, coherent moment. Here, like he’d been told to be: obedient and waiting for them to snap their fingers for him to do whatever they wanted done, like a dog performing tricks. He supposed that’s what he was: their performing animal, here boy, good dog, fetch boy, fetch.

Krogh’s right hand leapt high in fright at the sound of the telephone. He sat, transfixed by the strident sound but not responding to it for several moments. When he did, finally, he just lifted it from its cradle, not able to speak to identify himself.

‘Emil?’

Krogh still couldn’t make a proper response. He grunted, a guttural sound, and Petrin repeated: ‘Emil?’

‘Yes,’ said Krogh, at last. The word croaked out.

‘How was the flight?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Krogh stupidly.

‘You don’t know!’

‘All right, I guess.’

‘You tired?’

Krogh almost said again that he didn’t know, but stopped. He said: ‘Sort of.’

‘I thought you’d want to rest for a while. But now there are things to be done. You called the Isle of Wight factory yet?’

‘No.’

‘Things like that,’ said Petrin. ‘And I want you to look at what we’ve set up for you. Make sure you’ve got everything you want.’

Krogh grunted again.

‘Telephone the factory at three. Make an appointment for tomorrow: they’re expecting you so it’ll be convenient enough. But don’t tell them where you’re staying, unless they press. I don’t want them to have an address,’ ordered the Russian. ‘Be downstairs at three thirty. I’ll take you to where you’re going to work.’

Krogh gave a third grunt.

‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Petrin.

‘Nothing.’

‘You understood what I’ve said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Repeat it back to me.’

Krogh did and Petrin said: ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

Krogh stayed for several moments by the telephone but at last willed himself to move. He finally unpacked. Then he showered and shaved and felt marginally better, but only marginally. He was hungry and nauseous at the same time. Fleetingly he considered getting something on room service but discarded the idea. His suite overlooked the outer road. He stood at the window, gazing in the direction of the unseen Berkeley Square. Grosvenor Square was unseen, too, to his left, but still close, not more than three or four hundred yards. Krogh knew the American embassy was there: the American embassy where the CIA and the FBI would have station officers. You don’t know me but my name is Emil Krogh and I have leaked to the Soviets everything I so far know about the ultimate destruction weapon forming part of the Strategic Defence Initiative. I’d like you to kill me because I’ve tried to do it myself but I couldn’t do it right. I’m utterly inadequate, you see. He felt more hungry than sick and wished he’d ordered something. Too late now. Have to wait until tonight: maybe a steak then. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper, full meal: certainly a proper, full meal that he’d managed to keep down. Krogh went into the bathroom, where the lighting was better than the bedroom, and examined himself. The shower and shave had helped and he didn’t think he looked as bad as he had when he’d arrived that morning. Definitely the pallor was better, not so grey. His eyes were still awash, though, and not just wet but very red. Drops, if he’d had any with him, might have helped. Something else that was too late. Almost three, he thought. He tried to remember the name of the project chief at the factory and couldn’t, his mind an impenetrable blank. There was a stomach-opening panic and he scrambled through the letters and addresses in his briefcase, closing his eyes in the prayer-like hope that it was there, then suddenly came upon it. Springley: Robert Springley. Quite unusual. Stupid of him to have forgotten it. Couldn’t afford to forget anything in the coming days. Had to remember everything, difficult, technical detail, and make the drawings. Get rid of the bastards, once and for all.

Krogh gave a tiny cry of surprise, a sharp intake of breath, when the telephone sounded again. Nervously, as if the receiver were hot and he risked burning himself from contact with it, Krogh picked it up. Once more he didn’t say anything.

‘Emil?’

Krogh squeezed his eyes shut, another praying gesture, absurdly relieved to hear Petrin’s voice. Even more absurd, he wanted very much to have the man with him, looking after him, telling him what to do. ‘Yes?’

‘I didn’t want you to sleep on, if in fact you were asleep. It’s close to three.’

‘I was awake. I know what time it is.’

‘Good. Just wanted to make sure. I’ll be waiting downstairs.’

‘Is that where you are now?’

‘No. Make your call now, OK?’

The line went dead. Fetch boy, fetch, thought Krogh. Staging his own infantile protest he waited until a couple of minutes past three before dialling the number. He was connected at once to Robert Springley. The exchange was predictable: how was he, and thanks he was fine in return and it had been a pleasant enough flight and yes the English weather was a contrast with what he was used to in California and – lying – he didn’t feel too bad at the moment but he guessed the jet-lag would hit him any time now. Springley insisted he was looking forward very much to the meeting and thoughtfully dictated the train times from Waterloo station that would connect with a hydrofoil service from the mainland to get him to the Isle of Wight by eleven the following morning, if that weren’t too early. Krogh assured the Englishman the schedule was convenient, replaced the telephone and