Comrade Charlie

hunched forward on the chair, thinking how easy it had all been. His hands weren’t moving as much as they had been, earlier: not really a discernible shake any more. Just the vaguest movement of uncertainty.

Krogh tried another protest, remaining unnecessarily in his suite until three thirty, which put him downstairs in the lobby five minutes late. Petrin was waiting in the smaller of the two drawing rooms, to the right of the doors, actually looking at a copy of Country Life as if he were studiously reading the magazine. As he usually did, Petrin appeared quite relaxed and at ease. The man didn’t look up until Krogh was quite close. When he did so at last he smiled and stood and quite illogically extended his hand, as if they were friends meeting after a long period. Instinctively Krogh responded to the offered handshake, wishing too late to stop that he hadn’t. He was aware of the Russian studying him and waited for the complaint about how rough he looked but Petrin said nothing about his appearance. He didn’t seem aware of the lateness, either.

‘You call the factory?’

‘Of course.’

‘Everything OK?’

‘That’re expecting me at eleven tomorrow.’

‘That’s good, Emil. I’m very pleased.’

Krogh remembered reading that dog owners got better performances from their animals by expressions of encouragement. Trying to sound dismissive, he said: ‘Shall we get on with it?’

Petrin smiled and defeated him, as he always did. The Russian said: ‘I like your enthusiasm.’

The Soviet safe house was just off Rutland Gardens, a comparatively small property among the imposing five- and six-storeyed Regency buildings which are no longer individual houses but split-up and divided apartment and sometimes office conversions, each occupied by anonymous and indifferent strangers content to remain anonymous and indifferent, which made the location ideal for the Russians’ unobserved use.

Virtually an entire room had been set aside for Krogh, although the equipment by no means filled it. Krogh’s impression was that the contents of a commercial or industrial drawing supplier’s showroom had been emptied, which was almost what had happened. There was a large, flat table bisecting the room across its centre and stacked with cartons of original drawing film and trace paper running from size A1 to A4. There were several containers of pencils and drawing pens, in varying colours. The large drawing board was a traditional design, with top and bottom rollers connecting a complete foldaway parallelogram drawing machine which was adjustable, to move either up or down or across a drawing. In front of the assembly was a swivelling drawing chair and there were two large, anglepoise lights and a more elaborate third illumination, with a series of manoeuvrable lamps attached to a bar from which lamps could be set and positioned to direct light in any particular direction or spot.

‘Well?’ asked Petrin. For once there was not the automatic confidence with which the man usually spoke.

‘It looks all right,’ said Krogh.

‘But is it enough!’ demanded Petrin. ‘Is there anything we haven’t got!’

‘It looks adequate. But I won’t really know until I see what I’ve got to draw.’

‘Was it Springley you talked with?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s he expect?’

‘We did not discuss anything on the telephone.’

‘String it out,’ ordered Petrin, confidently back in a position of command. ‘I’m not minimizing the difficulty of what you’re trying to do: it’s impossible to expect you to retain half, let alone all of it. So prepare him for your coming back.’

‘What if he baulks at that?’

‘Don’t let him: remember always that you are the major stakeholder in this thing. They’ll defer to you because they’ll think you’re their access to American defence orders worth a lot of money.’

‘It’s all thought out, isn’t it?’ said Krogh dully.

Petrin frowned at the remark. ‘Of course it is,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you expect it to be?’

The question touched a nerve. The problem, reflected Krogh, was that he didn’t know what to expect, about anything. He had the feeling of being lost in a completely alien environment, which he supposed he was. He said: ‘So this is where I have to work. What else?’

‘Nothing,’ said Petrin simply. ‘You go to the English factory, spend as much time there as you need, and then come back here and make the drawings we want.’

Krogh shook his head disbelievingly, laughing at the same time. ‘It doesn’t work like that; can’t work like that.’

Petrin sighed. ‘Then make it work your way!’ he said irritably. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: establish whatever work pattern you consider necessary. There is only one consideration: getting it all and getting it right.’

‘Will you travel with me?’

‘Do you want me to?’

Yes, thought Krogh at once. He hated and despised and loathed this man. Yet he wanted the reassurance of his presence, the knowledge that Petrin would be somewhere close at hand, ready if the need – whatever the need was – were to arise. He said; ‘I don’t know…I didn’t…’ and trailed away, feeling ridiculous.

‘Emil!’ said Petrin with stretched patience. ‘You came in overnight on flight one zero nine. The plane was fifteen minutes late. You occupied a first class seat, four B, on the aisle. The Hackney carriage licence number of the taxi that brought you in from the airport was eight zero eight nine two five…’ The Russian smiled. ‘… And when you go to the Isle of Wight tomorrow you’ll be just as thoroughly protected.’

‘But are you coming?’ insisted Krogh.

There had been long psychological training periods at the spy schools, particularly the academy on the Prospekt Mira, on how a suborned agent could become dependent upon his case officer, and Petrin isolated the indication immediately. Knowing that the reliance had to be made complete in the mind of the agent, Petrin repeated: ‘Do you want me to?’

‘Yes,’ conceded Krogh.

From that same spy school instruction Petrin realized that the man was completely his now, to be moulded and shaped entirely as he wanted, like a piece of modelling clay. He said: ‘Then I will. We won’t actually travel as companions but I’ll be with you all the time, like others will be. You’re not to worry, you understand?’

Once, recalled Krogh, a remark about not worrying had annoyed him and he’d shouted back and told the man not to be absurd. He didn’t shout back today. Instead he said: ‘All right. I know.’

‘Did you get any sleep at the hotel?’

‘No.’

‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Petrin. He took a phial from his pocket, offering it to the other man. ‘Here!’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘Just sleeping pills,’ said the Russian. ‘They’re quite mild, but from the man we had on board I know you didn’t sleep at all on the flight coming over and I guessed you’d need them.’

Krogh stared at the phial and thought of an Oakland motel room and visibly shuddered.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t think I want them,’ said Krogh. He felt his stomach move at the recollection.

‘You do, Emil. I want you to take them.’

Hesitantly the American took the offered bottle, realizing that accepting the pills wasn’t the same as taking them, which he was sure he couldn’t physically manage.

There was a movement to their left and a man appeared at a door to another room. The man said something in Russian, briefly, and even more briefly Petrin replied in Russian. The man withdrew at once.

‘Who was that?’ asked Krogh.

It had, in fact, been the KGB duty change for the constantly monitored telephone, which was installed in the adjoining room. Petrin said: ‘No one to concern you. There’ll probably be quite a few people around when you start working here.’