Comrade Charlie

change when his position was confirmed. The riffraff, one in particular, was going to be weeded out and dispensed with: Harkness was impatient with the continuing delay.

3

Charlie Muffin was aware he had to tread warily, which with his feet he always did anyway. The more he thought about it the more he came to believe the hundred quid he’d spent risking food poisoning with Laura Nolan was money well spent in the war with Harkness. I think he’s trying to make life so unpleasant that you’ll quit. An all-important disclosure because Laura was around the pompous old fart all the time, picking up the inner feelings, overhearing all the chance remarks. Charlie hadn’t realized Harkness’ campaign was as positive as that. At worst he’d believed the bloody man was showing off, during a brief opportunity of power: that all he had to do was keep his head down, shovel the shit without complaint and await the return of Sir Alistair Wilson. But with more time to think about it Charlie recognized that the dispute over the Records access could be viewed two ways, not confined to the simple view he’d first taken. Sure the continued restriction could be interpreted as indicating that Sir Alistair would be coming back. But the immediate challenge from Harkness, a form-filling bureaucrat piss-pants scared of challenging anything, could equally indicate the Director General was never returning, which made Harkness confident enough to launch the purge he’d had wet dreams about for so long.

The Director General’s summons light was blinking demandingly when Charlie got to Westminster Bridge Road and what he regarded as a box but which government requisition documents described as office space, single occupancy for the use of, Grade III desk, chair, two highest security filing cabinets and polyester carpet square, two foot by two foot. Avocado was the official colour description: Charlie thought it closer to puke green.

With a new resolve not to provide Harkness with any gratuitous ammunition, Charlie went straight up to the ninth floor. The lift opened on to a sealedoff, protected area where he had to identify himself, although he knew the security guards by their christian names as they knew him by his. Beyond the check were carpets soft under soundless if awkward feet, the richly dark panelling, interspersed with original oil portraits of frock-coated or uniformed men in wigs, reassuringly old. Men may come and men may go but the British Establishment lasts for ever, thought Charlie. He wondered if there would ever be a formal picture of Richard St John Harkness staring down reprovingly. Some of the far-away looking men Charlie was passing were captured against globes of the world or with navigational compasses in their hands, tools of their trade. Charlie supposed that if Harkness were ever painted he’d be shown with an expenses sheet in one hand and an erasing pen in the other.

Laura was waiting at the door of the outer office, her pretty face twisted with concern. She said: ‘Remember what I said about showing respect!’

‘Engraved on my heart,’ said Charlie. ‘How’s Paul?’

‘This isn’t the time or the place to talk about Paul,’ refused the girl cursorily. Denying herself at once she said: ‘As a matter of fact he’s red raw with prickly heat.’

‘Sure it’s prickly heat?’ said Charlie. ‘You can catch some terrible things from toilet seats in South America.’

‘I don’t need to worry,’ said Laura enigmatically.

Richard Harkness, who’d moved into the Director General’s office on the same day that Wilson suffered his heart attack, was sitting personally immaculate behind an impeccably clean desk that unfortunately appeared too big for him. He was pink-faced, grey hair fantailed over his ears, and faultlessly tailored in a foppish kind of a way, the black suit broad chalkstriped and the pastel yellow shirt set off against a matching yellow tie and pocket handkerchief. Charlie couldn’t see because the man’s feet were hidden beneath the desk, but he guessed the socks would be some sort of coordinated yellow: Harkness tried hard to finish everything off.

There were no chairs conveniently near to the desk, which meant Charlie had to stand: Prick, he thought, smiling towards the man. Harkness looked back blank-faced.

‘You’ve no outstanding assignment, have you?’ Harkness asked expectantly.

‘Holding myself in readiness,’ said Charlie. He believed the cocky, Jack-the-lad routine got up Harkness’ nose, which was why he did it.

‘There’s a request from the Other Place,’ announced Harkness, using the inter-departmental jargon for MI5, Britain’s counter-intelligence service. ‘They’ve got a bit of a staff shortage and have asked for some temporary secondment for embassy observation.’

Which was roughly equivalent to parking meter warden or leaf sweeper in public parks, Charlie assessed: freezing your ass off in a supposed secure house overlooking communist embassies, monitoring and photographing the comings and goings of one day and comparing them to the comings and goings of the previous day. Spot-the- Spy, the latest quiz game the entire family can play, brought to you courtesy of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. He said: ‘Sorry to hear that: must be a problem for them.’

‘I’m transferring you, until further notice,’ announced Harkness with self-satisfied contentment.

No you’re not, asshole, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Oh dear!’

‘Is there a problem?’ asked Harkness, smiling at last at his own personal joke.

‘I hope not,’ said Charlie. ‘You can call upon other people, can’t you?’

Cold silence came down upon the room. Harkness did not speak for several moments and Charlie was unsure whether there was a nervous tug pulling at the corner of the man’s left eye. Harkness said: ‘ Other people?’

‘Well, I can’t go across, can I?’ said Charlie. ‘These new Orders of Conduct you’ve issued: they specifically state that all active operatives attend assessment courses every six months. I’ve got my instructions to go at the end of the week. Sorry about that.’

Laura Nolan looked up, smiling hopefully, when Charlie emerged. ‘What happened?’ she said.

‘The dick-head tripped over his own red tape,’ reported Charlie.

The girl frowned. ‘You did show him the proper respect, didn’t you?’

Charlie snapped his fingers, an exaggerated gesture. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘I knew there was something!’

4

Emil Krogh came awake first and was glad because it gave him time to compose himself, get some life into his face and pull the lines up. Not that it was a real problem. Kept himself in shape in the exercise room at home and the lift-and-tuck job he’d had before he met Cindy had worked just fine, taken off ten years at least. Like the moderate but discreetly maintained tinting, allowing just the right amount of mature greying at the temples but literally not a hair’s breadth more; if a President could do it, why couldn’t he? No, it wasn’t the waking moment Krogh was uneasy about; it was the sleeping ones. And something Peggy, who knew about the face-lift, had said about five months earlier: Almost time for another one, honey: asleep your face drops in those old relax lines and we don’t want that, do we? Not that his wife really cared what he looked like. All she cared about was the kids and baby-minding the grandchildren, which was fine by Krogh because of the time and freedom it gave him in addition to what he manipulated for himself, which was a lot. But he was grateful for the warning. Which was why he was glad he’d awakened first. Goddamn miracle that he had, after what he and Cindy had done last night; he should feel exhausted but he didn’t. Felt fine. Another, perhaps the best, indication that he was in great shape.

There was only a sheet covering them and that hardly at all, and Krogh eased it further away, better to see Cindy’s nakedness. Christ, what a body! Tight and firm, not the slightest droop to those fantastic tits even lying like she was, the powder puff between her legs turned towards him, like the invitation he was definitely going to accept. Krogh wondered if he could get out of bed without disturbing her, to clean his teeth: he knew he was dragon-