Comrade Charlie

determined prosecutor to present conclusively. What was left undone? The positive, linking connection to Blackstone, but that could be created easily enough, within twenty-four hours. Which left the apparent crime itself. Which in turn was dependent upon Emil Krogh. Surveillance, Berenkov thought, with a flood of relief. At the moment the British only appeared to be watching, not acting. He’d always planned to fill the supposed ‘dead letter’ drop in King William Street before triggering the arrest but in further realization Berenkov accepted that did not necessarily need to be the sequence. Providing he knew the moment any move was made against Charlie Muffin – which meant continuing their own observation, despite the concern that Losev had passed on – he could do it quickly after.

Berenkov turned away from the ignored window, hurrying back to his desk, excited by the resolve. He had to think it through, to guarantee there were no pitfalls, but it seemed to be the perfect answer, the way for him to pick up the puppet strings again. The essential requirement was to decide how much time he would have, following any seizure of Charlie Muffin, to complete everything in King William Street. Which was dictated by the length of the British interrogation. Berenkov smiled in continuing satisfaction, because he had the perfect guide to that from his own arrest and questioning. A month, he remembered: almost an entire month of morning till night inquisition from Charlie Muffin, the man he intended, with exquisite irony, to place in precisely the same position. Not that he would need a month to complete everything, Berenkov estimated. Two days, perhaps: three at the most. For the first two or three days of his own detention they’d hardly come near him. They’d followed the classic interrogation technique, leaving him absolutely alone in a cell to let his imagination build up the fears and uncertainties and panic. He couldn’t rely upon whatever happened to Charlie Muffin being exactly the same as his own experience, of course. But it was more than enough for him to plan around.

What about Valeri Kalenin? It would be protocol to brief the man, now that everything was so close: certainly an act of friendship. But there could be dangers in his discussing it with the other man. Although Berenkov himself was completely satisfied he’d evolved a way to compensate for anything the British might do there was always the possibility that the more nervous Kalenin wouldn’t agree. He might even use the unexpected London activity as an excuse to cancel the entrapment altogether, irrespective of how advanced it already was. And Berenkov knew he could not ignore a direct order. Better – safer – that he wait. There was, after all, a perfectly reasonable explanation, if one were later demanded, for his saying nothing. There was no proof that the British moves concerned Charlie Muffin. He was simply taking precautions if it did: there could be no criticism or censure in that.

Berenkov spent more than an hour drafting and redrafting his detailed orders to London, the most insistent of which was that the Soviet watch upon the Bayswater hotel be maintained and not lifted. And that he be alerted the moment something – anything – occured involving Charlie Muffin, be it day or night.

Which necessarily meant his remaining permanently at the First Chief Directorate building, Berenkov accepted. After ensuring the dispatch of the London instructions Berenkov had a cot moved into his office.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Valentina when he telephoned to tell her he was not coming home.

‘Nothing yet,’ replied Berenkov. With his customary belief in himself he added: ‘But something will, soon now.’

Vitali Losev was in a foul mood, in no way alleviated by this being the last occasion he would have to deal with or even talk to a man he despised. It had started to rain after he left London and he didn’t have a topcoat. The weather worsened the further south he travelled and although he managed to dodge from cover to cover after getting off the train he was still soaked when he reached the Portsmouth bar he’d established as their meeting place, his trouser cuffs clinging wetly to his ankles, his jacket soggy on his shoulders.

Blackstone was already there. The man smiled up hopefully when Losev entered and said, unwisely: ‘Rotten day?’

Losev didn’t bother to answer. Instead he slid an envelope along the bar top and said: ‘Here it is: the retainer.’

‘How much is it?’ demanded Blackstone. His tongue edged out, wetting his lips, as if he were tasting something.

‘Two hundred,’ said Losev.

‘You’re not wasting your money, believe me,’ said Blackstone, thrusting the envelope into his pocket. ‘I still need to know the recognition procedure for this new man, Visitor.’

Losev smiled. ‘He knows you.’

‘Knows me!’

‘Why do you think no action was taken against you after the interview with that British security man?’

‘Him!’ exclaimed Blackstone, incredulous.

‘What better way to protect ourselves?’ said Losev. ‘He’s been on our side for years.’

Fifteen of the notes in the envelope in Blackstone’s pocket were numbered consecutively with the money that had been secreted in Charlie Muffin’s flat.

41

Charlie failed: despite all Natalia’s patience and coaxing tonight nothing happened, would happen, not like it finally had when the problem occurred before. Charlie said Oh Christ and he was sorry and Natalia kissed him and told him not to be silly, that it didn’t matter and who said it had to work every time.

‘I did,’ insisted Charlie, making a weak effort to ease his embarrassment.

‘Chauvinist pig!’ she accused, trying to help him here, too.

‘It won’t be like this again.’

‘It will and it won’t matter then, either.’

Charlie gestured around the bedroom and said: ‘I’m not making excuses but this has all been a bit unreal, hasn’t it?’

‘Completely,’ Natalia agreed at once. ‘Unreal and wonderful.’

‘I’ve worried, at the risks you’ve had to take.’

Natalia kissed him again, on the cheek, and said: ‘I’ve been lucky. And careful. And prepared.’

‘How prepared?’

‘Like you told me, the simpler the better. If there’d ever been a challenge I’d have said I’d changed my mind and decided to go to the bar for a final drink. But I haven’t had to.’

He had to tell her tonight, remembered Charlie. He said: ‘And now you won’t.’

‘What?’ she frowned at him.

‘I’m checking out tomorrow.’

‘But I…oh…’

‘I’ve got to, haven’t I?’ urged Charlie. ‘You just can’t run, without some planning in advance.’

‘Of course,’ accepted Natalia at once. ‘I just hadn’t thought.’ Or wanted to, she acknowledged, to herself. She felt safe, cocooned, in this bedroom: locked away where no one could get to them, hurt them. And more. His moving out, to make positive arrangements, finally committed her. And while she wanted to cross and was determined to cross she was still frightened. Frightened of being intercepted at the last minute and frightened of the unknowns of trying to live a new life in an environment and a country where she was a stranger and frightened of things she couldn’t even conceive but feared would be ahead of her, lurking in dark corners.

‘You don’t sound sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure: you know that…’ Natalia trailed off. Then she said, hopefully. ‘Can’t you imagine how I feel?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlie.

‘What must I do?’ she asked quietly.

‘Do you know the rest of your itinerary?’

‘Farnborough, for the remainder of the trade days. The afternoon of the last but one day here in London, for