Comrade Charlie

blamed.

And there had, in addition, been the other, private success. From the messages from London the previous day Berenkov knew Charlie Muffin was now behind bars somewhere, facing the inevitability of many more years in precisely that situation. The Russian wondered if the British had started the questioning yet, giving the man the clue to how it had all been manipulated.

Berenkov stirred at last, satisfied that he had worked everything out to its proper conclusion and in its proper order of importance. There only remained one thing to complete, to make himself absolutely secure. It only took him minutes to compose the cable, ordering that the retained cassette be included in that night’s diplomatic shipment from London.

Which it was.

Losev, who was still working out his reaction to the Kensington arrests, had anticipated it anyway and had the spool ready. The diplomatic bag reached London airport with two hours to spare before the Moscow-bound flight and was receipted and guaranteed its protection under the Vienna convention by the senior Customs controller on duty.

It was placed in the Customs safe to await final loading and removed from it – without Customs awareness – within fifteen minutes by Special Branch technicians who peeled off the diplomatic seal in such a way that it could be undetectably relocked. When they opened the bag itself they used magnets to hold back the device they detected by X-ray, which was intended to destruct upon unauthorized entry. They took the film cassette they found inside to the Special Branch photographic facility permanently maintained at the airport. There – in protective darkroom conditions – it was viewed in negative, which showed the sort of drawing for which they were looking, although not at that stage precisely which drawing. Following the detailed instruction from the Director General, prints were made from every frame. The negative roll was then fogged sufficiently badly to prevent any further prints being made from that part necessarily developed – and to prevent that development being detected by the Russians – and then rewound into its original casing which was pressured to distort slightly. Finally it was replaced in the diplomatic bag, and the bag resealed.

Two hours later, at Westminster Bridge Road, Wilson looked up from the prints at Charlie and said: ‘You incredibly lucky bugger!’

‘About time,’ said Charlie.

46

Natalia was there.

And conducting herself well, properly, not standing on the pavement edge, looking around hopefully in a way that might have attracted attention but back against the entry to a shop and gazing in as if she were window shopping, someone with plenty of time to spare. Charlie was actually inside the opposite store, on the first floor from the overlooking window of which he could gaze down and see everything, as he needed to see everything. He thought she was alone: certainly there was no one in close proximity, a watcher or a guard. The emotion, his feeling for her, lumped inside him, a positive physical sensation. So she’d done it. She’d come. Was waiting. Waiting for him. I’ll be ready. His promise to her, Charlie remembered, the night they’d made their final plans. These plans. So was he? Was he going to keep the promise and go and get her and run with her? Charlie swayed – the start of a movement – but then didn’t move, remaining where he was, watching. Why had she had to turn up at all! Why hadn’t she just stayed away, so that he would have known at once that she’d been part of it, instead of this: being there so that he stayed confused. Didn’t know.

Maybe she should be waiting around the corner, in the main road and not in the side street directly opposite the store, Natalia thought abruptly. She’d expected Charlie to be there, prepared, so that there wouldn’t be any delay like this. That had to be it! Around the corner in the main road. She moved, casually, which was very difficult for her because she was so frightened she felt lightheaded, nerves so taut her skin itched. What she really wanted to do was run the few yards to the junction and yell for him, shout out his name to make him come to her and get her away. Natalia reached the main road and started down it, pretending to study the windows again but desperately seeking him, aching for him to emerge from some doorway, some car. Where was he! Dear God, where was he?

Was her moving a signal to someone, someone he hadn’t spotted? Still using her cover well, judged Charlie: surprisingly expert. I wasn’t trained as a field agent, like you. That’s what she’d told him, that last night. All right, her movements weren’t perfect – weren’t how he or a professional with years of experience knew how virtually to disappear on a crowded street – but she was still very good. So had she been trained? Brought up to a minimum standard at least, for this operation? And it had to be an operation. Something. What else could it be? Professional, Charlie decided: he had to be brutally, clinically professional, subjugate every feeling for her and examine everything that had happened, from the very beginning. And the very beginning had been her transfer, from a specific, highly skilled position to a nebulous, untitled role that exposed her to the West. Not just exposed her, Charlie reasoned on. Publicly exposed her because every trip she’d made out of Russia had been reported, with photographs. Wrong, determined Charlie, forcing that brutal, clinical judgement. Wrong like Sir Alistair Wilson had again insisted it was before giving him permission at last to leave Westminster Bridge Road and done it sadly and said goodbye, an unspoken reminder that if she were there and she did cross then the department would be closed to him, for ever. Not just wrong, by their assessment, either. Surely Natalia – Natalia who had been vague and casual when he’d tried to talk about it with her – knew that no service switched people around like she’d been switched around. She hadn’t been assigned to one particular ministry, even: the only essential appeared to have been a delegation, any delegation, crossing to the West. Another incongruity: like so many others.

Where was he! thought Natalia again, desperation worsening. She turned, walking back towards the store, jostled and pushed by oncoming people but hardly aware of them. Charlie wasn’t like this: couldn’t be like this. He’d know what it would be like, how dangerous it was. In the end there had only been eight of them who’d wanted to come and Bondarev had appointed himself the escort as well as an embassy official, and she’d been away from the shopping party for five minutes at least. There’d be the search for her soon, curious at first but then the panic, the alarm. Charlie had said he would look after her always. So why wasn’t he looking after her now! She thought: Please Charlie! Please Charlie, where are you?

The hotel had been the most incongruous of all, Charlie reasoned. How could Natalia have moved around so easily and so freely, unless she’d been permitted to do so? He knew from the barman how the KGB watchers had monitored and herded up the late-night drinkers not in their rooms. Natalia had told him herself of Bondarev’s diligence. And her supposed explanation for being discovered coming to him didn’t withstand examination. Those same KGB escorts would have known she scarcely drank because it would have been in her personal records, so it would have been something at once to arouse their suspicion. I’ve been lucky. Charlie found it easy to remember that remark: the tone of voice in which Natalia had made it. Luck hadn’t come into it, he knew sadly. He could remember everything about that last night. He recalled her hesitation when he’d announced he was booking out. I’ll learn, she said. Learn what? Was there a pointer in another, earlier conversation, the discussion about his being in Moscow? Had she come across to get to him and discover what he’d really been doing there? It was a possibility. No service liked an unclosed file. And according to Natalia’s own admission, Berenkov was still head of the First Chief Directorate, with the power to have orchestrated everything just to find out.

Natalia reached the corner again and turned into the side street to the shop windows she’d first pretended to study. Her stomach was in turmoil and briefly she folded her arms across herself, so that she could scratch the irritation on her arms. He loved her! She knew he loved her, like she loved him! It had been unreal – like some absurd dream – at the hotel but it had been wonderful and she was sure it could have been even more wonderful when they were together somewhere safe, just by themselves. So why hadn’t he come! He wasn’t cruel: not a bastard. He wouldn’t have tricked her – deceived her – like this. It was inconceivable. What would have been the point? There wasn’t one. So it had to be inconceivable. Then where was he? Something