Comrade Charlie

had to have happened to him! He was lying hurt, injured somewhere! The guess brought a surge of anxiety, then conflicting emotions. Her eyes filmed at the idea of his being hurt and then she realized that if he were physically prevented from getting to her none of it was going to work because there was no one else who could come for her. Natalia had to keep her lips tight, biting them closed with her teeth, to prevent the whimper of despair. Don’t let it happen like this, she thought; don’t let everything collapse and fail like this! It couldn’t! It wasn’t fair. Everything was going to be so good, so perfect. She was going to be happy and it seemed such a long time since she’d been happy. Minutes, she calculated: she couldn’t stay any longer than minutes. Why hadn’t he come? Why! Why! Why!

The Director General had been right, accepted Charlie. Natalia would have known she’d have to go through a debriefing procedure: that her acceptance would have been impossible without it. So what reason had there been for her announcing that she wouldn’t cooperate? It didn’t make sense. I’ll learn, he remembered again. And then he thought further, to other things she’d said that night: to her insistence – near shouted insistence – that he remain in the service. You’ve got to find a way, she’d said. And more, when he’d argued against her. I won’t cross. Was that the true meaning of her saying that she’d learn? That she wanted him to stay on in the hope of picking up, over the weeks and months, as much as she could about the department and its ongoing operations? Possible, Charlie decided: extremely possible. Certainly, for Soviet intelligence and the grand-gestured Berenkov, worth the attempt to link him with Natalia again.

She could defect, Natalia realized suddenly. Properly defect, like other people had before her. Let herself be sucked into the system of debriefing and interrogation that she’d told Charlie she wouldn’t do. But bargain, in return, demand to know what had happened to him and to be allowed to see him, to be with him again. She started to tremble and had to hold herself again. It had taken every ounce of courage she could find to get this far: she didn’t think she could do any more, endure the suspicion and hostility there would be, until she got back to Charlie. And she wasn’t a defector, Natalia told herself: couldn’t be. Defectors were traitors, people who hated their country, and she wasn’t that. And there was another bar, one she’d stopped herself so far considering. What if Charlie had changed his mind: decided from their brief time at the hotel that Moscow had been a mistake and that he couldn’t go on with the charade? He hadn’t been able to make love to her that last night, had he? Hadn’t wanted to. She’d only defect properly if she were guaranteed to see him again. And there was no way she could get that guarantee: no way she could know – really know – that he wanted her.

I’ll learn echoed in Charlie’s mind again, like a mocking taunt. There was something else she could learn, by being there today. Charlie knew the Russians had seen his arrest: one of the vehicles he’d identified from its registration number had been parked further along the street, nearer the Bayswater Road, when it all happened. But they’d like to know what happened afterwards; get some idea whether their entrapment had been completely successful or whether it had failed – as it had failed – for some reason they had been unable to anticipate. His approaching Natalia would tell them that. All it needed was for there to be some continuing observation of Natalia, the knowing bait – observation that could be a long way off even and be impossible for him to isolate this time – and they’d know. It could be the simplest but surest indicator they could possibly have, the entire reason for her being there. Their absolute, final insurance.

He couldn’t watch any longer, Charlie decided. Didn’t want to watch any longer. There were too many incongruities, too much that didn’t have a logical, acceptable explanation. He’d gone along with it like he’d run hare to the Soviet surveillance, always suspecting Natalia to be part of it but hoping she wasn’t, letting himself be deluded for a while because he’d wanted to be deluded. Which hadn’t been hard because their nights at the hotel had been perfect and it had seemed that she did love him. But he couldn’t allow the delusion to continue any longer. It had to end. Now. All over. Charlie’s last sight of Natalia Nikandrova Fedova was of her standing with her arms across her body, as if she were cold. He turned, walking across the store, towards a far exit.

Charlie wasn’t going to come, Natalia finally accepted. She’d waited long enough – too long – and now she had to hurry to get back to the others, to protect herself. That was all that mattered now, just protecting herself. She’d have to concoct some story of becoming bewildered, lost: of being glad that she’d found them at last. Bondarev would probably be suspicious but she would have come back so that’s all he could be, just suspicious. It was difficult for her to care – properly to care – anyway, Natalia thought, hurriedly re-entering the store. Why hadn’t Charlie come! She’d never know, Natalia realized: never be able to find out. She’d been so sure, too. So very sure that Charlie had loved her.

Berenkov panicked now.

Blind panic initially, his mind refusing to function which had never happened before, not even in England when he’d realized his arrest had been inevitable. He’d refused at first to believe the Technical Division report that the film was fogged and insisted on crossing to the department himself to be shown it under darkroom conditions, ordering that they try to develop some prints off it before at last conceding it was useless. It was then that Berenkov started to think, forcing himself to calculate and consider because it was important that he understand. Yevgennie Zazulin was a professional, an expert and none of the other films had been spoiled, and Berenkov’s first demand was to know if the damage were accidental or whether the diplomatic bag had been tampered with. The technical experts showed him the slight distortion of the cassette and judged it sufficient to have admitted the erasing light. They also reminded Berenkov of the destruct device which prevented the unauthorized entry into the diplomatic bag and assured him the seal had been intact when it arrived.

Back in his office Berenkov had consciously to force himself to think rationally and not let the fears jumble his reasoning. The one drawing that mattered! The only one for which there was not a drawn or photographic duplicate! Yuri Guzins’ responsibility, Berenkov thought bitterly: it had been the space scientist’s decision to withhold it. Would it not have been so disastrous in every other way he’d have hoped the interfering bastard be put on trial and jailed for a hundred years, without any possibility of getting out. Stupid reflection, recognized Berenkov, self-critical. He had to survive: escape censure. And there would be censure – more than likely dismissal and the punishable accusation of unprofessional negligence – if it were ever discovered, suspected even, that he’d seeded a trap in a minor, personally motivated operation with the one drawing they were missing.

There was still a chance, Berenkov decided frantically. He knew the safe custody facility in King William Street hadn’t yet been cleared by the investigating British, because of course he’d ordered the closest observation to tell him everything had succeeded against Charlie Muffin. Now that wasn’t important any more. The operation – the attack – upon Charlie Muffin had to be abandoned, forgotten if necessary. Only one thing was important now: recovering the drawing.

Berenkov sent his instructions, specifically entrusting Vitali Losev with the task of emptying the King William Street box, within two hours of learning that the film cassette was useless.

Losev went nervously. He knew there had been no formal protest yet to the Soviet embassy but it was impossible to assess how fast or in what direction the British investigation was proceeding. What he did know was that King William Street had been set up for the British to discover and that there was a very real risk of his walking into a trap of his own creation.

He was extremely careful approaching the security firm’s offices, scouring the street and overlooking buildings for the slightest indication of surveillance but not finding it. He entered at last and asked for the box, every moment expecting an authoritative challenge or an arresting hand upon his shoulder. It was as quick to empty the box as it had been earlier to fill it, a matter of seconds, and then he was outside again, still without any interception. Knowing it could still happen – that the British would most likely have waited for him to get something incriminating in his possession before moving at all – Losev remained twitchingly tense. He’d intended recrossing London by underground but when the time came he decided against it, wanting the security of being enclosed and alone rather than to be among a lot of other people. He hailed a taxi and asked for Notting Hill Gate, leaving himself with just a short walk into Kensington Palace Gardens and the embassy.

Losev travelled alert to every vehicle around them on the jammed London streets, only starting to relax when they came close to Hyde Park. He walked hurriedly into the diplomatic enclave after paying off the cab, letting the breath gush from him when he pushed closed the side door admitting him to the embassy and the protection of what was officially regarded as Russian territory, where his safety was guaranteed.

Throughout the visit to King William Street, the recovery of the drawing and his return across London, Losev had been constantly monitored by British intelligence officers.