Comrade Charlie (47 page)

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 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.