Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (25 page)

It was a celebration and so there had been champagne – French because of Berenkov’s preference. Valentina was already slightly drunk, giggling too eagerly at things that weren’t really funny. Kalenin and Berenkov were tipsy too, laughing with her.

Berenkov raised his glass, spilling some wine as he did so and going through an exaggerated performance of mopping it up with his napkin before continuing. ‘A toast,’ he declared. ‘To General Valery Ivanovich Kalenin, a member of the Politburo of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.’

‘Not yet,’ said Kalenin.

‘Not long to wait,’ said Berenkov. ‘Only until tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin, suddenly sobered by the realization. ‘Only until tomorrow.’

30

It was quiet in the basement after the removal of Charlie Muffin and Walsingham’s wife. Billington sat in the concentrated pool of light, all the bombast and protest gone.

‘How long?’ demanded Wilson. The director was aware of how close they had come to making a mistake and the anger he felt towards himself was discernible in his voice.

Billington didn’t respond immediately, remaining with his head lolled forward against his chest.

‘I said, how long!’

The ambassador stirred and looked about him, like someone awakening from a deep sleep. He blinked at Wilson. ‘So very long,’ he said distantly.

‘I want to know precisely.’

‘Years,’ said Billington. He made an effort, straightening in his chair. ‘I didn’t want to,’ he said, his voice stronger. ‘Not ideological … nothing like that.’

‘Why then?’

‘Difficult now to remember what he even looked like, clearly. I’ve tried, really tried! Isn’t that ridiculous?’

‘Who?’ prompted Wilson. He was controlled now, cajoling, knowing that it would come out at Billington’s pace, with only the need to prompt occasionally.

‘Didn’t you ever have a special friend, when you were at school? Get drawn to a particular person?’

‘No.’ The story was sadly familiar.

‘It wasn’t serious … I mean, I didn’t continue it. Not like that at all: it’s just something that happens. Part of growing up.’

Wilson made a note to check if the other man had succumbed to similar pressure.

‘How long after you left university?’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘Several years,’ said Billington. ‘I was Third Secretary in Washington. I’d passed everything by then: knew it was all going to be wonder-ful. Everything was going to be wonderful. Engaged to Norah: the wedding was already planned … royalty came, you know.…’

‘What happened in Washington?’ said Wilson.

‘He was a polite man. Good English. At first I thought he was an American from the State Department. Approached me at a reception and began talking about Oxford. Said he’d been there. Rang me afterwards and suggested lunch, and so we met. And then he showed me a picture.…’ He looked up at the intelligence chief, his eyes flooded. ‘I didn’t know it had been taken. There’d been a Finals party, with a lot to drink. We were saying goodbye to each other; isn’t that ironic! That was when it ended. The last time.’

‘What did he say, this man in Washington?’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘He talked of my career and the marriage. Said how quickly it would all be over, if there were any exposure. Didn’t ask for much; he could have got it from a reference book, in the library, if he’d waited for the annual list. Just the details of the trade figures. Not even classified.’

‘You gave them to him?’

Billington nodded. ‘The next time it was for something a little more important, some papers on a warplane the Americans were thinking of buying from us. And then details of the aircraft itself, because it had just been shown at Farnborough and was new, some of the equipment still secret.’

‘Didn’t you protest?’

‘Of course,’ said Billington. ‘And then they showed me more pictures. Not of Oxford this time. In Washington, with me meeting the man who’d first approached me, exchanging the first package. He’d gone back to Moscow by then. A known Russian agent, they said: how would that look, with the other photograph?’

‘So you went on handing over things that were more and more important?’ said Wilson.

‘But I had to, don’t you see! If I hadn’t I’d have been disgraced … the family would have been disgraced. We’ve got one of the finest names in the diplomatic service!’

With a sense of rising disgust, Wilson wondered how long it had taken Billington to lobotomize himself against the guilt. ‘What about the assassinations?’ he said.

‘I didn’t want that,’ said Billington urgently. ‘I warned them of the danger.…’ He hesitated at the sudden stiffness in the director’s face. Haltingly he added, ‘I was told it was a policy decision: that I had to do it.’

‘How many did you identify?’ Wilson had to guard against the possibility that the Russians had suspended the killings, when they realized Rome had been uncovered, intending to resume them later.

‘Three,’ said Billington. ‘New Delhi, Ankara and Bangkok.’

The recollections came abruptly, frigid pictures of calm-faced men with their chests torn apart. ‘What about the robbery?’ Wilson said.

‘Had to do somuch,’ said Billington petulantly. ‘Not just the alarms and the combinations. Had to threaten with-drawal of the policy from Willoughby, unless the check was made. By then they’d discovered what the man Muffin did for him: claimed his involvement would create added con-fusion. They were very excited when it worked. Said the coincidence of his being in America at the same time as Walsingham made it perfect.’

‘Who told them about Walsingham?’

‘I didn’t want to,’ said Billington defensively. ‘They knew about the business in Australia: insisted it was ideal when I found it wasn’t on his record.’

‘Haven’t we heard enough?’ said Naire-Hamilton, as disgusted as the director. ‘Others can take over.’

Before Wilson could reply, the ambassador continued, ‘You will help me, won’t you? Now that you know I didn’t have any choice. I’ll resign, of course. But I don’t want a scandal. There’s the family to think of. Norah, too.’

‘I know just how I’m going to treat you,’ promised Wilson. ‘It will be brilliant if it works,’ said the Permanent Under Secretary.

‘I’m going to make it work,’ said Wilson vehemently. ‘It isn’t possible to recover the situation but I want to undo as much of the damage as I can.’

‘I’m sorry I tried to hurry things,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘We got it right in the end, thank God.’

Naire-Hamilton laughed, the relief obvious. ‘Such stupid mistakes, weren’t they? Why the hell provide a positive date for America, for God’s sake? If it hadn’t been for that, we wouldn’t have listened to anything else the damned man had to say.’

‘It’s always the small things,’ said Wilson. He paused. ‘And the ability to spot them.’

Reminded of Charlie Muffin, Naire-Hamilton looked toward the closed door of the box-room cell, with two men on guard outside. ‘Brilliant idea if it works,’ he said again.

Charlie was using the bucket when Wilson came into the room. He turned his back, hurriedly zipping his fly. ‘Sorry,’ he said and was then unsure what he’d apologized for.

‘If it hadn’t been for the disparity of the meeting time, he’d have got away with it,’ said the director.

‘It should have occurred to me before,’ said Charlie. ‘It would have, once.’

‘We were lucky with the tape,’ conceded the director. ‘It wouldn’t have meant much without it.’

Charlie realized it was automatic to remain standing respectfully in Wilson’s presence. So much like Sir Archibald Willoughby, he thought. One reflection prompted another. What would happen to Rupert and Clarissa? It was inevit-able, he supposed, but he still regretted being the cause of their collapse.

‘Did Billington break?’

Wilson nodded. ‘Full confession,’ he said.

‘There usually is,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s the relief.’ Now they’d got what they wanted from Billington, there was no reason why they should keep the undertaking. He had no way to make them: in their position he’d have made the same promise without any intention of keeping it.

‘I’m going to turn him,’ disclosed Wilson. ‘I’m going to have him kept here as ambassador and I’m going to watch his every move and I’m going to feed Moscow everything I want.’

Charlie nodded approvingly. ‘For that to work, they’ll need to be convinced the disinformation was successful.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Wilson. ‘They’ve no reason to doubt it.’

‘It’ll need something more,’ insisted Charlie. ‘Something public’

‘A scapegoat,’ said Wilson at once. ‘But I’ve got one, haven’t I, Charlie?’

The occasion demanded medals should be worn, and, as he walked towards the assembled Politburo, Kalenin heard them clinking together. The reception was taking place in the larger, official room, with the enormous portraits of Lenin between the furled Soviet flags. Because it was the only ceremony of the day, the other twelve members were freshly pressed and formal, with none of the casualness of the encounters in the smaller committee room.

‘It’s time for congratulations,’ announced the First Secretary when Kalenin came to a halt before him.

Kalenin bowed his head in a curt greeting but did not respond.

‘The operation has been a complete and overwhelming success,’ said Zemskov. ‘On behalf of the Politburo, I formally thank you.’

‘I did my duty,’ said Kalenin. He wanted the record to show modesty.

‘There has been discussion before your arrival,’ said Zemskov, making the announcement properly formal. ‘It delights me, Comrade General, to declare that, in accordance with the power vested in it between conferences of the Supreme Soviet, the Politburo has today unanimously elected you to serve with it, as a replacement for Comrade Kastanazy.’

The First Secretary thrust out his hand. Kalenin took it and then bent forward for the obligatory kiss on either cheek. The formality eased. There was more handshaking and kissing and then attendants appeared with vodka and champagne.

Zemskov held his glass towards the KGB chief. ‘There is someone else who should rightly be here with us, sharing this celebration,’ he said.

‘There has been a message from Rome,’ said Kalenin. ‘He’s operating normally again.’

Epilogue

‘… Charles Edward Muffin, the charges against you are that being a servant of Her Majesty’s government and a signatory to the Official Secrets Act, you did on divers dates.…’

Charlie stood with his hands lightly against the dock rail, only half concentrating upon the drone. He moved his toes in the luxury of expanded suede: they’d allowed him his own clothes for the hearing and for the first time in a week his feet were free from those bloody prison-issue boots.

‘… apply once more for a formal remand for seven days,’ a man in a white wig and black gown was saying, ‘… at such time the Crown would hope to be in a position to propose a date for the full proceedings to begin.…’

It was an in-camera hearing, the number of people in court limited. Sir Alistair Wilson was directly behind the prosecuting counsel. There hadn’t been any contact in prison, since the return from Italy, and Charlie expected some indication now, but the intelligence director didn’t turn towards the dock. When the hell were they going to let him know? He’d survived, thought Charlie. But for what?

A Biography of Brian Freemantle

Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.

Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the
Daily Mail
, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city’s orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.

Although he began writing espionage fiction in the late 1960s, he first won fame in 1977, with
Charlie M
. That book introduced the world to Charlie Muffin—a disheveled spy with a skill set more bureaucratic than Bond-like. The novel, which drew favorable comparisons to the work of John Le Carré, was a hit, and Freemantle began writing sequels. The sixth in the series,
The Blind Run
, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. To date, Freemantle has penned fourteen titles in the Charlie Muffin series, the most recent of which is
Red Star Rising
(2010), which brought back the popular spy after a nine-year absence.

In addition to the stories of Charlie Muffin, Freemantle has written more than two dozen standalone novels, many of them under pseudonyms including Jonathan Evans and Andrea Hart. Freemantle’s other series include two books about Sebastian Holmes, an illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the four Cowley and Danilov books, which were written in the years after the end of the Cold War and follow an odd pair of detectives—an FBI operative and the head of Russia’s organized crime bureau.

Freemantle lives and works in London, England.