Comrade Charlie (29 page)

There was a long pause between them, Losev waiting contemptuously. At last, desperately, Blackstone said: ‘You haven't heard anything yet then?'

‘Not yet,' said Losev. ‘Soon, I hope.'

30

It was a hotel clinging by its fingertips to the middle range of the package-tour market, reconciled to the number of couples named Smith who booked in for one night and left earlier in the morning, and wary of a health inspection swoop on the kitchens because you couldn't keep cockroaches completely from hotel kitchens, could you?

The foyer was a brave attempt at something it was not. There was an imitation marble floor of yellowy amber and the motif was continued with two imitation marble pillars in a matching colour. At various strategic points there were tall plants with large leaves which went well with the marble effect and just got away with conveying an interior garden atmosphere. The reception area was quite small and to the right of the double-fronted glass doors: behind the reception clerk all the rooms were itemized by open cubbyholes into which the keys fitted with their number tags hanging down, to show whether they were occupied or not, and which Charlie marked right away as a burglar's dream. There was a sitting area to the left, a couch and a set of chairs with ornately carved legs and arms and with upholstery featuring French pastoral scenes of pomaded men and crinolined women unaware of the rumbling tumbrils of revolution. It was the sort of brocade material Charlie had seen on genuine antiques and looked quite good when slightly frayed, which this was.

The clerk, a smiling girl, wondered if he were on holiday and Charlie agreed he was and she asked if he knew London well and Charlie said well enough. She gestured to some unseen desk behind a potted plant and said it was manned between ten and four every weekday to get theatre tickets or tour trips and Charlie promised to remember.

He was given room 35 and taken to it by an elderly porter whose false teeth didn't fit and who therefore lisped when he talked. On the way up in a hicupping, metal-grilled lift Charlie patiently went through the here-for-a-holiday, first-time-in-London ritual. The old man showed him how to operate the television and opened the bathroom door to prove the room had one and said if there were anything at all Charlie wanted he only had to ask. Charlie thanked the man and tipped him two pounds because he invariably found hotel porters useful allies to have.

The room was small but adequate. There was a double bed at one side of which was a tray with a kettle and a selection of tea, coffee and powdered milk sachets for a do-it-yourself breakfast drink, a built-in clothes closet, a low table bordered with two easy chairs and the already identified television had a dial device for in-house movies. One was described as adult viewing and didn't become available until after 10 p.m. Charlie guessed the management had got a job lot with the fake marble tiles because the bathroom was a replica of the lobby. The bath was clean, there were enough towels and there was a tray of soaps and shampoo and conditioner in their individual packets. He was going to be quite comfortable, Charlie decided.

He unpacked and with instinctive professionalism set out to explore his surroundings. He followed the signs and discovered his room was conveniently positioned near the fire escape. It was an internal system, a back-stairs spiral of bare concrete steps with a metal hand rail. Charlie pushed through the door on his floor and descended the three flights to find where it emerged, out into the open. It was on to a tiny rear car park, where the dustbins were kept as well as vehicles. There was an alley leading from the front of the hotel, towards the park, but another feeder road for service lorries ran at right angles, as well: Charlie guessed the feeder road supplied several other hotels in the area.

It would have been convenient to have emerged through the fire door on the ground level but it would have made the clerk or the porter curious, so Charlie limped back up the three flights to use the public, rickety lift: by the time he'd been up and then down his legs as well as his feet ached, and Charlie felt the need to restore himself.

The bar was on the same side as the reception area but further back into the hotel, past more plants and the theatre ticket desk he now located. Charlie, not only a man of quick impressions but a degreeholding judge of hostelries, liked it at once. The colour scheme was predominantly restful red, with hunting scenes and prints of eighteenth-century London around the walls. The bar itself looked as if it were made from aged and heavy wood, which was probably plastic imitation like the outside tiles but Charlie thought it worked well enough. It was along the inner wall and impressively stocked with little-known brand-name scotch, which Charlie always considered a good sign. There were a few bar stools, a spread of tables and some benched seats.

Charlie expertly chose the corner stool, right against the wall, from which he had an immediate view of anyone entering but from whom he would not be easily seen until they got their bearings. He ordered an Islay malt and the barman said he didn't want ice or water did he and Charlie agreed that he didn't and was further impressed. A barman who knew how properly to serve Islay malt and was able instantly to discern someone else who did as well was no newcomer to his trade. And practised hotel barmen were even better allies than porters because as well as proficiency with drinks they were usually proficient with gossip. The barman, whose name emerged as John and who, from the bracelets and the neckchain, was a lover of gold, let Charlie lead the conversation, which was another indication of experience and which Charlie started to do after the second drink. The man started to volunteer what Charlie sought by the time of the third drink, prompted by Charlie disclosing how long he intended staying.

‘It's going to be interesting for you then,' said the man.

‘How's that?' asked Charlie ingenuously.

‘Got a special party arriving.'

‘Special?'

‘A group of Russians. Here for the Farnborough Air Show.'

‘In this very hotel!' exclaimed Charlie, suitably impressed.

The barman nodded and smiled, content with the reaction. ‘Practically taken over an entire floor.'

‘That must create a headache for you all, an important group like that?' lured Charlie.

There was another nod. ‘We've had a lot of Russians from the embassy, making sure everything is going to be all right. All the staff have been checked.'

‘You personally?'

‘Sure.'

‘You mind that?'

A shrug this time. ‘Not really. Unusual experience, really.'

‘Practically an entire floor, you say?'

The man responded as Charlie hoped he would. ‘The sixth,' he confirmed. ‘And those rooms that aren't occupied have to stay empty while the party is here.'

‘All rather exciting,' said Charlie. Would the restrictions the Russians imposed mean the sealing of the entire floor?

‘I suppose so,' said the barman, a seen-it-all-before remark. ‘You'd better get here early at night if you want a place to sit.'

‘I will,' assured Charlie.

In the Soviet car outside Viktor Nikov, whose tour of personal observation it was, said bitterly: ‘Drinking! He sits in the bar drinking and we sit here, with nothing!'

It was almost two months from their last being together, that weekend at the dacha, when Valentina finally raised it. They were making plans to go again, during another of Georgi's college breaks, and Valentina asked if Kalenin were coming and Berenkov admitted that he had not invited the man.

‘Are you going to?' she demanded. Throughout the years that Berenkov's overseas postings had kept them apart Valentina had developed a peremptory independence unusual for the wife of an intelligence officer.

‘I don't think so,' shrugged Berenkov.

‘Why not?' She was a big woman, blonde and strong-featured. Impatient and uninterested in dieting she was putting her faith in tight corsetry and accepted that it was not really working.

‘I don't think he'd welcome an invitation, at the moment.'

‘So there
is
a difficulty between you?' seized Valentina, recalling her impression of quietness from the last dacha visit.

‘It's not serious,' said Berenkov. I hope, he thought.

‘Can you talk about it?'

‘No,' refused Berenkov shortly, retreating at last behind the expected security-consciousness of his job.

‘Who's right?'

Berenkov laughed, unoffended at his wife's directness. ‘It's not like that. It's just different viewpoints.'

‘Nothing could ever happen to us, could it?' asked the woman, with sudden concern. ‘Nothing to upset the life we now have, I mean.'

Berenkov laughed at her again, in reassurance this time. ‘Of course not,' he said. ‘Why do you ask a thing like that?'

Valentina shook her head, refusing the question. ‘I wouldn't want anything to upset the way we are now,' she said.

31

A pattern quickly developed and Emil Krogh relaxed further as he became accustomed to the work surroundings at the Isle of Wight factory. When he returned the second day Robert Springley took him on a tour of the moulding rooms and explained in detail the difference between the British-evolved thermoplastic resin process, which enabled the carbon fibre to be reshaped without any loss of strength, and the more easily shattered and unchangeable thermoset system that had been employed at Krogh's plant in California. He watched the fibre and resin matrix being created in a temperature- and climatecontrolled environment and even before studying the waiting blueprints in detail was able to understand how this section was going to assemble with what they were building in America to create the missile housing for the defence system.

The promised side office was made available to him and at first Springley stayed close at hand to take him through the drawings, which was an intrusion Krogh didn't want but could do nothing about. It was well into the afternoon before the man left him alone and Krogh was finally able to make the notes he considered necessary to reproduce the manufacturing plans. He did so in a way to satisfy Petrin and take the pressure off himself. He separated the drawings according to Springley's definition and concentrated first upon the eleven easy ones. It took him that day and most of the following to make sufficient notes and late that afternoon returned with Petrin to the Kensington house to begin work.

Vitali Losev was already there with the frightened Yuri Guzins, and in the first half hour other men entered and left the room which had been set up as Krogh's drawing office. The American prepared his board and clipped his notes to it and set his lights, all the while feeling like a laboratory experiment under the scrutiny of so many people.

The progress was slower than Krogh anticipated. As soon as the American started to draw, Guzins, to whom he was never introduced, came and stood at his elbow and practically at once began asking highly technical questions which had to be painstakingly translated back and forth between them by Petrin. When Krogh, exasperated, asked what the hell was going on Petrin said it was a precaution they believed worthwhile to prevent any mistake, to which Krogh complained that his constantly being interrupted risked mistakes being made instead of being guarded against. Petrin accepted the protest and told Guzins to wait until a drawing was finished before querying it, which was the method they adopted, but by midnight Krogh had produced only six copies and was aching with exhaustion. His announcement that he couldn't draw any more provided the catalyst for the row that had simmered between Petrin and Losev from the moment of their first meeting.

Krogh spoke to Petrin when he said he wanted to stop but it was the unidentified Losev who responded.

‘Work on!' ordered Losev, brusquely and in English.

‘I said I'm too tired,' repeated Krogh.

Losev went to speak but Petrin got in first. ‘I'll decide how he works,' said Petrin. He spoke in Russian.

‘He's got to do more!' insisted Losev, also speaking in Russian. ‘Who gives a damn how he feels!'

‘Idiot!' said Petrin. ‘Didn't you hear the conversation about mistakes? Tired men make mistakes!'

Krogh couldn't understand what was being said but their tone was sufficient for him to realize it was an argument.

‘You don't have the authority to overrule me!' said Losev.

‘Nor you to supercede me,' Petrin shouted back. ‘So let's get it ruled from Moscow. Until which time I decide what Krogh will do and what he won't: he's my responsibility.'

Guzins stood with nibbled fingers to his mouth, looking apprehensively between the two men, bewildered by the sudden eruption. Surprisingly trying the role of peacemaker, he said: ‘What's an argument like this going to achieve?'

Ignoring the scientist Losev said: ‘I am the
rezident
in this country. Mine is the ultimate authority.'

‘Which I am refusing to recognize,' said Petrin. ‘Moscow can decide.'

Losev regretted the dispute now, suspecting Dzerzhinsky Square would favour Petrin in the choice. Retreating, he said: ‘OK. Let him finish for the night.'

‘There was never a question of his not doing so,' persisted Petrin. ‘I'll want to see the cable exchanges with Moscow.' That
was
an encroachment upon the local KGB chief and Petrin knew it but he decided to make the challenge anyway: he wasn't frightened of what Moscow might decide and he was curious how far Losev would take the dispute.

‘You'll see what's appropriate,' said Losev.

Not a capitulation, judged Petrin: but not the outright rejection it should have been, either. So the other man wasn't sure of himself. Wanting the exchange to end on his terms Petrin said disparagingly: ‘Be here the same time tomorrow night,' and hurried Krogh from the room with his hand cupped to the American's elbow.