By now Cuthbertson would have discovered he’d left England, decided Charlie, gazing out at the Soviet woodland.
The observation in London had been rather obvious and easy to evade. He glanced at his watch: the men outside the Dulwich house, which he’d left under a clearly visible pile of cleaning in the Porsche driven by Edith, would probably still be assuring Cuthbertson he hadn’t left.
Would Cuthbertson approach Edith directly? he wondered. Unlikely, decided Charlie. But if the Director did summon his wife, Charlie was confident Edith would have no difficulty convincing the former soldier that when she had left on her cleaning expedition, Charlie had been inside the house. Edith had always found it easy to lie, he thought, reflectively.
Which was different from Janet, he thought. Her sudden interest in the operation (‘I know what happened to Harrison; isn’t it natural I should worry about you?’) had amused him. Poor Janet, he thought. He wondered what incentive Cuthbertson had offered. Money, probably. She was a greedy girl.
The coach crossed the river and then pulled along the Moskva embankment towards the Rossiya hotel. Charlie disembarked as instructed by the officious Intourist guide and stood patiently for thirty-five minutes to be allocated a room, assuring the Maidenhead clerk when he finally collected his key, that he wouldn’t forget the bath-plug offer.
There was still twenty-four hours before Kalenin was supposed to appear in Neskuchny Sad, so Charlie continued to be the tourist, prompt for the regimented mealtimes, always waiting for the coaches taking them in their pre-paid tours, diligent in his purchases of souvenirs. He’d surprise Janet, he decided, by taking her Beluga caviar.
I should feel nervous, he thought, during the interminable wait for dinner on Saturday night. Almost immediately, he corrected the thought. Not yet. So far there was nothing about which to be apprehensive. But there would be, soon, he knew. Then he would need the control of which he had always been so confident.
He was able to avoid the Sunday morning tour with less difficulty than he had expected, placating the Russian woman with the promise that he would be ready for the Basil Church and Lenin’s tomb in the afternoon, then happily watching the Maidenhead clerk depart in close conversation with the secretary of the ladies’ luncheon club who appeared likely to admit access to forbidden places.
‘To work,’ Charlie told himself, stepping out on to the embankment. He touched his jacket, in needless reassurance: the pocket recorder that he had checked and rewound lay snugly against his hip, quite comfortably.
It would be a long walk, he realised, striding out towards the Karmeni Bridge. But it would be safer to travel on foot, he knew. It was a fine, clear morning and he found the exercise stimulating; if it all goes wrong, he thought, wryly, then the only exercise he would know for the rest of his life would be the sort that Berenkov was getting in Wormwood Scrubs.
In the middle of the bridge spanning the Moskva, he rested, gazing over the parapet at the island in the middle, apparently an aimless tourist with time to waste. After fifteen minutes, he determined he was not being followed and continued his walk, turning down towards the Alexandre Palace.
It was 10.45 a.m. when he entered the park. A standing man is conspicuous, according to the instruction manual, he reminded himself. He meandered along the path-way leading towards the river, pacing the journey, turning back in perfect time to the entrance. The walk had reassured him. The park was not under obvious observation, he decided. His close survey didn’t preclude watching and listening points immediately outside, of course.
Kalenin entered exactly on time, a short, chunky figure in an overcoat too long for him and a trilby hat that seemed to fit oddly upon his head. The General hesitated, then began strolling along the same path that Charlie had taken a few minutes earlier, gazing curiously from side to side, a man hopeful of an appointment.
The Englishman watched him go, making no effort to follow. It was ten minutes before Charlie accepted Kalenin was free from close surveillance and another ten minutes before he located the man again.
The General had stopped walking, sitting on a seat halfway down one of the longest paths, the uncomfortable hat alongside him on the bench. The man was so short his feet scarcely touched the ground, Charlie saw, as he approached. It was difficult to believe he was one of the most feared and powerful men in Russia.
General Kalenin turned to him, his eyes sweeping Charlie’s westernised clothes and appearance as he smiled, very slightly.
Charlie gave no response, but sat the far end of the bench, stretching in the pale sun. It would be too cold to sit there very long, he decided. He hoped Kalenin didn’t engage in the ambiguity he’d shown Snare and Harrison. There was little reason why he should.
‘A wise man always breaks his exercise by sensible rest periods,’ opened Charlie.
‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin.
Both spoke without looking at each other.
‘This is my fourth Sunday here,’ complained Kalenin. ‘I was beginning to think Snare had missed the point during our conversation at the embassy.’
‘How is he?’ asked Charlie. Snare wouldn’t have enquired after his well-being had the situation been reversed, Charlie reflected. He was glad Kalenin was going to avoid nuance and innuendo.
‘Perfectly all right,’ assured the Russian.
‘There’ll be a suspicion if he’s not accused or released soon,’ warned Charlie.
‘I know,’ agreed Kalenin, looking along the bench for the first time. ‘I want to get it over with as soon as possible.’
‘How soon?’
‘Three weeks?’
Charlie looked back at the Russian, frowning.
‘That’s very short,’ he protested.
‘But very possible,’ argued Kalenin. ‘There has been arranged for months that I should make a visit to Czechoslovakia …’
‘… So the crossing would be into Austria …?’
Kalenin nodded. ‘Difficult?’ he queried.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ve got a pretty strong system there.’
‘So it would suit you?’
‘Yes. I think it would be perfect.’
Kalenin shivered, conscious of the cold.
‘The Americans are deeply involved,’ announced the General, unexpectedly.
Charlie was suddenly attentive.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They identified both Snare and Harrison to our people … I had to act …’
Charlie laughed, surprised.
‘The bastards,’ he judged mildly.
‘If Harrison hadn’t run, our people wouldn’t have shot him. They’re trained to react that way.’
‘I know,’ accepted the Briton, remembering Checkpoint Charlie. ‘Why do people always run?’
‘Lack of experience,’ recorded Kalenin, sadly. ‘And neither he nor Snare were very good. It would have been difficult for them to have avoided suspicion.’
The same assessment that Berenkov had made, recalled Charlie. He was glad he had the tape recorder.
‘Why would Washington do it?’ probed Charlie, still conscious of the recording.
‘Involvement,’ said Kalenin, looking surprised at Charlie’s question. ‘They don’t know of you, do they?’
‘I hope not.’
‘They suspect somebody is here, though,’ said the General. ‘They’ve alerted their embassy staff.’
The K.G.B. would have an excellent monitoring system on the American embassy, Charlie knew. He supposed Washington would be aware of it: it would have been safer for them to have sent the instructions in the diplomatic bag. The mistake showed a lack of planning, decided Charlie. Or panic.
‘Have they listed the name of Charles Muffin?’ asked the Briton. He’d had to register in the hotel under his real identity and knew it would take little more than a day to check the hotels on the Intourist list.