Charlie reluctantly refastened his laces, flexing his toes to ensure there was as much comfort as possible, and then straightened the clean shirt around his waist, where it had pulled out during the dart-throwing. He’d kept his freshly pressed suit jacket on a hanger, to prevent it becoming creased: couldn’t remember the last time he’d dressed up so smartly.
The secretariat established on the ninth floor since his last visit was the most surprising innovation of all. There were outer office staff, but the inner sanctum was now controlled by just one woman. She was about thirty-five, guessed Charlie. Titian-haired, cut short. Nice tits. Not possible to see her legs beneath the desk, but probably good on the standard so far. Pity she was frowning so irritably at the internal telephone in her hand. She slammed down rather than replaced the unanswered receiver.
He smiled, brightly, and said: ‘I’ve an appointment with the Director-General. Charlie Muffin.’
‘I was trying to call you.’ She didn’t smile.
‘Wanted to be early for a new boss! Make an impression!’
‘He’s not ready for you.’ She nodded to a set of seats against the wall behind him. They were new, like everything else. ‘You can wait there.’
‘Rather stand,’ said Charlie. ‘How are you liking it here? Haven’t had a chance to talk before.’
‘I have been with the Director and deputy Director-General for some years.’ She looked pointedly at the chairs she’d already indicated.
Director and deputy Director-General! ‘Charlie Muffin,’ he repeated, hopeful for a return introduction. He’d always made friends – sometimes even love – with Directors’ personal assistants: insider knowledge was invaluable to someone who watched his back as carefully as Charlie. The long-time P.A. of the Director-General and his deputy would be an incredible ally to cultivate.
‘I heard you the first time.’ There was still no smile.
Awkward cow, thought Charlie, smiling broadly: if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again until they fall on their back. ‘Be happy to point the way if you need help in a new department.’
She sighed, heavily. ‘My name is Julia Robb. During the time I have been with the Director and his deputy I have been chatted up by a large number of operatives, usually far better than you’re doing now. And all for the same reason you’re doing it now, although getting into my bed was sometimes an additional ambition. I don’t, ever, talk about things I hear or see or know about. And I don’t screw round with the staff, either. Have I left anything out?’
Charlie decided that qualified as a rejection. ‘Don’t think so.’
The delayed summons to the inner office was a grateful escape.
It had all been changed from the London Club ambience that Sir Alistair Wilson had installed: gone were the faded, leather-topped desk, the sagging, well used leather chairs, the tub-shaped liquor cabinet, usually open, and the proud display of roses which it had been the former Director-General’s hobby to grow.
Everything now was functional. The furniture was far superior to that in his own office four floors below, but Charlie guessed it had all come from the same Ministry supply depot. There was a lot of hard-wearing metal and hard-wearing plastic and the wall decorations were mass-produced Ministry prints of scenes of Dickensian London. Charlie’s impression was of an up-market doctor’s waiting-room. Peter Miller looked a bit like an up-market doctor, too, although Charlie wasn’t sure about a bedside manner. The hair was the reassuring grey of a man of experience. The glasses were heavily horn-rimmed, the left lens thicker than the right. A watch-chain looped across the waistcoat of a striped blue suit, which Charlie recognized to be well cut but not specially tailored. Harrods, ready-to-wear department, he guessed. Miller wore no rings, which mildly surprised Charlie: most of the other Directors under whom he’d worked had been able to wear a family crest. Whatever, Charlie didn’t think Miller would be a grammar school boy, like himself.
Miller remained aloofly blank-faced behind the desk, gesturing towards a visitors’ chair. Charlie took it, aware of another oddly placed to the side of the Director’s desk. As he sat, Charlie realized the desk was sterile: there were not even framed personal photographs.
‘I believe I’ve had sufficient time to settle in,’ announced Miller.
The man had a flat, monotone delivery, the sort of voice that made public announcements in supermarkets about the bargain of the day. Charlie decided it went well with the metal furniture. He wondered what he was supposed to say. ‘Bound to take time.’
‘I have decided upon some operational and command changes,’ said the Director-General, a continuing metallic announcement. ‘My predecessor involved himself very closely in active operations, didn’t he …?’ There was a flicker of what could have been a smile. Alternatively, Charlie thought, it could have been pain. ‘… What our American cousins call a “hands-on” Controller?’
Charlie listened to gossip, never imparted it. And he certainly didn’t intend discussing Sir Alistair with this Mechanical Man. ‘Everyone works in different ways.’
Miller nodded, seemingly unaware of the evasive cliché. ‘Quite so. I see myself as responsible for the organization as a whole: I do not intend to become immersed …’ There was another grimaced smile. ‘… some might even say distracted, by one particular branch of the service, interesting – exciting even – though that branch might be.’
And as career-dangerous as those active operations might be, if they went wrong, mentally qualified Charlie. So Miller was a political jockey, riding a safe horse at prime ministerial briefings and Joint Intelligence Committee sessions. ‘Always best to get the broadest picture.’
Miller nodded again. ‘My recommendation for the post of deputy Director-General has been confirmed. I shall, of course, be ultimately responsible, but all decisions concerning you will be up to my deputy …’ The man turned his head slightly towards the intercom machine. Without making any obvious move to activate it, he said: ‘I’ll see the deputy Director-General now, Julia.’
Charlie turned at the noise of the door opening behind him and managed to get to his painful feet just slightly after Miller at the entry of a woman.
‘Patricia Elder, the new Controller under whom you will be working,’ introduced Miller.
Natalia Nikandrova Fedova heard the familiar sound at once, hurrying into her bedroom: the cot was close to her bed, for her to reach out during the night. The baby was awake but not truly distressed: she decided it was most probably a wind bubble. The baby smiled when Natalia caressed her face. Definitely a wind bubble: Alexandras was far too young for it to be a smile of recognition. Natalia turned her on her side, still caressing, and said: ‘Shush, my darling. Shush. Sleep now.’
The baby did.
Now Natalia smiled but ruefully, thinking how much more obedient the baby was than its father.
Two