15
It was an important conference, the first assessment session between the KGB chairman and Valeri Kalenin to consider the Star War material collected so far, and once again Berenkov travelled from the Moscow outskirts to wait for his friend at Dzerzhinsky Square.
Berenkov recalled the last occasion he had waited like this, standing before this same window overlooking the square, and decided he’d done very well obtaining what he had. Well enough, in fact, for headquarters etiquette to have been eased for him to be invited to the conference instead of being kept waiting cap-in-hand for the outcome to be relayed to him. Berenkov resented being kept out. It made no sense: it could actually be counterproductive always for there to be an intermediary despite that intermediary being someone he trusted as completely as Kalenin. Having spent so much of his operational life absolutely alone Berenkov felt difficulty in relying upon anyone else. It was all the more frustrating that he could do nothing about it, but to attempt to do so – suggest he should be included in the future, for instance – risked offending the other man. And worse, hinting that there was not complete trust between them. What about Kalenin’s trust in him, he thought uneasily. There was no comparison: whatever happened, he wouldn’t call upon Kalenin’s protection.
It was the working of the electronic door that again warned Berenkov of his friend’s return. The diminutive, bearded man stopped just inside, expressionless and momentarily unspeaking. Then Kalenin’s face broke and he announced: ‘We’ve done it!’ and strode across to embrace Berenkov in a bear-hug of congratulation.
‘There’s sufficient for them to reach a conclusion?’ queried Berenkov cautiously.
Kalenin nodded. ‘There was a meeting of the Politburo this morning to consider the preliminary report of our space people at Baikonur on what we’ve so far got from America. Their view is that the American development is unquestionably the “garage” part of their Star Wars programme.’
‘Garage?’
‘The actual space facility to store the destructive missiles that would be triggered against any offensive rocket,’ explained Kalenin simply.
It was obvious from the blueprints and drawings they’d already received from San Francisco that it was some sort of satellite but Berenkov hadn’t guessed at this. He said: ‘They’re sure?’
‘Convinced, according to the chairman,’ said Kalenin. ‘Which is as bad as it is good. It’s good that we’ve told them what it is. But we’ve created our own burden to get all of it, so that Russia can win the race…’ The man paused. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, smiling more broadly. ‘You’ve been officially commended by name. There should be celebrations!’
Kalenin produced the vodka bottle from a drawer of his desk. Berenkov accepted the drink, feeling a stab of guilt at the way he was still keeping the Charlie Muffin pursuit from his friend. He said: ‘Let’s hope we can go on as we’ve started.’
‘The technical instructions are that Britain is vitally important,’ cautioned Kalenin. ‘It’s essential to know how their carbon fibre is being utilized. The guess is that it’s a thermoplastic resin process but they need to do more than guess.’
‘We’re well established in America,’ reflected Berenkov. ‘With the man Krogh we could hardly be better placed: within his own organization he can do virtually what he likes, demand access to whatever he wants, without challenge.’
‘But what about England?’
‘Untried, as yet,’ admitted Berenkov honestly. ‘We’ve got an employee desperate for money: a women situation again. But he hasn’t anything like the access seniority that Krogh commands in America.’
‘He can’t be allowed to fail,’ said Kalenin, the warning all the more ominous for its quiet simplicity. ‘Everything is dependent upon us. We stand or fall by what happens now. Personally, I mean.’
‘I know,’ accepted Berenkov.
‘You told the British rezidentura to be careful?’
Now was the opportunity to talk about Charlie Muffin and of baiting his trap with Natalia Nikandrova. At once came the barrier: it was still too soon to be sure that Kalenin would support him. And Berenkov was determined against being ordered to abort the idea. He said: ‘I’ve taken every precaution.’
Blackstone thought excitedly that perhaps it was not going to be quite as difficult as he’d feared. He hadn’t tried getting into the secure area yet, but there was the inevitable talk now that the project was under way. By listening instead of talking in the canteen and the social club he’d learned the basic matrix was going to be made by impregnating the carbon fibres with a polyetheretherketone petrolbased resin and that the sizing appeared quite large, although he couldn’t risk asking actual dimensions or how many layers were being considered for the lamination. It was still enough, for a start. And to show he was trying. Blackstone considered it imperative that he appear to be trying, so that the money didn’t dry up.
Blackstone found a public kiosk about three miles outside Newport and as Losev had promised the telephone was answered quickly, on the second ring, although not by the Russian he knew. Blackstone identified himself and said: ‘I’ve got something.’
‘We’ll come to collect,’ said the voice.
16
It was better now. He didn’t feel good about it – he knew the enormity of what he was doing and the horrifying danger he faced in doing it – but as the days and then the weeks passed Emil Krogh lost the hollow-stomached terror of that first exchange encounter with Petrin on the San Francisco wharf. He was becoming accustomed to it, Krogh guessed. Or maybe it was because he could see an end to it: another month and it would be over. Christ, wouldn’t that be a wonderful moment! Everything over. Finished. He’d be safe again. The Russian had been pretty reassuring about that: talked about their watching and monitoring the meeting places, checking it all out before making a move, every time. There’d been a lot of meeting places. The wharf, a couple of more times. Hotels, in the city and a motel, across in Berkeley. A roadside rest area, over the Golden Gate Bridge. Always the same, protective routine: he getting there first and waiting for Petrin’s approach which wouldn’t come until they were sure. Like today.
It was the wharf again, the pier-end restaurant with the view of the bay and the tourist helicopter fluttering over Alcatraz. Krogh got there right on time and said he’d wait at the table for his guest and ordered a martini with a lemon twist, very dry with no ice. It was good and he tasted the burn of the gin and felt the tension ease off slightly. Two helicopters passed each other, going to and from the island penitentiary no longer in use. Was it there that they’d sent people who did what he was doing, when it had been a prison? Krogh didn’t think so but he wasn’t sure. Maybe there was a special place, all spies together. That’s what he was, Krogh accepted. A spy against his own country, the sort of crime they’d executed people for, not so long ago. All because of the damned girls. Whores, both of them. Something else that had to end. Not yet, not until this business was well and truly over. One thing at a time. But certainly kiss them off. He hadn’t seen either Barbara or Cindy much, since it had started: Cindy a couple of times, because he’d been in Los Angeles anyway, Barbara on two or three afternoons when she wasn’t at art school. He thought Barbara was already getting the message, acting extra nice to him, eager to please. Barbara first, he decided. Then Cindy. No hassle, no hard feelings. Give them a few bucks, plenty of time to look around and find themselves somewhere else to live. He guessed there’d be crying scenes because that was the way it went, but that was all. They both knew the score: knew it had to happen some time. Krogh felt an odd relief at the decision to get rid of them. He didn’t think he’d look around for anyone to replace them, either: pointless to get out of one blackmail situation and create another. Might as well go on as he was. Which he wouldn’t, Krogh determined, positively. Time he straightened himself out, stopped acting like a jerk.