‘Took them longer to break than I thought it would,’ said Wilson.
‘But now they have,’ said Harkness. ‘I’m surprised they think it might be from something as simple as intercept but it means they are reading the messages coming to us and are taking every precaution they can think of: even changing their codes.’
‘Christ, they’ll be worried,’ said Wilson, expressing the familiar attitude.
‘So am I,’ admitted Harkness.
Chapter Sixteen
Sampson was tight with excitement and self-satisfaction, actually strutting around the apartment: Charlie was reminded of the proud pigeons who used to parade around Whitehall and Trafalgar Square. How long ago had it been since he’d seen proud pigeons, in Whitehall and Trafalgar Square? A million years? Two million?
‘Told you how important I was, didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. What was the silly bugger on about now?
‘I suppose you saw the woman again?’
‘Didn’t you?’
Sampson smiled, smugly. ‘Gone beyond her now.’
Strut and boast, thought Charlie; strut and boast. He said ‘Who then?’
‘There wasn’t any identification,’ said Sampson. ‘Clearly someone important.’
‘A man?’
‘Of course it was a man,’ said Sampson, irritably. ‘Important, too. A senior officer.’
‘How do you know that, if there wasn’t identification?’
‘Everyone in the building was practically shitting themselves.’
Charlie’s outward attitude hadn’t changed but he was fully attentive now. ‘What was he like?’ he coaxed, gently.
‘Big man: very big,’ said Sampson. ‘High liver, by the look of him.’
That had been one of the first assessments of Berenkov, in the very early stages, long before the man was suspect: before they even knew his name, remembered Charlie. And Berenkov was back here: Wilson had made the point, during their meeting in the governor’s office. Maybe you’d even get to him, the Director had said. Surely it wouldn’t have been Berenkov! Wilson had hoped for contact because of what had happened before; their involvement. Sampson had never been involved. And then Charlie remembered something else. The Russian desk. Sampson had been number three on the Russian desk. Careful, he thought, halting the slide. Of course Sampson would be important, because of the Russian desk. But not this important, this quickly. Not days after they’d arrived. Unless there was a panic, making it necessary to abandon all the usual rules of procedure. What could cause a panic that big? The answer was obvious but Charlie didn’t at first want to confront it. Which he realised was stupid and so he did. If the Russians suspected a spy they’d abandon all rules of procedure; a spy as important as Wilson had made out the unknown man to be. For someone that important they’d rewrite the whole bloody regulation book. Still desperately circumstantial, Charlie attempted to rationalise. ‘High liver?’ he said, as if he hadn’t understood.
‘Florid-faced, that sort of thing,’ said Sampson, impatient again.
Berenkov had had a florid face: until jail, that is. Then he’d got the pallor that they all developed. Charlie hesitated, unsure how to proceed with the man. His conceit, he decided. He said, ‘Wonder if I’ll see him?’
Sampson gave a dismissive laugh, as if the idea were amusing. ‘You! Why should you see him?’
‘Just a thought,’ said Charlie, pushing ever so gently.
‘I told you,’ lectured Sampson. ‘This is important.’
‘But still only debriefing?’ said Charlie.
Sampson laughed again. ‘No, Charlie. This isn’t debriefing. This is me being fully and absolutely accepted…’ He held out his hand, a cupping gesture. ‘Right there,’ he said. ‘Right in the middle.’
Charlie wondered if he’d located all the bugs, during his search. If he hadn’t then those listening were going to be pissed off with Sampson’s boastful indiscretion. But still not indiscreet enough. ‘Bullshit,’ he jeered, in open challenge. ‘What reason would there be to do something like that?’
A look of wariness came into Sampson’s face. Shit, thought Charlie.
Sampson said, ‘There’s reason enough, believe me.’
‘What?’ said Charlie, with no alternative.
There was another dismissive laugh from the man. ‘Do you expect me to tell you that?’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t be bloody stupid!’
He had been stupid, Charlie realised, in self-recrimination: he’d tried to push too hard too quickly. Still believing that Sampson’s conceit was the man’s weakness, he said, ‘I don’t believe you. I think you’re full of crap.’
It didn’t work. There was yet a further jeering laugh and Sampson said, ‘Full of crap, eh!’ He gestured around the ugly apartment. ‘You like it here?’
Charlie frowned, uncertain where the conversation was going. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it here. I think it stinks. Literally.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Sampson. ‘So I’m not staying. I’m going somewhere else – somewhere better – away from the smell of cooking…’ He paused, to make the point. ‘And away from you. It’s taken me long enough, maybe too long, but at last I’m getting away from you, you down-trodden, scruffy backward-looking little snob. I told them that’s what I wanted and that’s what I’m getting. That seem crap, to you?’
If Sampson had got that sort of concession agreed, so quickly – and there was no reason for the man to be lying, because he’d be seen to be a liar at once – then whatever he was involved in was important. Surely it could only be the would-be defector whom Wilson wanted him to find! Sampson’s so recent posting on the Russian desk dictated that it had to be. Would the bastard know enough, to uncover whoever it was before him? Always objective, Charlie recognised that from the simple chronology of how long he’d been away from the department, compared to Sampson, then Sampson had to have an advantage. If his surmise were correct – and he still wanted more, to be absolutely sure – it meant he and Sampson were working against each other. He’d like that, Charlie decided. He’d wanted to teach the snotty little sod a lesson and what better way than snatch a defector whom the man was seeking right out from under his nose. Almost at once came the balance. The chronology, remembered Charlie again. And not just the chronology. Official, Soviet backing and resources, too. The bastard had all the advantages. And more. Son of a bitch, thought Charlie. He said, ‘No, that doesn’t seem like crap. That seems like a two way deal in which I gain as much as you. I can stand the cabbage smells.’
‘Go to hell, Charlie,’ said the other man. ‘Go to hell and stay there.’
‘Up yours,’ said Charlie.
Kalenin listened patiently while Berenkov outlined the arrangements he had made with the Englishman, his face showing no reaction, so that it was impossible to gauge whether the KGB chairman approved or not. Finally he said, ‘You appear to have changed your mind about the man?’
‘Absolutely,’ admitted Berenkov at once. ‘He was completely honest – making no effort to exaggerate and impress me. I think we should use him and use him to the utmost.’
‘But he was excluded!’ protested Kalenin, driving a fist into the palm of his other hand, in an unusual show of emotion.
‘It would certainly seem that way,’ said Berenkov. ‘But I think if we make everything available to him then he might be able to find some intelligent assessments of something… transmission source, at least. At the moment we’ve got nothing.’
‘I don’t need reminding what we haven’t got,’ said Kalenin. Rarely at any time since his chairmanship – or even before – could he remember feeling so impotent. The feeling extended beyond impotence, to an uncertainty he couldn’t even define.
‘Then it’s certainly worth trying,’ insisted Berenkov.
‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘It’s certainly worth trying…’ He hesitated and said, ‘If we make everything available to Sampson – and I accept that we must, to give the effort any point in the first place – then he’s going to become a very knowledgeable man, isn’t he?’ There was an even further pause. ‘Many might say too knowledgeable.’