Charlie M (2 page)

The two men moved immediately to a table away from the bar, Charlie ordering more beer as they went. They stayed silent until they were served, the East German fidgeting with impatience. I bet he always hunted for his presents early in December, thought Charlie.

‘You've found a way?' demanded Bayer, as soon as the waiter moved off.

‘I think so.'

Bayer made a noise drinking his beer. Snare would have been distressed, thought Charlie, at the man's table manners.

‘You've got the passport?' asked the Englishman.

Bayer reached towards his jacket pocket, but Charlie leaned across, stopping the movement.

‘Not here,' he said, annoyed.

Bayer winced, worried by his mistake.

‘Sorry,' he apologised. ‘I'm just excited, that's all.'

It was a good forgery, Charlie knew. He'd had it prepared months before just off West Berlin's Kurfürstendamm, using one of the best forgers among those who made a business trading people across the Wall. It had cost £150 and Charlie had only managed to retrieve £75 back on expenses; even then there'd been queries. He'd make up on this trip, though.

‘How can it be done?' asked Bayer.

‘When I came in, a week ago, I used the railway,' said Charlie, gesturing out towards the overhead S Bahn linking East and West. That
had
been the first indication, decided Charlie, positively: Cuthbertson's explanation about the chances of detection had been banal.

Bayer nodded, urging him on.

‘But the samples were brought in by another traveller, by car.'

Bayer frowned, doubtfully.

‘… but …'

‘… And he's gone back, on foot,' enlarged Charlie. ‘The car is here and the crossing papers are in order.'

Bayer patted his pocket, where the passport lay.

‘There's no entry date,' he protested.

Charlie slid a small packet across the table.

‘A date stamp,' he said. ‘From the same man that made the passport. It'll match the documents in the car perfectly.'

Bayer reached forward, seizing the other man's hand and holding it.

‘I don't have the words to thank you,' he said. His eyes were clouded, Charlie saw.

The Briton shrugged, uncomfortably.

‘You must have dinner with Gretel and me, tomorrow, when it's all over.'

‘Gretel?'

‘The girl I'm going to marry. I've already telephoned, telling her something could be happening.'

Charlie concentrated on the beer before him.

‘Was that wise?' he queried. ‘The call has to go through a manned exchange to the West.'

‘No one would have learned anything from the conversation,' assured Bayer. ‘But Gretel knows.'

Charlie looked at his watch, wanting to end the encounter. Perhaps he
was
getting too old, he thought.

‘You've got three hours,' he warned. ‘And you'll need time to enter the visa stamp.'

The other man was having difficulty in speaking, Charlie saw.

‘You're a marvellous man,' Bayer struggled, at last, reaching over the table again.

Charlie shrugged his hand off, irritably.

‘Just don't panic. Remember, everything is properly documented.'

From the lounge, Charlie watched the student collect the hired car and move off unsteadily into the traffic stream. He stayed, staring into the beer, thoughts fluttering through his mind like the clues in a paper-chase, scattered pieces creating nothing but a jagged line. Reluctantly he rose, paying the bill.

He had waited for an hour in that familiar Leipzigerstrasse doorway when he recognised the number of the approaching Volkswagen. Bayer was driving with confidence, more used to the vehicle. He passed the Briton, unseen in the shadows, slowing at the border approach to edge dutifully into the yellow smear of light.

The sudden glare of the spotlight, instantly joined by others that had obviously been specially positioned, was the first indication, and later Charlie reflected that it had been a mistake, throwing the switch so soon. A professional would have managed to reverse, to make a run for it. The manœuvre wouldn't have achieved anything, of course, because immediately State Police vehicles and even armoured cars swarmed from the roads and alleys behind, blocking any retreat. For a few seconds, the Volkswagen actually continued forward, then jerked to a stop, like an insect suddenly impaled under a microscope.

‘Stay there,' said Charlie, opening his private conversation. ‘They'll shoot if you move.'

The driver's door thrust open, bouncing on its hinges, and Bayer darted out, crouching, trying to shield his face from the light.

‘Halt!'

The command echoed over the checkpoint from several amplifiers. On the fringe of the illumination, Charlie could detect a frieze of white faces as the Americans formed to watch from their side of the border. Would Snare and Harrison be there? he wondered.

Bayer began to run, without direction, plunging towards the mines before realising the error and twisting back to the roadway.

‘Blinded,' Charlie told himself.

‘Halt!'

Louder this time, with more amplifiers turned on.

‘Stop, you bloody fool,' intoned Charlie.

Bayer was running back towards East Berlin now, towards the road-blocks he couldn't see, head thrown back, eyes bulging.

In the report to Cuthbertson two weeks later, Charlie wrote that those first shots were premature, like the lights, but by then the hysteria would have been gripping everyone. Given the lead, there was firing from all sides, even from the armoured vehicles towards which the student was fleeing. Bayer was thrown up by the crossfire, his feet snatched from the ground and then he collapsed, flopping and shapeless, like a rag-doll from which the stuffing had escaped.

The Volkswagen was sprayed in the shooting, too, and a bullet must have entered the petrol tank, which exploded in a red and yellow eruption. Debris fell on to the body, setting some of the clothing alight.

It took Charlie ten minutes to reach Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse and the train arrived almost immediately.

I'd have liked to see the Reichstag in Hitler's day, thought Charlie, as the train carried him to safety past the silhouette. By the time he'd reached Berlin it had been 1956 and most of the landmarks were skeletons of brick and girders. Günther's father had been a tank commander in a Panzer division, he remembered the student telling him: he carried a yellowed, fading picture in his wallet and was fond of producing it. Poor Günther.

The crossing formalities were brief and within thirty minutes he was disembarking at Bahnhof Zoo, selecting the main station because the crush of people would have confused any East German sent in immediate pursuit when they discovered their mistake.

He bathed leisurely at the Kempinski, even waiting while his second suit was pressed, enjoying the thought of the confrontation that was to come.

Snare and Harrison were already in the bar, both slightly drunk as he had anticipated they would be. Snare saw him first, stopping with his hand outstretched towards his glass.

‘Oh my God,' he managed, badly.

Harrison tried, but couldn't locate the words, standing with his head shaking refusal.

‘You're dead,' insisted Snare, finally. ‘We saw it happen.'

And stayed quite unmoved, guessed Charlie. They really
had
tried to set him up.

‘Brandy,' he ordered, ignoring the two men. He made a measure between finger and thumb, indicating the large size to the barman.

Snare and Harrison really weren't good operatives, decided Charlie. No matter what the circumstances, they shouldn't have permitted such reaction.

‘So you're having a wake for me,' he suggested, sarcastically, nodding towards the drinks. He raised his own glass. ‘To my continued good health.'

Both grabbed for their glasses, joining in the toast. Like hopefuls in a school play, thought Charlie, watching the performance.

They were losing their surprise now, recognising the stupidity of their response and embarrassed by it.

‘Charles,' said Snare. This is fantastic! Absolutely fantastic!'

‘I thought you'd be pleased,' goaded Charlie. ‘Booked a table for the celebration?'

‘But we thought you'd been killed,' said Harrison, speaking at last. He was a heavy, ponderous man, with a face that flushed easily beneath a disordered scrub of red hair and with thick, butcher's fingers. A genetic throw-back, Charlie guessed, to a dalliance with a tradeswoman by one of his beknighted ancestors.

‘Better fix it then, hadn't you?' replied Charlie.

‘Of course,' agreed Harrison, flustered more than Snare by the reappearance. He gestured to the barman to inform the restaurant.

‘How did you do it, Charles?' asked Snare. He was fully recovered now, Charlie saw. They'd have already informed London of his death, Charlie knew. That had been the main reason for delaying his entry into the bar, to enable them to make every mistake. Cuthbertson would have told the Minister: the two would get a terrible bollicking.

Charlie waited until they had been ushered into the rebooked table and had ordered before replying.

‘A bit of luck,' he said, purposely deepening his accent. He paused, then made the decision.

‘… There was this mate …'

‘… who …?' broke off Harrison, stupidly.

Charlie considered the interruption for several minutes, robbed of the annoyance he had hoped to cause the other two men.

‘His name was Bayer,' he said, seriously. ‘Günther Bayer.'

The waiter began serving the oysters, breaking the conversation again. Charlie gazed out of the restaurant window at the necklace of lights around the city. Somewhere out there, he thought, was a girl called Gretel. She wouldn't know yet, he realised. She'd still be preparing her own celebration meal.

‘Tabasco?' enquired the waiter.

‘No,' answered Charlie, smiling. ‘Just lemon.'

(2)

The grilled, narrow windows of the special interview room at Wormwood Scrubs were set high into the wall, making it impossible to see anything but a rectangle of grey sky.

Charlie gazed up, trying to determine whether it had started raining. He could feel the edge of the matting through the sole of his left shoe; if the weather broke, he'd get wet going back to Whitehall.

He turned back into the room, studying it expertly. The camera was set into the ventilation grid behind him, he knew. Then there'd be a microphone in the light socket. And another concealed in the over-large locking mechanism on the door. And it would be easy to have inserted another monitor in the edging around the table at which they would sit. Cuthbertson would have had it done, he guessed. The man liked electronic gadgetry.

Welcome the invention of the tape recorder, mused Charlie, his interest waning. He could still remember the days of silent note-takers and the irritable disagreements after a six-hour debriefing between operatives trying to remember precisely what had been said.

He heard footsteps and turned to the door expectantly, looking forward to the meeting with the Russian.

He liked Alexei Berenkov, he decided.

The Russian entered smiling, a shambling man with a bulging stomach, a tumble of coal-black hair and ready-to-laugh eyes set in a florid, over-indulged face. The cover of a wine importer, which had allowed frequent trips abroad, was well chosen, thought Charlie. Berenkov had had his own private wine bin at the Ritz and Claridge's and a permanent box at Ascot.

‘Charlie!' greeted the Russian, expansively. He spread his arms and moved forward. Muffin made to shake hands, but Berenkov swept on, enveloping him in a hug. It wasn't a sham, remembered Charlie. They'd kept the man under observation for six months, before even beginning the concentrated investigation. Berenkov was a naturally exuberant extrovert, using the very attention he constantly attracted as a shield behind which to hide. Charlie stood with the man's arms around him, feeling foolish.

Thank God Snare and Harrison weren't there.

‘It's good to see you, Alexei,' he said, disentangling himself. He looked beyond, to the warder who stood uncertainly inside the door, frowning at the greeting.

‘You can go,' dismissed Charlie. Cuthbertson had arranged the meeting with his child-like interpretation of psychology and insisted just the two of them be in the room.

‘I'm quite safe,' Berenkov told the official. He thought the assurance amusing and shouted with laughter, slapping Charlie's shoulder. The warder hesitated, uncertainly. After several minutes, he shuffled away, flat-footedly. He'd stay very close, guessed Charlie. Cuthbertson would insist on a report from the man, despite all the recording apparatus.

Berenkov turned back, still smiling.

‘The only thing missing is some wine,' apologised the Russian, playing the host. ‘It's a pity. This year I'd selected some really sensational Aloxe Corton.'

Charlie smiled back, enjoying the performance.

‘So they've sent you to find out what you can, thinking I'll be off-guard after the trial. And probably shocked by the sentence,' attacked the Russian, suddenly. The smile had gone, like a light being extinguished.

Charlie shrugged, sitting in one of the padded chairs by the table. Berenkov was very clever, he decided.

‘T'm sorry,' said Charlie, in genuine embarrassment. ‘I know it's bloody ridiculous. But they wouldn't listen.'

Berenkov moved to the table, glancing up at the heavy light fitting.

‘Probably,' agreed Charlie, following Berenkov's look and recalling his earlier thoughts. ‘It's the most obvious place.'

‘Who are they, these fools who employ you?' demanded Berenkov.

Charlie settled comfortably. This was going to be enjoyable, he decided.

‘It's no good, Alexei,' he said, wanting to prolong it. ‘I made the point, saying you were obviously a professional who wouldn't break, even now. But they insisted. I've said I'm sorry.'