Comrade Charlie (6 page)

Krogh caught Peggy's eye when he looked up one time. She was flushed and smiling but her face was slightly broken up, as if she were going to cry. Pride, he knew. Like Joey and Peter were looking proudly at him, although not near tears. It was a fantastic feeling.

He kept his own speech fittingly modest and got the loudest applause when he declared that year's eight per cent dividend increase with the forecast that it would double if not go higher in the immediately succeeding years. A man named Freidham, whom Krogh knew to be one of his strongest critics, had to give the speech of congratulations, which was a particularly good moment.

The national media had been invited, even international magazines like
Time
and
Newsweek
and the television majors like CBS and NBC and ABC, so a press conference was convened. His father-in-law was a bad performer in front of cameras and lights so Krogh led here, carefully remaining within the Washington-imposed limits but going along with self-answering questions like ‘new American era in space' and ‘nothing like it since Kennedy said reach for the stars'.

The stockholders' meeting had been held in one of the conference rooms at the Fairmont and a private room reserved for the celebration lunch afterwards. Peggy sat next to him and whispered how marvellous it all was and there were toasts in imported champagne. Krogh let himself relax but remained sober because he had an insecure person's fear of ever losing control. He played his own private, little kid's game by constantly smiling at Freidham and his coterie, so that they had to smile back as if they admired him.

Krogh announced that he intended going back to the plant, which gave him an hour for Barbara to prove how grateful she was for the new car, blue again, and Peter agreed to drive his mother home to the Monterey estate. Krogh promised to get back early for the family dinner that Peggy wanted to give him with both sons and daughters-in-law and the grandchildren, as well.

He stood in the looped forecourt of the hotel, gesturing them off ahead of him, and was turning to call for his own limousine when he became conscious of someone close beside him.

‘Mr Krogh?' said a voice politely.

‘Yes.'

‘I wonder if I might talk with you?'

One of the journalists, Krogh guessed: a patient guy who'd hung around all this time to try to improve upon his story. ‘Sure,' said Krogh, staying modest. ‘What about?'

‘Cindy,' said Alexandr Petrin. ‘And Barbara.'

Petrin insisted they sit in the huge lobby, a cavern of a place, full of people some of whom recognized him from all the fuss of the morning and smiled and Krogh had to smile back and try to appear unconcerned when what he really wanted to do was throw up and maybe the other thing or even both. Not that there would have been anything there because a huge hand had reached in and scooped out his guts so all that was left was a numb emptiness. He wanted a drink, just liquid, not necessarily booze, but he didn't think he could get anything here in the lobby: he was too frightened to try, anyway.

‘They're nice girls,' said Petrin conversationally. ‘Lucky, too. You're very generous.' He slid across the table between them a manila packet he took from his pocket.

Krogh stared down at the envelope, making no attempt to pick it up. ‘What is it?'

‘Photographs,' identified Petrin. ‘Photographs of the sales contract in your name for the condo at Malibu and the apartment just over the hill here, in San Francisco. Copies, too, of the purchase agreements for the two VW cars and of the registration details, both in your name. Pictures of Cindy and Barbara, too. With the cars and with you. Quite a few of Barbara without clothes on, posing like she does. Fantastic tits, hasn't she? And the charge card facilities, in your name, at Saks and Nieman Marcus.'

Krogh swallowed, trying to get his head in order. Jesus, didn't they have him! The ever-producing milch cow who'd have to go on delivering as long as they kept milking. He said: ‘You with both of the blackmailing bitches or just one?'

‘I'm with neither of them,' said Petrin. ‘And neither of them has the slightest idea that I know about you.'

‘We've got to discuss this!' said Krogh urgently. ‘What sort of money are we talking about here?'

‘No money at all,' said Petrin simply.

Krogh stared across the small table, not speaking, and Petrin gazed back, not speaking either. Then the American said: ‘So what do you want?'

‘The best, for both of us,' said Petrin. ‘Which for you means getting the cover story in
Newsweek
and staying just as you are now, the admired and respected chairman and a happily married man with a couple of swingers you can go on nailing whenever you feel like it.'

‘And in return?'

‘I want access to all – and copies of – every part of the Star Wars vehicle that you're making. Everything, you understand? Every bolt, screw, wire and clip. Drawings, specifications, plans…the lot.'

‘Jesus!' said Krogh in sagged awareness. ‘Oh Jesus!'

‘It'll work just fine, believe me.'

‘No,' refused Krogh, striving to sound strong. ‘I won't…can't…'

‘You need to think about it,' said Petrin, unworried by the refusal. He pushed the envelope further towards Krogh. ‘Take these, please. I've got lots more copies. Look at it all and think about the alternatives…the humiliation and the scandal…' The Russian took from his pocket a card bearing a single telephone number. He said: ‘You call that when you've had your think.'

Reluctantly Krogh picked up both the card and the envelope but then suddenly sniggered. He said: ‘It's not going to work, you know!'

‘Why not, Mr Krogh?'

‘We don't have all the contract. One of the most essential parts of the missile body shell, the reinforced resin carbon fibre, is being moulded quite separately in England!'

Charlie had set his own burglar alarm system, like he always did, leaving just inside the flat doors carefully arranged letters any intruder would have disarranged – which they weren't. He still checked the other precautions, doors apparently left ajar, things placed in remembered positions in cupboards and drawers, before finally deciding there'd been no entry while he'd been away.

The place smelled stale, a locked-up-and-left smell, and he opened windows and squirted an air freshener here and there.

There was quite a lot of mail in addition to his burglar precautions. There were two separate invitations to have his windows double glazed and a communication from
Reader's Digest
assuring him he'd been chosen over millions of others not so lucky for a chance to win £100,000: there was a mystery gift simply for replying.

His mother's letter was last, the writing spiky and in places impossible to read, cramped on a sheet torn from a lined exercise book. He tried the parts that did appear intelligible but quickly gave up, because they didn't really make sense. The matron must have guessed he would have difficulty because she'd enclosed a typewritten note saying she knew he would be pleased to know that after so long his mother was showing protracted periods of lucidity and that the old lady would appreciate a visit. The last had been three months before, she reminded him unnecessarily: his mother frequently asked for him by name. And there could be some changes to his mother's State pension he might like to hear about.

Charlie doubted if the recovery were as good as the matron indicated but it would have been nice to think his mother was emerging at last from her closed-off, shuttered world. There was the whole weekend to find out.

There could, of course, be no question of Harkness disclosing his confident expectation of permanent promotion to anyone, because Harkness was a protectively reserved man, although he was sure he could have trusted Hubert Witherspoon with the secret. Witherspoon was a good and loyal colleague, which was only to be expected. They'd both graduated from Balliol, although at different times: by coincidence they were today both wearing their Oxford school ties. He said: ‘They're sure?'

Witherspoon was a languid, superior man who hadn't conducted the interview but debriefed the men afterwards. He said: ‘It wasn't easy to make sense of a lot of what she said, apparently. But she definitely didn't know anything about what he did in Moscow.'

‘A pity,' said Harkness. ‘A great pity.'

7

There is a part of the Test valley, near Stockbridge in Hampshire, where the river winds back upon itself, as if it's lost and can't find its way, the water sluggish and uncertain. The banks and then the cow meadows are tiered away towards the higher levels, where the trees grow like sparse hair. Near the very top there is a cleft formed by a whim of nature, like a giant footprint, a protected, wrapped-around place to look down upon the view set out for approval below. The nursing home was safe and cosy there, forgotten about like most of the people in it. There were stories that on a clear day it was possible to look across the valley and pick out the distant spire of Salisbury Cathedral proving how tall it was, but Charlie had never seen it and he'd visited his mother on quite a few very clear days. He tried this time and failed: perhaps he wasn't standing in the right spot.

He'd telephoned ahead and arranged the most convenient time, so the matron was expecting him. Her name was Hewlett: her signature made it impossible to identify the christian name, apart from the initial letter E, but then she was not a person to be addressed familiarly. She was not particularly tall but very wide. The large and tightly corseted bust was more a prow than a bosom, parting the waves before her, and she always walked with thrust-forward urgency, as if she were late. She invariably wore, like now, a blue uniform of her own design with a crimped and starched headpiece and an expression of fierce severity.

‘You said ten,' she accused at once, loud-voiced. It was fifteen minutes past.

‘Bad traffic,' apologized Charlie, unoffended. She was one of those brusque-mannered women of inordinate love and kindness towards all the old people for whom she cared.

‘Your mother is a great deal better, as I told you in my note,' said the matron at once. ‘She still drifts a little but she's much more aware than she's been for a long time.'

‘You trying some new treatment or drug?'

The formidable woman shook her head. ‘It happens. We've just got to hope it lasts. I'm glad you were able to come as quickly as you did.'

So was he, thought Charlie. For more than two years now his mother's senility had locked her away in a dream world no one could enter. ‘Does she know I'm coming?'

The matron nodded. ‘She's had her hair washed. Don't forget to tell her it looks nice.'

‘Any limit on how long I can stay?'

‘As long as you like,' said the woman. ‘Not a lot of relatives come: some of the others will enjoy a different face, as well.'

Charlie followed the woman, tender to battleship, in a surge through the nursing home. It was a conversion from the long-ago status symbol of a wool millionaire when men became millionaires in the wool trade. There had been the minimum of alteration, little more than stairway lifts and door widening for wheelchairs. All the panelling and flooring was the original wood and the huge floor-to-ceiling verandah doors were retained in the drawing rooms, so that the occupants could easily get outside when it was warm enough, which it was today. The place smelled of polish and fresh air, with no trace of old-people, decay or clinical antiseptic anywhere.

His mother was just outside the furthest room, raised into a sitting position by a back support in a bed equipped with large wheels to make it easier to manoeuvre. Her pure white hair was rigidly waved and she'd arranged the pillows to end at her shoulders so that it did not become disarranged. There was the faintest touch of rouge, giving her cheeks some colour, and a very light lipstick as well. She wore a crocheted bed jacket over a floral-print nightdress and was sitting in calm patience with her hands, black-corded with veins, on the bed before her. She was wearing a wedding ring she'd bought herself when he was about eighteen but which he couldn't remember her using for quite a while.

‘Hello Mum,' greeted Charlie.

‘Hello Charlie,' she said, in immediate recognition. It was the first occasion for a long time that she'd known him. He kissed her, aware of a furtive audience on the verandah and further away, from groups on the lawns.

Charlie offered the box he carried and said: ‘Chocolates. Plain. The sort you like.'

‘Hard centres? I do like hard centres.'

‘At least half,' promised Charlie. He'd forgotten about that.

‘I'll give the soft ones away to the silly old buggers who haven't got any teeth.'

His mother didn't have many herself but she was proud of what there were. There was a chair considerately near the bed. Charlie pulled it closer and as he sat she extended her hand, to be held. Again it was in full view of everyone. Charlie said: ‘How are you, then?'

‘Going into Salisbury on the bus on Friday,' said his mother, who had been bedridden for almost a year. ‘Do some shopping.'

‘That'll be nice,' said Charlie easily.

‘With George.'

‘George?'

His mother made a vague gesture towards a group of mostly men near a grey fir, on a far lawn. ‘George,' she said. ‘Only just arrived. He likes me.'

‘Careful you don't get into trouble,' warned Charlie.

‘I need company, with your father gone and all.'

‘Sure you do,' said Charlie. The skin of his mother's hand felt thin, like paper.

‘He was very fond of you, your dad. Remember when he used to take you fishing, on that river down there? And to football matches?'

‘Of course I do,' said Charlie, to whom none of it had ever happened.

‘William,' said the old lady, producing a name like a rabbit out of a hat. ‘Always William: never Bill. Nice man. Worked on the railways.' She began to pick with her free hand at the cellophane wrapping of the chocolate box and Charlie helped her, opening it fully. She touched several with a wavering finger, as if she were counting, before finally making her choice. ‘Those others didn't bring any chocolates,' she said.