Kalenin shook his head. ‘There isn’t a reply,’ he said. ‘After that there’s usually nothing left to say.’
Berenkov refused to be depressed by the encounter with Kalenin. The other man had always been a headquarters planner immersed in headquarters politics, never an active overseas operative having to decide on the ground whether to take great risks to achieve even greater success. He might not know Georgian folklore but there was an axiom from his once adoptive Britain which appealed to him and by which he had ruled most of his operational life: Chance governs all. Berenkov saw no significance in it being from Milton’s Paradise Lost.
Berenkov had one last piece to fit into his intricate jigsaw, a piece so important that without it there would be no final picture at all. Natalia entered Berenkov’s office with her customary polite reserve, not sitting until she was invited and deferring always to her controller’s authority.
‘Another overseas assignment, Comrade Major,’ announced Berenkov. This time we want you to go to England.’
Natalia was glad she was sitting because for the briefest moment there was a sweep of dizziness and she was unsure whether it would have showed if she had been standing. Without sufficient thought she said: ‘I will look forward to that, Comrade General.’
‘Will you!’ seized Berenkov.
‘I look forward to every assignment involving my new function,’ said Natalia, recovering. Dear God, could it ever be possible!
The convenient event chosen by Berenkov to get Natalia to England was the country’s premier aeronautical display, the Farnborough Air Show, which in itself was something of a coincidence considering the parallel operation to obtain space technology. There was a further coincidence in that Berenkov made his arrangements to publish the names and a communal photograph of the attending delegation of which Natalia was to form part on the day that Charlie Muffin returned from his investigation at the Isle of Wight aerospace factory.
Charlie Muffin was still uneasy.
‘I find it difficult to accept there was sufficient reason to stay as long as you did,’ declared Harkness.
As always there was nowhere for Charlie to sit, but Charlie had gone beyond being annoyed by the man’s petty childishness. Far away, over Harkness’ shoulder, Charlie saw an advertising air balloon making its stately progress above the wavering line of the Thames: the distance was too great to make out the name of the product being promoted. He said: ‘In my judgement there was.’
‘What?’ demanded the acting Director General.
No, thought Charlie, positively. He was taking a risk but that was nothing new and at the moment he didn’t quite know the new game Harkness was playing. With stiff formality he said: ‘I considered there was reasonable enough suspicion to maintain a period of surveillance upon someone who had contravened security procedure.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘During the time I observed him he did not behave in a suspicious manner,’ said Charlie.
‘So you had a holiday!’
Maybe he should have taken off his shoes and socks and paddled, thought Charlie: wasn’t seawater supposed to be good for painful feet? He said: ‘It was not a holiday.’
‘I shall require a full, written report.’
‘I know the regulation.’
‘And the fullest receipted support for all expenses.’
‘Actually I was surprised how expensive everything was,’ said Charlie, just to antagonize the other man. The air balloon was closer now and Charlie saw it was advertising what was described as a revolutionary new chocolate bar. He wondered if the centre would be hard, like his mother always demanded.
‘Everything is to be receipted,’ repeated Harkness.
‘What’s the latest medical report on Sir Alistair Wilson?’ asked Charlie, with open disrespect.
‘I don’t consider it proper to engage in that sort of conversation with you,’ refused Harkness.
Asshole, thought Charlie.
‘He was openly insolent! Challenging me!’ complained the acting Director General.
‘He’s arrogant,’ concurred Witherspoon. ‘And it’s going to be his arrogance that will be his undoing.’
‘One slip,’ Harkness promised himself vehemently. ‘That’s all he needs to make. Just one slip.’
22
Today it would all be over. After today he could put it all behind him: try to forget about it. That it ever happened. Emil Krogh stopped the run of thought, physically shaking his head as he took the sliproad off the Bay Shore Freeway and started negotiating the narrow streets towards the final meeting with the Russian. Krogh knew he’d never be able to imagine it hadn’t happened. It would always be with him, somewhere in his mind. How people would have laughed at him, sneering, calling him things like a horny old goat if it had ever come out about the girls: getting dumped from the company and dumped by Peggy. Krogh shuddered at the horror of what might have been. He’d done the only sensible, possible thing. Thank God it was all over at last: the end of a bad dream. Now it was clearing up time, Krogh determined, positively. Barbara would be out of the apartment in a week or two, so he could sell that. Sell her car, too. Soon – next week maybe – he’d kiss off Cindy and dispose of everything in Los Angeles. Stop being a stupid son-of-a-bitch and settle down with Peggy. He’d come damned close to falling right off the edge of the cliff and it wasn’t going to happen again.
Krogh detected the green of McLaren Park ahead and started looking for a parking meter. He tried on Burrows, which would have put him close to the entrance he wanted, but there were no spaces so he had to make the turn on to Felton, where he was lucky. He hesitated, putting the money in, unsure how much time he needed. Not long, he decided: there was nothing he had to say to Petrin except goodbye and it would only take a second to do that and part with the last of the blueprints. Over, he thought again: finished. Krogh paid for half an hour and walked back towards the park, entering through the gate Petrin had designated and finding the bench where he had been told to sit. He did so, staring around, wondering who or where the watchers were who always ensured the meetings were safe. There were a lot of people about, strolling or walking dogs or jogging. There were a group of kids playing bad baseball on a makeshift diamond over to his right and Krogh thought he heard the crack of an iron against a golf ball but guessed he must have been mistaken because the municipal course was some way away, too far for the sound to have carried.
When Petrin approached it was from the direction of the course. Krogh saw the man early, walking without any apparent urgency or recognition, not even when he got quite close. When Petrin reached the bench he sat with his legs thrust out and head tilted slightly back, so that his face was to the sun.
‘This is the sort of day that makes you feel good to be alive, isn’t it?’ clichéd the Russian.
‘I guess so,’ said Krogh. It was a good day but Krogh knew the way he felt came more from this being the last meeting between them. He hadn’t warned the other man and was looking forward to making the announcement.
‘So how are things?’ said Petrin conversationally.
‘From today they’re going to be terrific,’ said Krogh.
Petrin straightened slightly, looking sideways at the American. ‘How’s that?’
Instead of replying Krogh took the package from inside his jacket and handed it along the bench. He said: ‘Here it is. The last one.’ There was a feeling of satisfaction, but not as much as he’d expected.
Petrin came fully upright now. ‘You mean I’ve got’ it all! There’s no more?’
‘Nothing,’ declared Krogh. ‘We’re through.’ He had a sudden urge to give Petrin some idea of how he felt towards him, like telling the man to kiss his ass or go fuck himself or something.