‘Bastard!’ shouted Charlie. The biggest catch in the history of catches, he thought.
‘Yes,’ agreed Wilson, mildly. ‘Because I have to be. Because the prize is worth every sort of venality and pressure I’m capable of showing.’
‘What is it?’ said Charlie.
‘You’ll do it?’
‘I haven’t any choice, have I?’
‘Yes, you have,’ pointed out the Director.
Twelve years, two weeks and three days, remembered Charlie. ‘Acceptable choice,’ he qualified.
‘So you’ll do it?’
‘I’ll try. I don’t know if I can do it until I know fully what it is.’
Wilson smiled, appreciating the professionalism. ‘There’ll only be this one chance for any sort of briefing,’ he warned. ‘So make sure you understand everything completely. About three months ago there was an approach to the embassy, in Moscow. A first secretary retrieved his coat from the cloakroom at the Bolshoi and in the inside pocket there was a letter. Unsigned. Offering intelligence. And there was something else, part of a memorandum of a Politburo meeting that no one in the West had even suspected of being held, discussing the normalisation of relations with China. We were able, later, to establish through Peking that such approaches were being made.’
‘So it’s reliable stuff?’ probed Charlie. Christ it was good to be involved again; to be working.
‘Every time,’ said Wilson. ‘We’ve had three more messages concerning that meeting, plus some material from the space exploration centre at Baikonur. And there’s been crop yield figures confirmed from aerial satellite and details of improved SS20 silo construction around Moscow.’
‘I don’t understand what you want me to do,’ said Charlie.
‘We don’t know the source,’ admitted Wilson. ‘The letter, on that occasion at the Bolshoi, identified a drop. That first time it was a telephone kiosk near the Lenina metro station. That pick-up designated a subsequent drop. And that’s how it’s gone on, ever since.’
‘Blind drops,’ said Charlie. ‘Cautious.’
‘The last message said whoever it was wanted defection. For himself – and we’re assuming it’s male although we don’t know – and his family,’ disclosed Wilson. ‘The message said that everything we’d got so far was to prove his value. And we think that value is something like the most accurate intelligence we’ve managed to get out for years. The message also said that what he’d bring out with him would show everything he had provided thus far to be practically inconsequential.’
‘So help him across,’ said Charlie, simply.
‘I told you we don’t know who he is,’ said Wilson. ‘And like you said, he’s cautious. One of the most frightening pieces of information was the extent and the degree that our own embassy is under observation. And of the identification of our people. He won’t make a direct approach, for fear of interception. We’ve got to make contact with him. And with someone the Russians don’t know. Or suspect.’
‘Me?’ said Charlie, emptily.
‘You,’ said Wilson.
‘But how, for Christ’s sake!’ said Charlie. ‘That’s impossible.’
Wilson shook his head, in refusal. ‘You’d be well received, after what you did,’ he said. ‘Accepted. Berenkov’s back, you know. Attached to Dzerzhinsky Square itself, according to our information. Maybe you’d even get to him.’
‘So what?’
‘The contact instructions are quite explicit,’ said Wilson. ‘The west door of the GUM department store, on the third Thursday of any month. Your identification has to be a guide book and a copy of Pravda , the paper inside the book, carried always in your left hand. There won’t be any open approach, not until he’s absolutely sure.’
‘And how will I be sure?’
‘If I lived in Moscow, I don’t think I’d care what the weather was like,’ quoted Wilson. ‘It’s Chekhov. Your response is “People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy”.’
‘Berenkov used Chekhov,’ remembered Charlie, at once. ‘Took his codes from The Cherry Orchard and Uncle Vanya. ’
‘Yes,’ said Wilson. ‘We had it personally carried out – together with the message saying he wanted to defect – to prevent any monitor interception.’
‘Could it be Berenkov?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s practically impossible.’
‘But not completely,’ said Wilson.
‘There’ll have to be a time limit.’
‘Six months,’ suggested Wilson.
‘Then what?’
‘Just walk into the British embassy and demand repatriation.’
‘What if there’s been no contact?’
‘He’ll be blown, I’d guess.’
‘There must be something else!’ insisted Charlie, desperately.
‘We think it’s headquarters,’ said the Director.
‘Why?’ seized Charlie, eager for anything.
‘The range,’ said Wilson. ‘Politburo meetings, Baikonur, crop yields. That’s the sort of stuff that would be compartmented, except at headquarters.’
‘And even there not co-ordinated at a low level,’ said Charlie.
Wilson smiled again, in further appreciation. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I think it’s Dzerzhinsky Square itself and I think it’s high level. Very high level.’
‘What if I make contact?’ said Charlie. ‘What then?’
‘See what he wants, how he wants it. And agree to anything. This is too good to let go. Tell him we’ll guarantee safety, homes, schools for any kids… whatever.’
Charlie looked around the office of the prison governor. ‘What if I’m caught?’ he said.
‘You’ve been caught, Charlie,’ reminded Wilson. ‘Don’t be again.’
‘It took long enough,’ said Berenkov, looking down at the transcribed messages laid out on Kalenin’s desk.
‘Too long,’ said the chairman. ‘Look at it!’
For an hour Berenkov was silent, reading through the information. At last he said, ‘It’s got to be from inside here.’
‘I’d already decided that,’ said Kalenin.
Chapter Eight
Wilson evolved the cover story, anticipating that in any nervousness preceding the break Sampson might become suspicious. The prison records – to which the administration trusties might have access – was endorsed with a not proven verdict on the accusation of attempting to steal the knife but with a sentence of a week in solitary confinement for insubordination to prison officials, particularly the governor. Isolating Charlie gave the opportunity for a further, short briefing. Wilson had Charlie relate back to him all the contact procedures, to ensure Charlie fully understood, and actually provided a copy of Three Sisters for Charlie to read.
‘I still think you’re screwing me,’ protested Charlie, as the Director prepared to leave.
‘What would you do, if the circumstances were reversed?’ demanded Wilson.
‘The same,’ conceded Charlie.
Wilson nodded. ‘This is a Heaven sent opportunity,’ he said. ‘I’ll fulfil every undertaking and promise, when it comes off.’
‘If it comes off,’ qualified Charlie.
‘Everyone says you were good, Charlie. The best,’ said the Director.
When he returned to the cell at the end of the week Charlie realised it was a reputation he was going to have to live up to. Sampson’s attitude was predominantly one of anger but Charlie detected an uncertainty, too, an uncertainty that easily could have become the suspicion the Director feared.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ demanded the man.
‘Nothing was proven,’ said Charlie, defensively.
‘I know nothing was proven,’ said Sampson, with sighing impatience. ‘That isn’t the point. Why draw attention to yourself?’
‘Thought the knife might come in useful,’ said Charlie, feigning sullenness. So Sampson had checked it out, through a trusty. Wilson was clever to have foreseen that.
‘So you did try to get a knife?’
Charlie grinned, as if welcoming the chance to prove himself. ‘Course I bloody did.’