Charlie M by Brian Freemantle

flatteringly, holding Cuthbertson’s eyes in a gaze of honesty. ‘We don’t have to be coy with each other, surely?’
    Cuthbertson speared several marinated kidneys, filling his mouth so he could avoid an immediate reaction. The other man’s directness flustered him, as it was intended to do.
    â€˜There is a development in the East which is quite interesting,’ conceded the Briton, at last. He sipped his Château Latour reflectively. ‘And I’m sure you won’t be offended,’ he hurried on, disclosing his apprehension, ‘when I say I don’t see that at the moment it affects you in the slightest …’
    He paused, growing bolder.
    â€˜â€¦ There is an excellent liaison between us, as we have agreed. If anything transpires, you’ll hear about it through the normal channels.’
    Bloody prig, thought Ruttgers, smiling broadly in open friendship. He hadn’t believed people talked of ‘normal channels’ any more.
    â€˜Sir Henry,’ he placated, let’s not misunderstand each other.’
    â€˜I don’t think there’s any misunderstanding,’ insisted Cuthbertson. The game was swinging back his way, he decided.
    Ruttgers spread his hands, recognising the cul-de-sac.
    â€˜The Kalenin affair is spectacular,’ he announced, selecting a different path and trying to shock the man into concessions.
    Cuthbertson curbed any concern this time.
    â€˜It really is too much for one service,’ said the American.
    â€˜I can recommend the Stilton,’ said Cuthbertson, twisting away. ‘With a glass of Taylors, perhaps?’
    Ruttgers nodded his acceptance, feeling the anger surface. Arrogant, stupid old bugger. How, he wondered, desperately, would the professional soldier react to the suggestion of higher authority?
    â€˜I have it on the direct instructions of the President himself,’ disclosed Ruttgers, grandly, ‘that I can offer the full and complete services of the C.I.A. on this operation;’
    â€˜That’s very nice,’ replied Cuthbertson.
    The American was unsure whether he was referring to the offer or the cheese.
    â€˜It would be an absolute disaster for the West if anything went wrong,’ bullied Ruttgers.
    â€˜I’m quite confident nothing will,’ said Cuthbertson, dabbing his lips with the linen napkin. The two men sat looking at each other.
    â€˜I shall be staying in London for some time,’ said Ruttgers, maintaining the smile. ‘Now that we’ve opened up this personal contact between our two services, I think it should continue.’
    â€˜Oh,’ prompted Cuthbertson, uncertainly.
    â€˜By regular meetings,’ expanded Ruttgers.
    â€˜Of course,’ agreed the British Director, surprised that the other man had capitulated so easily. ‘I’d like that.’
    And he would, decided Cuthbertson, leaving the club for his waiting car. People appeared remarkably easy to handle: this job wasn’t going to be as difficult as he had feared, after all.
    He smiled, settling back against the leather upholstery. It had been game, set and match, he decided.
    The greetings weren’t the same any more, recognised Charlie, as Berenkov entered the interview room. The Russian’s exuberance was strained, as if he were constantly having to force his attitude and recall the exaggerated gestures. His skin had that grey, shining look of a man deprived of fresh air for a long period, and the familiar mane of hair was flecked with grey, too. The prison denims were freshly laundered and pressed, but the hands that lay flaccid on the table between them were rough, the once immaculate nails chipped and rimmed with dirt.
    â€˜It’s good of you to come so often, Charlie,’ thanked Berenkov.
    Since his return from holiday, Charlie had visited the spy every week: the decline in that time could be almost measured on a graph, thought the Briton.
    â€˜How is