Charlie M by Brian Freemantle Page A

it?’ Charlie asked, concerned.
    Berenkov shrugged. He sat hunched over the table, as if he were guarding something between his fingers. Charlie saw the palm of his right hand was nicotine-stained where he smoked in the prison fashion, cigarette cupped inwards against detection. A year ago, thought Charlie, Berenkov had had a gold holder for the Havana Havanas. The Russian appeared to notice the dirtiness of his nails for the first time and began trying to pick away the dirt.
    â€˜It’s not easy to adjust to a place like this, Charlie.’
    â€˜You’ll get used to it,’ said Charlie, immediately offended by his own platitude.
    Berenkov looked directly at him for the first time, a sad expression.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ apologised Charlie. He should be careful to avoid banal remarks, he decided.
    â€˜What’s happening outside?’ asked Berenkov.
    â€˜It’s a rotten spring,’ replied Charlie. ‘More like winter – bloody cold and wet.’
    â€˜I used to like the English winters,’ said Berenkov, nostalgically. ‘Some Sundays I used to go to Bournemouth and walk along the seafront, watching the sand driven over the promenade by the sea.’
    Bournemouth, noted Charlie. Too far for a casual, afternoon stroll. So Berenkov had had a source at the Navy’s Underwater Weapons Establishment at Portland. He’d have to submit a report to Cuthbertson: they thought they had plugged the leak by the arrest of Houghton and Gee after the detection of Lonsdale, back in the 1960s.
    â€˜You’ve been taken off the active rota,’ challenged Berenkov, unexpectedly.
    Charlie smiled. The Russian wasn’t completely numbed by his imprisonment, he thought. But it was a fairly obvious deduction from the frequency of the visits.
    â€˜I suppose so,’ admitted Charlie.
    â€˜What happened?’
    â€˜Face didn’t fit,’ reported the Briton. ‘There was a new regime: I upset them.’
    The Russian carefully examined the man sitting before him, easily able to understand how he could have offended the British caste system.
    Charlie Muffin was the sort of man whose shirt tail always escaped from his trousers, like a rude tongue.
    Apart from the flat-vowelled accent, Charlie wore his fair hair too long and without any style, flopped back from his forehead. He perspired easily and thus rarely looked washed and the fading collars of his shirts sat uncomfortably over a haphazardly knotted tie, so it was possible to see that the top button was missing. It was a department store suit, bagged and shapeless from daily wearing, the pockets bulging like a schoolboy’s with unseen things stored in readiness for a use that never arose.
    Yet about this man, decided the Russian, there was the indefinable ambience of ruthless toughness he had detected among the long-term prisoners with whom he was having daily contact. In Charlie it was cloaked by an over-all impression of down-at-heel shabbiness. But it was definitely there.
    It was almost impossible to believe the man possessed such an incredible mind, thought Berenkov.
    â€˜Is it a change for the good?’ asked the Russian.
    The recorders were probably still operating, thought Charlie, despite the lack of interest now in Berenkov.
    â€˜They’ve a different approach,’ sidestepped Charlie. ‘Very regimental.’
    â€˜Soldiers can’t run spy systems,’ declared Berenkov, positively, picking up the clue that Charlie had offered.
    â€˜You’re a General,’ said Charlie. ‘And so is Kalenin.’
    â€˜Honorary titles, really,’ said the Russian, easily. He seemed to brighten. ‘More for the salary scale and emoluments than for anything else.’
    â€˜Just like the capitalist societies,’ picked up Charlie, noting the change of attitude. ‘Every job has got its perks.’
    The Russian became serious again.
    â€˜You haven’t forgotten what I