Charlie M by Brian Freemantle Page B

said, Charlie,’ he urged, reaching across the table and seizing the other man’s wrist. ‘Be careful … even though they’ve pushed you aside, be careful.’
    Charlie freed his wrist, embarrassed.
    â€˜I’ll be all right,’ he said. He sounded like a child protesting his bravery in the dark, he thought.
    The Russian stared around the interview room.
    â€˜Don’t ever let yourself get put in jail,’ he said, very seriously.
    â€˜I won’t,’ agreed Charlie, too easily.
    â€˜I mean it,’ insisted Berenkov. ‘If you get jailed, Charlie, your lot wouldn’t bother to get you out. Kill yourself rather than get caught.’
    Charlie frowned at the statement. He would have thought Berenkov could have withstood the loss of freedom better than this. He felt suddenly frightened and wanted to leave the prison.
    â€˜Come again?’ pleaded Berenkov.
    â€˜If I can,’ said Charlie, as he always did. At the door he turned, on impulse. Berenkov was standing in the middle of the room, shoulders bowed, gazing after him. There was a look of enormous sadness on his face.
    â€˜Charlie,’ he told himself, waiting in du Cane Road for the bus. ‘You’re getting too arrogant. And arrogance breeds carelessness.’
    A woman in the queue looked at him curiously. She’d seen his lips move, Charlie realised.
    â€˜So it didn’t work?’ queried Braley, perched on the windowsill of the room that had been made available to them in the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.
    â€˜No,’ snapped Ruttgers. His face burned with anger. ‘Pompous bugger spent most of the time trying to teach me how to eat oysters.’
    Braley frowned, trying to understand, but said nothing.
    â€˜We can’t do anything unless they let us in,’ said the Moscow Resident.
    â€˜I know,’ agreed Ruttgers, slowly.
    â€˜So what now?’ asked Braley.
    Ruttgers smiled, an expression entirely devoid of humour.
    â€˜Lean on them,’ said the Director. ‘In every way.’
    Braley waited, expectantly.
    â€˜And if something started happening to their operatives,’ continued Ruttgers, ‘then they’d need assistance, wouldn’t they?’
    â€˜Yes,’ agreed Braley. ‘They would.’
    Ruttgers, he thought, looking at the mild little man, was a rare sort of bastard. It was right to be frightened of him.

(8)
    General Valery Kalenin entered the Leipzig Convention Hall at precisely 11.15 a.m. on March 11. Harrison noted the exact time, determined to prepare an impeccable report to Cuthbertson on his first absolutely solo operation. A bubble of excitement formed in his stomach and he bunched his hands in his pockets, trying to curtail the shaking.
    The Russian was in plain clothes, a neat, fussy little figure who appeared to listen constantly, but say hardly anything. The deference towards him was very obvious, Harrison saw.
    The General moved in the middle of a body of men, three of whom Harrison had seen during the previous two days at the Fair. The recognition annoyed him: he hadn’t isolated them as secret policemen. One had got quite drunk at the opening ceremony and Harrison had marked the three as relaxing communist businessmen. The episode would have been a ploy, he realised now, a clever attempt to tempt people into unconsidered words or action. The mistake worried him. Charles Muffin would have probably recognised them.
    Kalenin appeared in no hurry, hesitating at exhibition stands and closely examining products. Any questions, Harrison noted, were usually addressed through one of the other people in the party, so avoiding direct contact.
    Harrison’s entry documents described him as an export specialist in the Department of Trade and Industry, enabling him free movement to any British exhibition. Impatiently, he shifted between the stalls and platforms, accepting the nods and smiles of recognition; with the