Comrade Charlie by Brian Freemantle

he had an insecure person’s fear of ever losing control. He played his own private, little kid’s game by constantly smiling at Freidham and his coterie, so that they had to smile back as if they admired him.
    Krogh announced that he intended going back to the plant, which gave him an hour for Barbara to prove how grateful she was for the new car, blue again, and Peter agreed to drive his mother home to the Monterey estate. Krogh promised to get back early for the family dinner that Peggy wanted to give him with both sons and daughters-in-law and the grandchildren, as well.
    He stood in the looped forecourt of the hotel, gesturing them off ahead of him, and was turning to call for his own limousine when he became conscious of someone close beside him.
    â€˜Mr Krogh?’ said a voice politely.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I wonder if I might talk with you?’
    One of the journalists, Krogh guessed: a patient guy who’d hung around all this time to try to improve upon his story. ‘Sure,’ said Krogh, staying modest. ‘What about?’
    â€˜Cindy,’ said Alexandr Petrin. ‘And Barbara.’
    Petrin insisted they sit in the huge lobby, a cavern of a place, full of people some of whom recognized him from all the fuss of the morning and smiled and Krogh had to smile back and try to appear unconcerned when what he really wanted to do was throw up and maybe the other thing or even both. Not that there would have been anything there because a huge hand had reached in and scooped out his guts so all that was left was a numb emptiness. He wanted a drink, just liquid, not necessarily booze, but he didn’t think he could get anything here in the lobby: he was too frightened to try, anyway.
    â€˜They’re nice girls,’ said Petrin conversationally. ‘Lucky, too. You’re very generous.’ He slid across the table between them a manila packet he took from his pocket.
    Krogh stared down at the envelope, making no attempt to pick it up. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜Photographs,’ identified Petrin. ‘Photographs of the sales contract in your name for the condo at Malibu and the apartment just over the hill here, in San Francisco. Copies, too, of the purchase agreements for the two VW cars and of the registration details, both in your name. Pictures of Cindy and Barbara, too. With the cars and with you. Quite a few of Barbara without clothes on, posing like she does. Fantastic tits, hasn’t she? And the charge card facilities, in your name, at Saks and Nieman Marcus.’
    Krogh swallowed, trying to get his head in order. Jesus, didn’t they have him! The ever-producing milch cow who’d have to go on delivering as long as they kept milking. He said: ‘You with both of the blackmailing bitches or just one?’
    â€˜I’m with neither of them,’ said Petrin. ‘And neither of them has the slightest idea that I know about you.’
    â€˜We’ve got to discuss this!’ said Krogh urgently. ‘What sort of money are we talking about here?’
    â€˜No money at all,’ said Petrin simply.
    Krogh stared across the small table, not speaking, and Petrin gazed back, not speaking either. Then the American said: ‘So what do you want?’
    â€˜The best, for both of us,’ said Petrin. ‘Which for you means getting the cover story in Newsweek and staying just as you are now, the admired and respected chairman and a happily married man with a couple of swingers you can go on nailing whenever you feel like it.’
    â€˜And in return?’
    â€˜I want access to all – and copies of – every part of the Star Wars vehicle that you’re making. Everything, you understand? Every bolt, screw, wire and clip. Drawings, specifications, plans…the lot.’
    â€˜Jesus!’ said Krogh in sagged awareness. ‘Oh Jesus!’
    â€˜It’ll work just fine, believe me.’
    â€˜No,’ refused Krogh,