Comrade Charlie by Brian Freemantle Page A

striving to sound strong. ‘I won’t…can’t…’
    â€˜You need to think about it,’ said Petrin, unworried by the refusal. He pushed the envelope further towards Krogh. ‘Take these, please. I’ve got lots more copies. Look at it all and think about the alternatives…the humiliation and the scandal…’ The Russian took from his pocket a card bearing a single telephone number. He said: ‘You call that when you’ve had your think.’
    Reluctantly Krogh picked up both the card and the envelope but then suddenly sniggered. He said: ‘It’s not going to work, you know!’
    â€˜Why not, Mr Krogh?’
    â€˜We don’t have all the contract. One of the most essential parts of the missile body shell, the reinforced resin carbon fibre, is being moulded quite separately in England!’
    Charlie had set his own burglar alarm system, like he always did, leaving just inside the flat doors carefully arranged letters any intruder would have disarranged – which they weren’t. He still checked the other precautions, doors apparently left ajar, things placed in remembered positions in cupboards and drawers, before finally deciding there’d been no entry while he’d been away.
    The place smelled stale, a locked-up-and-left smell, and he opened windows and squirted an air freshener here and there.
    There was quite a lot of mail in addition to his burglar precautions. There were two separate invitations to have his windows double glazed and a communication from Reader’s Digest assuring him he’d been chosen over millions of others not so lucky for a chance to win £100,000: there was a mystery gift simply for replying.
    His mother’s letter was last, the writing spiky and in places impossible to read, cramped on a sheet torn from a lined exercise book. He tried the parts that did appear intelligible but quickly gave up, because they didn’t really make sense. The matron must have guessed he would have difficulty because she’d enclosed a typewritten note saying she knew he would be pleased to know that after so long his mother was showing protracted periods of lucidity and that the old lady would appreciate a visit. The last had been three months before, she reminded him unnecessarily: his mother frequently asked for him by name. And there could be some changes to his mother’s State pension he might like to hear about.
    Charlie doubted if the recovery were as good as the matron indicated but it would have been nice to think his mother was emerging at last from her closed-off, shuttered world. There was the whole weekend to find out.
    There could, of course, be no question of Harkness disclosing his confident expectation of permanent promotion to anyone, because Harkness was a protectively reserved man, although he was sure he could have trusted Hubert Witherspoon with the secret. Witherspoon was a good and loyal colleague, which was only to be expected. They’d both graduated from Balliol, although at different times: by coincidence they were today both wearing their Oxford school ties. He said: ‘They’re sure?’
    Witherspoon was a languid, superior man who hadn’t conducted the interview but debriefed the men afterwards. He said: ‘It wasn’t easy to make sense of a lot of what she said, apparently. But she definitely didn’t know anything about what he did in Moscow.’
    â€˜A pity,’ said Harkness. ‘A great pity.’

7
    There is a part of the Test valley, near Stockbridge in Hampshire, where the river winds back upon itself, as if it’s lost and can’t find its way, the water sluggish and uncertain. The banks and then the cow meadows are tiered away towards the higher levels, where the trees grow like sparse hair. Near the very top there is a cleft formed by a whim of nature, like a giant footprint, a protected, wrapped-around place to look down upon the view set