and indicated a coiled aerial wire. ‘I can run that up to the cell window,’ he said. ‘The reception is terrific.’
‘This will make life much more pleasant,’ said Charlie.
Sampson smiled at him again and said, ‘You’d be surprised.’
Alexei Berenkov had been repatriated from British imprisonment to Moscow aware of his in absentia promotion to general as a recognition of a lifetime of spying in the West, expecting a dacha at Sochi and maybe a sinecure lecturing at one of the spy colleges. He wondered, initially, if his appointment instead to the planning department of the KGB, attached to the Dzer-zhinsky Square headquarters itself, was nepotism, the visible indication of the friendship that existed between himself and Kalenin. There were obviously some who felt the same thing and clearly the relationship between himself and the chairman was an important factor but Berenkov knew he would not have got the posting if Kalenin hadn’t thought he was capable of performing the function of division director – officially designated a deputy – because Kalenin was too adroit to do anything that might cause him personal difficulty. And Berenkov was pragmatic enough to know that he hadn’t caused the man any difficulty. The reverse, in fact. There hadn’t been a single, important mistake since Berenkov’s appointment and two – one in Tokyo, the other in Iran – impressive successes.
Berenkov was glad to be home. He missed the comparable freedom of the West – a freedom he was sufficiently personally confident enough to talk about openly and discuss – and the bon viveur life he’d been able to enjoy in London under his cover as a wine importer. But in Moscow he had a wife he loved – but from whom he’d spent too long apart – and a son he adored. And secretly – a secret he’d confessed to no one, not even Valentina and certainly not to Kalenin, friendly though they might be – Berenkov knew that after so long in the West, constantly living a pretence, constantly expecting the arrest that finally came, his nerve had begun to go. Now no one would know. So now he could savour the unaccustomed domesticity, which he did, and enjoy the unexpected and important job, which he did also, and consider himself a lucky man, fulfilled and content and safe.
Kalenin summoned him – officially instead of socially – before the cryptologists had broken the code, needing the benefit of Berenkov’s experience in England, an experience no one else in the ministry possessed. The chairman showed Berenkov the meaningless interceptions but because they were meaningless Berenkov merely glanced at them, putting them aside on his friend’s desk.
‘Not a code we know?’ he said.
Kalenin shook his head. ‘And one that’s being difficult: it’s even defying computor analysis at the moment.’
‘Then it’s important,’ judged Berenkov, confirming the opinion Kalenin had already reached.
‘How good are the British?’ demanded Kalenin.
Berenkov shrugged. ‘Don’t forget I’ve been away for a long time,’ he reminded. ‘Almost two years in prison and then back here for two years. Cuthbertson was the Director, during the end of my time. A fool and shown up to be one.’
‘Sir Alistair Wilson is the successor,’ said Kalenin.
Berenkov shook his head. ‘Don’t know of him,’ he said. ‘I’ve always felt that Cuthbertson and his crowd were an aberration, a mistake that occasionally arises in any service, because it can’t after all be avoided. For all the supposed expertise of the CIA, I’ve always had more respect for the British service.’
Kalenin shuffled through the intercepted messages. ‘Twenty,’ he said.
‘Important,’ repeated Berenkov. ‘There’s someone here in Moscow, a spy we don’t know about, shifting an enormous amount of information to which the British attach the utmost priority and importance.’
‘Where?’ demanded Kalenin, simply.
‘We’ll break the code, of course.
‘This will make life much more pleasant,’ said Charlie.
Sampson smiled at him again and said, ‘You’d be surprised.’
Alexei Berenkov had been repatriated from British imprisonment to Moscow aware of his in absentia promotion to general as a recognition of a lifetime of spying in the West, expecting a dacha at Sochi and maybe a sinecure lecturing at one of the spy colleges. He wondered, initially, if his appointment instead to the planning department of the KGB, attached to the Dzer-zhinsky Square headquarters itself, was nepotism, the visible indication of the friendship that existed between himself and Kalenin. There were obviously some who felt the same thing and clearly the relationship between himself and the chairman was an important factor but Berenkov knew he would not have got the posting if Kalenin hadn’t thought he was capable of performing the function of division director – officially designated a deputy – because Kalenin was too adroit to do anything that might cause him personal difficulty. And Berenkov was pragmatic enough to know that he hadn’t caused the man any difficulty. The reverse, in fact. There hadn’t been a single, important mistake since Berenkov’s appointment and two – one in Tokyo, the other in Iran – impressive successes.
Berenkov was glad to be home. He missed the comparable freedom of the West – a freedom he was sufficiently personally confident enough to talk about openly and discuss – and the bon viveur life he’d been able to enjoy in London under his cover as a wine importer. But in Moscow he had a wife he loved – but from whom he’d spent too long apart – and a son he adored. And secretly – a secret he’d confessed to no one, not even Valentina and certainly not to Kalenin, friendly though they might be – Berenkov knew that after so long in the West, constantly living a pretence, constantly expecting the arrest that finally came, his nerve had begun to go. Now no one would know. So now he could savour the unaccustomed domesticity, which he did, and enjoy the unexpected and important job, which he did also, and consider himself a lucky man, fulfilled and content and safe.
Kalenin summoned him – officially instead of socially – before the cryptologists had broken the code, needing the benefit of Berenkov’s experience in England, an experience no one else in the ministry possessed. The chairman showed Berenkov the meaningless interceptions but because they were meaningless Berenkov merely glanced at them, putting them aside on his friend’s desk.
‘Not a code we know?’ he said.
Kalenin shook his head. ‘And one that’s being difficult: it’s even defying computor analysis at the moment.’
‘Then it’s important,’ judged Berenkov, confirming the opinion Kalenin had already reached.
‘How good are the British?’ demanded Kalenin.
Berenkov shrugged. ‘Don’t forget I’ve been away for a long time,’ he reminded. ‘Almost two years in prison and then back here for two years. Cuthbertson was the Director, during the end of my time. A fool and shown up to be one.’
‘Sir Alistair Wilson is the successor,’ said Kalenin.
Berenkov shook his head. ‘Don’t know of him,’ he said. ‘I’ve always felt that Cuthbertson and his crowd were an aberration, a mistake that occasionally arises in any service, because it can’t after all be avoided. For all the supposed expertise of the CIA, I’ve always had more respect for the British service.’
Kalenin shuffled through the intercepted messages. ‘Twenty,’ he said.
‘Important,’ repeated Berenkov. ‘There’s someone here in Moscow, a spy we don’t know about, shifting an enormous amount of information to which the British attach the utmost priority and importance.’
‘Where?’ demanded Kalenin, simply.
‘We’ll break the code, of course.
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