Charlie M by Brian Freemantle Page A

opening gambit was to refer to his thoughtfulness in bringing as gifts from London, Heinz baked beans, Walls pork sausages and Fortnum & Mason Guinness cake. It had been Muffin’s advice, recalled Snare. Just the sort of sycophantic rubbish in which the man would have indulged, a gesture to make people like him.
    He’d spent several evenings with the Director’s friend, Colonel Wilcox, and rehearsed their approach if Kalenin attended the official function. But even Wilcox had erected a barrier, afraid any mistake could create an embarrassing diplomatic incident. So no one liked him, decided Snare. He didn’t give a damn. Thank Christ, he thought, gazing out of the embassy window, that the stupid party was tonight and he could start thinking of his return to London. It was raining heavily, smearing the houses and roads with a dull, grey colour. It was hardly surprising, he thought, that the Russians seemed so miserable.
    The interest of the Americans slightly worried him. They knew who he was, he accepted. That absurdly tall man who kept talking about basket-ball, moving his hands in a flapping motion as if he were bouncing a ball against the ground, was definitely an Agency man. Snare groped for the man’s name, but had forgotten it. Odd how sportsmen liked to boast their chosen recreation, he considered. Harrison was always driving imaginary golf balls with his reversed umbrella.
    Someone in the British embassy must have disclosed his identity, he thought. When he got back to London, he’d complain to Sir Henry Cuthbertson and get an investigation ordered. Bloody diplomats were all the same: trying to show off their knowledge, gossiping their secrets.
    The fact that he was known to be an operative didn’t matter, he rationalised. They’d be expecting him to do something befitting his role and all he had to do was attend an embassy party and, if Kalenin were there, carry on where Harrison had left the conversation in East Germany.
    And because no one, apart from the British, knew what that conversation was, then all he would appear to be doing was behaving in a normal, social manner.
    The thought of achieving his mission while they all watched, unaware of what was happening, amused him. It would have been pleasant, letting them know afterwards how stupid they had been. But probably dangerous. He sighed, abandoning the idea.
    Snare turned away from the window, taking from the desk immediately behind it the coded report that had come from Whitehall three weeks earlier giving a complete account of Harrison’s meeting with the General.
    Harrison had done bloody well, congratulated Snare. When he got back to London, he’d take the man out for a celebration meal, to l’Étoile or l’Épicure. Some decent food would be welcome after what he had endured for the past month, when he’d been lucky enough to get any service at all in a hotel or restaurant.
    Carefully, he traced the responses that Kalenin had given in Leipzig. There could be no doubt, he agreed, turning to Cuthbertson’s assessment, that the General was a potential defector. The East German encounter had shown him the pathway, thought Snare. But it was still going to be difficult if Kalenin turned up, discovering the undoubted conditions that the man would impose. Secretly he hoped Kalenin wouldn’t appear: then he could just go home. Yes, he thought, it would be better if Kalenin didn’t attend. Because whatever he achieved tonight, if anything at all, would be secondary to Harrison’s initial success. It was bloody unfair, thought Snare, irritably, that the other man had just got six days in East Germany and all the glory and he’d been stuck in Moscow for four weeks and had to perform the most difficult part of the whole operation.
    He descended early to the ballroom, arriving with the first of the British party. He spoke briefly to the ambassador and Colonel Wilcox, discussed the quality of the