Comrade Charlie by Brian Freemantle

the obviously delighted Losev.
    â€˜Why not?’ shrugged Blackstone, not wanting to appear as desperately eager as he was. ‘You want a tracer. I’m a tracer. Why don’t we give it a try?’
    â€˜You wouldn’t know how grateful I’d be: how much of a relief it would be.’
    â€˜We’d come to some financial arrangement, of course?’
    â€˜Of course,’ agreed Losev enthusiastically. He smiled, nudging the other man. ‘And a proper financial arrangement. Cash. No nonsense with income tax or anything like that. You interested?’
    Blackstone was so excited he did not immediately trust himself to speak, so he sipped his beer to cover the gap. Then he said: ‘I wouldn’t mind giving it a go.’
    â€˜Could we meet here again, say, tomorrow night, for me to give you the specification notes?’
    â€˜Sure,’ agreed Blackstone. He had to ask, to get it finalized! He said: ‘What sort of money are we talking about here?’
    â€˜This is a rush job, very important to me,’ said Losev. ‘You get a set of drawings back to me by the weekend and I’ve got a good chance of securing a contract that’s going to make me a very happy man. So you do that for me and there’s five hundred pounds in your pocket, no questions asked.’
    Blackstone hid behind his beer glass again. Finally he managed: ‘Here this time tomorrow night then?’
    â€˜I can’t believe how lucky we are to have met,’ said Losev.
    â€˜Neither can I,’ said Blackstone, deeply sincere. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
    â€˜Stranger,’ said Losev, reciting the Moscow-dictated legend name. ‘Mr Stranger.’
    Legend name for Petrin, in San Francisco, was Friend. Both had been selected by Alexei Berenkov with much forethought.
    Berenkov had the summons hand-delivered to Natalia in her office three floors below him in the First Chief Directorate headquarters on the Moscow ring road, knowing she would be there to receive it because he’d made himself responsible for her movements.
    Natalia sat for several moments held by the shock, the words blurring before her, then becoming clear, then bluring again. It had finally come, she decided at once: the demand she’d feared every day since Charlie’s departure.
    Natalia, who’d observed her religion even before the Gorbachev relaxations made church attendance easier, thought: Oh God! Dear God, please help me!

10
    Berenkov stood politely as the woman entered his office and went halfway across the room to greet her, escorting her to the overly ornate visitors’ chair he’d moved specially, to bring her closer to his desk, not to its front but to one side. That was the extent of the relaxation: there was a less official area of chairs and couches to one side, near the window, but Berenkov decided it would have been going too far.
    â€˜Welcome, Natalia Nikandrova,’ said Berenkov. ‘Welcome indeed.’
    â€˜Comrade General,’ responded Natalia. Her voice was higher than it should have been but he would expect some apprehension at the personal interview. She put her hand up to the thick-rimmed spectacles before she realized she was doing it and stopped the nervous gesture; it would have seemed like a fatuous wave. Why this clumsy, artificial politeness? Where were the escorting guards and the stenographer, to note the interrogation for later production as evidence at a trial?
    â€˜There has not been the opportunity before for me to congratulate you upon your promotion.’
    Nor the need, thought Natalia, further bewildered. Unable to think of anything better, she said: ‘Thank you, Comrade General.’ There was an approach taught like this at the training academy: the soft, beguiling beginning, lulling into a sense of misleading security. Everything was undoubtedly being recorded by hidden microphones so she supposed there was no necessity