Comrade Charlie by Brian Freemantle Page A

for official stenographers.
    â€˜Well deserved,’ said Berenkov. Truthfully he added: ‘I’ve spent time considering your entire career. It is extremely commendable.’
    She and Charlie had tried to prepare for an encounter like this. It was imperative, Charlie had insisted, that she remain unshakable in her story of never imagining he intended to return to the West until the very day she’d denounced him. She could go as far as admitting their affair – which she had done to Kalenin – but insist it was contrived by her, without any real affection, to trick him into some indiscretion to confirm her growing suspicion of his loyalty to Moscow. Survive , Charlie had repeated again and again: Think of nothing except surviving . Cautiously, stiffly, she said: ‘I am gratified you should think so, Comrade General.’
    â€˜And your son is an exemplary student at the military academy,’ said Berenkov.
    The alarm flared through her. The beginning of the pressure, the remainder of what she had to lose? She said: ‘He appears to be doing well.’
    â€˜But away for most of the time now? No longer needing his mother’s guidance?’
    Which direction was this? A hint at how vulnerable Eduard was? Or the first move to take the apartment away from her? ‘That is so,’ she conceded. She was terrified of the moment coming but she almost wished, fatalistically, that the bloated man would stop playing with her and come out openly with the accusation.
    â€˜So there is no personal reason against your taking another job?’ Definitely nervous, decided Berenkov. But controlling it well. Then again, she had been educated to control her emotions.
    â€˜I’m afraid…I don’t quite…another job?’ stumbled Natalia, badly. ‘Forgive me,’ she recovered, more forcefully. ‘What job could I have different from what I already do…for which I have been particularly schooled?’ She was now totally bewildered, too confused to anticipate or guess at anything Berenkov might say.
    â€˜Everyone and everything has to adjust to the times through which we are going,’ said Berenkov. ‘Ourselves included. I fully recognize that yours has until now been a specialized subject and that you might not have considered any other field. But there is one; one for which your language expertise fits you very well indeed.’
    What was all this! Certainly not, apparently, what she’d feared. Natalia stopped the relief, before it had time properly to form. Everything was still far too uncertain, too jumbled, for her to feel relief. ‘What else could I do but debrief?’
    There was suspicion, gauged Berenkov. There should have been apprehension, at being called to the Director’s office and there should have been surprise, at what he was nebulously offering. But suspicion didn’t have a place. He wanted very much to produce Charlie Muffin’s name, to observe her reaction. But he couldn’t, he accepted; she always had to remain the unknowing bait, against her warning him if Charlie Muffin did respond. He said: ‘You can listen. Expertly, the way you’ve been taught. Understand the nuances beyond the flat words.’
    â€˜Listen to whom?’
    â€˜Official ministry delegations, to the West. They are going to increase, in the coming months, under the new order at the Kremlin.’ Berenkov was leaning forward on his desk, intent upon her. Pinpricks of colour came to her face, the way people become flushed when they are excited.
    The West! Somewhere she’d never imagined herself ever being able to reach, somewhere where Charlie…Natalia stopped determinedly. Rigidly professional, she said: ‘There are always interpreters…other people from our organization forming part of the support staff as well. I would have no proper or useful role.’
    An intelligent objection, accepted Berenkov; the woman was fully