Charlie stood by the chair that Wilson offered, not immediately sitting. 'It didn't work,' he said. There was never any contact.'

'No,' accepted Wilson, at once. 'Of course not.'

'So it was the first secretary?' said Charlie. 'I guessed that was how it was blown. There were reports in the papers of his arrest; of the destruction of a major spy cell.'

Wilson turned, to look briefly at Harkness. 'One of the tragedies of the whole affair,' he said, momentarily distant. Having read the Soviet reports, as Charlie had, Wilson said, suddenly reminded, 'You wouldn't know, of course: it wasn't reported there. Wainwright committed suicide, in our own emba.s.sy, after the Russians released him.'

'Did they break him?' demanded Charlie at once.

'Of what he knew,' said Wilson. 'He was the initial control. We'd switched.'

So that's how he'd been able to go to GUM undetected, apart from Natalia! At once came another thought. All the contacts had been blind, Wilson had said that day in jail. Which meant Wainwright hadn't known an ident.i.ty to disclose, to his questioners. So the defector was undetected, just obviously holding back until the pressure lessened. Oh G.o.d, thought Charlie: he'd got out too soon!

'I said there was never any contact,' he reminded the older man.

Wilson smiled, apologetically. 'There couldn't have been.'

Charlie slowly sat, knowing it was time to stop guessing. 'Couldn't have been?' he said.

'There never was a spy, Charlie. Never anyone for you to meet,' said the director. He leaned forward, demandingly. 'Tell me something,' he said. 'Something important. Did you manage to meet Berenkov.'

Charlie frowned, doubtfully. 'Yes,' he said. 'Several times. And that's why the operation wasn't a complete failure. Berenkov arranged for me to teach at a spy school. I've got the complete lay-out of Balashikha: ident.i.ties of staff and at least twenty agents. Training methods, too. But I don't understand, about there never being a spy.'

'You couldn't Charlie,' said Wilson, apologetic again. 'You had to be blind, like Wainwright. I knew Wainwright would break, under interrogation. Planned for it to happen, although not for him to take his own life. And you might have got caught, although that wasn't planned for. And if you were caught, I couldn't take the chance of your breaking, too ...' Wilson raised his hand. 'I know you wouldn't have given in easily but everyone's got their breaking point.'

'I still don't understand,' protested Charlie.

Wilson arranged himself against the radiator, injured leg straight out before him. 'You were part a vital, additional part of one of the most complicated operations that we've ever devised,' said the man. 'Five years ago, when I became director, I decided to hit the Russian service. Hit it and cause as much damage as I could. It was, as I say, a complicated scheme but actually one of certain simplicity. I was lucky, because some of the groundwork had already been done. Just before he was replaced as director Willoughby, whom I know you greatly admired, set up a cla.s.sic disinformation operation with a brilliant and very brave operative. In Beirut he had Edwin Sampson let himself be approached and apparently suborned by the Russians ...'

'What!' erupted Charlie.

Wilson made his hand-stopping gesture. 'I expected you to be surprised, Charlie. Hear me out. Hear just how brilliant and brave Sampson is. I decided to build upon what Willoughby had started. It meant giving a lot away, of course, but I decided the prize was worth the investment. When the Russians were completely convinced of Sampson's loyalty to them, they asked him to get himself transferred back here. I agreed, of course. Got him on the Soviet desk and again let him give them a lot of good, genuine stuff, to keep on convincing them. They actually made him a major, did you know that?'

Charlie nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

'Then we got you,' said Wilson. 'We got you and I decided how the operation could be made doubly effective. We knew by then, of course, that Berenkov had been taken into Dzerzhinsky Square, promoted officially to deputy. I saw the way to hit the Russian service harder than I ever thought possible ...' Wilson paused, smiling his apologetic smile. 'I had you under a microscope in jail, Charlie. I knew, from all the a.s.sessment reports and from what you did to Cuthbertson what sort of a person you were but I had to know for myself, to be sure. I knew from week to week how you refused to give in and fought back against everyone and everything and I decided it would work. From here I had the trusted Sampson tell Moscow he believed they had a spy, someone so high that I was dealing directly with him, running control. And then we had a cultural attache named Richardson put a contact note into the pocket of his colleague, Cecil Wainwright ...' Wilson hesitated again. 'Richardson was told as much as was necessary but Wainwright had to remain blind, like I said, for it to work. Weeks before what Wainwright believed to be a genuine approach at the Bolshoi, I'd pouched to Moscow a top security code, to be used in the event of something really important. I wanted the Russians to intercept, to know that something was happening. Having got Sampson to light the fuse, we pretended to catch him. It was all timed, practically to the minute, for the moment when we knew you were getting close to breaking point. We went through the pretence of a trial, which wasn't difficult because it was in camera, of course. Got Sampson sent to Wormwood Scrubs and put in the same cell as you and made him cultivate you, like he did ...' Wilson shook his head, in admiration. 'Like I said, a brilliant and very brave man. Did he make you hate him?'

'Yes,' said Charlie. He was dry-throated and the confirmation croaked from him.

'He had to, of course,' said Wilson. 'For it to work, later: for now, when you've come back. The Russians had to know of the loathing that existed between you, so that he wouldn't be endangered ...'

'He shot a policeman,' said Charlie, groping to understand. 'He beat up one of the good prison officers and shot a copper. I saw him.'

'Wait,' said Wilson. 'Hear it fully out. Despite your official a.s.sessments which were on record here and the monitor from the prison governor, I still had to satisfy myself completely about you. We could still have aborted your part in the operation, even then. The Soviets are always b.l.o.o.d.y good, about getting their people out. We knew when they made contact, initially through the newspaper and then through the radio he'd been told to get brought in. His telling you was the test, Charlie. If you hadn't done exactly as you did, got to the governor and tried to stop it ... agreed to go along, instead, then I'd have arranged a simple cell change and let Sampson go on alone.'

'What would have happened to me?' demanded Charlie, suddenly attentive.

This time there was no smile from Wilson. 'If you hadn't reported the escape plan and decided to get out, to Moscow, then you'd have been a traitor, wouldn't you Charlie? You'd have served the rest of your sentence, with no parole, no reduction of sentence ...'

'Jesus!' said Charlie, emptily.

'But you're not a traitor, Charlie. I always knew it ...' The smile came back. 'That's when I knew it was all going to work ... stood a chance of working, at least. It was important to guarantee your return, of course. That's why the business with the policeman was important ...'

'You allowed a policeman to be killed!'

Wilson shook his head. 'The warder had to be beaten. It was unfortunate but necessary. You had to believe it. We planted the policeman: he was one of our people.'

'Blanks?' said Charlie.

Wilson nodded.

'The Russians demanded the gun,' remembered Charlie. 'If they'd checked the magazine, it would have been over before it started.'

'No,' said Wilson, unoffended. 'I've told you, Charlie. We planned everything to the last detail. Two of the shots were blanks. The first one, which appeared to bring the man down. And the second, to finish him off. The other bullets were genuine, just in case they did check. By that time the Russians had to believe the killing, as well.'

'But why?' demanded Charlie.

'To allow the murder warrants,' explained Wilson, gently. 'If getting you out hadn't gone as smoothly as it did and I think we were lucky there we had a warrant alleging murder against you. Moscow couldn't have demanded to keep a murderer, could they?'

'Sampson pretended to kill a copper to protect me!'

'Yes,' said Wilson.

'Oh G.o.d,' said Charlie, emptily.

'All you really had to do, to make your part of the operation work, was actually get to Moscow and then get back again,' said Wilson. 'The business with GUM was just to make you believe there was a point in your going ...' Wilson broke away. 'Getting into that spy school was a h.e.l.l of a bonus, by the way. Well done.'

'Berenkov fixed it,' repeated Charlie.

Wilson nodded. 'He was the target,' said the director. 'All the messages were carefully planted pointed to Berenkov's division. I wonder if we haven't taken too much of an obvious chance, making the supposed identification Chekhov quotations. We've no news of any move against him: won't have for months yet.'

'The messages,' said Charlie. 'How could you make the supposed information you were getting out of Moscow genuine enough to hope to convince them?'

Wilson shifted against the radiator, pulling his stiff leg into a more comfortable position. 'Had to be very careful there,' he conceded. 'Drew on America a lot, although they don't know it. Asked for special help, from their satellite surveillance system. If the Soviets knew instead of believing it came from one of their own people they'd realise just how effective and complete that satellite spying is. All the stuff from Baikonur and about crop yields came from satellites. The American NSA and our own radio and telephone intercept people at Cheltenham helped a lot, too again not knowing just how much and we managed to get quite a bit more from that. The information I told you about in jail, about Politburo decisions, actually came from microwave intercept. We made a big fuss, finally. We blanketed the Soviet emba.s.sy here and over the course of several months while you were still in jail and actually before Sampson got sentenced began to identify their agents here. We pouched the information to Moscow and had them transmit it back and then expelled most of them, a couple of months back.'

'My coming out turned the key completely on Berenkov?' said Charlie, the picture practically formed in his mind now. 'We'd known each other, here. The messages the indication that the informant wanted to defect pointed to him. My going to Moscow then getting out would confirm the final suspicion?'

'That's right,' said Wilson.

'Did you know about Georgi?'

'Georgi?'

'His son pa.s.sed an examination qualifying him for an exchange course education, somewhere in the West,' explained Charlie.

'Marvellous!' said Wilson, enthusiastically. 'I didn't have any idea but that's a h.e.l.l of a bonus, too. Like your actually getting to him. I thought it might happen but I recognised it as a long shot.'

'Poor Alexei,' said Charlie, wistfully.

Wilson frowned at the sympathy. 'Can't you understand how this will turn the Russian service on its head!' he demanded. 'Everything with which Berenkov has been involved since his return and rehabilitation in Russia will be suspect. And not just that. Everything he ever sent from here, as well. It'll take them years to sort out and send them in more wrong directions that we can count.'

'Yes,' agreed Charlie, 'It's very clever.' He stopped and then began again. 'What about Sampson?'

'He does what it was always intended he should do, when I took over the Willoughby operation. I always intended to stage his arrest, to get him repatriated to Russia ...' Wilson paused, in further admiration, 'I don't think I know of a man with more courage or conviction. I didn't force the decision upon him, you understand. I gave him weeks, to make his mind up. Set it out as clearly as I could that he was committing himself to a situation that I didn't think many men could endure. He insisted on going through with it. There's a chance he would have been involved in their attempts to find out who the supposed defector was: he sent the first warning message, after all. If he is, then he can further tilt everything in Berenkov's direction. But that again would be a bonus and I think we've had enough of those. What we're hoping for is that he'll get brought in to their service ...' There was another smile. 'And then we'll have what the Russians think we've already got. We'll have a spy in place.'

'Christ!' said Charlie.

'He won't be able to go on forever, of course,' said Wilson. 'The same murder warrant exists against him. The understanding is that he can run whenever he wants. Knowing Sampson, I expect him to stay for the agreed period. Five years. For five years he's going to feed us everything he can. And when he gets back here I'm personally going to see that he gets every reward and honour it's possible for him to have.'

'You should have told me,' insisted Charlie, flat-voiced. 'You really should have told me.'

The relevant times were logged and the evidence was in her favour and Kalenin decided the woman had made a desperate attempt to stop the escape. It had been his mistake wrongly to send the seizure squads to the spy school and to Charlie m.u.f.fin's apartment. Only later too late did he identify from photographs the stranger whose abrupt entry into the British emba.s.sy was probably timed thirty minutes after Natalia Fedova's attempted approach to him, an approach Kalenin now realised he should have responded to earlier. By the time the photograph had been identified as that of Charlie m.u.f.fin the d.a.m.ned man was already aboard the aircraft at Sheremetyevo. Kalenin had been halfway to the airport when the report came in on the car radio that the aircraft had taken off. They were fools, not to have stormed it; or to have shot the tyres out instead of standing helplessly around waiting for orders from higher authority. In his fury, Kalenin determined they would regret that indecision for the rest of their imprisoned days. The KGB chairman stopped the reflection, coming back to the woman sitting nervously in front of him.

'Again,' insisted Kalenin. 'Tell me the salient points again.'

'I encouraged the affair between us,' repeated Natalia. 'Without having any evidence I could bring before you or anyone else I was unhappy with the initial interviews and again with his performance at Balashikha.' Natalia paused, unsure if she were fully expressing herself as she intended. 'Never any evidence; no proof. Just a feeling. When we were together there was always an att.i.tude, an uncertainty. Again, only a feeling. I started to follow him. Twice it was the same rendezvous, the GUM department store. It was obviously a point of contact. I followed him there again today, because I wanted positive proof that something was not as we suspected it. I knew he saw me. There was no obvious indication, but I knew I had been identified.'

'So he fled,' said Kalenin, reflectively. 'He penetrated us, because of the stupidity of someone who should have known better. d.a.m.n Alexei Berenkov!' He looked up at Natalia. 'You've no doubt at all about the person you saw him meet on every occasion?'

'None,' said Natalia. 'I knew, of course, why my debriefing was cut short. Knew what Edwin Sampson was being called upon to do. It was definitely Sampson, at every meeting. Despite all the indications to the contrary, that they disliked each other, they retained contact.'

'Charlie m.u.f.fin is a survivor,' mused Kalenin. 'A professional survivor. Knowing you'd identified him, he'd have cut his losses and abandoned everything: better to save part of an operation than nothing at all.'

'There's still Sampson.'

'Yes,' said Kalenin, his fury returning. 'There's still Sampson and by the time his interrogation is over there is absolutely nothing that Sampson will not have told us.'

A Biography of Brian Freemantle.

Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain's most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.

Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the Daily Mail, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city's orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives-and sold a bundle of newspapers.

Although he began writing espionage fiction in the late 1960s, he first won fame in 1977, with Charlie M. That book introduced the world to Charlie m.u.f.fin-a disheveled spy with a skill set more bureaucratic than Bond-like. The novel, which drew favorable comparisons to the work of John Le Carre, was a hit, and Freemantle began writing sequels. The sixth in the series, The Blind Run, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. To date, Freemantle has penned fourteen t.i.tles in the Charlie m.u.f.fin series, the most recent of which is Red Star Rising (2010), which brought back the popular spy after a nine-year absence.

In addition to the stories of Charlie m.u.f.fin, Freemantle has written more than two dozen standalone novels, many of them under pseudonyms including Jonathan Evans and Andrea Hart. Freemantle's other series include two books about Sebastian Holmes, an illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the four Cowley and Danilov books, which were written in the years after the end of the Cold War and follow an odd pair of detectives-an FBI operative and the head of Russia's organized crime bureau.

Freemantle lives and works in London, England.

A school photograph of Brian Freemantle at age twelve.

Brian Freemantle, at age fourteen, with his mother, Violet, at the country estate of a family acquaintance, Major Mears.

Freemantle's parents, Harold and Violet Freemantle, at the country estate of Major Mears.

Brian Freemantle and his wife, Maureen, on their wedding day. They were married on December 8, 1956, in Southampton, where both were born and spent their childhoods. Although they attended the same schools, they did not meet until after they had both left Southampton.

Brian Freemantle (right) with photographer Bob Lowry in 1959. Freemantle and Lowry opened a branch office of the Bristol Evening World together in Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, England.

A bearded Freemantle with his wife, Maureen, circa 1971. He grew the beard for an undercover newspaper a.s.signment in what was then known as Czechoslovakia.

Freemantle (left) with Lady and Sir David English, the editors of the Daily Mail, on Freemantle's fiftieth birthday. Freemantle was foreign editor of the Daily Mail, and with the backing of Sir David and the newspaper, he organized the airlift rescue of nearly one hundred Vietnamese orphans from Saigon in 1975.

Freemantle working on a novel before beginning his daily newspaper a.s.signments. His wife, Maureen, looks over his shoulder.

Brian Freemantle says good-bye to Fleet Street and the Daily Mail to take up a fulltime career as a writer in 1975. The editor's office was turned into a replica of a railway carriage to represent the fact that Freemantle had written eight books while commuting-when he wasn't abroad as a foreign correspondent.

Many of the staff secretaries are dressed as Vietnamese hostesses to commemorate the many tours Freemantle carried out in Vietnam.

The Freemantle family on the grounds of the Winchester Cathedral in 1988. Back row: wife Maureen; eldest daughter, Victoria; and mother-in-law, Alice Tipney, a widow who lived with the Freemantle family for a total of forty-eight years until her death. Second row: middle daughter, Emma; granddaughter, Harriet; Freemantle; and third daughter, Charlotte.

Freemantle in 1999, in the Outer Close outside Winchester Cathedral. For thirty years, he lived with his family in the bas.e.m.e.nt library of a fourteenth-century house with a tunnel connecting it to the cathedral. Priests used this tunnel to escape persecution during the English Reformation.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fict.i.tiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright 1985 by Brian Freemantle.

end.