Charlie M Read Online Free Page B

jobs will there be, Charlie?’ pressed the Russian. ‘Will we get you next time? Or will you be lucky and survive a little longer?’
    Charlie sighed, unable to answer.
    â€˜Perhaps I’ll get a Whitehall desk and a travel organiser’s job.’
    Berenkov shook his head.
    â€˜That’s not the way your people work, Charlie,’ he replied, correctly. ‘You’ll be for the dump.’
    Cuthbertson had been prepared to sacrifice him, Charlie knew. Ordering the three of them to return from East Berlin separately, then leaking the number of the Volkswagen that would be crossing last, had been a brilliant manœuvre, guaranteeing that two operatives crossed ahead of it with the complete list of all Berenkov’s East European contacts to make the Old Bailey prosecution foolproof.
    It had just meant the demise of Charlie Muffin, that’s all. Expendable, like Berenkov said.
    â€˜Worried about your network?’ tried Charlie.
    Berenkov smiled. ‘Of course not.’
    â€˜So it hasn’t been closed down,’ snatched Charlie.
    Berenkov’s smile faltered.
    â€˜How would I know?’ he said. ‘I’ve been in custody for seven months already.’
    â€˜We managed to get five,’ revealed Charlie.
    The expression barely reached Berenkov’s face. So there were more, discerned Charlie.
    â€˜Well, they had a good run and made some money,’ dismissed the Russian, lightly. ‘And I always let them have their wine wholesale.’
    Charlie wondered the price of Aloxe Corton. It would be nice to take a bottle to Janet’s flat. He had £5 and might be able to get some expenses from Cuthbertson. Then again, he contradicted, he might not. Accounts claimed he was £60 overdrawn and Cuthbertson had sent him two memoranda about getting the debt cleared before the end of the financial year. Bloody clerk.
    â€˜Will you come to see me?’ asked the Russian. Quickly he added: ‘Socially, I mean.’
    â€˜I’ll try,’ promised Charlie.
    â€˜I’d appreciate it,’ replied Berenkov, honestly. ‘They have given me a job in the library, so I’ll have books. But I’ll need conversation.’
    The Russian would suffer, thought Charlie, looking around the prison room: the whole place had the institutionalised smell of dust, urine and paraffin heaters. It was a frightening contrast to the life he had known for so long. Charlie heard the scuff of the hovering warder outside the door. It had been a useful meeting, he decided. He wondered if Cuthbertson would realise it.
    He rose, stretching.
    â€˜I really will try,’ he undertook.
    Again there was the bear-hug of departure: the man still retained the odour of expensive cologne.
    â€˜Remember what I said, Charlie,’ warned Berenkov. ‘Be careful.’
    â€˜Sure,’ agreed Charlie, easily.
    Berenkov held him, refusing to let him turn away.
    â€˜I mean it, Charlie …’
    He dropped his restraining hands, almost embarrassed.
    â€˜â€¦ You’ve got a feel about you, Charlie … the feel of a loser …’
    General Valery Kalenin was a short, square-bodied Georgian who regarded Alexei Berenkov as the best friend he had ever known, and recognised with complete honesty that the reason for this was that the other man had spent so much time away from Russia that it had been impossible for him to tire of the association, like everyone else did.
    General Kalenin was a man with a brilliant, calculating mind and absolutely no social ability, which he accepted, like a person aware of bad breath or offensive perspiration. Because of a psychological quirk, which had long ceased bothering him, he had no sexual inclination, either male or female. The lack of interest was immediately detected by women, who resented it, and by men, who usually misinterpreted it, and were offended by what they regarded as hostile coldness, verging on contempt for their