Free Madrigal for Charlie Muffin by Brian Freemantle Page A

vodka. Before they began eating they touched glasses, toasting Russian-fashion.
    ‘That sounds intriguing,’ said Berenkov, heaping his plate with fish.
    ‘It’s Charlie Muffin.’
    Berenkov stopped eating, ‘What about him?’ There was a sadness of anticipation in his expression.
    Berenkov had the highest security clearance for his appointment as senior lecturer at the spy college on the outskirts of Moscow, so Kalenin recounted in detail the Rome exposure and what he intended to do to save it. Berenkov sat hunched forward, huge hands cupped around his vodka glass, his food temporarily forgotten.
    ‘He couldn’t have been better for our purpose,’ said Kalenin. Charlie Muffin had been responsible for trapping the other man and Kalenin knew that, during the debriefing which followed, a professional respect had developed between them.
    ‘How did you find him?’
    ‘In America, about a year ago,’ said Kalenin. ‘He was involved in the insurance protection of a Tsarist stamp collection. I’ve had him under observation ever since.’
    ‘A convenient coincidence.’
    ‘The British will be completely convinced.’ Kalenin brought the bortsch and wine to the table. Berenkov poured, sniffing the bouquet appreciatively.
    ‘What do you think of the plan?’
    Berenkov made an uncertain rocking gesture with his hand. ‘It seems good.’
    ‘Kastanazy is being purged.’ Kalenin needed to confide fully. ‘I expect him to be dismissed any day.’
    ‘Will you get the seat?’
    Kalenin smiled. ‘It’s a possibility.’
    Berenkov raised his glass. ‘To your success.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    Berenkov put down the glass and said guardedly. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Charlie Muffin.’
    ‘He might have been good once,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘But not any longer: he’s collapsed pretty badly during the last year.’
    Berenkov laughed, a short, humourless sound. ‘He was right about the stick,’ he said.
    ‘Stick?’
    ‘A remark he made at the last meeting we had, in prison,’ remembered Berenkov. ‘He said he always got the shitty end of the stick.’
    Charlie filled the bath with cold water, rolled up his trousers and perched carefully on the edge, easing his feet in with a sigh of relief. Rubber-soled suede wasn’t good for hot weather: and now his feet hurt like buggery. He flexed his toes, thinking of the ride back to Rome.
    Had there been a Lancia following? He’d only been aware of it for part of the journey and when he’d slowed it had overtaken naturally enough. But he hadn’t been going fast in the first place, so why had it crawled along behind?
    Maybe he was being over-cautious. By going out to Ostia Charlie had avoided any contact with the embassy, so there couldn’t be the slightest chance of detection. He would have to be careful he didn’t imagine danger where none existed.
    There was a knock at the door. It came again, more insistently, as he dried his feet. He padded across the room, without bothering to roll down his trousers.
    ‘Going to the beach?’ said Clarissa Willoughby.
    ‘Just as soon as I knot my handkerchief,’ said Charlie.
    ‘You don’t seem pleased to see me.’
    ‘I’m not sure that I am.’

9
    Clarissa sat in the middle of the bed with her knees drawn up beneath her chin, so that her skirt gaped, revealing too much leg. Charlie moved a crumpled shirt from the only chair in the room to sit down, wanting to distance himself from her. Charlie was annoyed. At Clarissa, for being so sure of herself. And at himself, for the excitement he felt.
    ‘This is stupid,’ he said.
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘It’s fun.’
    She meant it, Charlie knew. People like Clarissa did things simply because they were fun. Like boarding aircraft at dawn in the previous night’s party clothes because breakfast at Focquets seemed fun, or like deciding it was fun to look at a friend’s villa in Acapulco right after lunch at San Lorenzo. Clarissa must worry about her passport