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Hugh Chamberlain walked out of the Bakerloo line at Lambeth North and commenced his daily hundred-metre trek to Century House. A more convenient placing of an underground station would be difficult to imagine.
He was a worried man and he knew his days here were numbered. He’d had no idea that Rupert Wilkinson had been working for the East Germans and he strongly suspected that Rupert would have been equally surprised about him. His quandary, such as it was, had been simple. Should he continue to play the ‘game’ and say nothing to Rupert about SIS knowledge of his treachery or should he warn him? He’d not thought about it for too long. It was not as if they were friends and, in fact, he’d never really taken to the man. If he’d warned him in some manner, for instance like ‘accidentally’ letting slip during their contacts that Radler was actually their would-be defector, it wouldn’t have improved Rupert’s overall position and would, most probably, have made his own worse.
When told it was Radler who wanted to cross the line, Hugh had momentarily almost been unable to control his bladder. A tick in the corner of his eye had felt like a waving flag but no one else noticed because there was nothing to see.
Hugh’s was the same old story, boarding school, university, dabbling in left-wing politics. He’d been an idealistic socialist in those days; it was so easy to be that way when you came from a real upper-middle-class family. He knew it was probably somewhat more difficult for a working-class socialist. They hadn’t yet improved their lowly status and when they did they’d smugly abandon the ‘cause’ in celebration of their golf club membership or be comfortably active in local politics whilst secretly feeling guilty. Of those who managed to transition, few, if any, would still be living in the homes that made them a socialist in the first place.
The more he’d thought about it over the years the easier it had been for him to conclude the communists he’d idealistically served had simply ‘solved’ their problems with a two-tier system of high ranking Party members living one side of the ‘tracks’ and everyone else living on the other. That’s when he’d begun to waver, his enthusiasm draining away. But the East Germans hadn’t worried. Herr Radler, Hugh’s Stasi case officer, had some photographs of youthful experiments and indiscretions to refocus Hugh’s spirit of adventure and commitment to the cause.
He would have to leave Rupert to find his own way, hopefully, to succeed in preventing Radler’s defection. He himself, however, would need an exit strategy. He could always remain and throw himself upon the mercy of the powers that be, relying on the very real possibility that public knowledge of another ‘awkward’ infiltration would be too much for the upper echelons to stomach. This option had its benefits. It would bring no real change in his personal circumstances as he was fairly sure he’d be able to screw a pension out of them in reward for his total and complete silence, although, the annuity would probably not reflect his current position, no doubt out of spite they’d demote him several grades at least claiming budgetary requirements but it was better than a kick up the arse and he’d avoid the public ignominy of his club memberships being cancelled.
The other option he was considering was to basically ‘go down with the flu’, turn up at Folkturist, Stockholm, buy a ticket to Leningrad then join the early morning short queue at the Russian Embassy. He’d be in and on his way before Swedish Intelligence could tell anyone.
It wasn’t something he could ever consider before Edith had passed away, several years earlier. For her, such a drastic move would have been far too much to bear.
He stopped thinking. He was at the main entrance and it was time to put on the right face and find out if he would survive another day.