The Blind Run cm-6

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘That’s how George Blake got out,’ remembered Charlie, looking at the black set in the centre of the table.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Sampson, triumphantly. ‘Got away from a forty-two year sentence and is now in contented and happy retirement in Moscow. Can you imagine the embarrassment, when it happens again! It’ll make the British look so stupid that no other service in the world will think of telling them the time of day.’

  Sampson was right, Charlie thought: the embarrassment would be incredible. The numbness came again, in anticipation this time.

  ‘Which is why I tried to keep you out of the cell,’ said Sampson. ‘You were a complication I didn’t want. But when I started making moves, through Hickley, I learned that to get you transferred I’d have to have someone else. And I wanted that even less…’ Sampson put his head to one side. ‘You realise what I’m saying, don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie quietly. ‘I realise what you’re saying.’

  ‘I’ll take you with me,’ said Sampson. ‘I’ll get you out of this place and safely to Russia…’ He laughed suddenly, unable to contain his euphoria. ‘And we’ll live happily ever after.’

  Out, thought Charlie. Dear God, the thought of being out.

  Sampson came forward on his bunk, narrowing the distance between them. ‘But understand something,’ warned the man. ‘I’m taking you because I haven’t any choice. And I’m telling you about it because I haven’t got any choice about that, either. And because I know how you feel about being in here, because I’ve seen the way you go on with that calendar, every bloody day. But if you do anything to fuck it up, anything at all, then I’ll have you killed.’

  Charlie just stared back at him.

  ‘I could do that, you know? Have you killed, I mean. It really wouldn’t be at all difficult, with the contacts I’ve got either inside or out. Nothing, nothing at all, is going to stop me getting out. You understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I understand.’

  I’m getting out, thought Charlie. But not your way, bastard. You’re going to stay in jail forever.

  The following day, Charlie was posted to the administration block, where the governor’s office was and where the clerical staff worked. The prison officer caught him trying to slip a paper knife into the waistband of his trousers on the Tuesday.

  The rose in Sir Alistair Wilson’s buttonhole matched those in the vase on his desk, pervading the room with their perfume. The messages that had been transmitted from Moscow, from the very beginning, were attached to a master file, indexed in the order of their receipt. The British Director rippled his finger along the edge and said, ‘There’s a hell of a lot here.’

  ‘Let’s hope it isn’t too much,’ said the always cautious Harkness.

  ‘They haven’t changed the Baikonur code,’ said Wilson, referring to the uppermost message, the one that had come in overnight.

  ‘Which means they haven’t broken ours yet,’ said the deputy. He seemed surprised. Or disappointed.

  ‘It’s taking longer than I anticipated.’

  ‘We’ve got to assume they’ve intercepted the transmission by now,’ said Harkness. ‘They’ll be going mad not knowing what it is.’

  ‘They’re never properly going to know that,’ said Wilson.

  ‘We hope,’ said the restrained Harkness. ‘This is only the beginning, after all. The very beginning.’

  ‘Still uncertain about the sacrifice?’

  ‘It’ll be a hell of a sacrifice if it doesn’t work,’ said Harkness.

  ‘It’ll work,’ said Wilson, confidently. He stretched his hand out towards his beloved roses and said, ‘Know what these are called?’

  ‘What?’ said Harkness.

  ‘Seven Sisters,’ disclosed the Director. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think?’

  ‘The identification comes from Three Sisters,’ reminded Harkness.

  ‘Near enough,’ said Wilson. ‘Near enough.’

  Chapter Seven

  Charlie knew he was taking a terrible risk; of the governor dismissing what he was going to say as nonsense or of Sampson finding out, because of gossip among the screws. But there wasn’t any other way: certainly not one he had been able to think of since Sampson had told him what he intended doing. The sweat was banded around Charlie’s waist and his hands were damp, clasped obediently behind his back. He couldn’t remember being as nervous as this, not even on a job when things looked as if they were going wrong.

  Armitrage sighed up at him, a man of perpetual hope disappointed yet again. ‘This is serious,’ he said. ‘Far more serious than the last occasion.’

  ‘There’s a reason, sir,’ said Charlie.

  The governor picked the knife up from the desk, as if he were weighing it and said, ‘There can only be one obvious reason for attempting to steal a knife, Muffin.’

  Commitment time, realised Charlie. He knew very slightly one of the escorting officers, a man named Dailey, but not the other one. What if Sampson did too, like he seemed to know everything and everybody else? Charlie didn’t intend naming Sampson, of course: that was his bargaining counter. But it would make a hell of a story to boast about having heard, to other officers. And other officers would repeat it, even though to disclose what he intended saying outside of this room would be an appalling breach of security. Charlie knew enough about security to know how little of it really existed. He said, ‘I took the knife intending that I should be seen doing it… intending that I would be put on a charge.’

  Armitrage came up to him again, frowning. ‘What!’

  ‘I wanted to be brought before you, sir,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Definitely trying to conceal the knife, sir,’ insisted Dailey.

  ‘But I wasn’t trying to hide myself doing it, was I?’ demanded Charlie. ‘I was facing you when I did it, for Christ’s sake!’ Regulations didn’t allow him to question the warders: even behave like this in front of the governor. But he didn’t give a damn about regulations. Only one thing mattered: that they eventually believed him and even if they didn’t fully believe him became frightened enough to react properly.

  Dailey waited for the correction to come from the governor and when it didn’t he said, ‘It was a clumsy attempt at concealment.’

  ‘Intentionally clumsy,’ insisted Charlie. He paused and then he said, ‘There is an escape being planned from this jail, an escape the embarrassment of which will cause repercussions sufficient to bring about your dismissal. Demands for your resignation, certainly.’

  Probably too strong, conceded Charlie. But he had to bestir the silly old bugger somehow. On each side of him, Dailey and the warder he didn’t know shifted and actually moved closer, as if they expected Charlie to make a run for it there and then.

  Armitrage’s demeanour of vague distraction slipped away. He came tight-faced to Charlie and said, ‘What is it? I want to know all about it. Everything.’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie.

  The governor’s face reddened, the anger obvious. ‘I want to know all about it,’ he repeated. ‘And you will tell me.’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie again. ‘Not now. I will tell you, but only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson.’

  ‘Sir Alistair Wilson?’

  ‘The Director.’

  ‘Don’t be preposterous!’ said Armitrage.

  ‘Tell him that it’s important… vitally important,’ Charlie bulldozed on. They might have welched on the earlier deal but they weren’t going to on this one. This time Charlie intended getting his freedom.

  ‘I have no intention of making any approach to any outside person,’ said Armitrage. ‘This is a prison matter which will be settled by me. And it will be settled. Here. Now.’

  Charlie stared at the man across his desk, saying nothing.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ said Armitrage.

  ‘In the presence of the Director,’ said Charlie. Then I’ll tell you everything.’

  Armitrage looked to the prison officers on e
ither side of Charlie. ‘Any suggestions of unrest, worse than normal?’ he demanded. ‘There’s usually an atmosphere, just before an intended break?’

  ‘Nothing sir,’ said Dailey.

  ‘I’d better get the deputy governor in on this,’ said Armitrage. ‘And the chief prison officer.’

  Which would be how the story spread, thought Charlie, desperately. He said, ‘There’s no concerted plan: you’ll not discover anything, tightening security.’

  To Dailey, Armitrage said, ‘Take him to solitary.’

  As the order to turn and leave the office was snapped out, militarily, Charlie said, ‘I’ll say nothing, only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson. If it goes ahead, it’ll be the biggest embarrassment of your life.’

  ‘Out!’ said Dailey, thrusting him forward.

  In the solitary cell, which was internal, without any window and smaller than that he occupied with Sampson, Charlie slumped forward on the bunk, head forward in his hands. Bad, he thought, judging his effort. Bloody awful, in fact. Word that he was before the governor would have already circulated through the prison, because the trusties who worked in administration had seen him marched in and out. They’d know he’d gone to solitary, too. And the silly old fart would convene his conference with the deputy and the chief screw because he was too damned ineffectual to make up his own mind without the advice of as many people as possible. Shit! thought Charlie. He’d been better than this once. A long time ago; too long. Sampson would have him killed. Charlie didn’t have any doubt about that. Any more than he had any doubt that the man would learn that he’d grassed. He could apply for permanent solitary, he supposed. There was a regulation that permitted it, usually invoked for bastards who’d sexually assaulted kids and needed protection from other prisoners, forming an enclave within an enclave, permanently frightened like he was frightened now. People went mad in solitary: Sampson said he would go mad. What was better, mad or dead? Jesus! What a fucking choice!

  Without a watch or a window to judge from the changing light Charlie found it difficult to calculate the time but he guessed it was three hours before anyone came. Maybe longer, he thought, as he was marched back through the administration wing, where there were windows, through which he could see that it was dark. Did it really matter, whether it was day or night? Did anything matter, any more?

  Charlie’s depression – his fear – was absolute so the stretch of euphoria was a physical reaction when he got to the governor’s office and saw, among the assembled people, the man who’d looked blank-faced at him in the dock of the Old Bailey on the day he got his sentence. Charlie stopped, so that the escorting officer following actually collided with him and he said ‘Thank Christ,’ aloud, careless of their knowing of his relief.

  Sir Alistair Wilson stood – because it was more comfortable for him to stand, although Charlie didn’t know that – to the left of the governor, right against the window, half-perched upon the radiator. To Armitrage’s right was the deputy governor, Collis, and deferentially next to him was the chief prison officer, whose name was Dexter. One of the bastards.

  Armitrage had made a concession by approaching Wilson and he knew it and everyone else in the room knew it and he tried to cover the weakness by immediately imposing his control over the meeting, nodding curtly towards Charlie as if it were an order to stop. He said, ‘I don’t think you can have any idea what has been involved in creating this meeting. Other departments, apart from the Home Office, have had to be involved and Sir Alistair here…’ the man paused, turning his head towards the Director. ‘Sir Alistair has shown a very great public attitude by coming here, at such short notice. His attendance was your condition, Muffin. And it is one that I have deferred to. If, having heard what you have to say, I conclude that this whole episode was the farcical invention I fear it to be, I shall have you charged before visiting magistrates with secreting a weapon, with intent to facilitate an escape and make a prosecution plea that an additional sentence is imposed upon you. Further I shall endorse your file against any parole consideration, for as long as regulations permit such suspension.’

  Fuck you, thought Charlie. He was home. Home and dry. Steady, he thought, in immediate warning. He’d considered he had a deal before with Wilson and the bastard had reneged upon it.

  ‘All right,’ said Armitrage, still attempting to appear forceful. ‘What is it?’

  Charlie talked not to the governor but to Wilson. ‘What about our deal?’ he demanded.

  ‘What deal?’

  Charlie looked around the other assembled men. ‘You want me to talk about it here, like this?’

  ‘What deal?’ repeated Wilson.

  ‘I could have run, in Italy,’ reminded Charlie. ‘I knew you’d found me but I could still have run. But I didn’t. Because I knew our own ambassador there had gone over to the Russians I stayed and did everything you wanted me to, so you could not only stop it but reverse it, to try to create as much harm as you could…’

  ‘Which was all set out at your trial,’ interrupted the Director.

  ‘Bullshit!’ rejected Charlie. ‘It wasn’t set out, like you say it was. It was mentioned, almost in bloody passing. But the deal was that you’d make sure the judge understood. That there would be a consideration, not the maximum sodding sentence possible. And that after the sentence, you’d see I got out…!’ Charlie’s anger grew, as he remembered the promises Wilson had made to him. ‘Didn’t you?’ he said, careless of the rise in his voice. ‘ Didn’t you?’

  ‘I will not have Sir Alistair interrogated!’ broke in Armitrage. ‘Any more than I will tolerate any longer this ridiculous charade.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ placated Wilson, from behind the governor. To Charlie he said, ‘Approaches were made to the judge. I could only give you undertakings, not guarantees. He decided that what you did in Italy was a very small mitigation against the damage you did. There was no way I could prevent that.’

  ‘What about getting me out, afterwards?’ persisted Charlie.

  It was Armitrage, not the Director, who responded. ‘Sir Alistair has been in contact both with the Home Office and myself, long before today, seeking the earliest parole opportunity for you,’ said the Governor. ‘It was because of that earlier contact that I was able to get into touch so quickly. And why Sir Alistair responded, with matching speed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlie, momentarily deflated.

  ‘There’s only so much I can do, to circumvent the existing system,’ said Wilson. ‘There’s a consideration hearing in six months’ time. I’ve already indicated I’ll support any parole application you make, even though, of course, you’ll have to serve the required minimum, even if that parole is granted.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Charlie.

  ‘There’s no way you could,’ said Wilson. He added, ‘Or should.’

  ‘Whatever Sir Alistair intended doing, I shall still block it if all this is a nonsense,’ repeated Armitrage.

  He only had their word – Wilson’s word – Charlie realised, recovering. It could all be a bunch of lies. ‘I want another deal,’ he said. ‘This time an absolute guarantee that in exchange for what I’m going to tell you I get out. Get out immediately and I don’t care about existing systems or regulations or parole boards or whatever. I just want to get out.’

  ‘I won’t bargain with you,’ refused Wilson, quietly calm in face of Charlie’s uncertain control. ‘Certainly not blind. If what you’ve got to tell me is genuine then I’ll make sure it is brought fully before the parole application.’

  ‘Like you did before the judge!’

  ‘I told you I couldn’t anticipate his reaction.’

  ‘Any more than you can anticipate that of the parole committee,’ said Charlie. He decided he had nothing to lose: and that he’d never get such an opportunity again. ‘A deal,’ he insisted. ‘Otherwise you’re all going to look bloody fools. And that’s something I can guarantee.’

  Armitrage half turned, so that he could
see Wilson. He indicated with his finger something written on a file sheet that Charlie had been unaware of, on the desk in front of the governor.

  ‘I will guarantee you a transfer to an open prison,’ said the Director. ‘Further, I will guarantee a personal intervention when the parole is considered in six months’ time and I know the governor will support me in that intervention…’ Wilson hesitated. ‘But let’s get one thing straight,’ he went on. ‘So far I haven’t got the slightest indication why I’ve bothered to come all the way here, apart from my interest of which, until today, you were unaware. And that interest is rapidly diminishing. If, as the governor has said, it’s all been a wild goose chase then any help I might have considered giving you ends. You can stay here and rot, like the judge decided you should.’

  He was boxed in, Charlie realised. And they realised it too. Belatedly invoking the objectivity, Charlie supposed he was lucky to have got this far. Wilson had made a concession, bothering to come. So maybe the interest was genuine. An open prison would be like heaven, after this. And he’d get parole, for the information he had.

  ‘All right,’ conceded Charlie. And then he told them, in detail, gaining a passing satisfaction from the reaction from Dexter, one of the stupid sods who’d been impressed by Sampson.

  There were several moments of silence after Charlie finished. It was Wilson who spoke first. ‘What luck,’ said the Director. ‘What incredible, fortuitous luck.’

  Wilson took complete charge, appearing reluctant even for Armitrage to remain in the room, finally relenting only after going into the deputy governor’s office to make a series of telephone calls. He told the prison officers escorting Charlie to remain unseen in an ante-room, so that stories would not spread throughout the prison that Charlie was unaccompanied in the governor’s office, apart from some outside stranger, but lectured them as well as the deputy governor and the chief prison officer before dismissing them that as government employees they were bound by the Official Secrets Act. He added the heavy warning that if anything were to leak of what they had heard that evening in the office he would personally ensure a prosecution and press for a term of imprisonment. Charlie wondered where the Director had learned that becoming a prisoner, once having been a screw, was a prison officer’s biggest fear.