The Blind Run cm-6

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘You’ve proved your loyalty,’ Wilson announced to Charlie, in the now cleared office. ‘I was satisfied after Italy, which is why I have been trying to help. But coming forward like this is the absolute proof.’

  ‘So we’ve got a deal?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilson. ‘But not the sort you thought.’

  ‘What the hell…!’ started Charlie, the anger returning, but Wilson raised his hand, in a stopping gesture. ‘I’ll reinstate you,’ said the Director. ‘Not on active duty, perhaps. I guess you’ve probably had enough of that. Or will have. But I’ll bring you back into the department, restore all your allowance and pension rights. Wipe the slate clean.’

  Charlie stood head to one side, trying to disguise the bewilderment. ‘What for?’ he demanded presciently. ‘What do I have to do?’

  Wilson did not reply directly. Instead he looked down to the still-seated governor and said, ‘A little while ago I warned your officers that what they heard in this room was governed by the official secrets legislation.’

  Two patches of red burned on Armitrage’s cheeks. ‘I heard,’ he said tightly.

  ‘I’m going to repeat that warning, to you. About what you are now going to hear.’

  ‘Which is insulting and offensive,’ protested Armitrage. ‘I don’t need reminding of my duty. Perhaps you need reminding that so far the only person whom you haven’t cautioned is serving a fourteen year sentence for being a traitor.’

  ‘No,’ said Wilson. ‘I don’t need reminding. It’s an involved story that isn’t worth repeating, in the time available to us, but as I said a few moments ago I am completely and absolutely sure of Charlie Muffin’s loyalty. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be about to do what I am going to do now.’

  ‘What?’ asked Charlie, trying to force himself to think beyond Wilson’s offer. Reinstated! With a cushy job in headquarters, where the central heating kept you warm and the roof stopped the rain making you wet. Back doing a job he could do better than anybody else – well, as good as the best, anyway – and which he’d missed like hell for every minute of every day of every year, ever since he’d set them up for trying to set him up. There had to be a catch. There had to be the biggest catch in the history of catches, some utterly impossible demand to match the utterly impossible offer.

  ‘I want you to go,’ said Wilson quietly.

  ‘Go?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Over the wall, with Sampson. And all the way back to Russia.’

  Charlie was speechless. He actually opened his mouth, to speak, but his thoughts were too jumbled to form a coherent sentence and so he stood in front of the Director with his mouth gaping.

  It was the governor who spoke. ‘Are you telling me – expecting me – to agree to this!’ he said, outraged. ‘Do you think I am going to allow an escape from this jail of two men serving sentence for treason. You’re insane. Absolutely insane.’

  Wilson nodded in the direction of the deputy governor’s office, from which he’d made the telephone calls, and said, ‘You will get a summons from the Home Office tomorrow. You’ll meet the Foreign Secretary. The Prime Minister, as well. Your instructions will be to co-operate fully.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Charlie, at last. ‘Now please, just a minute. You expect me to go along with Sampson, break out and go to Russia!’

  Wilson turned to him. ‘If you won’t then I shall have you transferred from here tonight, to a maximum security prison. Where I shall personally see to it that you serve every last day of your sentence, never qualifying for parole. Further, I shall allow it to be known that the transfer was for your own protection because you’d grassed on other prisoners. Actually foiled an escape.’

  ‘Bastard!’ shouted Charlie. The biggest catch in the history of catches, he thought.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Wilson, mildly. ‘Because I have to be. Because the prize is worth every sort of venality and pressure I’m capable of showing.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Charlie.

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘I haven’t any choice, have I?’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ pointed out the Director.

  Twelve years, two weeks and three days, remembered Charlie. ‘Acceptable choice,’ he qualified.

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  ‘I’ll try. I don’t know if I can do it until I know fully what it is.’

  Wilson smiled, appreciating the professionalism. ‘There’ll only be this one chance for any sort of briefing,’ he warned. ‘So make sure you understand everything completely. About three months ago there was an approach to the embassy, in Moscow. A first secretary retrieved his coat from the cloakroom at the Bolshoi and in the inside pocket there was a letter. Unsigned. Offering intelligence. And there was something else, part of a memorandum of a Politburo meeting that no one in the West had even suspected of being held, discussing the normalisation of relations with China. We were able, later, to establish through Peking that such approaches were being made.’

  ‘So it’s reliable stuff?’ probed Charlie. Christ it was good to be involved again; to be working.

  ‘Every time,’ said Wilson. ‘We’ve had three more messages concerning that meeting, plus some material from the space exploration centre at Baikonur. And there’s been crop yield figures confirmed from aerial satellite and details of improved SS20 silo construction around Moscow.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you want me to do,’ said Charlie.

  ‘We don’t know the source,’ admitted Wilson. ‘The letter, on that occasion at the Bolshoi, identified a drop. That first time it was a telephone kiosk near the Lenina metro station. That pick-up designated a subsequent drop. And that’s how it’s gone on, ever since.’

  ‘Blind drops,’ said Charlie. ‘Cautious.’

  ‘The last message said whoever it was wanted defection. For himself – and we’re assuming it’s male although we don’t know – and his family,’ disclosed Wilson. ‘The message said that everything we’d got so far was to prove his value. And we think that value is something like the most accurate intelligence we’ve managed to get out for years. The message also said that what he’d bring out with him would show everything he had provided thus far to be practically inconsequential.’

  ‘So help him across,’ said Charlie, simply.

  ‘I told you we don’t know who he is,’ said Wilson. ‘And like you said, he’s cautious. One of the most frightening pieces of information was the extent and the degree that our own embassy is under observation. And of the identification of our people. He won’t make a direct approach, for fear of interception. We’ve got to make contact with him. And with someone the Russians don’t know. Or suspect.’

  ‘Me?’ said Charlie, emptily.

  ‘You,’ said Wilson.

  ‘But how, for Christ’s sake!’ said Charlie. ‘That’s impossible.’

  Wilson shook his head, in refusal. ‘You’d be well received, after what you did,’ he said. ‘Accepted. Berenkov’s back, you know. Attached to Dzerzhinsky Square itself, according to our information. Maybe you’d even get to him.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘The contact instructions are quite explicit,’ said Wilson. ‘The west door of the GUM department store, on the third Thursday of any month. Your identification has to be a guide book and a copy of Pravda , the paper inside the book, carried always in your left hand. There won’t be any open approach, not until he’s absolutely sure.’

  ‘And how will I be sure?’

  ‘If I lived in Moscow, I don’t think I’d care what the weather was like,’ quoted Wilson. ‘It’s Chekhov. Your response is “People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy”.’

  ‘Berenkov used Chekhov,’ remembered Charlie, at once. ‘Took his codes from The Cherry Orchard and Uncle Vanya. ’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilson. ‘We had it personally carried out – together with the message saying he wanted to defect – to prevent any monitor interception.’

  �
��Could it be Berenkov?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s practically impossible.’

  ‘But not completely,’ said Wilson.

  ‘There’ll have to be a time limit.’

  ‘Six months,’ suggested Wilson.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Just walk into the British embassy and demand repatriation.’

  ‘What if there’s been no contact?’

  ‘He’ll be blown, I’d guess.’

  ‘There must be something else!’ insisted Charlie, desperately.

  ‘We think it’s headquarters,’ said the Director.

  ‘Why?’ seized Charlie, eager for anything.

  ‘The range,’ said Wilson. ‘Politburo meetings, Baikonur, crop yields. That’s the sort of stuff that would be compartmented, except at headquarters.’

  ‘And even there not co-ordinated at a low level,’ said Charlie.

  Wilson smiled again, in further appreciation. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I think it’s Dzerzhinsky Square itself and I think it’s high level. Very high level.’

  ‘What if I make contact?’ said Charlie. ‘What then?’

  ‘See what he wants, how he wants it. And agree to anything. This is too good to let go. Tell him we’ll guarantee safety, homes, schools for any kids… whatever.’

  Charlie looked around the office of the prison governor. ‘What if I’m caught?’ he said.

  ‘You’ve been caught, Charlie,’ reminded Wilson. ‘Don’t be again.’

  ‘It took long enough,’ said Berenkov, looking down at the transcribed messages laid out on Kalenin’s desk.

  ‘Too long,’ said the chairman. ‘Look at it!’

  For an hour Berenkov was silent, reading through the information. At last he said, ‘It’s got to be from inside here.’

  ‘I’d already decided that,’ said Kalenin.

  Chapter Eight

  Wilson evolved the cover story, anticipating that in any nervousness preceding the break Sampson might become suspicious. The prison records – to which the administration trusties might have access – was endorsed with a not proven verdict on the accusation of attempting to steal the knife but with a sentence of a week in solitary confinement for insubordination to prison officials, particularly the governor. Isolating Charlie gave the opportunity for a further, short briefing. Wilson had Charlie relate back to him all the contact procedures, to ensure Charlie fully understood, and actually provided a copy of Three Sisters for Charlie to read.

  ‘I still think you’re screwing me,’ protested Charlie, as the Director prepared to leave.

  ‘What would you do, if the circumstances were reversed?’ demanded Wilson.

  ‘The same,’ conceded Charlie.

  Wilson nodded. ‘This is a Heaven sent opportunity,’ he said. ‘I’ll fulfil every undertaking and promise, when it comes off.’

  ‘If it comes off,’ qualified Charlie.

  ‘Everyone says you were good, Charlie. The best,’ said the Director.

  When he returned to the cell at the end of the week Charlie realised it was a reputation he was going to have to live up to. Sampson’s attitude was predominantly one of anger but Charlie detected an uncertainty, too, an uncertainty that easily could have become the suspicion the Director feared.

  ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ demanded the man.

  ‘Nothing was proven,’ said Charlie, defensively.

  ‘I know nothing was proven,’ said Sampson, with sighing impatience. ‘That isn’t the point. Why draw attention to yourself?’

  ‘Thought the knife might come in useful,’ said Charlie, feigning sullenness. So Sampson had checked it out, through a trusty. Wilson was clever to have foreseen that.

  ‘So you did try to get a knife?’

  Charlie grinned, as if welcoming the chance to prove himself. ‘Course I bloody did.’

  ‘Fool!’ said Sampson, ‘Stupid, idiotic fool.’ His voice menacingly soft, Sampson said. ‘I warned you what would happen if you did anything to endanger the attempt. And you did endanger it. OK, so you got away with it, but you’re still a stupid bastard to have tried it in the first place. From now on you’ll do exactly as I say, when I say and how I say. You understand?’

  If everything were for real and he’d got the knife Charlie thought how much he would have liked to shove it right up the ass of this cocky little sod. ‘Yes,’ he said, humbly. ‘I understand. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Good!’ said Sampson, savouring the bully’s control. ‘So from now on you’re going to be the model prisoner. From now on you do everything by the book and you don’t even let an insolent thought enter your thick head. I don’t want any screw or any instructor to be aware of your existence even.’

  ‘A knife might have come in useful,’ said Charlie, exploring.

  ‘I’ll decide any protection we might need,’ said Sampson. ‘And arrange it.’

  So there was a possibility, somehow, of weapons. Charlie realised he’d have to be careful of that, like he had to be careful of everything else. ‘You heard anything?’ he said, nodding to the radio.

  Sampson nodded, the anger slipping away at the opportunity of boasting about a favourite toy. ‘All fixed,’ he said. ‘Practically all, anyway.’

  ‘So what is it?’ demanded Charlie. ‘When? How?’

  Sampson smiled at Charlie’s urgency. ‘What’s the rule, about information? Our sort of rule?’ he prompted.

  ‘A need-to-know basis,’ recited Charlie.

  ‘Good to know you haven’t forgotten everything you were ever taught,’ said Sampson. ‘For the moment, you’ve no need to know.’

  ‘I thought you trusted me,’ said Charlie, knowing he had to make the protest.

  ‘I never said anything about trusting you,’ corrected Sampson. ‘I said I was glad that after so long you were becoming sensible, that I knew you couldn’t stand to stay in here and that I was taking you along because there isn’t any alternative and I know bloody well that because of how you feel you’d shop me if I tried to go without you. That isn’t trusting you: that’s knowing you.’

  ‘I know I risked cocking everything up, over that damned knife. That it was a mistake,’ said Charlie. ‘But there’s the danger of an even bigger mistake – a disastrous mistake – if you leave me blind. I’ve got to know something.’

  ‘I won’t leave you blind,’ assured Sampson. ‘You’ll be told, every step of the way.’

  He’d forced it as far as he could – as far as Sampson would professionally expect him to force it and become unsettled if he didn’t – but Charlie recognised it was now time to stop. He said, ‘Christ, I can’t wait to get out of this bloody place!’

  ‘You won’t have to, not much longer,’ promised Sampson.

  The corridor leading into the administration block to which he was still assigned passed the former library and as he filed along it to work the following morning Charlie was aware of the partially erected scaffolding, through the window. It was a restricted view and he only looked fleetingly in the direction because he didn’t want to attract the interest of any prison officer, but Charlie’s impression was that there appeared a lot of it. Charlie assumed, obviously, that the break would be at night; wouldn’t be easy, negotiating all that planking and tubing, in the dark. Certainly not in these pinching, constricting bloody prison boots. He didn’t expect there would be Hush Puppies, in Moscow. What would there be? he wondered. Difficulty, he decided. A hell of a lot of difficulty. With no choice – indeed, confronting a positive threat as an alternative – he’d had to agree to everything that Wilson had demanded but with the opportunity of proper, sensible examination that had been possible during his period of solitary confinement Charlie recognised it was a near impossible mission. He’d made blind contacts in the past, several of them, but then the authorities hadn’t been able to monitor or suspect his doing it. He didn’t know but he very much doubted that they’d let him wander around Moscow, going where he liked and doing what
he liked. Not at first, anyway. And he didn’t intend staying a day over the agreed six months. Or did he? Back in the department, Wilson had promised. Past misdeeds forgotten and everything reinstated. Be nice to go back to a place where it appeared, from what everyone said, he still had a name and some sort of reputation with a brand new coup under his belt. Be like going back with a reference, a testimonial that he was as good as he’d ever been. Be showing he could win, too. That was how Charlie always thought of any operation in which he was successful. Winning. Charlie Muffin liked to win.

  Charlie had been conscious at breakfast that two prisoners from his landing were missing but had not thought overly about it because there could have been many reasons for it, so it was not until he got into administration, where one of them worked, and saw he was absent from there as well that he asked around and heard of the sickness outbreak on his landing. It had started, according to the gossip, on the second day he was in solitary, sudden attacks of convulsive vomiting that the doctor had diagnosed as food poisoning. Almost a dozen men, five from Charlie’s landing alone, had gone down with it. There had been a cleanliness check in the kitchens and before he’d been released from solitary special disinfecting of the slop-out rooms. He mentioned it to Sampson, because in the cut off society of prison anything, no matter how inconsequential, is a talking point and this was hardly inconsequential anyway, aware as he did so of the man’s smile and not understanding the assurance that they wouldn’t go down with the complaint. It was not until the end of the week when they spoke about it again and this time it was Sampson who raised it, smiling as he had on the first occasion.

  ‘Doctor can’t seem to get to the bottom of this food poisoning,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve been lucky,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No, we haven’t,’ said Sampson.

  What was the self-satisfied bugger talking about now? wondered Charlie. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.