The Blind Run cm-6

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘I should be joining the others.’

  ‘I can do it now,’ said Charlie, purposely obtuse.

  She frowned back at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘During one of the debriefings I said I couldn’t invite you out to dinner, because I didn’t have any money. This job pays. What are you doing tonight?’

  She smiled at him again, shaking her head. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why not.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Charlie, still intentionally awkward. If she refused him now then any subsequent refusal would be easier for her.

  ‘It wouldn’t look right.’

  ‘Who’d be looking?’ If they knew, they’d both probably be surprised, he thought.

  ‘Going out to dinner in Moscow isn’t easy, like it is in the West.’

  She was weakening, Charlie realised. ‘I’d still like to try,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  Natalia hesitated. Then she said, ‘All right.’

  Charlie felt the stomach tightening come again.

  Kalenin set out his miniature tanks to recreate Montgomery’s confrontation in North Africa against Rommel, fully familiar with the ploys and the strategies of the battle. Having assembled them, he remained staring down. There had been a sandstorm, he remembered; a blinding, concealing sandstorm and Montgomery had utilised the advantage.

  Was he being deflected by a sandstorm? wondered the KGB chairman. Kalenin knew he had done all the right things and made all the right moves to try to locate his traitor. But he still couldn’t see anything. So what was he doing wrong? What was blinding him from looking in the right direction?

  Kalenin turned away from his game, uninterested. The order had come from the Politburo for regular reports. Kalenin was aware that rarely – at any time during his career – had he been so exposed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Charlie was happy to let Natalia lead in everything because attracted to her though he was and genuine though he believed her to be he didn’t believe in coincidence, any more than he believed Father Christmas came down chimneys every December and he couldn’t reconcile himself to her appearance at Balashikha. He was curious at her choice of the Rossiya because it was the hotel to which he’d gone after the rebellious outing which had included the GUM store, but pleased with the top storey restaurant because of its magnificent view of central Moscow. The wine list was restricted to products within the Soviet Union and he wondered what Berenkov would have ordered: at least, he thought, it prevented him making any mistakes. He selected a red, from Georgia, and it tasted good and he was relieved; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of her. His attitude – which, objective as always, he recognised as one of nervousness – intrigued Charlie because the nervousness wasn’t because of his uncertainty about her true function but just about being in her company. Having been lucky with the wine he deferred to her over the food. They started with assorted cold fish and then goulash, which was excellent. The service was typically Russian, slow, but Charlie wasn’t in any hurry and he welcomed the delay: before the goulash arrived, he’d ordered the second bottle of wine. The lecture-hall reservation remained initially between them, so that although Charlie had decided to let her lead in the choice of where and what to eat he had to prompt the conversation, coaxing her out, bit by bit. Almost at once, tauntingly, she asked from how many sides she should look at his questions and he extended one finger towards her and guessing the response she met hers with his and Charlie said it signified a pact, for neither to be suspicious of the other, comfortable with his own hypocrisy. Gradually she began to talk. She told him of her hometown of Penza but of moving to Moscow very young, within the first year of her university entrance, because the KGB personnel selectors had already received reports of her ability, particularly with languages. Charlie got the impression she clearly enjoyed being in the service, for the advantages it meant. She explained how the training had been extensive and her grades impressive, so impressive that the offer was made – and accepted – that she should extend her studies to include psychology, for the function for which she was ultimately groomed. Presented with the opening, Charlie asked outright whether that grooming was now being further extended to mean her posting abroad, the only explanation for her presence on the course. This time she offered her finger and Charlie, enjoying the game, touched back – enjoying, too, the actual touch of her – and she admitted it wasn’t. Making no effort to conceal the pride Natalia said she was the senior psychologist in the debriefing section and that her appointment to the sessions was to provide the final assessment, on the suitability of the other five selected for overseas emplacement. Charlie’s initial, abrupt, reaction was one of relief because it meant that at some time in the future he wouldn’t be entrapping her, for arrest and imprisonment – the awfulness of imprisonment that he had known – in England or America. But at the same time that other part of his brain – the never resting, never sleeping, never relaxing professional part – saw the flaw.

  ‘Then it didn’t mean anything, did it?’ he demanded.

  She looked up at him, face creased with uncertainty. ‘What didn’t?’

  ‘What you said in the lecture room, about applying to be taken off the course. Because you also said it was special, an innovation. There weren’t any other courses to which you could be transferred.’

  She smiled at him, admiringly. ‘I also said you were impressive,’ she said. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t remember.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it was a lie. I meant what I said, about being surprised at seeing you when I walked into the hall today. I didn’t know how to respond: I hadn’t been given any warning. I don’t know why they didn’t warn me. It was stupid, not to have done so. And because I was uncertain, I just carried on with the charade, until I could get out to get some guidance.’

  ‘From Krysin?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Did you tell him we were meeting tonight?’

  She frowned again. ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t have done?’

  Instead of answering her question, Charlie asked another. ‘What would you have done if Krysin had said no, you couldn’t come?’

  ‘I told him as a matter of courtesy,’ she qualified. ‘I’m equal to Krysin, in rank. And influence. He hasn’t the authority to forbid me.’

  ‘What would you have done if he talked against it?’ persisted Charlie.

  Natalia looked down into her wineglass. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I think I would have come, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘So he could influence you?’

  ‘Not about my private life, no,’ she said in further qualification. ‘I would have listened to Krysin if I’d thought my becoming involved with you could in any way have caused difficulty with the other five in the class: they’re the important consideration, not your or my social life.’

  ‘Are we becoming involved,’ seized Charlie.

  ‘No,’ she said, at once.

  Almost too sharply, Charlie thought. Seeing the opening for an unasked question, Charlie said, ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Would it have any importance, if I were?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a decision for you?’

  ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘What a bourgeois question! What can conceivably be wrong in a married man or a married woman dining together?’

  ‘The roles have reversed again,’ said Charlie.

  His evasion confused her, as it was supposed to do. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re in charge again,’ he said.

  She smiled, reluctantly. ‘Answer the question,’ she insisted.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There can be absolutely nothing wrong. Now answer mine – is it happening?’

  Natalia sighed but Charlie didn’t think it was an expression of irritation. She said, ‘I was married during my first year here, in Moscow. He was a major, in our Border Guard division. An incredible man, in every wa
y. The most active way was sexual and he expected me to understand the other women, but I couldn’t. So I divorced him.’

  ‘It sounds as if you still love him,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Oh, I do,’ she admitted at once. ‘Very much.’

  Disappointment engulfed Charlie, like a blanket suddenly thrown over his head, blocking out the light. ‘Why not try to get back together?’ said Charlie.

  ‘I tried,’ said Natalia, honest still. ‘He isn’t interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlie, carelessly.

  ‘Why should you be?’

  He smiled at her, recovering. ‘One of those stupid, inconsequential Western reactions,’ he said.

  ‘At least there’s Eduard,’ she said. ‘He’s ten now. A very clever boy. I’m lucky, with the benefits of what I do. He’s at a boarding academy, getting a wonderful education.’

  It would be a KGB-run school, Charlie guessed. There seemed something obscene, battery-feeding a child that early into intelligence. It was the same, he supposed, with seminaries although he didn’t imagine priests would have liked the comparison. ‘How often do you see him?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Not enough,’ said Natalia. ‘I’d prefer to have him home but it’s better for him, the way it is.’

  Neither wanted anything after the goulash. Charlie ordered coffee and brandy, Russian again. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Has it been so bad?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s been very nice. Thank you.’

  Her apartment was far more central than his, just off Mytninskaya. There was the customary concierge on the ground floor and Natalia gave no reaction when Charlie walked confidently by, accompanying her to the elevator and then up to the apartment door. No smells, noted Charlie. At the door she turned and said ‘No.’

  ‘No what?’ he said, innocently.

  ‘Just no.’ She extended her hand, formally and said, ‘Thank you again. I’ve enjoyed it very much.’

  Charlie took her hand, thinking how much better it was than finger touching but regretting this was all it was going to be. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late for school in the morning.’

  ‘Were they bad?’ she said, seriously. ‘As bad as you made out.’

  ‘Bloody awful,’ said Charlie.

  With his customary ebullience Berenkov insisted upon a celebration dinner and with her customary obedience Valentina complied. Berenkov, naturally, made himself responsible for the wines. There was imported French champagne for the repeated toasts and the dinner wine and brandy were French, too. Georgi, who still had to learn to know his father, was overawed by the flamboyance and further embarrassed by the congratulations that Berenkov kept proposing, praises for passing the examinations with almost maximum marks and forecasts of the successes that Georgi was going to know in whatever Western university accepted him. The boy drank slightly too much and went unsteadily to bed and after he left the table Valentina said, ‘I can’t reconcile myself to it. I’ve tried – believing it will be as good for him as you tell me it will – but I can’t reconcile myself to it.’

  ‘It’ll be different from before,’ assured Berenkov. ‘Before we didn’t know when we were going to be together again, you and I. It won’t be like that this time.’

  ‘How long will it be?’ the woman demanded, wanting specifics.

  ‘Two years,’ said Berenkov. ‘I’m sure it won’t be any longer than two years.’

  ‘Two years, without seeing him!’

  ‘Maybe we’ll be able to see him earlier than that; maybe it won’t be a two year gap.’

  ‘You mean he’ll be able to come home on vacations?’

  ‘I mean we’ll see him,’ said Berenkov. ‘Of course we’ll see him.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Charlie was a relentless, unremitting instructor because he had to be. To win. And to survive. Concentrating upon survival first – which he always did – Charlie knew from Natalia’s warning that those he was teaching, who were after all supposed to be qualified, would report back to Krysin or someone else at Balashikha if he didn’t appear to be giving everything and more. And by giving everything and more he won, because it enabled him to learn just how good they were – and therefore the standard of their training – and a lot about the installation off Gofkovskoy Shosse, all of which he intended carrying back to England. Under the pretext of improving their technique he had them take him through all their tradecraft, how they established cells and communicated within those cells, how they created message drops and contact procedures and – most important – how they’d been taught to maintain relations with Moscow. All the time he corrected and modified – confident they would never have the opportunity to utilise the expertise he was giving them – all the time aware that in addition to winning and surviving he was the focus of Natalia’s attention and increasing admiration.

  Charlie tempered – although only to himself – his initial impression of their ability. They’d been taught well, in some respects impressively. But by rote, with rarely any advice on how to improvise or adapt if the circumstances for which they had been prepared didn’t accord with the expected pattern. Charlie thought those to whom he would subsequently report in London were going to be intrigued by how little individual initiative Moscow allowed its operatives.

  And intrigued, too, by his account of Balashikha. Charlie wasn’t aware of anything like it in England. He supposed the CIA’s training facility at Camp Peary, in Virginia, was similar but guessed even that fell short of what was available here. It was an enclave within enclave design and Charlie estimated that in total it occupied several thousand acres. The lecture halls and administration offices were the hub. Operatives lived within the installation, in dormitory accommodation which adjoined the central block. In the grounds there had been constructed complete replicas of typical streets and houses in Western towns. Insisting he should monitor his class’s trade craft in as proper a setting as possible, Charlie managed to gain access to reproductions of English, American, Canadian and French townships. There were parts to which he was not permitted admission but from one section the explosions and noise were obvious and Charlie realised that at Balashikha the spetnaz units were trained, too. He wondered, in passing, if Letsov and the other commando who had got him out of England had received their training here.

  Krysin remained hostile but Charlie ignored the man’s attitude, determined to take back with him as much as he could about the staff as well as the installation. He forced himself upon them in the recreation and dining areas and invented acceptable queries about the earlier training of those he was now instructing to intrude into their lecture halls and offices until finally Krysin summoned him and told Charlie that he was ignoring regulations and that all enquiries should be channelled through him, as director. Charlie was able to say – quite honestly – that he was unaware of any such regulations and Krysin had to admit to not having told him, which was further cause for ill feeling between them. Charlie didn’t care. By then he had the named identities of five other instructors in addition to Krysin and, by barging unannounced and uninvited into a classroom, a mental picture of four more agents undergoing infiltration training.

  Every time he invited Natalia out, in the evenings, she agreed. They ate Azerbaydzhan food at the Baku and went to a recital at the Central Concert Hall and at her insistence, because she said he would never have seen anything like it, went to the Moscow State Circus and Charlie admitted she was right. At the end of each evening, at the door to her apartment, she politely extended her hand and Charlie politely shook it: after the circus he tried to kiss her but she turned her face, so that gesture ended in a peck on the cheek, further politeness.

  Charlie planned for the contact Thursday. He knew Krysin had tried hard to find fault – and been unable to apart from his intruding where he shouldn’t – so the director’s resistance to the suggestion was predictable. Charlie prepared for it, arguing the need for them to put th
eir training to practical street use and by setting it out as a challenge – putting their earlier instruction against his subsequent training – finally obtained the director’s agreement. He set it out as a challenge to the class, too, warning them on the Wednesday that the following day he was going to be the hare to their hounds and within an hour clear his trail completely of their pursuit. It hadn’t really been necessary to challenge them, Charlie knew; he just wanted to impress Natalia.

  Charlie made extensive use of the Metro, criss-crossing the city and consciously losing Popov and Olga Suvorov by appearing to leave the train at the Kazan interchange and then reboarding at the last minute. He did change, twice, and emerged at street level at the Kiev station. He was lucky because a river boat was about to depart up the Moskva River and he hurried towards it, sideslipping into the last of the crowd and Belik tried to anticipate him and was at the rail, looking desperately around him, when the boat left with Charlie still ashore. He went underground again, travelling this time as far as the Kursk station. The Museum of Oriental Art was ideal, a large, rambling building with many confusing rooms and he used the emergency exit to get out not on to the main Obukha Street but into a side alley. He used the park alongside the Yauza River, actually entering the sanatorium, that had been created from the mansion in the grounds there and finding another side entrance so that he could avoid re-emerging from the same door. He chanced a street bus from the park, consciously going away from the direction he intended, leaving after two halts and backtracking, still by bus, until he saw a convenient metro station and went underground again. He switched trains twice, remaining the second time on the same line, and emerged from the Arbatskaya station near the Kremlin. He didn’t approach the GUM store direct but consciously went around Dzerzhinsky Square, gazing up at the goatee-bearded statue of the man after whom it was named and who established the Soviet secret service and then beyond, to the uneven facade of the headquarters of the KGB itself. He hadn’t got inside, as Wilson had hoped. Too much to have hoped for anyway. He’d got to Berenkov, which was as good. And penetrated Balashikha, which was also good. Bloody good. If only he could make the contact and pull the whole damned thing off. Charlie moved on, still with the building in view. It was conveniently situated to GUM if the informant were actually inside, he reflected.