‘Did you find him?’ he demanded.
‘I ask the questions,’ the woman cut off, abruptly. Then, confirming the questioner’s role, she repeated the query she had made the previous day to Charlie, whether he would be prepared to co-operate. Sampson said at once, ‘But of course; that’s what I’ve been doing all these years and what I want to continue doing.’
‘Why?’ asked the woman.
‘I don’t understand,’ protested Sampson.
‘Why do you want to adopt our way of life?’
Sampson smiled. ‘Because I believe it is the right way of life. I’m not naïve enough to believe that there aren’t faults in the communist system. Abuses, too. But I consider there are greater faults in the so-called Western democracy, which is nothing of the sort. The labour and socialist movements have tried and they’ve failed. Britain is controlled by vested, capitalistic interests. Capitalism destroyed any proper reforms considered by Mitterand in France. Money, profit and success to the already successful is the creed in America and their CIA maintain and manipulate fascist, right wing régimes throughout Central America and crush the first signs of liberalism. And Africa, too. The CIA put Mobutu into power in Zaire and have kept him there for more than a decade. And what’s happened? He’s corruptly become a billionaire – with his money safely in Switzerland – and his country is one of the most poverty stricken and suppressed on the continent …’ Sampson paused, breathlessly and then finished, ‘So-called capitalism doesn’t set people free. It makes rich men richer and suppresses the poor …’
‘You seem angry,’ said the woman, mildly.
‘I am angry,’ agreed Sampson. ‘Which is why I offered myself, all those years ago. And why I am offering myself now.’
‘What are you prepared to do?’
‘Anything,’ responded Sampson, immediately.
‘Unquestioned?’
‘Unquestioned,’ promised the man.
‘Why did you bring the other one with you?’
‘Muffin?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had no choice. We were in the same cell. I could have created a situation to get him moved – I actually set out to do so – but then I learned I’d have to have someone else. And that wouldn’t have been someone who would have considered a life here. Nor someone you would have considered admitting.’
‘Would Muffin have tried to prevent your escape? Raised an alarm, perhaps?’
‘Who knows what he would have done?’ said Sampson, contemptuously. ‘I don’t think he’s aware half the time what he really is doing.’
‘You didn’t escape from the cell, according to Muffin. You escaped from the infirmary. Muffin didn’t have to be involved at all.’
‘Are you doubting me?’ asked Sampson, indignantly.
‘Yes,’ said Natalia, openly.
‘Then look at your records, of all the contacts with me inside prison. Only at the very end was apomorphine proposed. Intially I thought I’d have to escape from the cell. And there was no way I could have done that without Charlie Muffin knowing about it.’
‘Why didn’t you kill him, like you did the policeman?’
Sampson came forward even further, to reinforce what he had to say. ‘I didn’t want to kill anyone: cause any more harm than was absolutely necessary. And like I said, I thought I had to get away from our cell. There are regular cell checks, every few hours. He would have been discovered.’
‘What about the prison officer you battered being discovered?’
Sampson smiled, as the points came his way. ‘The infirmary isn’t checked, during the night. There wasn’t a risk of discovery.’
‘There was with the policeman.’
‘I had to make the decision on the spot. I didn’t know whether the people you sent for me would drive off, at the first indication of danger. Whether I could subdue the man before he had time to sound an alarm. Could subdue him, even.’ Sampson gave another pause. ‘If I created a difficulty then I’m sorry. It seemed the only thing – the right thing – to do at the time.’
‘Do you like killing? Hurting people?’
‘Did that bastard say I did?’
‘Do you like hurting people?’ repeated the woman.
‘No.’
‘You told me you were prepared to do anything.’
‘Yes,’ remembered Sampson, cautiously.
‘If you were told to kill someone, would you do it?’
It was several moments before Sampson replied. Then he said, ‘I would argue against the order.’
‘Why?’
‘I am not trained to kill, to be an assassin.’
‘Is that your objection, your lack of training? You’ve no moral objection?’
There was another long hesitation from the man. At last he said, ‘If I am properly convinced of the need, then no, I have no moral objection.’
‘What do you think of Charlie Muffin?’ she demanded, in one of her directional changes.
Sampson sniggered, contemptuous again. ‘There’s nothing to think about,’ he said.
‘I don’t understand that answer.’
‘He was probably good, once,’ said the man. ‘That’s the reputation he had in the department, despite what he did. Maybe even a grudging admiration. But now he’s past it. He’s middle aged, out of condition, clinging like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood to some ridiculous charade about not being a traitor.’
‘Wasn’t he?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Sampson, carelessly. ‘He exposed the British and American Directors, so of course he was. But it seems to have been a personal thing, not through any ideology …’ Sampson hesitated. ‘I really don’t think it’s important. I don’t think he’s important.’
‘What is he, then?’
‘A has-been,’ judged the man.
The conference that night between Berenkov and Kalenin did not last so long because Sampson’s commitment was so obvious but it was still later than normal when Berenkov returned to the exclusively guarded compound for the Kremlin hierarchy at Kutuzovsky Prospekt. Valentina was waiting, with the newly-wed pleasure as always, despite their twenty years of marriage. Because effectively they were newly weds. Berenkov had been posted as an illegal in the West within six months of their marriage, time sufficient for Georgi to be conceived but not for him to know what it was like to be a father, any more than to be a husband. The eventually established front in London as a wine importer – one of the capital’s best for more than fifteen years – enabled wine-buying trips to Europe where they had been able to meet for brief reunions but that was exactly how the encounters had seemed to both of them, holiday romances each knew would end. Throughout it all, each had remained faithful to the other, despite, in Berenkov’s case, frequent opportunities and frequent temptations as a London bon viveur. The three years in Moscow since his repatriation – three favoured, even indulgent years of special accommodation among the Kremlin élite, shopping facilities in concessionary stores, a Sochi villa whenever they required it – had been for both of them the happiest in a strange, unreal life. The only blur to that happiness was the difficulty that Berenkov had in getting to know his son and that was not a difficulty of dislike or youthful rebellion, because the boy knew enough of what his father had been doing to accept his mother’s insistence that Berenkov rightfully deserved the award as a Hero of the Soviet Union. It was, rather, the difficulty of strangers becoming father and son.
Valentina kissed him and held him tightly and he held her tightly too and then she led him into the apartment and poured him the scotch whisky their concessionary facilities allowed them, neat, without water or ice, the way he’d taught her it was properly taken in the West.
‘Dinner won’t be long,’ she said.
‘No hurry.’
‘Georgi is skating.’
‘What about the examinations?’ asked Berenkov. They were preliminary, before the proper graduation tests and if he achieved the necessary grades the boy was eligible
for foreign exchange consideration; the possibility of Georgi going to the West – that amorphous place which had robbed her for so many years of a husband – was an increasing point of dissent between Valentina and Berenkov.
‘He thinks he did well,’ she replied. ‘He won’t know for some time.’
‘How well?’ persisted Berenkov.
‘Top five,’ said Valentina, unhappily. She was a petite, almost birdlike woman, neat and precise, a comparison in opposites to Berenkov’s expansive, casual bulk.
‘So he could qualify?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He could qualify.’
‘He’d benefit, going somewhere like America to finish his education,’ said Berenkov, aware of the familiar hesitation. ‘A lot of our people do it.’
‘I lost one person I love for too long to the West,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose another.’
‘It wouldn’t be for long; two years at the most,’ he said.
‘Still too long,’ she insisted stubbornly.
‘Something I never expected has happened,’ said Berenkov, wanting to move away from their usual disagreement.
She looked up to him, waiting. He held out the glass and she obediently refilled it, giving him the opportunity to decide what he could and could not say about Charlie Muffin. He should not have told her at all, of course, but Berenkov never conformed to any set of rules. When he finished telling her of Charlie’s Moscow arrival she said, ‘Will I meet him? Will he come here, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Berenkov. ‘Maybe.’
‘He gave you back to me,’ said Valentina, simply. ‘I’d so much like to thank him.’
‘Maybe,’ repeated Berenkov, savouring the whisky and wishing it were the single malt he’d enjoyed in London.
‘Alexei?’
‘What?’ he said.
‘Do you miss it?’
‘Miss what?’
‘The West?’ asked the woman, anxiously. ‘The life you led there.’
Berenkov looked back at the whisky he had been contemplating. ‘Yes,’ he said, honestly, because one of the understandings of their relationship was that they were always honest with each other. ‘There are many things that I miss about it …’ He looked up at her, smiling. ‘But there are many things about living in Moscow that I prefer. And the most important of those is you.’
She didn’t answer his smile, remaining serious-faced. ‘You’d never do it again, would you?’ she said. ‘You’d never go away and leave me again?’
‘Never,’ assured Berenkov, seeing her need. ‘For the rest of our lives, we’re going to be together.’
On the other side of Moscow, Charlie Muffin managed to complete his sweep of the apartment before Sampson returned. He located six listening devices. Nosy lot of buggers, he thought.
Chapter Fourteen
Natalia wore a severely tailored black suit and a white shirt, open at the throat and she seemed to have taken more trouble with her hair, straining it back into a chignon. Charlie decided it suited her. The outfit, too. Definitely nice tits. There was no welcoming smile and the gesture to the carefully positioned chair was curt.
‘We will talk today in much more detail,’ she announced, making it sound an order.
New approach, thought Charlie: today was aggression day, putting him firmly into his place. He’d determined upon his demeanour, too. It was going to clash. He leaned forward, so that he could reach the edge of her desk and counted out the devices he found in the apartment. As he did so he recited ‘… tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man …’
Natalia pursed her lips, an expression of strained irritation.
Charlie grinned at her and said, ‘It’s a game we play in England, with kids, counting out the fruit pips. Supposed to forecast the future.’
‘You didn’t finish it,’ she reminded him. ‘It ends “beggar man, thief”. What role do you think you’re going to play, in the future?’
‘Not sure, not yet,’ said Charlie. He couldn’t be certain if he were off-balancing her, which was the intention.
‘No,’ said Natalia, pointedly. ‘I’m not sure, either.’
Charlie recognised that she was fighting back but thought the remark had been too heavy. Nodding towards the lined-up devices, he said, ‘How many did Sampson bring you?’
‘Perhaps he was more trusting than you. Or doesn’t like kids’ games.’
‘If he’s more trusting than me then he’s stupid, isn’t he?’
‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ said Natalia, trying for contempt.
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. He’d have to be cautious, about appearing over-confident. Which he wasn’t.
‘You don’t seem to be taking anything very seriously,’ she said.
‘Believe me, I am,’ said Charlie. ‘For the first time I’m beginning to realise what it’s like, to be out of prison.’
Her face relaxed, very slightly, at her acceptance of the explanation. ‘Is that all you’ve realised?’
It was going very well, Charlie decided. ‘No,’ he said.
This time there was an actual smile. ‘So you’re going to co-operate?’
‘No,’ said Charlie again. ‘I’m going to listen to all the questions and I’ll answer all that I feel able to.’ To concede more than that would be wrong, he knew.
Natalia’s face hardened. ‘That’s not co-operation.’
‘How do you know, until you’ve tried it?’ Charlie wondered what her rank was, in the service.
She appeared about to argue further and then to change her mind, going back again to the folder. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s try it. Start from the very beginning, from your moment of entry. Tell me all about the examinations you took and the tests you underwent. Tell me about the instructional schools you attended and where they were. Tell me about the departments in which you’ve worked and the places where you’ve worked and the people with whom you’ve worked. Tell me about your promotions and demotions …’ She looked up at him, waiting.
‘All that!’ said Charlie, trying for mockery.
‘All that,’ she said, refusing him. ‘For a beginning.’
Charlie had determined his reaction. He knew he had to impress her and whoever else was involved, assessing the interviews, and that meant convincing them that although he’d made the effort in attempting to retain some little portion of integrity, at the end they would believe they’d got all they wanted. And in fact there was a lot he could tell them that wouldn’t endanger anyone or anything. From the beginning, she’d said. Which was easy, because the training facilities through which he’d gone, in Hertfordshire, no longer existed. Charlie was extremely careful, over-detailing what no longer mattered, avoiding what did. Some of the early operations were as extinct as the Hertfordshire training school and so he had no hesitation about them. It was the period when he established the reputation that was to last and he actually enjoyed the telling, realising as he did so that he wanted to impress Natalia in a way different from anyone else who might study the inevitable tapes and transcripts, that he wanted her to admire him. He was passingly intrigued and even amused. She was, after all, the first woman with whom he’d had any contact for a very long time, so he supposed it was a natural reaction. What, he wondered, would hers be if she knew what he was thinking? Was she married? There was no ring but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Charlie tried to push the intrusive reflection away, hurrying on with the account, anxious to submerge her in as much peripheral detail as possible. The headquarters of MI-6 weren’t in Mayfair any more, so he felt no hesitation about speaking at length about them, bothering with floor lay-out and office apportionment. He didn’t stop at listing the Directors under whom he’d worked, either. Apart from Cuthbertson – who didn’t matter because they knew what he had done to him – none of the Directors whom Charlie had known were still alive and although their identities were supposed to be a secret, even after retirement and death, Charlie knew damned well that it was a n
onsense and that the KGB had a complete record. Cuthbertson brought him to Berenkov and Charlie gave every detail of that operation, well knowing that upon his return Berenkov would have been even more fully debriefed and that therefore he was giving nothing away that the Russians didn’t already know. The woman let Charlie make his own pace, only very rarely intruding for a point of clarification and never upon anything that Charlie didn’t want to talk about. Not wanting to interrupt the account, Natalia had coffee and sandwiches brought in at mid day and Charlie was conscious of the deference the woman received and wondered again at her rank. It was late when they finished, already dark outside, lights pricked around the motorway. Charlie ached physically, from the effort and the strain. It had been important to swamp her with minutiae – to make them all believe they were getting something – but he’d spoken for so long that it was difficult for him to remember precisely what he’d said. Which was dangerous because it meant if they weren’t completely convinced – or if a query arose that she hadn’t thought of immediately – then he might get caught out in a re-examination. He’d have to be bloody careful. But then that had always been a requirement.
‘How much longer?’ he said.
‘Longer?’
‘Sessions like these.’
‘Until we’re satisfied,’ she said.
‘About what?’ Charlie knew but he wanted to see how far she would commit herself.
‘That you’re going to be of some use to us.’
‘Thanks, for the honesty,’ said Charlie, trying to sound offended.
‘Isn’t that what we’re trying to establish between us, honesty?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie.
‘Today was better,’ said Natalia. ‘Much better.’
Was she attempting to reassure him? Deciding it would sound a perfectly natural question, Charlie said, ‘What happens, when you’re finally satisfied. What will I be required to do?’
‘That’s not for me to decide,’ said Natalia. ‘Not even to be finally satisfied.’
The Blind Run Page 13
