Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

‘Notice anything new?’ demanded Sampson.

Charlie did, as the man spoke, standing and going over to the small table, better able to see the radio. ‘How the hell did you get this?’

‘Applied for it,’ said Sampson, simply. He came beside Charlie and indicated a coiled aerial wire. ‘I can run that up to the cell window,’ he said. ‘The reception is terrific.’

‘This will make life much more pleasant,’ said Charlie.

Sampson smiled at him again and said, ‘You’d be surprised.’

Alexei Berenkov had been repatriated from British imprisonment to Moscow aware of his in absentia promotion to general as a recognition of a lifetime of spying in the West, expecting a dacha at Sochi and maybe a sinecure lecturing at one of the spy colleges. He wondered, initially, if his appointment instead to the planning department of the KGB, attached to the Dzer-zhinsky Square headquarters itself, was nepotism, the visible indication of the friendship that existed between himself and Kalenin. There were obviously some who felt the same thing and clearly the relationship between himself and the chairman was an important factor but Berenkov knew he would not have got the posting if Kalenin hadn’t thought he was capable of performing the function of division director – officially designated a deputy – because Kalenin was too adroit to do anything that might cause him personal difficulty. And Berenkov was pragmatic enough to know that he hadn’t caused the man any difficulty. The reverse, in fact. There hadn’t been a single, important mistake since Berenkov’s appointment and two – one in Tokyo, the other in Iran – impressive successes.

Berenkov was glad to be home. He missed the comparable freedom of the West – a freedom he was sufficiently personally confident enough to talk about openly and discuss – and the bon viveur life he’d been able to enjoy in London under his cover as a wine importer. But in Moscow he had a wife he loved – but from whom he’d spent too long apart – and a son he adored. And secretly – a secret he’d confessed to no one, not even Valentina and certainly not to Kalenin, friendly though they might be – Berenkov knew that after so long in the West, constantly living a pretence, constantly expecting the arrest that finally came, his nerve had begun to go. Now no one would know. So now he could savour the unaccustomed domesticity, which he did, and enjoy the unexpected and important job, which he did also, and consider himself a lucky man, fulfilled and content and safe.

Kalenin summoned him – officially instead of socially – before the cryptologists had broken the code, needing the benefit of Berenkov’s experience in England, an experience no one else in the ministry possessed. The chairman showed Berenkov the meaningless interceptions but because they were meaningless Berenkov merely glanced at them, putting them aside on his friend’s desk.

‘Not a code we know?’ he said.

Kalenin shook his head. ‘And one that’s being difficult: it’s even defying computor analysis at the moment.’

‘Then it’s important,’ judged Berenkov, confirming the opinion Kalenin had already reached.

‘How good are the British?’ demanded Kalenin.

Berenkov shrugged. ‘Don’t forget I’ve been away for a long time,’ he reminded. ‘Almost two years in prison and then back here for two years. Cuthbertson was the Director, during the end of my time. A fool and shown up to be one.’

‘Sir Alistair Wilson is the successor,’ said Kalenin.

Berenkov shook his head. ‘Don’t know of him,’ he said. ‘I’ve always felt that Cuthbertson and his crowd were an aberration, a mistake that occasionally arises in any service, because it can’t after all be avoided. For all the supposed expertise of the CIA, I’ve always had more respect for the British service.’

Kalenin shuffled through the intercepted messages. ‘Twenty,’ he said.

‘Important,’ repeated Berenkov. ‘There’s someone here in Moscow, a spy we don’t know about, shifting an enormous amount of information to which the British attach the utmost priority and importance.’

‘Where?’ demanded Kalenin, simply.

‘We’ll break the code, of course. Eventually,’ said Berenkov.

‘Of course,’ agreed Kalenin.

‘Then we need to work backwards,’ said Berenkov, the superb professional. ‘Knowing what the messages contain will only give us some indication of the damage. It won’t – unless we’re very lucky – quickly identify the source and that’s what we need: a way of stopping the flow quickly.’

‘We don’t have anyone in place in British intelligence, not any more?’

‘It was Sampson who warned us,’ remembered Berenkov. ‘Said he suspected there was someone here. I was making arrangements anyway to get him out. This makes his release even more important. Once there’s a transcription he might be able to indicate a direction.’

‘Get him out as soon as possible,’ ordered Kalenin. He paused. ‘Try to embarrass the British doing it, too.’

The pressure stopped. Not immediately, because the hostile screws like Hickley and Butterworth were initially suspicious and Prudell and the other landing bosses were uncertain, too, at Charlie’s adjustment. And Charlie didn’t find it easy, not at first. Or even later. It was difficult not to show, by unspoken insolence, what assholes he thought some of the screws were. And let Prudell and the other bullies know he still wasn’t scared of them. The adjustment was a conscious, forced effort, something he was not able to forget, not for a moment, in case in that moment his real attitude came to the surface and they saw through the charade that it was. But the relief was terrific, so good that he had to remain aware of that, as well, to prevent himself slipping into the institutionalised demeanour of acceptance. The library job was bigger than Charlie thought it to be, upon his arrival from the hospital, the actual transfer from the limited room in which it had been housed into a bigger area, further along the corridor. Although Hargrave retained the nominal title of librarian it was soon obvious that Sampson had taken over and because of Sampson’s relationship with the prison officers, even the bastards, they were able to work at their own pace, providing books were available and by maintaining the service, which wasn’t really difficult, Sampson was able to convince any officer who did query the work-rate that keeping the library open slowed the move. Although Charlie made and rigidly maintained the adjustment, he was also aware that the changed response of others to him was in some measure due to his obviously changed relationship with Sampson. Which was as difficult for him as everything else. It made sense for them to behave towards each other as they were but the thought of existing under Sampson’s protection and patronage was one that really pissed Charlie off. He accepted it though – with gut churning reluctance – because there was nothing else he could do. Another helplessness of where he was, doing what he was. And he could never forget that. Because Sampson knew anyway, Charlie openly kept the daily record of his imprisonment, the morning ritual before every day began, even slop-out.

Sampson’s radio became very important, as important as the calendar count. It was a positive, tangible link with outside, something through which Charlie was able to feel that he was not completely cut off and isolated. Sampson was as generous with it as he had been with the hospital whisky – and he still supplied that, too, although Charlie bought his share – rarely imposing his preference for programmes over Charlie’s choice, appearing as eager as Charlie for the current affairs and talk series. They even found they liked the same music.