Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

Because of the special relationship that existed between them and because Kalenin was anxious for Sampson’s release in their search for the internal spy Berenkov’s request for a meeting with the chairman was immediately granted.

‘With Sampson?’ queried Kalenin, when Berenkov made the announcement.

‘That’s what the message said,’ repeated Berenkov. ‘It’s very brief, just the first confirmation of the escape.’

‘Wasn’t it planned?’

Berenkov shook his head. ‘I knew Charlie was in the same jail as Sampson, obviously. Just as it was obvious that they would meet, before I could get Sampson out. I actually intended to ask Sampson as much about him as possible, when Sampson got here. I liked Charlie.’

‘I liked him, too,’ said Kalenin, who had personally met Charlie and led the Austrian arrests. ‘But he isn’t a traitor, not like Sampson and the rest.’

‘I know,’ said Berenkov, conscious of his superior’s caution.

‘I felt sorry for him, after his capture.’

‘I feel sorry for anyone in jail,’ said Berenkov. ‘Even though I knew I’d get out, just like Sampson knew he’d get out, there were times when I felt so depressed that I thought of suicide…’ Berenkov smiled, embarrassed at the confession. ‘Difficult to believe that now.’

‘Charlie will find it difficult, adjusting here,’ predicted Kalenin.

‘Not if he adjusted to jail,’ said Berenkov.

‘Sampson is the important one,’ said Kalenin, hurrying on. ‘When are they due?’

‘Two days… three at the most.’

‘I’ve blanketed the embassy here,’ confided Kalenin. ‘A squad for anyone who leaves.’

‘We’ve had that embassy in a net from the moment of the first transmission, weeks before there was any transcription even,’ said Berenkov. ‘We should have established the contact procedure by now.’

‘We should have done a lot of things by now,’ said Kalenin, bitterly.

Charlie sat pressed into the corner of the car furthest from Sampson, physically wanting to distance himself from the man: from what he’d done and from everything about him. Charlie decided he was buggered; buggered in every way. A difficult but maybe just possible operation in the comparative orderliness of the governor’s office was right out the window now, if they got caught. And they would get caught. There had been occasions, during his time in intelligence, when Charlie had been on the periphery of a cop killing and he knew the affect it had, among the police. Within an hour of the finding of that poor, face-blasted bastard back there behind the prison there’d be alarms sounding throughout every southern constabulary and an hour after that road blocks and policemen everywhere. Armed. And ready – wanting – to shoot at two on-the-run spies who were now killers, as well. Cop killers. Buggered, thought Charlie, again.

He looked with contempt at Sampson, belatedly conscious of the argument that had erupted between Sampson and the front seat passenger, a bulky, bull-shouldered man twisted round to face them both. Charlie hadn’t recognised the row being in Russian, engrossed in his own thoughts, but he isolated the language now. But didn’t understand it. He’d had a passing ability, a long time ago; but this was too fast; Sampson appeared as fluent as the man whose natural language it was. Not that Charlie needed to understand, even with the driver joining in with matching anger. The demanding gestures from the front seat passenger were indication enough, beckoning insistence on being given the gun, matching with Sampson’s head-shaking refusal to surrender it. It was the driver who resolved the row, pulling the car into the side of the road, stopping the engine and turning to shout ‘Out!’ in English.

For several moments there was complete silence in the vehicle. Then Charlie said, ‘For Christ’s sake, give him the bloody thing. You’ve caused enough trouble with it already. We’re just asking to be caught, stuck here like this!’

If he got to Russia and managed to achieve what Wilson wanted, the deal might just stick. But not if they got picked up now. If, if, if, thought Charlie; every consideration was ruled by a doubtful if.

Reluctantly, actually halting the movement in the middle of making it, Sampson offered the Russian the gun. In the sudden illumination of an outside street lamp Charlie saw it was a Smith and Wesson. Sampson handed it over butt first, so that the Russian took it with the barrel directed towards Sampson.

‘Why not shoot the stupid bastard!’ said Charlie, bitterly.

As the car started again the Russian in the passenger seat said, ‘Why the gun? Everything was already difficult, before this.’

‘Ask him, not me,’ said Charlie. He was glad the conversation had reverted to English.

Sampson looked despisingly across the car at Charlie and then said to the Russian. ‘Because it was necessary. And you damned well know it. If I hadn’t been able to silence the policeman as I did we’d have been caught, which would have been an embarrassment to Russia. And worst, the vehicle would have been linked to the escape and to the Soviet embassy and been an even greater embarrassment. I didn’t want to kill the damned man. It was his misfortune to be in the wrong place. I didn’t have any alternative and every one of you knows it. Just as I know you were bluffing back there. You wouldn’t have forced me out of the car.’

‘Maybe it was a good thing for everyone that the challenge wasn’t put to the test,’ said the Russian, appearing unimpressed at Sampson’s bombast.

Charlie turned away from the ridiculous dispute. Through the car window he saw a direction sign to Tower Hamlets. They were travelling east. Where, he wondered. The London streets about which he’d reminisced all the long days and nights in the cell were eerily deserted, the actual City of London always quieter than the rest of the capital. He thought he heard the wail of a police siren and tensed but didn’t detect it again, so guessed he must have been mistaken. How long would it be before they found the man crumpled back there by the prison wall?

From inside the car he heard Sampson say, ‘Where are the clothes? Surely you thought of clothes?’

The arrogant sod was trying the position of command even here, Charlie recognised. From the front the passenger handed back two grips.

‘Me first,’ insisted Sampson, twisting and turning in the confined rear space. After he had changed and stuffed the prison uniform into the grip Charlie switched, aware of the good quality of the clothing as he put it on and aware, too, that the pockets had things in them, as they would have done if they were normally worn suits. What he thought was grey worsted and definitely a well laundered white shirt. The shoes pinched but with his feet Charlie was used to that. He left them half on and half off, for comfort.

‘There,’ said the Russian, in front, an order.

Obediently the driver stopped and the other man stuffed the refilled hold-alls into a refuse bin at the pavement edge, carefully ensuring the covering flap came back concealingly into position.

‘We are returning from a dinner, in London,’ dictated the Russian, as the car moved again. ‘There are counterfoils of the tickets in your left hand jacket pocket. Tombola tickets, too…’ He smiled back at them, holding up a crystal decanter with a ticket still attached. ‘I was the lucky one.’

Very good, decided Charlie, realising as he did so that they were clearing London. Any road block would be hurried, particularly out of the capital. Photographs certainly wouldn’t be available, not this quickly. It was the sort of cover story that might get them through, if the need arose. The ever present if, he thought once more.