Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

‘It’s fortunate we made the departure arrangements that we did,’ said the man in front. ‘Let’s hope they’ll still be possible.’ Heavily he added to Sampson, ‘And this car is not traceable to our embassy in London.’

Charlie was caught by the disclaimer as the man came to him. ‘You are called Muffin?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Charlie.

‘I am Letsov.’

Charlie frowned at the introduction. There shouldn’t have been identities if the man were attached to London. The frown deepened, in self-irritation. It had taken him too long to realise that the Russians would never have risked anyone actually from the embassy. He looked with renewed interest at the two in front. They were called spetnaz he remembered; an elite and highly secret commando group within the KGB, the equivalent, he supposed, of the British SAS or the American Special Forces. Moscow must regard Sampson as very important indeed to go to all this trouble. The other Englishman appeared relaxed and comfortable in the opposite corner, hand casually looped through an assistance strap near the door, as if he were actually being chauffeured back from some mundane, late night outing.

To Letsov, Charlie said, ‘We’re getting out tonight?’

‘Of course,’ said the Russian, as if he were surprised at the question.

Outside Charlie caught brief sight of a signpost to Braintree. ‘And you’re coming all the way?’

‘No further reason to stay,’ said Letsov, confirming Charlie’s guess at their being spetnaz.

The driver said something that Charlie didn’t catch, in Russian, and he didn’t hear Letsov’s reply, either, but from the way the man stared through both the front and the rear windows at the remark Charlie guessed it was a reference to there being no obvious police presence.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, to Letsov. ‘For all this.’

The Russian shrugged. ‘There were orders,’ he said.

‘Which I initiated,’ Sampson reminded.

Fuck you, thought Charlie.

They even risked the motorway when it came, travelling almost completely along its full length before a warning from Letsov at a sign that took them off on an obviously reconnoitred route through minor roads. There were two darkened, sleeping villages and then a bigger place, a small town, which they entered without Charlie being aware of any name. They parked once more to an obviously prepared plan, in a covered, multi-storey car park. Letsov turned back towards them, hefted the decanter and said, ‘It seems my luck is holding.’

Almost at once, the smile went. ‘The car was a cover. It isn’t any longer,’ he warned.

Reluctantly Charlie put his feet fully into the shoes, feeling his ankle as he did so. There wasn’t any swelling from his clumsy landing and he was glad: he didn’t want any indication of weakness in front of Sampson. Or the other two men, either.

As they emerged on to the deserted street Charlie saw, about fifty yards in the opposite direction from which Letsov led them, the tell-tale blue sign of the police station. They really meant to rub it in, thought Charlie.

Letsov and the driver led familiarly but cautiously, almost at once leaving the main road for smaller, bordering ones. Charlie smelled the smell of sea and heard an early shrill of seagulls. Dawn was tentatively on the horizon when they reached the estuary, already forming the buildings in black and grey outlines. Boats, too. It was hardly a proper marina, more a parking place for weekend sailors avid for the pastime without the money truly to enjoy it. Charlie guessed the boats, if he could have seen them more clearly, would be run down, like the mooring.

Their boat was at the end of a small slipway, isolated from the other craft and cowled in a protective covering which the two Russians expertly and silently unclipped and stowed, gesturing Sampson and Charlie into the cramped cabin. The odour was of damp and leaked fuel and in the light which Letsov snapped on, behind curtained windows, Charlie saw most of the inside varnish had peeled whitely away from the timbers.

There was another hold-all on a single bunk to the left. Letsov opened it and tossed heavy blue Guernsey sweaters at them and said, ‘Now we’re enthusiastic amateur sailors, leaving early. But you two stay below until we’ve cleared.’

Charlie and Sampson swopped the jackets for the sweaters and sat unspeaking on either side of the cabin. Above Charlie heard the muted, careful sounds of the other men preparing their departure. They must have left only one securing line at the end because directly the engine fired, over loudly in the morning stillness, they cast off, without waiting for it to warm up. They proceeded down river at the lowest throttle but from the note Charlie guessed that unlike the rest of the boat the engine wasn’t old or disused. At full throttle it would probably have torn itself from its mountings.

‘So everyone shit themselves for nothing,’ sneered Sampson, triumphantly from across the cabin. ‘We made it.’

Charlie said nothing.

After about half an hour there was a change in the motion of the boat, as it encountered the sea-swell. The engine increased its note and the smell of diesel permeated the cabin.

‘How much longer before we can go on deck?’ demanded Sampson, of no one.

Charlie looked at the man and realised he was suffering seasickness and was glad. ‘Be slop-out time back at the nick,’ he said, wanting to encourage it. ‘All that smell of piss.’

‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake,’ said Sampson.

Charlie did, not to spare Sampson but because the baiting was pointless and if he made the bastard sick for the rest of his life it wouldn’t be retribution for what he’d done.

It was another hour before Letsov opened the hatch and by then Sampson was heaving. The man fled to the stern of the boat, retching into the wake and momentarily Charlie thought how easy it would have been to have seized his legs and tipped him over the gunwale. The temptation receded as quickly as it came. They could loop easily, to pick him up. Pointless, like encouraging the sickness.

It was fully light now, a dull, grey day with the clouds stubbornly against the sea, as if they didn’t want night to go. Far to port Charlie detected a duck line of fishing boats heading back to harbour and wondered which one it would be. He stepped up, into the cockpit. The car driver retained his role, as helmsman. Letsov stood with a chart spread between them, minutely focussing a radio. Charlie became aware that the man was concentrating upon a heavy wrist watch and at some clearly pre-arranged time pressed a relay button on the set. It would be short burst transmission, Charlie knew, expertly: a full message electronically reduced to a meaningless blip to any accidental interception, decipherable only to those properly listening for it.

‘We were lucky,’ said Letsov, speaking to Charlie but looking beyond, to the still retching Sampson. ‘I guess it took a long time to find the body.’

‘He didn’t have to die,’ insisted Charlie.

Letsov came fully to him, smiling wearily. ‘I know of you; of your street experience,’ said the Russian. ‘And I agree. The policeman could have been immobilised.’ He looked back to Sampson. ‘He never worked the streets. Always liaison or administration. A good agent to have in place but a bad one to be trapped with.’

There was a low shout, from the helmsman behind them and as they turned Charlie saw the outline of a vessel forming on the horizon. As they got closer he discerned the oddly shaped radar bubble and the stiff-haired antennae of what the Russians called trawlers and the rest of the world spy ships. Letsov depressed the transmission button once again, positive identification Charlie supposed and then turned as Sampson forced himself to join them, whey-faced.