Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

‘How long to reach Russia, in that?’ he asked, strained-voiced.

‘Murmansk,’ said Letsov. ‘A couple of days.’

Sampson made a grunting sound of despair.

The helmsman manoeuvred the motor-boat into the lee of the larger vessel. They exchanged loose link-lines, which meant they had to jump for the rope ladder thrown down from the trawler. Charlie went first, easily, looking back hopefully to Sampson. At first it looked as if the man might actually baulk at jumping across the narrow channel of heaving sea but then he did, misholding at the first attempt and hanging one handed for a brief moment between the two vessels before snatching out a second time, getting a grip, and hauling himself upwards. He stood shaking at the rail-break, almost appearing unaware of where he was. Around them seamen bustled, going through what was still a well planned exercise. There were shouted, relayed messages from the bridge wing to the sailors to the two still in the boat and then Charlie saw charges being handed down. It took minutes to place them and then the two who had rescued them made the crossing and climbed aboard. At once the trawler cast off and moved away. Letsov remained at the rail. When they were about fifty yards away, Letsov said, with professional pride and without consulting his watch to get the time ‘Now!’ and precisely on cue the explosion came, in a dull crump, tearing the bottom completely from the cabin cruiser. It jumped, surprised, in the water then sank at once.

‘Welcome,’ said a voice behind them and Charlie turned to face the captain. ‘Welcome,’ the man said again. ‘To a new life.’

Christ, thought Charlie.

With the murder of the policeman it had not achieved the humiliating propaganda success that had been intended and Berenkov knew it, just as he knew their personal friendship would not prevent Kalenin delivering the necessary and deserved rebuke.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sincerely. ‘I had no idea they would have a gun.’

‘Charlie Muffin?’ queried Kalenin.

Berenkov shook his head. ‘Letsov radioed a full report. It was Sampson. He panicked. Charlie doesn’t panic: I know that too well.’

‘How are they?’

‘Letsov says there’s ill feeling between them.’

Kalenin indicated the intercepted messages from the British embassy: there were four more since they had last discussed it. He said, ‘We planned for Sampson, even before all these. And the help he might be able to give. What about Charlie? Can he be of any use?’

‘I wouldn’t imagine about these,’ said Berenkov, making his own indication towards the messages. ‘He was on the run for three years, don’t forget. Out of touch. But if he wanted to he could teach agents we intend introducing into the West more about the business – and survival – in a month than they could learn from our instructors in a year.’

Kalenin pulled down the corners of his mouth, at the unqualified admiration and at the reservation. ‘Wanted to!’ he said.

‘I was considered the best, wasn’t I?’ asked Berenkov. There was no boastfulness in the question.

‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin.

‘He caught me,’ reminded Berenkov. ‘Just like he caught those idiots in his own department who considered him expendable.’

‘I don’t understand the point you’re making,’ complained the KGB chairman.

‘Charlie’s brilliant,’ said Berenkov, simply. ‘He’s also the most awkward bastard imaginable.’

Charlie was handcuffed for the return to England after his Italian arrest and there had been an escort of at least two warders for every remand appearance and then the eventual taking to Wormwood Scrubs and there was the impress of deja vu during the journey to Moscow, another guarded trip to another sort of imprisonment. Sampson was ill throughout the voyage to Murmansk, rarely leaving the cabin – for which Charlie was grateful – but recovered dramatically when they got ashore. Almost at once he started behaving like a deprived child on its first outing, using his Russian wherever he could, pointlessly reading out signs and posters and staring around excitedly at buildings and streets. Letsov and the other Russian, whose name emerged as Orlov, remained with them throughout, right to Moscow, but increasingly during the voyage and more so once they reached the Russian mainland their attitude grew into one of undisguised boredom and disinterest, men whose task had been completed now burdened with the irksome task of babysitting.

It was dark when the plane from Murmansk arrived at Sheremetyevo airport, which seemed larger and more brightly lit than when Charlie had last landed there, ten years earlier on secondment to the embassy. And the journey into Moscow appeared to take longer than he remembered. It was difficult, because of the darkness, to recognise any landmarks. He thought he isolated the river but wasn’t sure. He definitely located one of the red stars illuminated above the Kremlin and using that as a marker realised they were being driven far out into the suburbs of the city.

Orlov, who was driving as usual, had difficulty finding their destination, twice having to stop and ask directions. It was an apartment block, a vast, anonymous pile of a place, seeming to stretch the entire block and rise blackly up into the night sky. Only a few windows were lighted and the impression was of abandonment, which Charlie decided was fitting.

Orlov didn’t bother to get out of the car, leaving Letsov to complete the final part of the assignment. The bulky Russian led the way into the building and up a flight of chipped and smelling stairs to an apartment at the far end of an unlighted corridor. From behind the closed doorways they passed came the scuffing and murmur of occupation and once the louder sound of a radio; a woman was singing a melancholy Slavic dirge and Charlie decided he knew how she felt. The pervading smell was of cabbage.

Letsov entered the apartment peremptorily, snapping on the lights and indicating the place with a take-it-or-leave-it gesture with his hand.

‘You must stay here,’ he said. ‘You will be contacted.’

‘Together?’ demanded Charlie, at once.

‘Stay here,’ repeated Letsov. He pointed towards the telephone. ‘Tomorrow.’

Charlie looked around the room. It was a spartan place, just a couch and two chairs, with a table and two more chairs against the far wall. Beside the table an opening, without a door or curtaining, led into a kitchen. To the left was a short corridor. As he watched Sampson, still with his little-boy excitement, discovered the bathroom and two separate bedrooms.

‘Goodbye,’ said Letsov, at the doorway.

‘Thanks again,’ said Charlie. During the voyage he had attempted some approach to the man, whom he recognised as a complete professional, but like a complete professional Letsov had rejected anything more than the most necessary conversation. Charlie regretted it. He thought Letsov was the sort of man he could have liked; understood at least.

‘Good luck,’ said the Russian, making a last minute concession.

‘Thanks for that, too,’ said Charlie.

Sampson emerged from the further bedroom as the Russian left and announced, with his predictable command of every situation. ‘I’ll have this one. You take the other.’

Charlie shrugged, uninterested in arguing about it. He hoped to Christ they weren’t together for much longer. ‘Where did you get your Russian?’ he said.

‘I get my degree in modern languages at Oxford,’ said Sampson. ‘Got an aptitude for it. And for almost the last two years I was number three on the Russian desk.’

‘You were in the Russian section?’ said Charlie. He wondered why the man hadn’t boasted about that earlier, like he had about almost everything else.