Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

‘I was ordered to penetrate it, from here, when I was on station in Beirut.’

‘So for two years Moscow had an open door into everything we knew or thought about them!’ demanded Charlie. What a bastard, he thought.

‘And a lot of what NATO thought: Washington too,’ reminded the other man. ‘I told you I was important, didn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, emptily. He went to the uncurtained window, staring out. There appeared to be a matching apartment block on the opposite side of the street, picked out with as few lights as theirs. He wondered if that smelled of overcooked cabbage as well. Six months, he thought. Six months was bearable. But was it time to achieve what Wilson demanded? And would the deal still stand, either way, after the murder? There was, of course, another alternative. The one he had been deliberately shunting aside in his mind. What if the Russians came to suspect what he was really doing? And that’s all they would need to do, just suspect. Another prison, if they let him live at all. And no limit on the sentence this time. Compared to the gulags, Wormwood Scrubs would have been a village in the sun. Charlie shuddered, a physical reaction and from his side Sampson said, ‘It’s not cold.’

‘No,’ said Charlie, who hadn’t been aware of the man’s approach. If I lived in Moscow, the weather would not matter, he thought.

‘This is it, Charlie,’ said Sampson, with his undiminished enthusiasm. ‘Like the captain said, a new life.’

‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, unimpressed.

‘Aren’t you excited?’

‘No.’

‘You’re going to have to do it, you know,’ said Sampson. ‘Just like in the nick.’

‘What?’ said Charlie.

‘Adjust. Stop being a bloody fool and adjust.’

He wasn’t going to be a bloody fool, Charlie decided. Sampson thought he was the clever one, the expert: but that wasn’t how it was going to be. Charlie determined that no matter how difficult or impossible it seemed he was going to find whoever the unknown defector was and arrange his escape and show this arrogant, conceited smart-ass – and Moscow and the department in London – that he was still what he always had been. Better than any of them.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I am being a bloody fool. It’s going to be great, when I get used to it.’

‘That’s better,’ said Sampson, actually throwing his arm around Charlie’s shoulders.

Charlie managed to resist pulling away at the touch. If Sampson was as important as he claimed – and appeared to be, from the rescue – the man might actually be the way to get to people in Dzerzhinsky Square. And he’d need short cuts. Only six months, after all. ‘I wonder how long the debriefing will take?’ he said.

‘Longer for me than for you; you’ve been away from things for too long.’

Jesus! thought Charlie. ‘You’re right,’ he said, actually managing to intrude the impression of admiration into his voice. ‘You’re the one they really rescued, after all.’

It was Sampson, of course, who answered the telephone when it rang, the following morning, the expectant greeting fading into a frown of annoyed incomprehension when he replaced the receiver. ‘You,’ he said to Charlie. ‘They’re sending a car for you first. I’m to wait.’

Satisfaction warmed through Charlie, the feeling remaining as he left the apartment building thirty minutes later. He didn’t look up but hoped Sampson was at the window. The unspeaking chauffeur drove quickly, using the centre lane reserved exclusively for government vehicles, but not, Charlie realised, back into the centre of the capital but still further out, towards the peripheral road. The KGB had extensive offices in the suburbs, Charlie remembered; but Dzerzhinsky Square was the headquarters he had to penetrate and he was going in the opposite direction.

It was a huge, modern building – American in style almost – actually bordering the ring road. From the rear he saw the driver radio their approach, so a man was waiting when the vehicle pulled up, not at the main entrance but at a side door. The man, who was slight and bespectacled and wore a civilian suit, not any kind of uniform, opened the door from the outside and said, in English, ‘You are to come with me.’

At an inner desk the escort produced an identity pass and led Charlie, unspeaking like the driver, along an encircling corridor to a bank of elevators, selecting the sixth floor.

‘If I lived in Moscow, the weather would not matter,’ Charlie said to the man, just for the hell of it.

The man looked back expressionless, without replying. He led out on to the upper floor and produced his pass again, twice, to get them through two more check points.

The door at which he stopped was unmarked, either by name or number. He knocked, opened the door immediately but just sufficient for him to look around, for fuller permission to enter and then stood back, ushering Charlie through.

Charlie started to enter the room and then stopped, in abrupt surprise. It was quite a spacious office, with a view of the circular highway outside. There were flowers on a low table and one wall was lined with books. His debriefer sat at an uncluttered desk, smiling a greeting. And was a woman.

The escape and the shooting created an outcry in England. After three days of persistent demands the prime minister agreed to a commission of enquiry. The dead policeman was identified as a single man, a probationary constable, without parents, any immediate family or even close girlfriends and the human interest coverage in the newspapers switched to the battered prison officer, who posed for photographs at the urging of the Prison Officers’ Association demanding better protection for its members from his hospital bed, surrounded by his worried looking family. Wilson was twice summoned to Downing Street, personally to brief the Prime Minister before House of Commons question time.

Harkness was waiting when the Director returned after the second visit, conscious at once of the anger in the usually urbane man.

‘Judged a disaster,’ said Wilson. ‘A ridiculous disaster.’

‘We expected that,’ reminded Harkness.

‘But not quite the degree of public reaction,’ said Wilson. He sat at his desk, leg out stiffly before him.

‘What about the governor?’ said Harkness.

‘No positive commitment but I managed to get a stay of execution,’ said the Director. ‘Until after the enquiry, at least. But not to have the damned thing in camera, which I wanted. Newspapers wouldn’t stand for it, I was told.’

‘Who runs the country, the Government or newspapers?’ said Harkness, in unaccustomed bitterness.

‘Sometimes I wonder,’ said Wilson.

‘Do you think the Russians will make them available in Moscow? They have with defectors in the past.’

The Director pursed his lips, doubtfully. ‘Not with the shooting,’ he said. ‘If they’d simply escaped, yes. But they’d be parading murderers and admitting to harbouring them. So no, I don’t expect any press conferences.’

‘So we sit the storm out and wait upon Charlie Muffin,’ said Harkness.

‘Yes,’ agreed Wilson. ‘For the moment everything depends upon Charlie Muffin.’

About thirty-five, guessed Charlie: maybe younger, but he doubted it. Black hair, without any attempt at style, loose to her shoulders and no make-up that he could discern. Freckles around her nose and practical, sensible spectacles, heavy rimmed. Nice teeth, shown by the smile. Grey dress, tunic fashion but not a uniform: because she was sitting behind the desk he could only see the top half but the dress was quite tight and the top half would definitely be worth seeing. Women – and sex – had been of necessity rigidly excluded from any thoughts in prison and he’d hardly had time since. Charlie decided he’d very much like to break the celibacy of the last few years with her. And then he remembered where he was and what he was doing – or supposed to be doing – and realised prison rules still applied.