Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

She sighed, although not unkindly. ‘Do you know something?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to make a recommendation about you,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to assess all our conversations and all our debriefings and I’ve actually got to make a recommendation about what use you could be, if you stayed here.’

Charlie was glad of her impatience because he was impatient also. Although it was only conjecture he was increasingly convinced he had been correct about the reason for Sampson’s abrupt removal. Which had been three and a half weeks ago. Which – taking into account the period it had taken them to reach Moscow – meant one of his six months had already gone and he’d achieved absolutely fuck all except to soften the attitude – and he was sure he’d softened the attitude – of a very attractive girl with big tits. Which wasn’t the point of his being there. ‘I haven’t got any money,’ he said, wanting to increase her annoyance.

Natalia frowned, accustomed by now to his changes. ‘So what?’ she said.

‘So I can’t invite you out to dinner. Why don’t you ask me?’ It worked better than he expected.

Allowing her irritation to show – which she rarely did, despite his previous provoking – she said, ‘Why don’t I recommend your being sent back to England, as someone no use to us?’

‘Is that what happened to Sampson?’ demanded Charlie.

Her face became fixed, almost a pained expression. ‘What happened to Sampson isn’t of any concern to you.’

‘It would be, if he’d gone back,’ said Charlie, refusing to give up. ‘I’d like to know the bastard has been sent back.’

‘He hasn’t been,’ she said, exasperated. ‘There was a purpose for him.’

‘More than me?’ demanded Charlie, at once, not wanting to lose the momentum.

‘Yes,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘Far more than you.’

‘Great mistake,’ said Charlie.

‘Prove it!’ she came back, just as determined.

‘Let me,’ he said, matching her.

That night, in the lonely, smell-steeped apartment in which nothing ever happened the telephone rang. So unusual was it that Charlie stared at the instrument, surprised, only snatching it off the cradle when he realised the caller might ring off.

‘Charlie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alexei,’ said the voice. ‘Alexei Berenkov.’

Thank Christ, thought Charlie.

Having decided to meet there was a difficulty with the venue. Berenkov knew it would be inappropriate – forbidden, in fact – for Charlie to come to Dzerzhinsky Square and Charlie – without a proper reason for the feeling, because it was not of his choice or making – was reluctant for the Russian to come to him among the cooking smells. The decision came from Berenkov and Charlie said he would like very much to go to the Russian’s home and meet his family. Until now – apart from the one rebellious walkabout – Charlie’s existence had been within the apartment, the telephone-arranged pick-up and Natalia Fedova’s office alongside the peripheral road and as he left that night, emerging from the apartment block with no obvious guard in place, Charlie had the impression of escaping again. The driver was as taciturn as they all appeared to be but at least he accorded Charlie the respect of holding open the door of the car. It was a large vehicle, a Zil, opulent by Soviet standards, an official car. The driver used the government-reserved centre lane, like the man who took him out for the debriefings but Berenkov’s Zil seemed to belong whereas the debriefing transport always appeared to Charlie to be an intrusive interloper. The route was different, too, back towards the centre of the city. Even the street lighting was brighter and he actually saw the illumination around the Kremlin and Red Square. He made the guess and was proven right when they moved into the Kutuzovsky Prospekt complex. The government enclave, Charlie knew. Which meant Berenkov had returned in triumph. And was still held in active – and more important – working respect. Charlie tried to curb the excitement. Even before they met he had confirmation of Berenkov being in Dzerzhinsky Square: Wilson hadn’t been sure, that night in the governor’s office. Maybe you’d even get to him. And he had. Things were suddenly looking good: better than he’d dare hope they would, in fact. Still too early to start counting chickens – the eggs weren’t even laid yet, let alone hatched – but at least he was being given a look inside the henhouse.

There were the predictable security checks and as they moved forward Charlie stared up at the carefully segregated blocks, wondering what Politburo member was behind what lighted window. He made another sure guess and was right again; there wasn’t any odour of cabbage.

Berenkov was in the lobby of his section, to take Charlie past the final security. For a few moments each man stood on opposing sides of the foyer, gazing at each other in silent recollection. Berenkov, always the more exuberant of the two, broke the mood, striding across with both arms outstretched and booming, ‘Charlie! Charlie!… it’s good to see you!’

Charlie accepted the embrace, conscious of the attention of the driver and inner guards: Berenkov smelled as Charlie remembered from their initial, fencing encounters – before he’d made a case and was able to arrest the Russian – of expensive cologne and expensive cigars. ‘And you, Alexei,’ he said, sincerely. ‘It’s good to see you.’

From a cubicle one of the security men said something Charlie didn’t catch but indicating a book, a clear reference to some noted entry formality, but Berenkov waved his hand dismissively, typically refusing to conform, leading Charlie instead towards the elevators. ‘Clerks!’ he said. ‘The world is full of clerks.’

They stood apart in the elevator, each surveying the other again. Berenkov shook his head and said, ‘You don’t look good, Charlie. I’ve seen you look better.’

‘I’ve been better,’ confessed Charlie. ‘You look fine.’ The Russian did: much fatter than Charlie remembered, even from before the arrest, actually appearing physically bigger than Charlie’s memory. Florid-faced, too, he saw, remembering Sampson’s description. High liver, by the look of him. Berenkov certainly looked like a high liver. But then, he always had been.

‘Things are pretty good,’ said the Russian, as the lift stopped.

Eighth floor, Charlie noted. He wondered if degree of importance were indicated by the level of the apartment. If they were it would make Berenkov very important.

Valentina and Georgi stood waiting, nervous and uncertain in the main room: they were overawed as much – maybe more – by Berenkov’s physical presence as by encountering someone from the West, Charlie guessed. With no reason for having made any prejudgment, Charlie was surprised at how neat and diminutive Valentina was; he’d expected Berenkov to have a wife matching him in size, battleship to battleship. Georgi was about the same height as his father but without the weight and much darker, too, darker skinned and darker haired. The greetings were shyly hesitant, the boy and his mother deferring to Berenkov’s boisterous lead. Charlie wished he’d had the facility and money to bring Valentina a small gift. Commerce had been easier in the nick than it was here, he thought, in passing. Berenkov gushed whisky into glasses and apologised for its inferior quality and Charlie drank it gratefully and said it was wonderful, which he thought it was. Valentina laid out pick-ups, tiny dishes of smoked fish and nuts and olives and Georgi sat alertly attentive. Forcing himself to make the contribution, the boy said, ‘How long have you been in Moscow?’