Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

‘Then it didn’t mean anything, did it?’ he demanded.

She looked up at him, face creased with uncertainty. ‘What didn’t?’

‘What you said in the lecture room, about applying to be taken off the course. Because you also said it was special, an innovation. There weren’t any other courses to which you could be transferred.’

She smiled at him, admiringly. ‘I also said you were impressive,’ she said. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t remember.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it was a lie. I meant what I said, about being surprised at seeing you when I walked into the hall today. I didn’t know how to respond: I hadn’t been given any warning. I don’t know why they didn’t warn me. It was stupid, not to have done so. And because I was uncertain, I just carried on with the charade, until I could get out to get some guidance.’

‘From Krysin?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Did you tell him we were meeting tonight?’

She frowned again. ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t have done?’

Instead of answering her question, Charlie asked another. ‘What would you have done if Krysin had said no, you couldn’t come?’

‘I told him as a matter of courtesy,’ she qualified. ‘I’m equal to Krysin, in rank. And influence. He hasn’t the authority to forbid me.’

‘What would you have done if he talked against it?’ persisted Charlie.

Natalia looked down into her wineglass. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I think I would have come, but I’m not sure.’

‘So he could influence you?’

‘Not about my private life, no,’ she said in further qualification. ‘I would have listened to Krysin if I’d thought my becoming involved with you could in any way have caused difficulty with the other five in the class: they’re the important consideration, not your or my social life.’

‘Are we becoming involved,’ seized Charlie.

‘No,’ she said, at once.

Almost too sharply, Charlie thought. Seeing the opening for an unasked question, Charlie said, ‘Are you married?’

‘Would it have any importance, if I were?’

‘Wouldn’t that be a decision for you?’

‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘What a bourgeois question! What can conceivably be wrong in a married man or a married woman dining together?’

‘The roles have reversed again,’ said Charlie.

His evasion confused her, as it was supposed to do. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re in charge again,’ he said.

She smiled, reluctantly. ‘Answer the question,’ she insisted.

‘No,’ he said. ‘There can be absolutely nothing wrong. Now answer mine – is it happening?’

Natalia sighed but Charlie didn’t think it was an expression of irritation. She said, ‘I was married during my first year here, in Moscow. He was a major, in our Border Guard division. An incredible man, in every way. The most active way was sexual and he expected me to understand the other women, but I couldn’t. So I divorced him.’

‘It sounds as if you still love him,’ said Charlie.

‘Oh, I do,’ she admitted at once. ‘Very much.’

Disappointment engulfed Charlie, like a blanket suddenly thrown over his head, blocking out the light. ‘Why not try to get back together?’ said Charlie.

‘I tried,’ said Natalia, honest still. ‘He isn’t interested.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlie, carelessly.

‘Why should you be?’

He smiled at her, recovering. ‘One of those stupid, inconsequential Western reactions,’ he said.

‘At least there’s Eduard,’ she said. ‘He’s ten now. A very clever boy. I’m lucky, with the benefits of what I do. He’s at a boarding academy, getting a wonderful education.’

It would be a KGB-run school, Charlie guessed. There seemed something obscene, battery-feeding a child that early into intelligence. It was the same, he supposed, with seminaries although he didn’t imagine priests would have liked the comparison. ‘How often do you see him?’ asked Charlie.

‘Not enough,’ said Natalia. ‘I’d prefer to have him home but it’s better for him, the way it is.’

Neither wanted anything after the goulash. Charlie ordered coffee and brandy, Russian again. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘Well what?’

‘Has it been so bad?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s been very nice. Thank you.’

Her apartment was far more central than his, just off Mytninskaya. There was the customary concierge on the ground floor and Natalia gave no reaction when Charlie walked confidently by, accompanying her to the elevator and then up to the apartment door. No smells, noted Charlie. At the door she turned and said ‘No.’

‘No what?’ he said, innocently.

‘Just no.’ She extended her hand, formally and said, ‘Thank you again. I’ve enjoyed it very much.’

Charlie took her hand, thinking how much better it was than finger touching but regretting this was all it was going to be. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late for school in the morning.’

‘Were they bad?’ she said, seriously. ‘As bad as you made out.’

‘Bloody awful,’ said Charlie.

With his customary ebullience Berenkov insisted upon a celebration dinner and with her customary obedience Valentina complied. Berenkov, naturally, made himself responsible for the wines. There was imported French champagne for the repeated toasts and the dinner wine and brandy were French, too. Georgi, who still had to learn to know his father, was overawed by the flamboyance and further embarrassed by the congratulations that Berenkov kept proposing, praises for passing the examinations with almost maximum marks and forecasts of the successes that Georgi was going to know in whatever Western university accepted him. The boy drank slightly too much and went unsteadily to bed and after he left the table Valentina said, ‘I can’t reconcile myself to it. I’ve tried – believing it will be as good for him as you tell me it will – but I can’t reconcile myself to it.’

‘It’ll be different from before,’ assured Berenkov. ‘Before we didn’t know when we were going to be together again, you and I. It won’t be like that this time.’

‘How long will it be?’ the woman demanded, wanting specifics.

‘Two years,’ said Berenkov. ‘I’m sure it won’t be any longer than two years.’

‘Two years, without seeing him!’

‘Maybe we’ll be able to see him earlier than that; maybe it won’t be a two year gap.’

‘You mean he’ll be able to come home on vacations?’

‘I mean we’ll see him,’ said Berenkov. ‘Of course we’ll see him.’

Charlie was a relentless, unremitting instructor because he had to be. To win. And to survive. Concentrating upon survival first – which he always did – Charlie knew from Natalia’s warning that those he was teaching, who were after all supposed to be qualified, would report back to Krysin or someone else at Balashikha if he didn’t appear to be giving everything and more. And by giving everything and more he won, because it enabled him to learn just how good they were – and therefore the standard of their training – and a lot about the installation off Gofkovskoy Shosse, all of which he intended carrying back to England. Under the pretext of improving their technique he had them take him through all their tradecraft, how they established cells and communicated within those cells, how they created message drops and contact procedures and – most important – how they’d been taught to maintain relations with Moscow. All the time he corrected and modified – confident they would never have the opportunity to utilise the expertise he was giving them – all the time aware that in addition to winning and surviving he was the focus of Natalia’s attention and increasing admiration.