Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

It is one of the anomalies of diplomacy that while no Soviet embassy in any Western capital will accept foreign nationals in any support capacity, in Moscow Western embassies employ Russian general help. The attempt was clumsily blatant and was realised almost at once by the internal security staff, who discovered two maids and a male cleaner within a week trying to install listening devices. The Foreign Office in London extended the protests beyond the natural complaint in Moscow itself by summoning the Russian ambassador personally to Whitehall. In addition they released the details to the media and there was extensive newspaper coverage, to which the Kremlin responded with their cliched rejection that it was anti-Soviet propaganda.

Berenkov recognised the intrusion but knew he had no alternative, because his official position required him to inform Kalenin. He chose the end of their now customary, daily-inconclusive-conference after Kalenin had cast aside the equally inconclusive reports and suggested the vodka, the chairman’s intake of which was noticeably increasing while the crisis continued unresolved.

Kalenin frowned when Berenkov began to talk of his son’s qualification successes, not immediately understanding, so that Berenkov had to repeat himself and Kalenin said, ‘Overseas?’

‘There’s a place for him, in Boston,’ said Berenkov. Remembering there were towns in both countries and conscious of the chairman’s apparent distraction, Berenkov hurriedly added ‘Boston, America, not Boston, England.’

There was no immediate reaction from Kalenin. He finished pouring and handed Berenkov his glass and said, ‘Going to the West?’

‘I think he would benefit,’ said Berenkov.

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

‘Which is why I felt I should officially raise it with you,’ said Berenkov.

‘What do you imagine would happen if the Western intelligence agencies were to discover who his father was?’ said Kalenin.

‘I did not think that was a serious risk,’ said Berenkov.

‘Then I don’t think you’ve considered it sufficiently,’ said Kalenin. ‘The American Central Intelligence Agency actively recruits from universities: apparatus exists, for talent spotting. And if they’re that well organised they’d naturally focus upon visiting Russian students. I’d consider there would be a serious risk of Georgi becoming compromised.’

‘Are you telling me officially that he can’t take up the place?’ asked Berenkov, miserably.

‘I’m saying that I want to think further about it,’ said Kalenin. ‘That maybe we both should.’

‘He’s worked extremely hard,’ said Berenkov, emptily.

‘We’re currently experiencing enough difficulty,’ said Kalenin. ‘You’re a deputy within the Committee for State Security, at the very highest echelon. And someone known in the West. I think we should seriously consider the risk of any embarrassment beyond that which we are already suffering.’

That suffering – and that embarrassment – worsened.

The messages to London resumed in a sudden flurry, three intercepted by the KGB monitoring services on succeeding nights. Each formed part of a sensational whole, the complete identities – and their cover designation – of virtually the entire Soviet espionage system within Britain, from the embassy-based Resident under diplomatic title down through every other diplomatic listing and extending to the Soviet trade mission at Highgate.

The last of the three messages promised further identities of agents in the United States and France. And concluded, ‘Shortly intend making promised personal contact.’

In London Wilson said, ‘Well. Here we go.’

‘We hope,’ said the cautious Harkness.

Moscow intercepted London’s radioed reply. It was ‘People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.’

All his life Charlie felt he had been running; often literally. He had run in the department, always to stay ahead of the supercilious sods with their nose-lifted accents. He had run, to survive, when those same sods set him up. And run again, to survive again, after he set them up, instead. He’d run in prison, like a trapped animal runs, blindly, from one corner to another corner. And was aware he should have the impression of running here, involved in the most difficult and dangerous operation he’d encountered. But he didn’t. He felt unhurried. Relaxed even. As if there were time – all the time in the world – to rest, with no danger of anyone catching up. It was Natalia, he knew. Just as he knew – without having the rules to guide him, because there were no rules – that he loved her. He loved her completely and absolutely and he wanted never to spend a moment of his no-longer running life apart from her. Which meant staying. Which he couldn’t. Any more than he could consider leaving.

The conflicts – of feelings and loyalty and attitudes and professionalism – crowded in upon him and every time he got halfway towards solving one he tripped over another. Keeping Natalia from the consideration – which would have been a clash of love against professionalism – Charlie became increasingly convinced, after two more failed rendezvous, that there never would be any contact. What had appeared in the Soviet newspapers about the British first secretary was inadequate and inconclusive, like accounts always were in Soviet newspapers, but Charlie guessed whatever had happened involved the person he was supposed to meet at the GUM store. The unanswerable was why, if they’d swept the defector up, he’d remained unaffected. But Charlie recognised there could be explanations, like the man dying rather than face arrest. Or dying under questioning. Or going mad under that same questioning, before he’d been able to disclose and therefore endanger the meeting spot. If that conjecture were correct, then there was no further purpose in remaining in Moscow – another conflict – teaching intended Soviet spies to be better than they were, which was a further conflict. Professionally, he should get out. Professionally he should stop buggering about and start running again. Would she run with him? The idea had been a long time coming – too long – but why not? She hadn’t said so – which he hadn’t, nervous of actually saying it – but Charlie was absolutely sure that Natalia loved him. Why the hell couldn’t it have been her, that day in GUM, who wanted to defect? Or Berenkov, to whom all the signs pointed but who hadn’t committed himself? If it had been Berenkov then Charlie would have been gone months ago, before getting so hopelessly entangled. He shook his head, a physical movement of irritation. What sort of thinking was that, wishing things had or hadn’t happened, like some child! It hadn’t been Natalia and it hadn’t been Berenkov and he had fallen in love and he had to sort it out by logical, sensible thinking, not flights of fancy. It wasn’t just Natalia, of course. There was Eduard. She wouldn’t consider leaving the boy – why the hell should she? – so he’d have to get both of them out, at the same time. Difficult but not insurmountable. Charlie consciously braked the flow of thought. How difficult? Officially he was still British. But Natalia and Eduard weren’t. They were Russian and Charlie doubted the British embassy would consider flying them out if they simply walked into the embassy with him. There would have to be diplomatic this and diplomatic that and a damned good chance that they’d hand them back if the Russian pressure became too heavy. Which it unquestionably would. Practically insurmountable then. What if he lied? What if he took Natalia and Eduard into the embassy and conned London that she was the source for which they were so anxious? They’d bend the rules then and smuggle her out eagerly enough. But what would happen when they got back to London? The Russians would chase, because Natalia was high ranking and because they always chased anyway. And when he realised he had been cheated, Wilson and the department wouldn’t provide any sort of protection. So it would be like it had been before, with Edith, harassed and terrified, from place to place and country to country. Charlie knew he couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t stand it and he couldn’t ask Natalia to endure it: certainly not with a young kid.