Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I want to go home.’

Pending the investigation, Alexei Berenkov was held in Lefortovo prison, the same jail in which, months earlier, Cecil Wainwright had been broken into admitting his cowardice. It was not a usual concession and Berenkov guessed at Kalenin’s intervention and was grateful: on the third week he was permitted a visit from Valentina. The small woman appeared even smaller in the echoing surroundings of the prison, cowed by everything around her. She perched, fittingly bird-like, on her chair and blinked through the grill at her burly husband behind it and Berenkov ached for her fear.

‘They say I can only stay for a few moments; that I’m lucky to be here at all.’

‘Yes,’ said Berenkov. He wanted so much to be able to reach out to touch her, to caress away her terror. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘You’re in jail!’ she said.

‘I’ve been in jail before,’ he said. ‘It’s easier, this time.’

‘I don’t understand what’s going on, Alexei,’ pleaded the woman. ‘I don’t understand why you’ve been arrested and put in jail and I don’t understand why Georgi’s examination has been rescinded and his exchange facilities withdrawn.’

‘When did that happen?’ asked Berenkov, sadly.

‘Last week,’ said Valentina. ‘There was no explanation. Just a letter from the principal. He’s asked for an interview but it’s being refused.’

‘It will be,’ said Berenkov, sadly.

‘Tell me something, Alexei,’ insisted his wife. ‘Tell me something honestly. Have you done anything wrong?’

‘No,’ said Berenkov, at once.

‘Then what’s happened?’ shouted the woman, in unusual anger.

‘I don’t know,’ said Berenkov.

The reaction was very quick and although Charlie was distracted – Natalia and his worry about her constantly intruding into his mind – he was impressed. There was only one telephone call from the vestibule and within minutes he was taken to a man who identified himself as Hollis and another named Greening. Both young, urgent and anxious, Charlie recognised; he wondered, in passing, if he’d been like that at the beginning. They took him to a part of the embassy Charlie recognised from his earlier, official visit as the intelligence Residency but he was kept in an outer office while Hollis kept appearing and disappearing, for what Charlie presumed was contact with London. The reaction there was quick, too, little more than an hour before Hollis re-emerged finally and said, ‘We’re getting out right now: before there’s time for any official protest or action. We’re lucky with British Airways.’

They arrived at Sheremetyevo with an hour before the scheduled departure, Charlie tight between the two escorts, the hurriedly issued diplomatic passport clutched in his hand. It got them past the initial customary checks and the local British Airways manager seemed to expect them. An advance call from the embassy, Charlie supposed. The airport official took them out ahead of normal embarkation to a specially curtained part of the first class section.

The Russians made their snatch-back attempt thirty minutes before take-off, when the other passengers were boarding, a sudden, pushing arrival of men whom Hollis and Greening confronted at the door. Charlie, already strapped into his seat, heard most of the argument, the demands for his handing over and the shouted refusal from Hollis to surrender a British national. The Russians, whom Charlie couldn’t properly see because of the way they were blocked at the entrance, insisted Charlie was wanted for a crime and Hollis demanded a formal copy of the charge and when that couldn’t be produced said that a warrant was in existence in England against Charlie on a charge of murder and produced what appeared to be a paper setting out the formal indictment. The dispute raged while the embarking passengers milled on behind and the pilot and the first officer apprehensively joined in, uncertain completely what was happening.

Hollis was very good, thought Charlie. The man insisted he had jurisdiction – which technically he did – and that the aircraft was British territory, which Charlie thought was a more debatable claim. It appeared to impress the captain, who announced after consultation with the escorting airport manager that unless an official documented reason was produced which superceded the British official documentation he intended to depart. The Russians made the mistake of trying to rush the aircraft. They were easily blocked in the narrow entrance and the desperation convinced the captain that the Soviets were bluffing. He ordered the rear doors to be closed against any secondary assault and then joined in the physical rebuff of the still jostling Russians, to enable the door into the first class section to be secured.

There was further argument that Charlie was aware of through the open door, refusal of the control tower to grant leaving permission, and finally the captain moved the aircraft away from the terminal apparently without ground assistance.

‘Don’t worry,’ assured the still breathless Hollis, from the adjoining seat. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

Charlie realised, for the first time, that he hadn’t been worried. It had been – still was – the time when he was most likely to be seized and he didn’t feel any fear. The emptiness was still too strong for that, too strong to allow relief when the aircraft actually lifted and he knew he was safe. Safe from Russia, at least. He hadn’t expected there to be an outstanding warrant alleging murder against him, although – considering it – he supposed it was logical. Surely to Christ it hadn’t all been for nothing; that he hadn’t trapped himself into going back to jail! Even the thought of that, at the moment, didn’t seem to matter. It would later, if it happened, Charlie knew; but not now.

‘Know what this means?’ asked the conversational Hollis, beside him.

‘What?’ asked Charlie, dully.

‘I can’t go back…’ Hollis turned, to Greening sitting behind. ‘We’ll neither be acceptable any longer, after this.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ said the man behind.

Charlie refused any food or drink or even conversation, gazing out of the windows at the night’s blackness, staring at his own reflection. It would have happened by now, he decided. Would Natalia be under formal arrest? Or just interrogation? God, he hoped she would be all right. The agony – now and forever – was that he was never going to know.

There was a squad waiting at London airport, four men who hurried officiously on to the aircraft and more in waiting cars and from the immediate subservience and dismissal into other vehicles of Hollis and Greening Charlie knew they were higher ranking. There were no introductions from the squad or any official immigration formalities, just bustled, arm-holding progress along side corridors and through side doors. Charlie obeyed every nudge and instruction, still uninterested. It was only when the cavalcade gained the M4 and was heading towards London that Charlie consciously attempted to push aside the ennui and concentrate on what might be about to happen.

He’d failed.

But not in a way that meant he should feel guilt. He’d told Wilson that day in the governor’s office that it was practically impossible, and the Russians had got the first secretary before he’d properly had time to get organised: Charlie was sure the diplomat’s arrest was the key to no contact ever having been made. They’d have reason to be disappointed but not critical. Certainly not critical when he told them everything about the spy school and what he’d done, to get out. He wouldn’t tell them about Natalia, Charlie determined. Not for any particular reason – there were no problems it could cause her – but he just decided not to.