Десмонд Бэгли - Running Blind

‘It could have been worse,’ I said. ‘It could have been Siberia. Khatanga, for instance.’

When he returned to his chair the tumbler was full again. ‘It very nearly was,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But my friends helped — my true Russian friends.’ With an effort he pulled himself back to the present. ‘But we waste time. You have a certain piece of electronic equipment which is wrongfully in your possession. Where is it?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He nodded. ‘Of course, you would have to say that; I expected nothing else. But you must realize that you will give it to me eventually.’ He took a cigarette case from his pocket. ‘Well?’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I know I’ve got it, and you know I’ve got it; there’s no point in beating around the bush. We know each other too well for that, Vaslav. But you’re not going to get it.’

He took a long Russian cigarette from the case. ‘I think I will. Alan; I know I will.’ He put the case away and searched his pockets for a lighter. ‘You see, this is not just an ordinary operation for me. I have many reasons for wanting to hurt you that are quite unconnected with this electronic gear. I am quite certain I shall get it. Quite certain.’

His voice was cold as ice and I felt an answering shudder run down my spine. Kennikin will want to operate on you with a sharp knife. Slade had said that, and Slade had delivered me into his hands.

He made a sound of annoyance as he discovered he had no means of lighting his cigarette, and Ilyich stepped from behind me, a cigarette lighter in his hand. Kennikin inclined his head to accept a light as the flint sparked. It sparked again but no flame appeared, and he said irritably, ‘Oh, never mind!’

He leaned forward and picked up a spill of paper from the hearth, ignited it at the fire, and lit his cigarette. I was interested in what Ilyich was doing. He had not returned to his post behind my chair but had gone to the cupboard where the liquor was kept — behind Kennikin.

Kennikin drew on the cigarette and blew a plume of smoke, and then looked up. As soon as he saw that Ilyich was not in sight the pistol appeared in his hand. ‘Ilyich, what are you doing?’ The gun pointed steadily at me.

Ilyich turned with a refill cylinder of butane gas in his hand. ‘Filling the lighter.’

Kennikin blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes upwards. ‘Never mind that,’ he said curtly. ‘Go outside and search the Volkswagen. You know what to look for.’

‘It’s not there, Vaslav,’ I said.

‘Ilyich will make sure of it,’ said Kennikin.

Ilyich put the butane cylinder back into the liquor cupboard and left the room. Kennikin did not put away the pistol again but held it casually. ‘Didn’t I tell you? The team they have given me has been scraped from the bottom of the barrel. I’m surprised you didn’t try to take advantage.’

I said, ‘I might have done if you hadn’t been around.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘We know each other very well. Perhaps too well.’ He balanced the cigarette in an ashtray and picked up his glass. ‘I don’t really know if I will get any pleasure from working on you. Don’t you English have a proverb — “It hurts me as much as it hurts you.” ’ He waved his hand. ‘But perhaps I’ve got it wrong.’

‘I’m not English,’ I said. ‘I’m a Scot.’

‘A difference that makes no difference is no difference. But I’ll tell you something — you made a great difference to me and to my life.’ He took a gulp of brennivin. ‘Tell me — that girl you’ve been running around with — Elin Ragnarsdottir; are you in love with her?’

I felt myself tighten. ‘She’s got nothing to do with this.’

He laughed. ‘Do not trouble yourself. I have no intention of harming her. Not a hair of her head shall be touched. I don’t believe in the Bible, but I’m willing to swear on it.’ His voice turned sardonic. ‘I’ll even swear it on the Works of Lenin, if that’s an acceptable substitute. Do you believe me?’

‘I believe you,’ I said. I did, too. There was no comparison between Kennikin and Slade. I wouldn’t have taken Slade’s word had he sworn on a thousand bibles, but in this I would accept Kennikin’s lightest word and trust him as he had once trusted me. I knew and understood Kennikin and I liked his style; he was a gentleman — savage, but still a gentleman.

‘Well, then; answer my question. Are you in love with her?’

‘We’re going to be married.’

He laughed. ‘That’s not exactly a straight answer, but it will do.’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you sleep with her, Alan? When you come to Iceland do you lie under the stars together and clasp each other’s bodies, and work at each other until your sweat mingles? Do you call each other by names that are sweet and soft and handle each other until that last gust of passion, that flare of ecstasy in each of you, mutually quenches the other and ebbs away into languor? Is that how it is, Alan?’

His voice was purring and cruel. ‘Do you remember our last encounter in the pine woods when you tried to kill me? I wish you had been a better shot. I was in hospital in Moscow for a long time while they patched me up, but there was one patch they couldn’t put back, Alan. And that is why, if you come out of this alive — and that is something I haven’t yet decided — you will be no good to Elin Ragnarsdottir or to any other woman.’

I said, ‘I’d like another drink.’

‘I’ll make it stronger this time,’ he said. ‘You look as though you need it.’ He came across and took my glass, and backed towards the liquor cupboard. Still holding the pistol he poured whisky into the glass and added a little water. He brought it back. ‘You need some colour in your cheeks,’ he said.

I took the whisky from him. ‘I understand your bitterness — but any soldier can expect to be wounded; it’s an occupational hazard. What really hurts is that you were sold out. That’s it, Vaslav; isn’t it?’

‘That among other things,’ he agreed.

I sampled the whisky; it was strong this time. ‘Where you go wrong is in your identification of who did it. Who was your boss at that time?’

‘Bakayev — in Moscow.’

‘And who was my boss?’

He smiled. ‘That eminent British nobleman, Sir David Taggart.’

I shook my head. ‘No. Taggart wasn’t interested; there were bigger fish to occupy his attention at the time. You were sold out by Bakayev, your own boss, in collaboration with my boss, and I was just the instrument.’

Kennikin roared with laughter. ‘My dear Alan; you’ve been reading too much Fleming.’

I said, ‘You haven’t asked who my boss was.’

He was still shaking with chuckles as he said, ‘All right; who was he?’

‘Slade,’ I said.

The laughter suddenly stopped. I said, ‘It was very carefully planned. You were sacrificed to give Slade a good reputation. It had to look good — it had to look very authentic. That’s why you weren’t told. All things considered, you put up a good fight, but all the time your foundations were being nibbled away by Bakayev who was passing information to Slade.’

‘This is nonsense, Stewartsen,’ he said; but his face had gone pale and the livid cicatrice stood out on his cheek.

‘So you failed,’ I said. ‘And, naturally, you had to be punished, or it still wouldn’t look right. Yes, we know how your people do things, and if you hadn’t been sent to Ashkhabad or somewhere like it we’d have been suspicious. So you spent four years in exile to make it look right; four years of paper shuffling for doing your duty. You’ve been had, Vaslav.’

His eyes were stony. ‘This Slade I don’t know,’ he said shortly.