The Blind Run cm-6 Read online

  ‘Maybe it was a good thing for everyone that the challenge wasn’t put to the test,’ said the Russian, appearing unimpressed at Sampson’s bombast.

  Charlie turned away from the ridiculous dispute. Through the car window he saw a direction sign to Tower Hamlets. They were travelling east. Where, he wondered. The London streets about which he’d reminisced all the long days and nights in the cell were eerily deserted, the actual City of London always quieter than the rest of the capital. He thought he heard the wail of a police siren and tensed but didn’t detect it again, so guessed he must have been mistaken. How long would it be before they found the man crumpled back there by the prison wall?

  From inside the car he heard Sampson say, ‘Where are the clothes? Surely you thought of clothes?’

  The arrogant sod was trying the position of command even here, Charlie recognised. From the front the passenger handed back two grips.

  ‘Me first,’ insisted Sampson, twisting and turning in the confined rear space. After he had changed and stuffed the prison uniform into the grip Charlie switched, aware of the good quality of the clothing as he put it on and aware, too, that the pockets had things in them, as they would have done if they were normally worn suits. What he thought was grey worsted and definitely a well laundered white shirt. The shoes pinched but with his feet Charlie was used to that. He left them half on and half off, for comfort.

  ‘There,’ said the Russian, in front, an order.

  Obediently the driver stopped and the other man stuffed the refilled hold-alls into a refuse bin at the pavement edge, carefully ensuring the covering flap came back concealingly into position.

  ‘We are returning from a dinner, in London,’ dictated the Russian, as the car moved again. ‘There are counterfoils of the tickets in your left hand jacket pocket. Tombola tickets, too…’ He smiled back at them, holding up a crystal decanter with a ticket still attached. ‘I was the lucky one.’

  Very good, decided Charlie, realising as he did so that they were clearing London. Any road block would be hurried, particularly out of the capital. Photographs certainly wouldn’t be available, not this quickly. It was the sort of cover story that might get them through, if the need arose. The ever present if, he thought once more.

  ‘It’s fortunate we made the departure arrangements that we did,’ said the man in front. ‘Let’s hope they’ll still be possible.’ Heavily he added to Sampson, ‘And this car is not traceable to our embassy in London.’

  Charlie was caught by the disclaimer as the man came to him. ‘You are called Muffin?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Charlie.

  ‘I am Letsov.’

  Charlie frowned at the introduction. There shouldn’t have been identities if the man were attached to London. The frown deepened, in self-irritation. It had taken him too long to realise that the Russians would never have risked anyone actually from the embassy. He looked with renewed interest at the two in front. They were called spetnaz he remembered; an elite and highly secret commando group within the KGB, the equivalent, he supposed, of the British SAS or the American Special Forces. Moscow must regard Sampson as very important indeed to go to all this trouble. The other Englishman appeared relaxed and comfortable in the opposite corner, hand casually looped through an assistance strap near the door, as if he were actually being chauffeured back from some mundane, late night outing.

  To Letsov, Charlie said, ‘We’re getting out tonight?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Russian, as if he were surprised at the question.

  Outside Charlie caught brief sight of a signpost to Braintree. ‘And you’re coming all the way?’

  ‘No further reason to stay,’ said Letsov, confirming Charlie’s guess at their being spetnaz.

  The driver said something that Charlie didn’t catch, in Russian, and he didn’t hear Letsov’s reply, either, but from the way the man stared through both the front and the rear windows at the remark Charlie guessed it was a reference to there being no obvious police presence.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, to Letsov. ‘For all this.’

  The Russian shrugged. ‘There were orders,’ he said.

  ‘Which I initiated,’ Sampson reminded.

  Fuck you, thought Charlie.

  They even risked the motorway when it came, travelling almost completely along its full length before a warning from Letsov at a sign that took them off on an obviously reconnoitred route through minor roads. There were two darkened, sleeping villages and then a bigger place, a small town, which they entered without Charlie being aware of any name. They parked once more to an obviously prepared plan, in a covered, multi-storey car park. Letsov turned back towards them, hefted the decanter and said, ‘It seems my luck is holding.’

  Almost at once, the smile went. ‘The car was a cover. It isn’t any longer,’ he warned.

  Reluctantly Charlie put his feet fully into the shoes, feeling his ankle as he did so. There wasn’t any swelling from his clumsy landing and he was glad: he didn’t want any indication of weakness in front of Sampson. Or the other two men, either.

  As they emerged on to the deserted street Charlie saw, about fifty yards in the opposite direction from which Letsov led them, the tell-tale blue sign of the police station. They really meant to rub it in, thought Charlie.

  Letsov and the driver led familiarly but cautiously, almost at once leaving the main road for smaller, bordering ones. Charlie smelled the smell of sea and heard an early shrill of seagulls. Dawn was tentatively on the horizon when they reached the estuary, already forming the buildings in black and grey outlines. Boats, too. It was hardly a proper marina, more a parking place for weekend sailors avid for the pastime without the money truly to enjoy it. Charlie guessed the boats, if he could have seen them more clearly, would be run down, like the mooring.

  Their boat was at the end of a small slipway, isolated from the other craft and cowled in a protective covering which the two Russians expertly and silently unclipped and stowed, gesturing Sampson and Charlie into the cramped cabin. The odour was of damp and leaked fuel and in the light which Letsov snapped on, behind curtained windows, Charlie saw most of the inside varnish had peeled whitely away from the timbers.

  There was another hold-all on a single bunk to the left. Letsov opened it and tossed heavy blue Guernsey sweaters at them and said, ‘Now we’re enthusiastic amateur sailors, leaving early. But you two stay below until we’ve cleared.’

  Charlie and Sampson swopped the jackets for the sweaters and sat unspeaking on either side of the cabin. Above Charlie heard the muted, careful sounds of the other men preparing their departure. They must have left only one securing line at the end because directly the engine fired, over loudly in the morning stillness, they cast off, without waiting for it to warm up. They proceeded down river at the lowest throttle but from the note Charlie guessed that unlike the rest of the boat the engine wasn’t old or disused. At full throttle it would probably have torn itself from its mountings.

  ‘So everyone shit themselves for nothing,’ sneered Sampson, triumphantly from across the cabin. ‘We made it.’

  Charlie said nothing.

  After about half an hour there was a change in the motion of the boat, as it encountered the sea-swell. The engine increased its note and the smell of diesel permeated the cabin.

  ‘How much longer before we can go on deck?’ demanded Sampson, of no one.

  Charlie looked at the man and realised he was suffering seasickness and was glad. ‘Be slop-out time back at the nick,’ he said, wanting to encourage it. ‘All that smell of piss.’

  ‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake,’ said Sampson.

  Charlie did, not to spare Sampson but because the baiting was pointless and if he made the bastard sick for the rest of his life it wouldn’t be retribution for what he’d done.

  It was another hour before Letsov opened the hatch and by then Sampson was heaving. The man fled to the stern of the boat, retching into the wake and momentarily Charlie thought how
easy it would have been to have seized his legs and tipped him over the gunwale. The temptation receded as quickly as it came. They could loop easily, to pick him up. Pointless, like encouraging the sickness.

  It was fully light now, a dull, grey day with the clouds stubbornly against the sea, as if they didn’t want night to go. Far to port Charlie detected a duck line of fishing boats heading back to harbour and wondered which one it would be. He stepped up, into the cockpit. The car driver retained his role, as helmsman. Letsov stood with a chart spread between them, minutely focussing a radio. Charlie became aware that the man was concentrating upon a heavy wrist watch and at some clearly pre-arranged time pressed a relay button on the set. It would be short burst transmission, Charlie knew, expertly: a full message electronically reduced to a meaningless blip to any accidental interception, decipherable only to those properly listening for it.

  ‘We were lucky,’ said Letsov, speaking to Charlie but looking beyond, to the still retching Sampson. ‘I guess it took a long time to find the body.’

  ‘He didn’t have to die,’ insisted Charlie.

  Letsov came fully to him, smiling wearily. ‘I know of you; of your street experience,’ said the Russian. ‘And I agree. The policeman could have been immobilised.’ He looked back to Sampson. ‘He never worked the streets. Always liaison or administration. A good agent to have in place but a bad one to be trapped with.’

  There was a low shout, from the helmsman behind them and as they turned Charlie saw the outline of a vessel forming on the horizon. As they got closer he discerned the oddly shaped radar bubble and the stiff-haired antennae of what the Russians called trawlers and the rest of the world spy ships. Letsov depressed the transmission button once again, positive identification Charlie supposed and then turned as Sampson forced himself to join them, whey-faced.

  ‘How long to reach Russia, in that?’ he asked, strained-voiced.

  ‘Murmansk,’ said Letsov. ‘A couple of days.’

  Sampson made a grunting sound of despair.

  The helmsman manoeuvred the motor-boat into the lee of the larger vessel. They exchanged loose link-lines, which meant they had to jump for the rope ladder thrown down from the trawler. Charlie went first, easily, looking back hopefully to Sampson. At first it looked as if the man might actually baulk at jumping across the narrow channel of heaving sea but then he did, misholding at the first attempt and hanging one handed for a brief moment between the two vessels before snatching out a second time, getting a grip, and hauling himself upwards. He stood shaking at the rail-break, almost appearing unaware of where he was. Around them seamen bustled, going through what was still a well planned exercise. There were shouted, relayed messages from the bridge wing to the sailors to the two still in the boat and then Charlie saw charges being handed down. It took minutes to place them and then the two who had rescued them made the crossing and climbed aboard. At once the trawler cast off and moved away. Letsov remained at the rail. When they were about fifty yards away, Letsov said, with professional pride and without consulting his watch to get the time ‘Now!’ and precisely on cue the explosion came, in a dull crump, tearing the bottom completely from the cabin cruiser. It jumped, surprised, in the water then sank at once.

  ‘Welcome,’ said a voice behind them and Charlie turned to face the captain. ‘Welcome,’ the man said again. ‘To a new life.’

  Christ, thought Charlie.

  With the murder of the policeman it had not achieved the humiliating propaganda success that had been intended and Berenkov knew it, just as he knew their personal friendship would not prevent Kalenin delivering the necessary and deserved rebuke.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sincerely. ‘I had no idea they would have a gun.’

  ‘Charlie Muffin?’ queried Kalenin.

  Berenkov shook his head. ‘Letsov radioed a full report. It was Sampson. He panicked. Charlie doesn’t panic: I know that too well.’

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Letsov says there’s ill feeling between them.’

  Kalenin indicated the intercepted messages from the British embassy: there were four more since they had last discussed it. He said, ‘We planned for Sampson, even before all these. And the help he might be able to give. What about Charlie? Can he be of any use?’

  ‘I wouldn’t imagine about these,’ said Berenkov, making his own indication towards the messages. ‘He was on the run for three years, don’t forget. Out of touch. But if he wanted to he could teach agents we intend introducing into the West more about the business – and survival – in a month than they could learn from our instructors in a year.’

  Kalenin pulled down the corners of his mouth, at the unqualified admiration and at the reservation. ‘Wanted to!’ he said.

  ‘I was considered the best, wasn’t I?’ asked Berenkov. There was no boastfulness in the question.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin.

  ‘He caught me,’ reminded Berenkov. ‘Just like he caught those idiots in his own department who considered him expendable.’

  ‘I don’t understand the point you’re making,’ complained the KGB chairman.

  ‘Charlie’s brilliant,’ said Berenkov, simply. ‘He’s also the most awkward bastard imaginable.’

  Chapter Ten

  Charlie was handcuffed for the return to England after his Italian arrest and there had been an escort of at least two warders for every remand appearance and then the eventual taking to Wormwood Scrubs and there was the impress of deja vu during the journey to Moscow, another guarded trip to another sort of imprisonment. Sampson was ill throughout the voyage to Murmansk, rarely leaving the cabin – for which Charlie was grateful – but recovered dramatically when they got ashore. Almost at once he started behaving like a deprived child on its first outing, using his Russian wherever he could, pointlessly reading out signs and posters and staring around excitedly at buildings and streets. Letsov and the other Russian, whose name emerged as Orlov, remained with them throughout, right to Moscow, but increasingly during the voyage and more so once they reached the Russian mainland their attitude grew into one of undisguised boredom and disinterest, men whose task had been completed now burdened with the irksome task of babysitting.

  It was dark when the plane from Murmansk arrived at Sheremetyevo airport, which seemed larger and more brightly lit than when Charlie had last landed there, ten years earlier on secondment to the embassy. And the journey into Moscow appeared to take longer than he remembered. It was difficult, because of the darkness, to recognise any landmarks. He thought he isolated the river but wasn’t sure. He definitely located one of the red stars illuminated above the Kremlin and using that as a marker realised they were being driven far out into the suburbs of the city.

  Orlov, who was driving as usual, had difficulty finding their destination, twice having to stop and ask directions. It was an apartment block, a vast, anonymous pile of a place, seeming to stretch the entire block and rise blackly up into the night sky. Only a few windows were lighted and the impression was of abandonment, which Charlie decided was fitting.

  Orlov didn’t bother to get out of the car, leaving Letsov to complete the final part of the assignment. The bulky Russian led the way into the building and up a flight of chipped and smelling stairs to an apartment at the far end of an unlighted corridor. From behind the closed doorways they passed came the scuffing and murmur of occupation and once the louder sound of a radio; a woman was singing a melancholy Slavic dirge and Charlie decided he knew how she felt. The pervading smell was of cabbage.

  Letsov entered the apartment peremptorily, snapping on the lights and indicating the place with a take-it-or-leave-it gesture with his hand.

  ‘You must stay here,’ he said. ‘You will be contacted.’

  ‘Together?’ demanded Charlie, at once.

  ‘Stay here,’ repeated Letsov. He pointed towards the telephone. ‘Tomorrow.’

  Charlie looked around the room. It was a spartan place, just a couch and two chairs, with a t
able and two more chairs against the far wall. Beside the table an opening, without a door or curtaining, led into a kitchen. To the left was a short corridor. As he watched Sampson, still with his little-boy excitement, discovered the bathroom and two separate bedrooms.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Letsov, at the doorway.

  ‘Thanks again,’ said Charlie. During the voyage he had attempted some approach to the man, whom he recognised as a complete professional, but like a complete professional Letsov had rejected anything more than the most necessary conversation. Charlie regretted it. He thought Letsov was the sort of man he could have liked; understood at least.

  ‘Good luck,’ said the Russian, making a last minute concession.

  ‘Thanks for that, too,’ said Charlie.

  Sampson emerged from the further bedroom as the Russian left and announced, with his predictable command of every situation. ‘I’ll have this one. You take the other.’

  Charlie shrugged, uninterested in arguing about it. He hoped to Christ they weren’t together for much longer. ‘Where did you get your Russian?’ he said.

  ‘I get my degree in modern languages at Oxford,’ said Sampson. ‘Got an aptitude for it. And for almost the last two years I was number three on the Russian desk.’

  ‘You were in the Russian section?’ said Charlie. He wondered why the man hadn’t boasted about that earlier, like he had about almost everything else.

  ‘I was ordered to penetrate it, from here, when I was on station in Beirut.’

  ‘So for two years Moscow had an open door into everything we knew or thought about them!’ demanded Charlie. What a bastard, he thought.

  ‘And a lot of what NATO thought: Washington too,’ reminded the other man. ‘I told you I was important, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie, emptily. He went to the uncurtained window, staring out. There appeared to be a matching apartment block on the opposite side of the street, picked out with as few lights as theirs. He wondered if that smelled of overcooked cabbage as well. Six months, he thought. Six months was bearable. But was it time to achieve what Wilson demanded? And would the deal still stand, either way, after the murder? There was, of course, another alternative. The one he had been deliberately shunting aside in his mind. What if the Russians came to suspect what he was really doing? And that’s all they would need to do, just suspect. Another prison, if they let him live at all. And no limit on the sentence this time. Compared to the gulags, Wormwood Scrubs would have been a village in the sun. Charlie shuddered, a physical reaction and from his side Sampson said, ‘It’s not cold.’