The Blind Run cm-6

by Brian Freemantle

  He still refused to abandon her, however. He spent nights away from her, alone in his own apartment, needing the relief as much as Natalia did but needing more the solitude to find a seemingly impossible way to save her from any retribution. She wasn’t the only one facing retribution, he realised. From the early meetings with Alexei Berenkov Charlie knew that the permission to appoint him to the spy school in the first place had been approved by someone else but Berenkov had clearly been the instigator. So he’d suffer. Charlie sighed, trying to rationalise. But then Berenkov had always been going to suffer. Whether the attitude was cynical or professional or both, Charlie had known from the very first moment of contact – contact he couldn’t have refused – that the moment he entered the embassy gates, Berenkov would be the loser. That was business, decided Charlie, confronting the familiar thought. About Berenkov he could have done nothing – do nothing – but he’d knowingly pursued an involvement with Natalia – although not guessing what it would come to mean to him – and she didn’t deserve to suffer because of it. And she’d protected him. She’d said nothing about the GUM visits, when she could have done. And still wasn’t saying anything when, even if things weren’t actually out in the open, they were at least understood.

  When the idea occurred to him Charlie snatched at it, like a drowning man at a lifebelt. But having got its support he looked around, like the same drowning man might look for the lurking shark that would pull him down again to destruction. It wasn’t perfect, Charlie recognised, with his ingrained objectivity. In fact – for a lifebelt – it was pretty waterlogged but it had a chance. Timing would be important. Absolute and utter timing, so there would be incontrovertible proof of her loyalty. Which meant – finally – that she had to hear him out. If it meant physically holding her down and keeping her hands away from her ears she had to hear him out.

  ‘No,’ she said at once, when she answered his telephone call. ‘I don’t want us to meet again. I’ve thought about it and I think it should end, now.’

  ‘We must meet,’ said Charlie, with quiet insistence, determined against any dispute that would harden her refusal. He added, ‘We must meet, for the last time.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ he said, anxiously.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘It’s important,’ insisted Charlie. Determined to get her to agree, he said, ‘It’s not just you, Natalia. There’s Eduard.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There’s Eduard. There’s always been Eduard.’

  To have gone to a restaurant would have made it into something it wasn’t and neither wanted to meet at their respective apartments, determined at the moment of parting upon pleasant memories instead of final unhappiness. They just walked – although nowhere near Red Square and GUM, because of other unpleasant recollections – choosing the embankment, watching the scurrying river craft and the misted insects. Natalia held his hand, schoolgirlish, her arm consciously touching his, the reserve of the immediate past weeks gone, and Charlie felt the despair lumped in him, having physically to swallow against the emotion, at the complete awareness of what he was giving up and could never hope to get again. He’d lost Edith and now he was going to lose Natalia and in a rare but lasting moment of self-pity Charlie wondered why he always had to lose and why, just once, he couldn’t win, just a little bit.

  ‘I don’t think you properly heard the words, on the telephone,’ she said.

  ‘I did,’ said Charlie. ‘And it wasn’t words. It was just one word.’

  ‘I think myself I’d take the chance,’ said Natalia. ‘I have taken the chance. I can’t risk Eduard.’

  Resigned now, Charlie still tried. ‘What if it wasn’t a risk to Eduard?’

  ‘Can you guarantee that?’ she asked, almost desperately. ‘Can you guarantee that you could protect us both, forever?’

  They were at the Kalininskiy bridge. There were bordering seats and resting places and without any discussion they went towards a seat and sat upon it, all the while without Charlie talking.

  ‘You haven’t answered,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Charlie. ‘I was thinking that if I didn’t love you so much how easy it would be to lie. To say yes, that I could guarantee it.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Natalia. ‘Because I’d know it was a lie and I don’t want you to lie to me, not any more.’

  ‘I didn’t lie,’ said Charlie.

  She felt out for his hand, all the comfort and contentment back between them now. ‘Stop it,’ she said, softly chiding, not angry like she had so often been recently. ‘I know there was no other way. We just shouldn’t have got involved, not like we did. Lost people shouldn’t find lost people, that’s all.’

  ‘I want you to listen now,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m concerned for you, because I love you but I want you to listen because of Eduard, too. Because if anything happens to you then it happens to him, as well.’

  Natalia sat with her head forward, not even looking at the river but she didn’t protest about not wanting to know as she always had in the past. Charlie was glad of her attitude, which he hadn’t expected but which made it easier, because it made him sure of her and by the same token knew that she was sure of him. So she wouldn’t doubt him. And she couldn’t doubt him, not for a moment, if she were properly to withstand the interrogation and the pressures that were going to come.

  Charlie lied easily, because they were easy lies, just slight but vitally important deviations from the truth that fitted all the facts and all the circumstances. He knew how good she was – what her training was – and although he appeared to be as deeply enclosed as she was Charlie was alert for any reaction from her: for the sort of challenge that her questioners would make, very soon now. There was no dispute from Natalia and Charlie hoped more desperately than he had ever hoped for anything that it meant it would work and there wouldn’t be any way she could be exposed.

  ‘It means I made a mistake,’ she said. At once, defensively, she said, ‘I wasn’t given enough time. Everything was rushed.’

  ‘Then it’s not your fault.’

  ‘No,’ she said, doubtfully. ‘It wasn’t my decision.’

  ‘There’s us,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  And then Charlie told her how to account for that, as well, on easier ground now because outright lying wasn’t involved. He was still tensed for her to expose a fault but she didn’t and when he finished Charlie hoped it was because that part of the story was as good as the earlier account and not because her emotions and feelings were clouding her usual alertness.

  ‘Now?’ she said, emptily.

  ‘Now,’ said Charlie. He felt the surge of despair and fought against it because it was too late for despair now. They’d recovered what they’d known before because of their acceptance of the end; there was no turning back because there was nowhere to which they could turn. Conflict upon conflict, ifs upon ifs. ‘You understand the importance of the timing, don’t you?’ pressed Charlie. ‘The timing’s got to be precisely right.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Natalia. ‘I understand about the timing.’

  They remained unspeaking on the embankment seat. The light was going now and the shadow from the vast Comecon building stretched like a barrier across the Moskva River, a hurdle for the still busy boats to cross. Her hand was still in his and Charlie didn’t want to let it go.

  ‘I love you, Natalia,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I love you, too, my darling,’ said Natalia. She stopped and then she said, ‘And I know I’m going to regret what I’ve done – or what I haven’t done – for the rest of my life.’

  Charlie turned to her, hurriedly, about to speak but she squeezed her fingers with his and said, ‘No! Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.’

  ‘Why can’t you come?’ he said, ignoring her plea.

  ‘Why can’t you stay?’ she said, defea
ting him. ‘My loyalty isn’t the only barrier. There’s yours. I’ve already given more than you have. Why can’t you give?’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Then you know I can’t.’

  The shadows on the river got deeper, obscuring the smaller boats altogether. They remained side by side, their hands linked, neither wanting to be the first actually to break the final, inevitable contact.

  ‘Timing is important,’ repeated Charlie.

  ‘Then you should go.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wish we could make love,’ Natalia blurted, suddenly. ‘Not like last time. Not like a lot of times recently. Like it was before, when we were like this.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be tonight,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Yes it does,’ she said immediately. ‘Trying to hold on to what we’ve got now, this moment, won’t work…’ She gestured out towards the river, where the evening mist was already forming, in competition to the insect swarms. ‘It’s like that,’ she said. ‘Like the evening fog.’

  Charlie made the moment of parting, knowing he had to. He withdrew his hand, positively, not looking at her and said, ‘It’s lucky, that we chose to walk along the river.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Natalia, consciously trying to put the briskness into her voice. ‘Morisa Toreza is quite near.’

  Charlie stood, forcing himself like she was doing. ‘Remember the time,’ he said. ‘They’ll know almost immediately. Don’t wait.’

  For a moment they remained looking at each other, Natalia still on the bench, Charlie standing but apart from her, not trusting himself to be too close.

  ‘I don’t want you to kiss me,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just don’t say anything. Do anything.’

  Charlie stayed where he was, for a few more moments, knowing that he would never see her again and wanting to etch everything into his mind and then he turned and found the main highway and walked towards the British embassy on the Morisa Toreza. He walked shoulder-slumped, for once in his life careless of anything around him, reluctant actually to get to the security of the British legation but committed now because Natalia’s safety depended upon him reaching it at a certain time. He knew for a long way she would be able to see him – and he her – but he never turned back. By the time he reached the embassy the professionalism had taken over but much of it automatic, right up until the actual moment of entry, which had to be right.

  There were still cars and people about, which he wanted and in passing Charlie wondered how much of the passing traffic was genuine and how much official. He crossed carefully, long before the embassy entrance, approaching on the same side but appearing to take no interest in the approaching building. There were uniformed Soviet personnel near the entrance which Charlie hadn’t expected and couldn’t remember from his previous time in Moscow. He strode on, confidently, with no break in his stride, the turn into the compound abrupt yet still confident, a man accustomed to the route and unprepared for any challenge.

  None came.

  Charlie hurried into the vestibule, anxious to gain official British territory. There was the reception desk and security personnel, but British this time. The receptionist was a man. He looked up, blank-faced, towards Charlie and said, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘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.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  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.

&nb
sp; 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.’