Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

by Desmond Bagley

  I pulled up outside the house, and Kennikin said, ‘Blow the horn.’

  I tooted and someone came out. Kennikin put the pistol to my head. ‘Careful, Alan,’ he said. ‘Be very careful.’

  He also was very careful. I was taken inside without the faintest possibility of making a break. The room was decorated in that generalized style known as Swedish Modern; when done in England it looks bleak and a little phoney, but when done by the Scandinavians it looks natural and good. There was an open fire burning which was something of a surprise. Iceland has no coal and no trees to make log fires, and an open blaze is something of a rarity; a lot of the houses are heated by natural hot water, and those that aren’t have oil-fired central heating. This fire was of peat which glowed redly with small flickering blue flames.

  Kennikin jerked his gun. ‘Sit by the fire, Alan; make yourself warm. But first Ilyich will search you.’

  Ilyich was a squarely-built man with a broad, flat face. There was something Asiatic about his eyes which made me think that at least one of his parents hailed from the farther side of the Urals. He patted me thoroughly, then turned to Kennikin and shook his head.

  ‘No gun?’ said Kennikin. ‘That was wise of you.’ He smiled pleasantly at Ilyich, then turned to me and said, ‘You see what I mean, Alan? I am surrounded by idiots. Draw up the left leg of your trousers and show Ilyich your pretty little knife.’

  I obeyed, and Ilyich blinked at it in astonishment while Kennikin reamed him out. Russian is even richer than English in cutting invective. The sgian dubh was confiscated and Kennikin waved me to the seat while Ilyich, red-faced, moved behind me.

  Kennikin put away his gun. ‘Now, what will you have to drink, Alan Stewart?’

  ‘Scotch—if you have it.’

  ‘We have it.’ He opened a cupboard near the fireplace and poured a drink. ‘Will you have it neat or with water? I regret we have no soda.’

  ‘Water will do,’ I said. ‘Make it a weak one.’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, yes; you have to keep a clear head,’ he said sardonically. ‘Section four. Rule thirty-five; when offered a drink by the opposition request a weak one.’ He splashed water into the glass then brought it to me. ‘I hope that is to your satisfaction.’

  I sipped it cautiously, then nodded. If it had been any weaker it wouldn’t have been able to crawl out of the glass and past my lips. He returned to the cupboard and poured himself a tumbler-full of Icelandic brennivin and knocked back half the contents with one gulp. I watched with some astonishment as he swallowed the raw spirit without twitching a hair. Kennikin was going downhill fast if he now did his drinking openly. I was surprised the Department hadn’t caught on to it.

  I said, ‘Can’t you get Calvados here in Iceland, Vaslav?’

  He grinned and held up the glass. ‘This is my first drink in four years, Alan. I’m celebrating.’ He sat in the chair opposite me. ‘I have reason to celebrate—it’s not often that old friends meet in our profession. Is the Department treating you well?’

  I sipped the watery scotch and set the glass on the low table next to my chair. ‘I haven’t been with the Department for four years.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘My information is different.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But it’s wrong. I quit when I left Sweden.’

  ‘I also quit,’ said Kennikin. ‘This is my first assignment in four years. I have you to thank for that. I have you to thank for many things.’ His voice was slow and even. ‘I didn’t quit of my own volition. Alan; I was sent to sort papers in Ashkhabad. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Turkmenistan.’

  ‘Yes.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Me—Vaslav Viktorovich Kennikin—sent to comb the border for narcotics smugglers and to shuffle papers at a desk.’

  ‘Thus are the mighty fallen,’ I said. ‘So they dug you up for this operation. That must have pleased you.’

  He stretched out his legs. ‘Oh, it did. I was very pleased when I discovered you were here. You see, at one time I thought you were my friend.’ His voice rose slightly. ‘You were as close to me as my own brother.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Don’t you know intelligence agents have no friends?’ I remembered Jack Case and thought bitterly that I was learning the lesson the hard way, just as Kennikin had.

  He went on as though I had not spoken. ‘Closer to me than my brother. I would have put my life in your hands—I did put my life in your hands.’ He stared into the colourless liquid in his glass. ‘And you sold me out.’ Abruptly he lifted the glass and drained it.

  I said derisively, ‘Come off it, Vaslav; you’d have done the same in my position.’

  He stared at me. ‘But I trusted you,’ he said almost plaintively. ‘That is what hurt most.’ He stood up and walked to the cupboard. Over his shoulder he said, ‘You know what my people are like. Mistakes aren’t condoned. And so…’ He shrugged ‘…the desk in Ashkhabad. They wasted me.’ His voice was harsh.

  ‘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.

  ‘You ought to. He’s the man you take orders from in Iceland. You thought it natural, perhaps, that you shouldn’t be in command on this operation. Your people wouldn’t want to give sole responsibility to a man like yourself who failed once. A reasonable attitude, you would think; and maybe you could retrieve your reputation and your honour and aspire to your former dizzy heights by a successful completion of this mission.’ I laughed. ‘And who do they give you for a boss? None other than the man who torpedoed you in Sweden.’

  Kennikin stood up. The pistol pointed unwaveringly at my chest. ‘I know who ruined the Swedish operation,’ he said. ‘And I can touch him from here.’

  ‘I just took orders,’ I said. ‘Slade did the brainwork. Do you remember Jimmy Birkby?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Kennikin stonily.

  ‘Of course not. You’d know him better as Sven Horn-lund—the man I killed.’

  ‘The British agent,’ said Kennikin. ‘I remember. It was that one act of yours that made me sure of you.’

  ‘Slade’s idea,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know who I killed. That’s why I left the Department—I had a flaming row.’ I leaned forward. ‘Vaslav, it fits the pattern, don’t you see that? Slade sacrificed one good man to make you trust me. It meant nothing to him how many of our agents were killed. But he and Bakayev sacrificed you to make Taggart trust Slade the more.’

  Kennikin’s grey eyes were like stones. His face was quite still except for one corner of his mouth where the scar ran down which twitched with a slight tic.

  I leaned back in the chair and picked up the glass. ‘Slade’s sitting pretty now. He’s here in Iceland running both sides of an operation. My God, what a position to be in! But it went wrong when one of the puppets refused to jump when he pulled the strings. That must have worried the hell out of him.’

  ‘I don’t know this man Slade,’ repeated Kennikin woodenly.

  ‘No? Then why are you all worked up?’ I grinned at him. ‘I’ll tell you what to do. Next time you speak to him why don’t you ask him for the truth. Not that he’ll tell you; Slade never told anyone the truth in his life. But he might give himself away to such a perceptive person as yourself.’

  Lights flickered through the drawn curtains and there was the sound of a car pulling up outside. I said, ‘Think of the past, Vaslav; think of the wasted years in Ashkhabad. Put yourself in the position of Bakayev and ask yourself which is the more important—an operation in Sweden which can be reconstituted at any time, or the chance to put a man high in the hierarchy of British Intelligence—so high that he lunches with the British Prime Minister?’

  Kennikin moved uneasily and I knew I had got to him. He was deep in thought and the pistol no longer pointed directly at me. I said, ‘As a matter of interest, how long did it take to build up another Swedish outfit? Not long, I’ll bet. I daresay Bakayev had an organization already working in parallel ready to go into action when you dropped out.’

  It was a shot at random but it went home. It was like watching a one-armed bandit come up with the jackpot; the wheels went round and whirred and clicked and a mental bell rang loud and clear. Kennikin snorted and turned away. He looked down into the fire and the hand holding the pistol was down at his side.

  I tensed myself, ready to jump him, and said softly, ‘They didn’t trust you, Vaslav. Bakayev didn’t trust you to wreck your own organization and make it look
good. I wasn’t trusted either; but I was sold out by Slade who is one of your mob. You’re different; you’ve been kicked in the teeth by your own people. How does it feel?’

  Vaslav Kennikin was a good man—a good agent—and he gave nothing away. He turned his head and looked at me. ‘I’ve listened to this fairy-story with great interest,’ he said colourlessly. ‘The man, Slade, I don’t know. You tell a fine tale, Alan, but it won’t get you out of trouble. You’re not…’

  The door opened and two men came in. Kennikin turned impatiently, and said, ‘Well?’

  The bigger of the men said in Russian, ‘We’ve just got back.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Kennikin emotionlessly. He waved at me. ‘Let me introduce Alan Stewartsen, the man you were supposed to bring here. What went wrong? Where’s Igor?’

  They looked at each other, and the big man said, ‘He was taken to hospital. He was badly scalded when…’

  ‘That’s fine!’ said Kennikin caustically. ‘That’s marvellous!’ He turned and appealed to me. ‘What do you think of this, Alan? We get Yuri safely and secretly to the trawler but Igor must go to a hospital where questions are asked. What would you do with an idiot like this?’

  I grinned, and said hopefully, ‘Shoot him.’

  ‘It’s doubtful if a bullet would penetrate his thick skull,’ said Kennikin acidly. He looked balefully at the big Russian. ‘And why, in God’s name, did you start shooting? It sounded like the outbreak of revolution.’

  The man gestured towards me helplessly. ‘He started it.’

  ‘He should never have been given the opportunity. If three men can’t take another one quietly, then…’

  ‘There were two of them.’