Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

by Desmond Bagley

  I crossed to the table and found the two small bottles, then went into the bathroom. The stomach preparation I ignored but the aspirin was very welcome. I put on the dressing-gown and returned to the bedroom to find Fatface in the act of pouring himself a cup of tea. ‘You don’t mind if I’m Mother?’ he asked sardonically.

  I sat down and picked up the glass of chilled tomato juice. Fatface pushed over the Worcestershire sauce. This improved it. I laced the juice liberally, added pepper, and drank it quickly. Almost immediately I felt better, but not so much better that I could face the breakfast that faced me when I lifted the silver cover from my plate. I looked down at the yellow eyes of eggs, with sausages for eyebrows and a bacon moustache, and shuddered delicately. Pushing the plate away distastefully I picked up a slice of toast and buttered it sparingly.

  I said, ‘If you’re being Mother you can pour me a cup of tea.’

  ‘Certainly—anything to oblige.’ He busied himself with the teapot.

  I crunched on the toast and said indistinctly, ‘Anything? Then perhaps you can tell me where I am.’

  He shook his head regretfully. ‘Then you’d know as much as me—and that would never do. No, Mr Rearden; that is one of the things I can’t tell you. You realize, of course, that because of that particular restriction your movements must be, shall we say, circumscribed.’

  I’d already figured that out; the double bars at the windows weren’t there for nothing. I jerked my head at the bed behind me. ‘Slade is a bit too circumscribed right now.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Fatface. ‘He’s older than you and takes longer to recover.’ He passed me a cup of tea. ‘You will be confined to these two rooms until the time comes to move you again.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘That depends entirely on you. We hope to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. If you have any special preferences at meals—grapefruit juice instead of tomato juice, for instance—we will do our best to please you.’ He rose to his feet and crossed to a cabinet which he opened. It was well stocked with bottles. ‘You can help yourself to a drink at any time. By the way, what cigarettes do you prefer?’

  ‘Rothmans filter.’

  He produced a notebook and made an entry like a conscientious maître d’hôtel. ‘That we can manage easily.’

  I grinned at him. ‘I’d like a half-bottle of wine with lunch and dinner. White, and on the dryish side; a hock or moselle, preferably.’

  ‘Very well.’ He made another note. ‘We try to run a top-class establishment. Of course, our expenses being what they are, our charges are high. In fact, there is a standard charge no matter how long you stay here. In your case I think it has been agreed already—twenty thousand pounds, wasn’t it, Mr Rearden?’

  I picked up my tea-cup. ‘It wasn’t,’ I said economically. ‘Ten thousand pounds is lying on that bed over there. That was the deal.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fatface. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I said amiably. ‘You were trying it on. Your tea is getting cold.’

  He sat down again. ‘We would prefer to settle the account as soon as possible. The sooner it is settled the sooner you will be able to go on the next stage of your journey.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘I think you can leave that to us. I assure you it will be outside the United Kingdom.’

  I frowned at that. ‘I don’t like buying a pig in a poke. I want a better guarantee than that, I want to know where I’m going.’

  He spread his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rearden; but our security arrangements preclude your knowing in advance. You must understand the importance of this. We cannot take any chances at all on the penetration of our organization by…er…undesirable elements.’

  I hesitated, and he said impatiently, ‘Come, Mr Rearden; you are an intelligent man. You must know that we have a reputation that rests entirely on our ability to keep our promises. Our good faith is our stock-in-trade and it would need but one dissatisfied client to do us irreparable harm.’ He tapped gently on the table with his teaspoon. ‘In any case, I believe you were informed of what would certainly happen to you if you did not keep your side of the bargain.’

  The threat was there again—veiled but unmistakable. I had to play for time, so I said, ‘All right; get me a cheque form of the Züricher Ausführen Handelsbank.’

  Fatface looked pleased. ‘And the number—the account number?’

  ‘You’ll know that when I put it on the cheque,’ I said. ‘I have security precautions, too, you know.’ I did a quick calculation. ‘Make it out for 200,000 Swiss francs. You take your share and let me have the balance in the currency of the country in which I’m being dropped.’

  He nodded. ‘A wise precaution. The sensible man never leaves himself short of liquid funds,’ he said sententiously.

  I looked down at myself. ‘Do I have to live in pyjamas?’

  He looked shocked. ‘Of course not. I apologize for not telling you sooner. Your clothes are in the wardrobe.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I crossed the room and opened the wardrobe. Hanging up was a business suit and, next to it, a more sporty and informal outfit. Underwear was neatly laid out on the shelves and two pairs of highly polished shoes—black and brown—nestled in the shoerack.

  I went through the pockets of the suits quickly and found them empty, then I clicked open the suitcase which stood at the bottom of the wardrobe and found it as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. I swung on Fatface, ‘No passport,’ I said. ‘No wallet—no identification.’

  ‘We let you look at those to show our good faith, Mr Rearden—or should I call you Mr Cruickshank? We wanted you to see the lengths to which we would go to ensure a successful outcome of this enterprise. But there is no necessity for you to have them just yet. They will be returned to you prior to the next stage of your journey.’ He wagged his finger at me solemnly. ‘Security—that’s the watchword here.’

  That I could well believe. This mob considered all the angles.

  Fatface said, ‘If you want anything, all you have to do is to press this button—like this.’ He waited, looking expectantly at the door, and White Coat arrived within two minutes. ‘Taafe will look after you, Mr Rearden; won’t you, Taafe?’

  White Coat nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘I must be going now,’ said Fatface regretfully, as though he desired nothing more in the world than to stay and chat. ‘We have to get on with our business.’ He looked at me closely. ‘I advise you to shave; you look most uncivilized. I daresay that while you are attending to your toilet Taafe will tidy up the room.’ He gave me a brief nod and departed.

  I looked curiously at Taafe who was busying himself with the breakfast crockery and leaving only his broad back for my inspection. He was a big man with the battered face of a small-time bruiser—small time because good boxers don’t get hit about like that. After a while I shrugged and went into the bathroom. It was a good idea, no matter who had suggested it.

  I ran a bathful of hot water and settled down to soak and think. The mob was good—there was no doubt about that. Provided I could come up with the money I would undoubtedly be released in some foreign country with adequate, if fraudulent, identification and enough money to see me right. Of course, the converse wasn’t too good—if I couldn’t provide the funds required then I would probably occupy a cold hole in the ground in an isolated place and my bones would be discovered to mystify some rural copper in the distant future.

  I shook my head. No—this mob was too efficient for that. They would leave no bones to be discovered. I would probably be encased in a block of concrete and tipped over the side into the deepest part of the sea available. It would be an act of charity if they killed me before pouring the concrete.

  I shivered a little in spite of the hot water and thought glumly of the Züricher Ausführen Handelsbank and that cold-minded bastard, Mackintosh. I had better begin making plans to break out of this luxurious nick.
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br />   That brought me to another question. Where the hell was I? Fatface had played safe on that one, but maybe he had slipped up, after all. I thought about Taafe. That wasn’t an English name at all—so could I be already out of England? It hadn’t been smart of Fatface to let that name slip out.

  As I mused, a little rhyme came into my head:

  Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house And stole a side of beef.

  I had learned that one at my mother’s knee. Apart from being libellous to Welshmen did it mean that I was somewhere in Wales—still in the United Kingdom?

  I sighed and splashed water. Time would tell, but time was something I hadn’t much of.

  FIVE

  They looked after us like an international hotel looks after a couple of Greek shipping magnates. Nothing was too good for Mr Slade and Mr Rearden—nothing except immediate freedom. We asked for newspapers and we got newspapers; I asked for South African brandy and I got it—Oude Meester, too—something I had found unobtainable during my few days in London. Slade looked askance at my South African brandy; his tipple was 15-year-old Glenlivet which was also hospitably provided.

  But when we asked for a television set or a radio we drew a blank. I said to Slade, ‘Now why is that?’

  He turned his heavy face towards me, his lips twisted with contempt for my minuscule intelligence. ‘Because the programmes would tell us where we are,’ he said patiently.

  I acted dumb. ‘But we get the newspapers regularly.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ he said, and stooped to pick up The Times. ‘This is dated the fifth,’ he said. ‘Yesterday we had the issue of the fourth, and tomorrow we’ll have the issue of the sixth. But it doesn’t follow that today is the fifth. We could be in France, for example, and these newspapers are airmail editions.’

  ‘Do you think we are in France?’

  He looked from the window. ‘It doesn’t look like France, and neither does it…’ He twitched his nose. ‘…smell like France.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know where we are.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you care very much,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘Not really. All I know is that I’m going home.’

  ‘Your people must think you’re important,’ I said.

  ‘Moderately so,’ he said modestly. ‘I’ll be glad to get home. I haven’t seen Russia for twenty-eight years.’

  ‘You must be bloody important if my help in getting you out was worth ten thousand quid.’ I turned to him and said seriously, ‘As a sort of professional what do you think of this mob?’

  He was affronted. ‘A sort of professional! I’m good in my work.’

  ‘You were caught,’ I said coldly,

  ‘After twenty-eight years,’ he said. ‘And then by sheer chance. I doubt if anyone could have done better.’

  ‘Okay, you’re good,’ I said. ‘Answer my question. What do you think of this crowd?’

  ‘They’re good,’ he said judiciously. ‘They’re very good. Their security is first class and their organization impeccable.’ He frowned. ‘I didn’t think ordinary criminals could retain that kind of cohesion.’

  That thought had occurred to me and I didn’t like it. ‘You think they’re in your line of work?’

  ‘It’s unlikely but just barely possible,’ he said. ‘To run a network takes a lot of money. The West Germans had the Gehlen Apparat just after the war—that was more-or-less private enterprise but it was supported by American money.’

  ‘Who would support this kind of outfit?’ I asked.

  He grinned at me. ‘My people might.’

  True enough. It seemed as though Slade was home and dry; instead of growing his beard in the nick he’d be knocking back vodka in the Kremlin with the boss of the KGB before very long, and dictating his memoirs as a highly placed member of British Intelligence. That much had come out at his trial; he’d infiltrated the British Intelligence Service and got himself into quite a high position.

  He said, ‘What do you think of me?’

  ‘What am I supposed to think?’

  ‘I spied on your country…’

  ‘Not my country,’ I said. ‘I’m from the Republic of South Africa,’ I grinned at him. ‘And I come of Irish stock.’

  ‘Ah, I had forgotten,’ he said.

  Taafe looked after us like Bunter looked after Lord Peter Wimsey. The meals were on time and excellently cooked and the room kept immaculately tidy, but never a word could I get out of Taafe. He would obey instructions but when I sought to draw him into conversation he would look at me with his big blue eyes and keep his mouth tightly shut. I didn’t hear him say one word the whole time I was imprisoned in that room, and I came to the conclusion he was dumb.

  There was always another man outside the bedroom door. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of him as Taafe came into the room, a dim and shadowy figure in the corridor. I never saw his face. I thought hard about him and came to a swift conclusion. It would be impossible for one man to keep up a twenty-four hour guard duty, so there would be three of them, at least. That meant at least five in the house, and maybe more.

  I didn’t see any women; it was a purely masculine establishment.

  I checked on the bars of the windows, both in the bathroom and the bedroom, and Slade watched me with a sardonic amusement which I ignored. It seemed that to get out that way was impossible; it was the double-barred arrangement, inside and out, that was the trouble. Besides, Taafe checked them, too. I came out of the bathroom once to find him on a tour of inspection, making very thoroughly sure they hadn’t been tampered with.

  Fatface came to see us from time to time. He was affability itself and spent time by the hour discoursing on world affairs, the situation in Red China and the prospects for South Africa in Test Cricket. He would join us in a drink but took care not to take too much.

  That gave me an idea. I took care to appear to drink a lot, both in his presence and out of it. He watched me swig the brandy and made no comment when I became maudlin. Luckily I have a hard head, harder than I allowed to appear, and I took damned good care not to drink too much in Fat-face’s absence, although I contrived to fool Slade as well. I didn’t know that I could trust Slade very much if things came to the crunch. It was with regret that I poured many a half-bottle of good hooch into the lavatory pan before pulling the chain for the night.

  I’ve always found it good policy to appear to be what I’m not, and if Fatface and his mob thought I was a drunk then that might give me a slight edge when I needed it. There was certainly no attempt to stop me drinking. Taafe would take away the dead soldiers every morning and replace them with full bottles, and not a smile would crack his iron features. Slade, however, came to treat me with unreserved contempt.

  Slade didn’t play chess, but all the same I asked Fatface if he could rustle up a set of chessmen and a board as I wanted to work out chess problems. ‘So you play chess,’ he said interestedly. ‘I’ll give you a game, if you like. I’m not a bad player.’

  He wasn’t a bad player at all, though not as good as Cossie, but Cossie had more time to practise. He was certainly better than me, and after the first couple of games he gave me two pawns’ advantage and I still had to battle to beat him.

  Once, as we finished a game, he said, ‘Alcohol and the type of concentration needed in chess don’t mix, Rearden.’

  I poured another slug of Oude Meester. ‘I don’t intend to take it up professionally,’ I said indifferently. ‘Here’s to you…er…what the hell is your name, anyway?’

  He kept a blank face. ‘I don’t think that matters.’

  I giggled drunkenly. ‘I think of you as Fatface.’

  He was miffed at that and inclined to take umbrage. ‘Well, I have to call you something,’ I pointed out reasonably. ‘What do you expect me to do? Whistle or shout “Hey, you!”‘

  But that crack lost me a chess partner.

  The Zürich Ausführen Handelsbank cheque came a week after I had woken up in that room, and it
was long enough for Slade and I to get on each other’s nerves. I thought of the Swiss numbered account, of Mackintosh and of the slim chances of escape. What Slade thought about I don’t know but he also became increasingly restless.

  Once he was taken out of the room under guard, and when he returned an hour later, I said, ‘What was that about?’

  ‘A business conference,’ he said enigmatically, and lapsed into silence.

  My turn came the next day. I was taken downstairs and into a pleasant room which had just one fault—the curtains were drawn. The Scarperers were too bloody efficient for my own good; even here they were taking no chances of me finding out where I was.

  Fatface came in and laid a cheque on the table. He unscrewed the cap of a fountain pen and put the pen down next to the cheque. ‘The account number,’ he said briefly.

  I sat down and picked up the pen—and hesitated. Numbered accounts are funny things, and the number is something you guard as jealously as the combination of your safe.

  I had to make this look good because he would be expecting it. I put down the pen, and said, ‘Look, Fatface; any jiggery-pokery with this account and you’ll wish you’d never been born. You take out of the account exactly the amount set out on this cheque—200,000 Swiss francs and not a centime more. If you clean out this account I’ll find you and break your back.’

  ‘Finding me might prove impossible,’ he said suavely.

  ‘Don’t bank on it, buster, don’t bank on it.’ I stared at him. ‘You’ve had me checked pretty thoroughly so you know my record. People have tried things on before, you know; and I have a reputation which you ought to know about by now. The word has got about that it’s unprofitable to cross Rearden.’ I put a lot of finality in my voice. ‘You’d get found.’

  If he was nervous, he didn’t show it, except that he swallowed before speaking. ‘We have a reputation to keep up, too. There’ll be no tampering with your account.’

  ‘All right,’ I said gruffly, and picked up the pen again. ‘Just so we understand each other.’ Carefully I wrote the number—that long sequence of digits and letters which I had memorized at Mrs Smith’s insistence—and put a stroke on the uprights of the sevens in the continental manner. ‘How long will it take?’