Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

by Desmond Bagley

  He picked up the cheque and peered at it, then flapped it in the air to dry the ink. ‘Another week.’

  I watched the cheque fluttering in his hand and suddenly felt cold. Now I was totally committed.

  II

  Three days later they took Slade away and he didn’t come back. I missed him. He had become an irritant but once he had gone I felt lonely and oddly apprehensive. I did not like at all the idea of us being separated and I had assumed that we would be going along the escape route together.

  Fatface had taken a dislike to me and had stopped his social visits so I spent long hours at the window, screening my face behind the pot plants, and watched the courtyard through rain and sunshine. There wasn’t much to see; just the unused gravel drive to the house and the trim lawn, much blackbird-pecked.

  There was one peculiar thing that happened every morning at about the same time. I would hear the clip-clip of hooves; not the heavy clip-clop of a horse, but the lighter sound as of a pony, and accompanied by a musical clinking noise. It would stop and there would be more clinks and clanks and sometimes the faint piping whistle of a man pleased with himself. Then the clip-clip would begin again and fade away into the distance. And once, at this time, I saw the shadow of a man fall athwart the entrance to the courtyard, although I did not see him.

  On an occasion when Fatface made a rare appearance I tried to talk my way out. ‘Christ, I wish I could get some exercise,’ I said. ‘What about letting me stretch my legs in the courtyard?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You can have a couple of your goons watching me,’ I said, but then gave up as I saw I was making no impression. ‘I should have stayed in the nick,’ I grumbled. ‘At least there was an exercise yard.’

  Fatface laughed. ‘And look what happened when you used it,’ he pointed out. ‘You got away. No, Rearden; if you want exercise do some physical jerks in this room.’

  I shrugged and poured another drink. Fatface looked at me contemptuously. ‘You’ll rot your liver, Rearden. You’d better do some exercise if only to sweat the booze out of your system.’

  ‘There’s damn-all to do except drink,’ I said sullenly, and took a swallow of brandy. I was glad he’d fallen for the line I was feeding him, even though it was becoming a strain to keep up. Reckoning by the dead soldiers Fatface would think I was getting through a bottle and a half a day, and when he was in the room I had to drink heavily in order to keep up the pretence. On this occasion I had drunk a quarter of a bottle in under an hour, I’m a fair drinker but my head was beginning to spin.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Getting edgy?’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘Could it be there’s nothing in that bank account? Could it be there is no bank account at all?’ He stretched out his legs and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘We know you were shopped, Rearden; and the story is that it was your partner who shopped you. I know you deny it, but it won’t do you any good at all if your partner has skipped with all the loot leaving you holding the bag. I had my doubts about you when I heard Cosgrove’s report.’

  ‘You’ll get your money,’ I said. ‘My mate will have seen me right.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ he said. ‘For your sake.’

  But Fatface was right—I was getting edgy. I snapped at Taafe irritably when he brought my meals. It made no difference; he just looked at me with those baby blue eyes set in that battered face, said nothing and went about his business leaving me to pace the room and ignore the food.

  The hours and days slipped by. Every morning I heard the clip-clip of the pony and the pleasantly fluting whistle; every day my chances became slimmer.

  At last it happened.

  Fatface came into the room. ‘Well,’ he said in an unusually jovial voice. ‘You’ve surprised me, Rearden.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Yes. I rather think you’ve been playing fast and loose. We cashed your cheque.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I said. ‘I hope there was enough in the account to cover it.’

  ‘Quite enough,’ he said. ‘You’ve been trying to lead me up the garden path, haven’t you?’

  ‘My God!’ I said. ‘I told you the money would be there.’ I laughed a little uncertainly. ‘You’re like the man in Moscow who said, “Schmuel, you told me you were going to Minsk so I would think you were going to Pinsk, and you fooled me by going to Minsk, anyway. I can’t believe a thing you say.”‘

  ‘A very interesting illustration,’ said Fatface drily. ‘Anyway, the money was there—all we needed.’

  ‘Good!’ I said. ‘When do I leave?’

  He gestured. ‘Sit down. There’s something we have to discuss.’

  I walked around him to the liquor cabinet and poured a drink. This time I really needed it—I never had been absolutely sure of Mackintosh. I splashed water into the glass and sat down at the table. ‘I’ll be bloody glad to get out of this room.’

  ‘I daresay you will,’ said Fatface. He regarded me in silence for a long time, then said at last, ‘There’s just one snag. It’s only a small detail, but it may prove to be an insuperable obstacle. Still, if you can explain it satisfactorily—and I don’t mean explain it away—I see no reason why we can’t carry on as planned.’

  ‘I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about,’ I said bluntly.

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you? I’m sure you do. Think hard.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Fatface. If you’ve got anything to say, then spit it out.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I’m not playing games.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now, I know you’re not Rearden but, for the record, I would like to know who the devil you are.’

  It was as though a giant had gripped me hard and squeezed me in the belly, but I think I kept my face straight. ‘Are you crazy?’ I said.

  ‘You know I’m not.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Well, I think you are. What is this? Are you trying to welsh now you’ve got the loot?’ I stuck my finger under his nose. ‘I wouldn’t try that, my friend; you’ll come unstuck so bloody fast.’

  ‘You’re at a disadvantage,’ said Fatface calmly. ‘You’re in no position to threaten anyone about anything. And I’d stop playing the innocent if I were you. You’re not Rearden and we know it.’

  ‘I’d like to see you prove it,’ I said tightly.

  ‘Don’t be a damned fool—we have proved it.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You surely didn’t think we pass a man on the escape line without checking him thoroughly—turning him inside out? We had you checked in South Africa and you failed the test. No police force is incorruptible—not the British police and not the South African police. If you are Rearden you must know John Vorster Square—you’ve been bounced in and out of there often enough.’

  ‘But they never could prove anything,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it’s police headquarters in Johannesburg, isn’t it?’ He waved his hand. ‘Oh, I’m sure you know the geography of Johannesburg well enough—but that doesn’t prove that you are Rearden.’

  ‘You haven’t proved otherwise yet.’

  ‘We have a friend in John Vorster Square, a brave policeman who does occasional odd jobs for us. He checked the files on Rearden and sent us a copy of Rearden’s fingerprints. You’ve had it, chum, because they certainly don’t match your dabs—and don’t think we haven’t tried over and over again, just to make sure.’ He pointed to the glass I was holding. ‘We’ve had plenty of chances to get your prints, you know.’

  I stared at him for a long time. ‘I know what a John Vorster Square dab-sheet looks like,’ I said. ‘I ought to—I’ve seen enough of them. You bring yours to me and I’ll put my dabs anywhere you like for comparison.’

  A veiled look filmed his eyes. ‘All right,’ he said abruptly. ‘We’ll do that. But I’ll tell you something—you’ll not leave this house alive until we know exactly who you are and what the hell you’re doing here.’

  ‘You know what I’m doing here,’ I said tire
dly. ‘You bloody well brought me here. You’ve got your boodle, now keep your side of the bargain.’

  He stood up. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow bright and early. That will give you plenty time to think up a good story.’ He pressed the service button. ‘It had better be a true story.’

  The door clicked unlocked and he stalked out.

  I sat and looked at the amber liquid in the glass before me. Fatface was full of good ideas. Perhaps it would be better to think up not one story but two—the true story and a plausible false one. It would be difficult; I’m a pretty good liar when the need arises, but I never was much good at sustained fiction.

  III

  Where does a thing like this begin? I suppose one might be logical and say it began at birth, but that’s the trouble with logic—it leads to silly conclusions. Again, one might say it began in Johannesburg but it was only because of who I was—and what I was—that led to me being chosen, and so the roots go further back. Anyway, Johannesburg seemed to be a convenient point to begin, so I started to think of Jo’burg, that overgrown mining camp where the streets are paved with gold.

  It was a bright sunny morning with not a cloud in the sky, something which might lighten the spirits of an Englishman but doesn’t do a damn thing for a South African because most mornings are bright and sunny and clouds in winter are as rare as hens’ teeth. I lived in Hillbrow in a flat in one of the towering blocks of concrete overlooking the city—the city which, at that moment, was covered with its usual layer of greasy smog. On and off, for twenty years, the City Fathers have been thinking of introducing the smokeless zone system, but they haven’t got round to it yet.

  A man living on his own either lives like a pig or develops certain labour-saving knacks, short-cuts like the egg in the coffee percolator. Within twenty minutes of getting up I was on my way down to the street. In the foyer I opened my personal letter-box and collected the day’s mail—three of those nasty envelopes with windows in them which I stuck into my pocket unopened—and a letter from Lucy.

  I looked at it a little blankly. I hadn’t heard from Lucy for over six years—six slow and uneventful years—and I couldn’t really believe it at first. I read the letter again. It was just a quickly scrawled note really; green ink on expensive, deckle-edged writing paper.

  Darling,

  I’m in Johannesburg for a quick visit. Could I see you again for old time’s sake? I’ll be at the Zoo Lake restaurant at midday. I’ve changed, darling, I really have—so I’ll be wearing a white gardenia. I don’t want you to put your foot in it by accosting the wrong girl.

  Please come, darling; I’m looking forward to seeing you so much.

  Ever yours,

  Lucy.

  I sniffed the sheet of paper and caught a delicate fragrance. Lucy was up to her old tricks again. I put the note into my breast pocket and went back to my flat to telephone the office. I forget what excuse I used but I really couldn’t tell the boss I wanted the day off to see an old girl friend. Then I took the car for servicing; it could be I would need it in a hurry and it had better be in good shape.

  At a quarter to twelve I was drifting along the road towards the Zoo Lake. The expanses of winter-yellowed grass were dotted with black nannies looking after their young charges and, in the distance, the lake twinkled under the hot sun. I put the car in the restaurant car park and wandered slowly down to the water’s edge where people were feeding the birds.

  There was nobody around who looked like Lucy. At least no one was wearing a gardenia. I looked across the lake at the people boating inexpertly, then turned to go back to the restaurant where, just outside, a sand-coloured man sat on a bench fanning himself with his hat. He wore a white gardenia.

  I walked over and sat beside him. ‘Lucy?’

  He turned and looked at me with curiously naked eyes. ‘Lucy!’ he said venomously. ‘Ever since that Russian operation in Switzerland during the war the security clots have gone nuts on the name.’ He put on his hat. ‘I know who you are—I’m Mackintosh.’

  ‘Glad to know you,’ I said formally.

  He cast a speculative eye at the lake. ‘If I happened to be a crackerjack secret service man I’d suggest that we hire a boat and row into the middle of that bit of water so we could talk privately. But that’s nonsense, of course. What I suggest is that we have an early lunch here. We’ll be just as private, providing we don’t shout, we’ll be a bloody sight more comfortable, and I won’t run the risk of making a damned fool of myself in a boat.’

  ‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘I didn’t have much breakfast.’

  He arose and took the gardenia from his lapel to drop it into a convenient waste basket. ‘Why people have this fetish for the sexual organs of vegetables is beyond me,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  We found a table in a corner in the outside court where a vine-covered trellis protected us from the heat of the sun. Mackintosh looked around and said appreciatively. ‘This is a nice place. You South Africans know how to live well.’

  I said, ‘If you know who I am then you know I’m not a South African.’

  Of course,’ he said, and took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Let me see—ah, yes; Owen Edward Stannard, born in Hong Kong in 1934, educated in Australia.’ He reeled off a string of schools. ‘At university specialized in the study of Asiatic languages. Was recruited by a department that it is better not to mention while still at university. Worked in the field in Cambodia, Vietnam, Malaysia and Indonesia under a variety of covers. Was captured in Indonesia during the upheaval which disposed of Sukarno and cover badly blown.’

  He looked up. ‘I understand you had a nasty time there.’

  I smiled. ‘There are no scars.’ That was true—no scars that were visible.

  ‘Umph!’ he said, and returned to his notebook. ‘It was considered that your usefulness was at an end in the Far East so you were pulled out and sent to South Africa as a sleeper. That was seven years ago.’ He snapped the notebook closed and put it back into his pocket. ‘That would be while South Africa was still in the Commonwealth.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘Our masters are not very trusting folk, are they? Anyway, you’re here as a sleeper; you say nothing and do nothing until you’re called upon—is that right?’ He wagged a finger. ‘Forgive the recapitulation but I’m from a different department. All this secret service stuff strikes me as being a bit comic opera, and I want to see if I’ve got it right.’

  ‘You’ve got it right,’ I assured him.

  Serious conversation stopped then because a waiter came to take our order. I ordered crayfish cardinal because it wasn’t often that someone stood me a lunch, while Mackintosh had something with a salad. We shared a bottle of wine.

  When the dishes were on the table and it was safe to talk again Mackintosh said, ‘Now I want to get this absolutely straight. Are you known to the police here—or to the security forces?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ I said. ‘I think my cover is safe.’

  ‘So you’ve never had a prison sentence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about civil cases?’

  I considered. ‘Just the usual things. I’ve had a couple of parking tickets. And a couple of years ago I had a legal barney with a man who owed me money; it came to a court case.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘He did, damn it!’ I said feelingly.

  Mackintosh smiled. ‘I’ve been reading your record so I know most of these things. I just wanted to see your reactions. So what it comes to is that you have a clean record here as far as the local coppers are concerned.’

  I nodded. ‘That sums it up.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because you are going to be working with the South African police and it would never do if they knew you to be a British plant. I couldn’t see them cooperating in those circumstances.’ He nibbled on a lettuce leaf. ‘Have you ever been to England?’

  ‘Never,’ I said, and hesitated, ‘You ought to know that I’ve buil
t up my cover with a slightly anti-British bias. It’s a quite common thing here for even English-speaking people to be anti-British—especially since Rhodesia blew up. In the circumstances I thought it inadvisable to take a holiday in England.’

  ‘I think we can forget your cover for a moment,’ said Mackintosh. ‘I’m authorized to pull you out if I find it necessary. The job I’m considering you for will be in England.’

  It was very strange. All my adult life had been spent in the service of Britain and I’d never even seen the place. ‘I’d like that,’ I said.

  ‘You might not like it when you hear what the job is,’ said Mackintosh grimly. He sampled the wine. ‘Very nice,’ he said appreciatively, ‘if a touch acid.’ He put down the glass. ‘What do you know about the British prison system?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’ll let you have a copy of the Mountbatten Report,’ he said. ‘You’ll find it fascinating reading. But I’ll give you the gist of it now. Lord Mountbatten found that the British prisons are as full of holes as a Swiss cheese. Do you know how many escapes there are each year?’

  ‘No. There was something about it in the papers a couple of years ago, but I didn’t read it up closely.’

  ‘More than five hundred. If it’s any less than that they think they’ve had a good year. Of course, most of the escapees are picked up quite soon, but a small percentage get clean away—and that small percentage is rising. It’s a troublesome situation.’

  ‘I can imagine it would be,’ I said. I couldn’t see his point; there was nothing in this to concern me.

  Mackintosh wasn’t a man to miss a nuance in a tone of voice. He looked me in the eye and said quietly, ‘I don’t give a damn how many murderers or rapists, homicidal maniacs or ordinary small-time thieves get out of gaol. That’s the worry of the prison officers and the police. My field is state security and, as far as I’m concerned, the situation is getting out of hand. The Prime Minister thinks likewise and he’s told me to do something about it.’