The Blind Run (19 page)

‘How much longer?’ demanded Berenkov, wanting the impatience to show.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sampson. ‘I’ve got everything – perhaps too much – but I can’t progress beyond it: the one thing I don’t have is the key they are using in London.’

‘We do,’ insisted Berenkov. ‘Our mathematicians worked out the multiples and the progressions.’

Sampson had come prepared for the dispute, because it hadn’t been the first. He threw across four of the raw messages and the transcriptions and said, ‘OK, what’s missing?’

Berenkov sighed, prepared also. ‘The complete identity line,’ he admitted.

‘Right!’ said Sampson, triumphantly. ‘We can read the message but not anything beyond the recipient, Sir Alistair Wilson. Why haven’t your cryptologists been able to get past the addressee?’

‘It’s a different code,’ said Berenkov, making a further concession.

‘Which you’re expecting me to crack without a computer: or even mathematical training!’

‘You worked there!’ came back Berenkov. ‘People make codes, not the computers that merely put them into practice. What code would Wilson have created, for absolutely secure and personal messages, that only he – and maybe a handful of other people – were handling?’

Sampson smiled, a moment of sudden and hopeful understanding. ‘It would smell,’ he said.

Berenkov looked at the other man in blank incomprehension.

‘And they’re a favourite in Britain,’ added Sampson.

It was for Charlie Muffin a suspended time, existence within some sort of capsule. Almost literally that because apart from the interrogation periods with Natalia it was spent incarcerated in the odorous apartment, a prison like the other prison he had known. Two nights after Sampson’s departure he had tried to leave, to be immediately confronted outside the main entrance by a plain-clothes guard who told him – in English, which meant the man was specifically assigned – that he wasn’t allowed out of the building. With no other access to anyone in authority, Charlie complained to Natalia, who appeared unimpressed – even uninterested – in his protests. So he taught them all a lesson – and to prove that he could still do it – slipping out through the rear entrance and managing to avoid the obvious guard posted there. He stayed out for over two hours, just aimlessly wandering the streets – belatedly aware that he didn’t possess any roubles to do anything else – before presenting himself at the front of the building through which he wasn’t supposed to pass and in such a way that the concierge as well as the guard saw him, so that both had to report upon one another. He knew both had, from the next meeting with Natalia. She attempted, in her usual method of interrogation, to approach it obliquely but, completely accustomed to her now, Charlie avoided it until finally she had to ask outright and he grinned at her, like he had on the occasion presenting the listening devices and said, ‘I was out spying!’

She sighed, although not unkindly. ‘Do you know something?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to make a recommendation about you,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to assess all our conversations and all our debriefings and I’ve actually got to make a recommendation about what use you could be, if you stayed here.’

Charlie was glad of her impatience because he was impatient also. Although it was only conjecture he was increasingly convinced he had been correct about the reason for Sampson’s abrupt removal. Which had been three and a half weeks ago. Which – taking into account the period it had taken them to reach Moscow – meant one of his six months had already gone and he’d achieved absolutely fuck all except to soften the attitude – and he was sure he’d softened the attitude – of a very attractive girl with big tits. Which wasn’t the point of his being there. ‘I haven’t got any money,’ he said, wanting to increase her annoyance.

Natalia frowned, accustomed by now to his changes. ‘So what?’ she said.

‘So I can’t invite you out to dinner. Why don’t you ask me?’ It worked better than he expected.

Allowing her irritation to show – which she rarely did, despite his previous provoking – she said, ‘Why don’t I recommend your being sent back to England, as someone no use to us?’

‘Is that what happened to Sampson?’ demanded Charlie.

Her face became fixed, almost a pained expression. ‘What happened to Sampson isn’t of any concern to you.’

‘It would be, if he’d gone back,’ said Charlie, refusing to give up. ‘I’d like to know the bastard has been sent back.’

‘He hasn’t been,’ she said, exasperated. ‘There was a purpose for him.’

‘More than me?’ demanded Charlie, at once, not wanting to lose the momentum.

‘Yes,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘Far more than you.’

‘Great mistake,’ said Charlie.

‘Prove it!’ she came back, just as determined.

‘Let me,’ he said, matching her.

That night, in the lonely, smell-steeped apartment in which nothing ever happened the telephone rang. So unusual was it that Charlie stared at the instrument, surprised, only snatching it off the cradle when he realised the caller might ring off.

‘Charlie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alexei,’ said the voice. ‘Alexei Berenkov.’

Thank Christ, thought Charlie.

Chapter Eighteen

Having decided to meet there was a difficulty with the venue. Berenkov knew it would be inappropriate – forbidden, in fact – for Charlie to come to Dzerzhinsky Square and Charlie – without a proper reason for the feeling, because it was not of his choice or making – was reluctant for the Russian to come to him among the cooking smells. The decision came from Berenkov and Charlie said he would like very much to go to the Russian’s home and meet his family. Until now – apart from the one rebellious walkabout – Charlie’s existence had been within the apartment, the telephone-arranged pick-up and Natalia Fedova’s office alongside the peripheral road and as he left that night, emerging from the apartment block with no obvious guard in place, Charlie had the impression of escaping again. The driver was as taciturn as they all appeared to be but at least he accorded Charlie the respect of holding open the door of the car. It was a large vehicle, a Zil, opulent by Soviet standards, an official car. The driver used the government-reserved centre lane, like the man who took him out for the debriefings but Berenkov’s Zil seemed to belong whereas the debriefing transport always appeared to Charlie to be an intrusive interloper. The route was different, too, back towards the centre of the city. Even the street lighting was brighter and he actually saw the illumination around the Kremlin and Red Square. He made the guess and was proven right when they moved into the Kutuzovsky Prospekt complex. The government enclave, Charlie knew. Which meant Berenkov had returned in triumph. And was still held in active – and more important – working respect. Charlie tried to curb the excitement. Even before they met he had confirmation of Berenkov being in Dzerzhinsky Square: Wilson hadn’t been sure, that night in the governor’s office.
Maybe you’d even get to him.
And he had. Things were suddenly looking good: better than he’d dare hope they would, in fact. Still too early to start counting chickens – the eggs weren’t even laid yet, let alone hatched – but at least he was being given a look inside the henhouse.

There were the predictable security checks and as they moved forward Charlie stared up at the carefully segregated blocks, wondering what Politburo member was behind what lighted window. He made another sure guess and was right again; there wasn’t any odour of cabbage.

Berenkov was in the lobby of his section, to take Charlie past the final security. For a few moments each man stood on opposing sides of the foyer, gazing at each other in silent recollection. Berenkov, always the more exuberant of the two, broke the mood, striding across with both arms outstretched and booming, ‘Charlie! Charlie! … it’s good to see you!’

Charlie accepted the embrace, conscious of the attention of the driver and inner guards: Berenkov smelled as Charlie remembered from their initial, fencing encounters – before he’d made a case and was able to arrest the Russian – of expensive cologne and expensive cigars. ‘And you, Alexei,’ he said, sincerely. ‘It’s good to see you.’

From a cubicle one of the security men said something Charlie didn’t catch but indicating a book, a clear reference to some noted entry formality, but Berenkov waved his hand dismissively, typically refusing to conform, leading Charlie instead towards the elevators. ‘Clerks!’ he said. ‘The world is full of clerks.’

They stood apart in the elevator, each surveying the other again. Berenkov shook his head and said, ‘You don’t look good, Charlie. I’ve seen you look better.’

‘I’ve been better,’ confessed Charlie. ‘You look fine.’ The Russian did: much fatter than Charlie remembered, even from before the arrest, actually appearing physically bigger than Charlie’s memory. Florid-faced, too, he saw, remembering Sampson’s description.
High liver, by the look of him.
Berenkov certainly looked like a high liver. But then, he always had been.

‘Things are pretty good,’ said the Russian, as the lift stopped.

Eighth floor, Charlie noted. He wondered if degree of importance were indicated by the level of the apartment. If they were it would make Berenkov very important.

Valentina and Georgi stood waiting, nervous and uncertain in the main room: they were overawed as much – maybe more – by Berenkov’s physical presence as by encountering someone from the West, Charlie guessed. With no reason for having made any prejudgment, Charlie was surprised at how neat and diminutive Valentina was; he’d expected Berenkov to have a wife matching him in size, battleship to battleship. Georgi was about the same height as his father but without the weight and much darker, too, darker skinned and darker haired. The greetings were shyly hesitant, the boy and his mother deferring to Berenkov’s boisterous lead. Charlie wished he’d had the facility and money to bring Valentina a small gift. Commerce had been easier in the nick than it was here, he thought, in passing. Berenkov gushed whisky into glasses and apologised for its inferior quality and Charlie drank it gratefully and said it was wonderful, which he thought it was. Valentina laid out pick-ups, tiny dishes of smoked fish and nuts and olives and Georgi sat alertly attentive. Forcing himself to make the contribution, the boy said, ‘How long have you been in Moscow?’

‘Not long: only three or four weeks,’ said Charlie. Berenkov wouldn’t have told either of them, he supposed; not everything anyway.

‘How long do you expect to stay?’

It didn’t look as if he’d told the boy anything. ‘A long time,’ said Charlie, easily. He felt no difficulty. It was business; their type of business at which they were both expert. Berenkov would understand, later.

‘My father was a long time in the West.’

Charlie smiled sideways at Berenkov, who was sitting contentedly listening to the boy practise his English in the conversation. ‘I know he was,’ said Charlie. ‘He was very successful there.’

‘You were a close friend of my father’s?’

Charlie smiled again, aware of Berenkov’s attention upon him now. ‘Your father and I had the same sort of job but we were competitors,’ said Charlie. ‘There was a lot of mutual respect between us.’

Berenkov laughed, approvingly, and echoed, ‘A great deal of mutual respect.’

Books lined two walls of the Moscow apartment, as they had in the Eaton Square flat which Berenkov had occupied in London. The identification for the person he had to contact was Chekhov: and Berenkov had used Chekhov, for his London codes. The spy was someone in headquarters, Wilson had said: Berenkov was at headquarters. As likely as it seemed, Charlie knew he could make no move whatsoever. He could be mistaken. And Berenkov was too astute to miss an approach.

‘I’m very glad, to be able to thank you,’ said Valentina: she had a predictably small voice. ‘I’ve always felt that you made it possible for Alexei to come back home.’

‘I suppose I did,’ said Charlie. She clearly knew more than the boy.

‘Georgi may qualify to become an exchange student,’ said Berenkov, the pride obvious.

‘England?’ queried Charlie, curiously.

‘Possibly,’ said the boy. ‘Or America.’

‘The experience will be good for him,’ insisted Berenkov.

Could it be this easy! Charlie thought. He was aware of the looks that went between Berenkov and his wife. To Georgi, he said, ‘Do you want to go?’

‘I want to do what my father considers best,’ replied the boy, dutifully.

Berenkov insisted upon refilling their glasses twice before they ate. The trouble to which Valentina had gone with the meal was obvious and Charlie complimented her on the borsch and then the veal – aware the family had extensive concessionary facilities to obtain everything on the table, another indication of Berenkov’s importance – and smiled over his wineglass at the Russian. ‘French?’ he guessed.

‘A little indulgence I allow myself,’ confirmed Berenkov. ‘I always regretted not being able to teach you about wine, Charlie …’ Berenkov paused, appearing to consider the statement. He added, ‘It was, I guess, the only thing that I knew better than you.’

‘Maybe there’ll be time now,’ said Charlie.

‘Maybe,’ agreed Berenkov.

After the meal Georgi excused himself to study in his room and Valentina made much of clearing the table, to leave them alone. Berenkov offered brandy – French again – which Charlie accepted, and an imported Havana cigar, which he didn’t. Berenkov savoured the ritual of wetting the leaf and clipping the end, lighting it in a billow of bluish smoke and said, ‘The greatest advantage of having Cuba as an obedient satellite.’

‘You’ve a nice family, Alexei,’ coaxed Charlie. ‘It must be good to be home?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Berenkov, reflectively. ‘It’s good.’ He smiled across at the other man. ‘I never expected to be entertaining you here in Moscow, Charlie.’

‘I didn’t expect to be entertained.’ Why didn’t Berenkov come out with Chekhov’s innocent remark about the weather!

‘I never had the chance to thank you, either,’ said Berenkov. He raised his brandy bowl. ‘I’ve made the toast before, in your absence, but I’ll make it again, now you’re here. Thanks, for making the repatriation possible.’