The Blind Run (24 page)

‘My divisions,’ acknowledged Berenkov, openly.

Kalenin realised it reduced the possible sources from twelve to just seven men. Which was still seven too many but a small improvement. ‘Yes,’ he said, shortly.

‘I would understand, if you chose to suspend me until the enquiries are complete,’ said Berenkov, formally.

Kalenin shook his head, in immediate refusal. ‘I need your help, not your absence.’

‘Why don’t we plant something, to get him to reveal himself that way?’

‘I’ve done that already,’ disclosed Kalenin. ‘It didn’t work.’

‘Including me?’ asked Berenkov.

‘Including you,’ said the chairman.

Berenkov wondered what the material had been. He said, ‘What then?’

‘Greatly increased surveillance,’ said Kalenin. ‘Electronic, photographic … everything.’

‘What about suspension, from sensitive material, until it’s resolved. With only seven people, it shouldn’t take long.’

‘It would, if we took away the very reason for contact.’

‘That’s an appalling risk, to allow everything to continue: not to impose some sort of filter.’

‘I want to find him, whoever he is. Not drive him underground.’

‘Still an appalling risk.’

‘But one I’ve got to take. That I’ve no alternative but to take.’

‘Sampson is proving to be brilliant,’ praised Berenkov.

Kalenin’s surveillance included monitoring beyond what was normal and he knew from film and microphones everything that passed between his friend and the Englishman. He nodded and said, ‘He seems to be the only piece of good fortune that we’ve had, for a long time.’

‘He realises the importance of this – the opportunity it’s created for him – and he’s determined to prove himself. It’s become a personal thing,’ said Berenkov, who had expected and knew Kalenin’s study of the meetings.

‘It’s a personal thing for me, as well,’ said Kalenin, increasingly morose.

That was proved quicker than the KGB chairman expected. Two days later he was summoned before an unscheduled but plenary session of the Politburo convened specifically to consider the leak. Kalenin went fully aware that although Wainwright’s death had occurred outside Soviet jurisdiction he was being blamed for a political mistake, in addition to the increasing – and valid – criticism of appearing powerless to find and stop the activities of a traitor. The Politburo had been provided with a complete report in advance of his personal attendance but they insisted upon Kalenin making a personal presentation – a humiliation further to indicate criticism, he recognised – and then underwent a full hour of questioning, unhappily aware throughout that he had hardly any of the answers.

‘This is a situation that has to be resolved,’ insisted the Politburo chairman, Anatoli Matushin.

‘I understand that,’ said Kalenin, self-angered at his apparent impotence.

‘The progress so far is unimpressive.’

‘For which I personally apologise, Comrade chairman.’

‘I am not interested in your apologies,’ said Matushin. ‘I am interested in a criminal – a traitor – being brought to justice and the leaking to the West of material essential to our very security being halted. I want results, Comrade General. I want results and I want them quickly. And if you prove unable to achieve them, then the task must be given to someone else.’

Charlie decided that things were looking good again. After the hiatus between the first encounter with Berenkov they moved fast, too. There were two meetings with Berenkov, official this time, out at the familiar American-style building by the ring road, where Berenkov explained the job was to be to brief agents immediately prior to their infiltration into the West and explained the employment would give Charlie some legitimacy, with a 3,000 rouble a month salary and concessionary facilities and possibly an apartment away from the transitional one he currently occupied. Charlie asked the questions he knew he would have been expected to ask and considered the implications as he would have been expected to consider them, all the while thinking instead of the bonus it gave him. To succeed – and if contact were made, Charlie was determined to succeed – in the function which had brought him to Moscow would mean complete rehabilitation, as he had already decided: to be able to return to the West knowing the identities of people in whom the KGB had invested years of training and expertise and infiltrated into Europe and North America would be an even greater coup, making it possible for him to cut off Soviet spying efforts for years. Christ, weren’t things looking good!

Apart from the encounters with Berenkov, there were meetings with two separate examination panels, which Charlie instantly recognised as being assessments of his ability. Charlie welcomed the challenge, properly confident, that confidence growing when he realised – from their questions – how ignorant the supposed expert body were about the reality of life outside Russia. The illegals being sent abroad from the Soviet Union needed further training and advice, if they were setting out with the preconceived biases and downright misunderstandings that some of the questioners showed, in their examination of him. Charlie pointed up the ignorance every time, careless of offending anyone because he didn’t intend the career to be long enough for the politics of friends and enemies to be important and because every time he did so it proved his ability for the very function for which they were deciding his aptitude.

It was Berenkov who confirmed the appointment and not at the official building but at Kutuzovsky Prospekt again. This time, with money available, Charlie took flowers and Valentina wasn’t as shy as she had been on the first occasion, staying with them longer at the table and afterwards and joining more in the conversation. Georgi was absent, cramming the final studies at the academy, before his exchange examinations and apart from saying he hoped Georgi was successful Charlie didn’t talk much about the boy to either of them, conscious of the feeling between them at the prospect of Georgi going overseas.

Although she spent more time with them there was still opportunity for Charlie and Berenkov to talk business. Charlie was as critical to Berenkov about the selection committees as he had been to their faces and the Russian shook his head in weary acceptance and agreed the shortcomings and said that was precisely why he’d thought of Charlie performing the function. Having presented himself at GUM – which meant Berenkov would have recognised his purpose for being there if indeed it was Berenkov – Charlie actually made the pretence of examining the overflowing bookshelves and selecting something of Chekhov’s but Berenkov gave no reaction, not even recalling his use of the books in Britain. Charlie wondered about talking of the accusation in
Pravda
against the British first secretary and decided against it, unwilling to risk too much.

There are espionage schools throughout the Soviet Union but the concentration is around Moscow. The installations that equip Russian agents for overseas work are administered by the First Chief Directorate, of which a sub-section – directorate S – is responsible for foreign infiltration.

Balashikha is such an installation, actually off the same circumferal highway that Charlie now knew so well, about fifteen miles east of Moscow just off Gofkovskoy Shosse. It is an absolutely restricted, secluded place, behind sensored fences and protected by uniformed guards and dogs. Charlie went the first day under escort, the necessary accreditation and passes actually provided to him during the ride out from the city. The security checks were more stringent than he could remember from England, four separate and intensive checks before he reached the main building, where there was a further examination.

There was a man waiting for him just beyond the reception area and Charlie recognised him as someone who had sat on both the selection panels.

‘My name is Krysin,’ introduced the man. ‘Andrei Vladimirovich Krysin. I am the director here.’

And someone whose ignorance of true conditions in the West he had on at least three occasions shown to be facile, remembered Charlie. Fuck it, he thought. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you,’ he said.

‘We’re looking forward to your being here,’ said Krysin, heavily. ‘From our apparent ignorance you seemed delighted to expose during what was supposed to be your suitability selection, it would seem we’re greatly in need of your expertise.’

Why was it, wondered Charlie, that he never got on with anyone in authority? He said, ‘I hope I don’t disappoint you.’

‘I hope so too,’ said Krysin, making the threat obvious. ‘I hope so very much indeed.’

Kiss my ass, thought Charlie.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Natalia Fedova was the third person to enter the room. Her arrival completely confused Charlie but he was sure there was no outward indication. He remained as he was, lounged over the lectern in the front of the small lecture hall, glad there were more behind, which meant he didn’t have to begin immediately, having time to think instead. What the hell was she doing there! Berenkov wouldn’t have made contact and he wouldn’t have got past the selection interviews or – most indicative of all – been allowed in a place with the security of Balashikha if they didn’t trust him. So it couldn’t be a test. And if it were a test then it wouldn’t be done like this, with her taking her place sedately in one of the seats confronting him: it would be with microphones and cameras, entrapment devices trying to catch him in an unguarded moment. Maybe it was a move of Krysin’s. Charlie recognised he’d made the academy director look a fool in front of the other selectors so maybe the man was invoking whatever authority he possessed to get Natalia to run another check and maybe make an adverse report, reducing the impression that he appeared to have made with the other examiners.

Charlie was waiting when she finally looked up. He smiled at her. She made no response, instead looking away with the appearance of discomfort. Charlie accepted that his conclusion might be wrong, but it was the best he could manage. OK, Natalia Nikandrova Fedova he thought, if you want to see a performance then you’ll see a performance. As the one thought came, so did another. Always honest with himself, Charlie realised that he’d enjoy showing off to her.

There were five, in addition to Natalia, one other woman and four men. Although the room was small, it still left a lot of space. They arranged themselves in seats in varying rows: Natalia was third from the front. Charlie waited until they had settled themselves, watching while the other woman and two of the men took out notepads and arranged pencils alongside.

‘
Dobraya utra
,’ said Charlie.

‘
Dobraya utra
,’ every one of them replied and Charlie slapped the desk and said, ‘You’ve all just been arrested.’

The group assembled in front of him looked among themselves uncertainly and Charlie said, ‘What you’ve just done is inconceivable! You are supposed to have qualified from every training course, to be ready to be infiltrated anywhere in the West. You’re not Russian any more. You don’t think Russian, speak Russian, you’re not Russian.’

It had been gimmicky – the oldest gimmick in the book – but it had worked. He had their attention. The fact that they had fallen for the oldest entrapment gimmick didn’t say much for their training.

‘You,’ said Charlie, pointing to a fair-haired man nearest to him, in the front row. ‘What is your name?’

‘Belik,’ replied the young man, ‘Gennadi Belik.’

‘What have Zachary Taylor, James Buchanan and Rutherford Hayes got in common?’

The young man smiled, relieved. ‘They were all presidents of the United States of America.’

Charlie sighed. ‘Shall I tell you who knows that?’ he said. ‘American historians, academics, know that. A few hundred college students. And foreign agents force-fed facts, in the stupid belief that it gives them cover …’ If Krysin heard this – and Charlie didn’t have any doubt that he would – he’d be even more unhappy. He said to the man, ‘All right, what should you have said?’

Belik coloured, the uncertainty obvious. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, responding to Charlie’s question.

‘Exactly!’ accepted Charlie. ‘You didn’t know. Don’t ever go beyond what is absolutely essential to maintain whatever legends you’re living. Someone who can recite the names of three obscure presidents of the United States is drawing attention to himself. The essential requirement if you are going to survive – and this is what we’re literally talking about, survival – then you must never, under any circumstances, draw attention to yourselves. You become people of whom nobody is aware. You see but are not seen …’ He pointed to the other women. ‘What is your name?’

‘Olga Suvorov,’ replied the woman. She was nondescript and mousy haired: a good choice, thought Charlie.

He said, ‘Before entering the room, you assembled, outside?’

She nodded.

‘You see but are not seen,’ repeated Charlie. ‘Stay looking directly at me, like you are at the moment. Stay looking directly at me and describe how everyone else is dressed, in the room.’

Olga’s eyes flicked sideways and Charlie said, ‘Look at me!’

Predictably, Olga began with Natalia. ‘Grey dress,’ she began, awkwardly. ‘Belted. Shoes … I think the shoes were black. The men … suits, all but two. I think three were grey … no, two were …’

‘Stop,’ said Charlie. Holding the woman’s eyes he said, ‘You have an oatmeal dress, brown shoes and a ladder in the left leg of your stockings. It’s not visible now, because of the way you are sitting, but you have a necklace with a black stone pendant, and your ear-rings don’t match. They’re dark blue. The other woman in the class is wearing a grey dress. The shoes aren’t black, they’re dark grey and if you remembered that the dress was belted you should have remembered also that the front buttons are heavy and black. She has a gold chain at her throat, not ear-rings, although her ears are pierced. She isn’t wearing stockings. The man in the front seat is wearing a green sports jacket and grey trousers, which haven’t been pressed. He’s a smoker, because the fingers of his left hand are nicotine stained. That’s not the only indication of his being a heavy smoker. Sometimes he does it surreptitiously, holding the cigarette cupped in the palm of his hand. The hand is stained, too …’ Instinctively Belik moved to cover his hand. Charlie went on … ‘He has a grey shirt and a grey knitted tie. The left cuff of the shirt is frayed. Sometime in the past his fountain-pen leaked: there’s a large stain, which was visible when he took out some pencils to take notes, at the beginning of this session. The two men in the back row are wearing suits. One is plain grey, the other with a predominant blue check over grey. Both the shirts are white: one tie is red, the other a pattern, mostly blue. The grey suit is old: there is a repair mark on the left knee. The check isn’t new, either. The seat is worn and shiny. Both have black shoes. The man in the grey suit has the nervous habit of biting his nails, left hand more than the right …’ The accused man moved his hands, like Belik had earlier. ‘The man in the patterned suit also has a nervous mannerism, moving the ring on his left hand. The fourth man in this class is wearing a brown sports jacket with lighter brown trousers, with brogue shoes. The shoes are in need of repair, both badly down at heel. The tie is red and trying to conform to some earlier instruction, the knot is a wide one, no doubt a style you’ve been taught is popular in the West, particularly in America. The man in the brown jacket is impatient with this lesson, considering it a waste of time: five times already he’s checked the time. He’s appeared to make notes but from the movement of the pencil, they haven’t been notes. They’ve been doodles, a way to pass the time …’