The Blind Run (30 page)

‘Yes,’ said Natalia. ‘I understand about the timing.’

They remained unspeaking on the embankment seat. The light was going now and the shadow from the vast Comecon building stretched like a barrier across the Moskva River, a hurdle for the still busy boats to cross. Her hand was still in his and Charlie didn’t want to let it go.

‘I love you, Natalia,’ said Charlie.

‘I love you, too, my darling,’ said Natalia. She stopped and then she said, ‘And I know I’m going to regret what I’ve done – or what I haven’t done – for the rest of my life.’

Charlie turned to her, hurriedly, about to speak but she squeezed her fingers with his and said, ‘No! Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.’

‘Why can’t you come?’ he said, ignoring her plea.

‘Why can’t you stay?’ she said, defeating him. ‘My loyalty isn’t the only barrier. There’s yours. I’ve already given more than you have. Why can’t you give?’

‘You know I can’t.’

‘Then you know I can’t.’

The shadows on the river got deeper, obscuring the smaller boats altogether. They remained side by side, their hands linked, neither wanting to be the first actually to break the final, inevitable contact.

‘Timing is important,’ repeated Charlie.

‘Then you should go.’

‘Yes.’

‘I wish we could make love,’ Natalia blurted, suddenly. ‘Not like last time. Not like a lot of times recently. Like it was before, when we were like this.’

‘It doesn’t have to be tonight,’ said Charlie.

‘Yes it does,’ she said immediately. ‘Trying to hold on to what we’ve got now, this moment, won’t work …’ She gestured out towards the river, where the evening mist was already forming, in competition to the insect swarms. ‘It’s like that,’ she said. ‘Like the evening fog.’

Charlie made the moment of parting, knowing he had to. He withdrew his hand, positively, not looking at her and said, ‘It’s lucky, that we chose to walk along the river.’

‘Yes,’ said Natalia, consciously trying to put the briskness into her voice. ‘Morisa Toreza is quite near.’

Charlie stood, forcing himself like she was doing. ‘Remember the time,’ he said. ‘They’ll know almost immediately. Don’t wait.’

For a moment they remained looking at each other, Natalia still on the bench, Charlie standing but apart from her, not trusting himself to be too close.

‘I don’t want you to kiss me,’ she said.

‘No.’

‘Just don’t say anything. Do anything.’

Charlie stayed where he was, for a few more moments, knowing that he would never see her again and wanting to etch everything into his mind and then he turned and found the main highway and walked towards the British embassy on the Morisa Toreza. He walked shoulder-slumped, for once in his life careless of anything around him, reluctant actually to get to the security of the British legation but committed now because Natalia’s safety depended upon him reaching it at a certain time. He knew for a long way she would be able to see him – and he her – but he never turned back. By the time he reached the embassy the professionalism had taken over but much of it automatic, right up until the actual moment of entry, which had to be right.

There were still cars and people about, which he wanted and in passing Charlie wondered how much of the passing traffic was genuine and how much official. He crossed carefully, long before the embassy entrance, approaching on the same side but appearing to take no interest in the approaching building. There were uniformed Soviet personnel near the entrance which Charlie hadn’t expected and couldn’t remember from his previous time in Moscow. He strode on, confidently, with no break in his stride, the turn into the compound abrupt yet still confident, a man accustomed to the route and unprepared for any challenge.

None came.

Charlie hurried into the vestibule, anxious to gain official British territory. There was the reception desk and security personnel, but British this time. The receptionist was a man. He looked up, blank-faced, towards Charlie and said, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I want to go home.’

Pending the investigation, Alexei Berenkov was held in Lefortovo prison, the same jail in which, months earlier, Cecil Wainwright had been broken into admitting his cowardice. It was not a usual concession and Berenkov guessed at Kalenin’s intervention and was grateful: on the third week he was permitted a visit from Valentina. The small woman appeared even smaller in the echoing surroundings of the prison, cowed by everything around her. She perched, fittingly bird-like, on her chair and blinked through the grill at her burly husband behind it and Berenkov ached for her fear.

‘They say I can only stay for a few moments; that I’m lucky to be here at all.’

‘Yes,’ said Berenkov. He wanted so much to be able to reach out to touch her, to caress away her terror. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘You’re in jail!’ she said.

‘I’ve been in jail before,’ he said. ‘It’s easier, this time.’

‘I don’t understand what’s going on, Alexei,’ pleaded the woman. ‘I don’t understand why you’ve been arrested and put in jail and I don’t understand why Georgi’s examination has been rescinded and his exchange facilities withdrawn.’

‘When did that happen?’ asked Berenkov, sadly.

‘Last week,’ said Valentina. ‘There was no explanation. Just a letter from the principal. He’s asked for an interview but it’s being refused.’

‘It will be,’ said Berenkov, sadly.

‘Tell me something, Alexei,’ insisted his wife. ‘Tell me something honestly. Have you done anything wrong?’

‘No,’ said Berenkov, at once.

‘Then what’s happened?’ shouted the woman, in unusual anger.

‘I don’t know,’ said Berenkov.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The reaction was very quick and although Charlie was distracted – Natalia and his worry about her constantly intruding into his mind – he was impressed. There was only one telephone call from the vestibule and within minutes he was taken to a man who identified himself as Hollis and another named Greening. Both young, urgent and anxious, Charlie recognised; he wondered, in passing, if he’d been like that at the beginning. They took him to a part of the embassy Charlie recognised from his earlier, official visit as the intelligence Residency but he was kept in an outer office while Hollis kept appearing and disappearing, for what Charlie presumed was contact with London. The reaction there was quick, too, little more than an hour before Hollis re-emerged finally and said, ‘We’re getting out right now: before there’s time for any official protest or action. We’re lucky with British Airways.’

They arrived at Sheremetyevo with an hour before the scheduled departure, Charlie tight between the two escorts, the hurriedly issued diplomatic passport clutched in his hand. It got them past the initial customary checks and the local British Airways manager seemed to expect them. An advance call from the embassy, Charlie supposed. The airport official took them out ahead of normal embarkation to a specially curtained part of the first class section.

The Russians made their snatch-back attempt thirty minutes before take-off, when the other passengers were boarding, a sudden, pushing arrival of men whom Hollis and Greening confronted at the door. Charlie, already strapped into his seat, heard most of the argument, the demands for his handing over and the shouted refusal from Hollis to surrender a British national. The Russians, whom Charlie couldn’t properly see because of the way they were blocked at the entrance, insisted Charlie was wanted for a crime and Hollis demanded a formal copy of the charge and when that couldn’t be produced said that a warrant was in existence in England against Charlie on a charge of murder and produced what appeared to be a paper setting out the formal indictment. The dispute raged while the embarking passengers milled on behind and the pilot and the first officer apprehensively joined in, uncertain completely what was happening.

Hollis was very good, thought Charlie. The man insisted he had jurisdiction – which technically he did – and that the aircraft was British territory, which Charlie thought was a more debatable claim. It appeared to impress the captain, who announced after consultation with the escorting airport manager that unless an official documented reason was produced which superceded the British official documentation he intended to depart. The Russians made the mistake of trying to rush the aircraft. They were easily blocked in the narrow entrance and the desperation convinced the captain that the Soviets were bluffing. He ordered the rear doors to be closed against any secondary assault and then joined in the physical rebuff of the still jostling Russians, to enable the door into the first class section to be secured.

There was further argument that Charlie was aware of through the open door, refusal of the control tower to grant leaving permission, and finally the captain moved the aircraft away from the terminal apparently without ground assistance.

‘Don’t worry,’ assured the still breathless Hollis, from the adjoining seat. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

Charlie realised, for the first time, that he hadn’t been worried. It had been – still was – the time when he was most likely to be seized and he didn’t feel any fear. The emptiness was still too strong for that, too strong to allow relief when the aircraft actually lifted and he knew he was safe. Safe from Russia, at least. He hadn’t expected there to be an outstanding warrant alleging murder against him, although – considering it – he supposed it was logical. Surely to Christ it hadn’t all been for nothing; that he hadn’t trapped himself into going back to jail! Even the thought of that, at the moment, didn’t seem to matter. It would later, if it happened, Charlie knew; but not now.

‘Know what this means?’ asked the conversational Hollis, beside him.

‘What?’ asked Charlie, dully.

‘I can’t go back …’ Hollis turned, to Greening sitting behind. ‘We’ll neither be acceptable any longer, after this.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ said the man behind.

Charlie refused any food or drink or even conversation, gazing out of the windows at the night’s blackness, staring at his own reflection. It would have happened by now, he decided. Would Natalia be under formal arrest? Or just interrogation? God, he hoped she would be all right. The agony – now and forever – was that he was never going to know.

There was a squad waiting at London airport, four men who hurried officiously on to the aircraft and more in waiting cars and from the immediate subservience and dismissal into other vehicles of Hollis and Greening Charlie knew they were higher ranking. There were no introductions from the squad or any official immigration formalities, just bustled, arm-holding progress along side corridors and through side doors. Charlie obeyed every nudge and instruction, still uninterested. It was only when the cavalcade gained the M4 and was heading towards London that Charlie consciously attempted to push aside the ennui and concentrate on what might be about to happen.

He’d failed.

But not in a way that meant he should feel guilt. He’d told Wilson that day in the governor’s office that it was practically impossible, and the Russians had got the first secretary before he’d properly had time to get organised: Charlie was sure the diplomat’s arrest was the key to no contact ever having been made. They’d have reason to be disappointed but not critical. Certainly not critical when he told them everything about the spy school and what he’d done, to get out. He wouldn’t tell them about Natalia, Charlie determined. Not for any particular reason – there were no problems it could cause her – but he just decided not to.

‘Never thought we’d get you back,’ said an anonymous man, to his right.

Charlie recognised at once the official, accusing voice. ‘Life’s full of surprises,’ he said, knowing the apparent absence of fear would irritate the man. Running time again, he thought. What about the murder warrant that had been announced at Moscow airport? Charlie looked out at the yellow lighted streets of London and wondered how soon it would be before he saw them again, without an escort.

The men who had met him at the airport remained grouped about him as he got from the car, at the building that had once been so familiar to Charlie. Instinctively Charlie hesitated, looking up at the features he had so often thought about nostalgically and the man behind wasn’t expecting the pause, colliding with him.

‘Come on,’ said the man, brusquely and Charlie moved on, going inside. Nothing seemed to have changed. There were the same brown-painted, sighing radiators and the chipped, yellow-washed walls and the ancient mesh-faced lifts that snatched uncertainly upwards, as if they were unsure they’d complete the journey.

Wilson’s office was different. Willoughby had occupied rooms at the rear of the building, on the fourth floor and Cuthbertson inherited them. Sir Alistair Wilson’s suite was on the top floor at the front and as Charlie entered he saw the necklace of lights through the uncurtained window and realised it overlooked the river. The director was standing beside his desk, with Harkness behind him, nearer the window. There was a vase of roses on the desk and a flower that matched the display in the director’s buttonhole. The perfume permeated the room.

‘Charlie!’ greeted Wilson, someone greeting an old and much missed friend. ‘Charlie!’

The man stumped forward, stiff-legged, hand outstretched and Charlie stayed just inside the door, utterly confused. Hesitantly he took the greeting, aware of Wilson’s head jerk of dismissal to those who had accompanied him from the airport. The less effusive Harkness advanced, too, and offered his hand and Charlie shook that, as well.

‘You made it, Charlie! And got back. Congratulations! Damned well done,’ said Wilson.

The older man seized Charlie’s shoulders, moving him further into the room. What was happening: what the bloody hell was happening! thought Charlie. Surely they realised it had all gone wrong, with the first secretary’s arrest.

Charlie stood by the chair that Wilson offered, not immediately sitting. ‘It didn’t work,’ he said. There was never any contact.’

‘No,’ accepted Wilson, at once. ‘Of course not.’