The Blind Run (6 page)

Although they didn’t hurry they did play. The first day, when Charlie was assigned to direct the dangerously hot metal towards the stamp and was concentrating on not getting burned and caught in the press, one of the chisellers, someone Charlie didn’t know, feigned a mistake, carrying the rasp on from the edge of a plate so that it grooved across the back of Charlie’s hand, stripping the skin. And at the end of that week, when he was posted by the drying ovens, vents which should always have been positioned to throw the heat away from the benches were suddenly reversed, blasting a searing gust towards him. It was obviously fixed and timed, because when it happened only Charlie was where the blast came, everyone else miraculously clear at the precise moment.

Charlie didn’t protest or complain to the screws, about the chisel attack or the burning, because he knew they wanted him to do that – and that he would have made it worse for himself – and because he was bloody sure the screws were aware of what was going on so any complaint would have been a waste of time anyway. Charlie tried to keep the nervousness from showing, to deny them the satisfaction and was successful at the very beginning but there was nothing he could do, no self-control he could impose, to halt the tic that started to pull near his left eye towards the end of the second week and around that time the hand-shaking got bad, so bad that at an evening meal he actually spilled tea from his mug. Prudell saw it happen and laughed and everyone at Prudell’s table laughed with him. Butterworth was on mess duty that night and shouted for him to clear up the mess, so that others in the hall would know it too.

It happened during the third week and at the very section that Charlie had determined to be the safest, where the plates were tidied. He’d been grateful to be assigned there, actually getting on the outside with the wall behind him and was only worried about the chisels being used as they had been that first day, which was the mistake because he hadn’t properly isolated the danger from the overhead belt. It was constructed in a loop here, an inner revolving system so that rejected plates could be returned without having to cover the full room-encompassing circuit. Every three feet along the belt there were grips, sprung jaws into which the plates could be clamped, several at a time. There were six in the grip that collapsed directly over where Charlie worked, an intentionally practised overload designed to fail exactly as it did. Despite the unremitting noise of the workshop, Charlie heard the sound as they broke away, a snap as the suddenly freed jaws came together. There was even a warning shout, too late to have helped but a shout nevertheless because for the injury that was intended there would have to be a later enquiry and everything had to be answerable. The injury wasn’t as bad as they intended. It would have been, if Charlie’s reactions had been slower, the whole pile coming down on top of him: maybe even a skull fracture. It was instinctive professionalism to jerk away at the overhead jaw snap, a sound different from every other one he identified and with infinitesimally more time – a fraction of a second – the falling load would have missed him completely. But it didn’t, not quite. The plates had been wired together, to form the crushing weight, and they came down solidly over Charlie’s left forearm. He felt it break, an excruciating crack, but he only screamed once, at that initial pain, still determined to deny them as much as he could.

The skin was torn as well, because the metal was sharp, and although the wound was cleaned almost immediately an infection developed – from the air laden with paint and solvent spray the doctor thought – which meant Charlie was detained in the infirmary. Safe again, thought Charlie; like he had been on restrictions, when Sampson first arrived. The relief, at that awareness of safety, was a physical thing; the muscles of his body ached, at the tenseness with which he’d held himself and now he relaxed he felt that ache – the discomfort almost as much as that from his arm, dulled by local anaesthetic. Was Hargrave right? Now it had happened, now that he’d taken his punishment, would things get better? Dear God, he hoped so. He knew – always objective – that he couldn’t go on as he had, these last few weeks. He wanted to continue defying them. And the system. Christ, how he wanted to! But like Hargrave said and like Sampson said, it wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. He had to adjust. Not conforming: not giving in. Just adjusting. Just being realistic. Was it true, what Sampson had said, about his still having a reputation within the department for realism? He liked to think so. Be good, to be remembered in the department. To be admired. Abruptly Charlie stopped the reverie. If it were admiration, it would be begrudging, after what he’d done.

Miller, the state registered nurse who replaced Sampson as the hospital orderly, made the approach to Charlie after supper the first night. He was a flaking skinned, nervously smiling man: Charlie thought he looked capable of indecency but hardly of making it gross.

‘Sampson said he’s sorry you got hurt.’

‘Tell him thanks,’ said Charlie.

‘Want anything for the arm? I could give you some pain killers.’

‘It’ll be all right.’

‘Sampson sent you this,’ said the man, offering his hand palm down, his body shielding the gesture from the doctor and the duty prison officer in the ward cubicle. Charlie cupped his hand beneath Miller’s and looked down at the small container.

‘It’s whisky,’ identified Miller.

Another medicine bottle, Charlie saw. Would it be watered like last time. ‘Thank him for this, too,’ he said.

‘He said to say if there was anything else you wanted.’

‘Tell him this will be fine. That I’m grateful.’

Charlie waited until long after lights out, the bottle hidden within the pillow cover, his fingers against its hard edge. Set-up, like he’d feared before? Or the bridge that Sampson said he was offering? Adjust, remembered Charlie; he’d decided to adjust. And it would, after all, be a way to discover if the pressure were still on. Easily able to conceal the movement from the ward cubicle, Charlie eased the small bottle from its hiding place, unscrewed the cap and drank. It wasn’t watered this time. It was malt and smooth and although the bottle had seemed small there seemed to be a lot of it and Charlie took it all. If it were a set-up then Charlie decided he couldn’t give a damn; it was worth it.

But it wasn’t a set-up. There was no search and no discovery and two nights later Miller brought in more and Charlie got away with that as well.

Charlie’s arm was still strapped when he was released from the hospital, which meant he didn’t return to the registration plate workshop. He thought he might have got kitchen duties but instead was seconded back to the library, a temporary assignment because they were restocking and needed someone who knew the system. Charlie went direct from the hospital to the library the first day, so it was not until the evening that he returned to his cell and felt able to talk openly to Sampson.

‘Appreciated the whisky,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Glad you felt able to drink it this time,’ said Sampson.

Charlie hesitated at the moment of commitment, finding it difficult. Sampson was still a snotty little sod who got up his nose. At last he said, ‘There doesn’t seem a lot of point in fighting running battles.’

There was no obvious triumph in Sampson’s smile and Charlie was glad of it. ‘No point at all,’ agreed the other man.

Charlie sat down on his bunk and gazed around the tiny cell. ‘Forgotten how small it was, after the space of the hospital,’ he said.

‘Notice anything new?’ demanded Sampson.

Charlie did, as the man spoke, standing and going over to the small table, better able to see the radio. ‘How the hell did you get this?’

‘Applied for it,’ said Sampson, simply. He came beside Charlie and indicated a coiled aerial wire. ‘I can run that up to the cell window,’ he said. ‘The reception is terrific.’

‘This will make life much more pleasant,’ said Charlie.

Sampson smiled at him again and said, ‘You’d be surprised.’

Alexei Berenkov had been repatriated from British imprisonment to Moscow aware of his
in absentia
promotion to general as a recognition of a lifetime of spying in the West, expecting a
dacha
at Sochi and maybe a sinecure lecturing at one of the spy colleges. He wondered, initially, if his appointment instead to the planning department of the KGB, attached to the Dzer-zhinsky Square headquarters itself, was nepotism, the visible indication of the friendship that existed between himself and Kalenin. There were obviously some who felt the same thing and clearly the relationship between himself and the chairman was an important factor but Berenkov knew he would not have got the posting if Kalenin hadn’t thought he was capable of performing the function of division director – officially designated a deputy – because Kalenin was too adroit to do anything that might cause him personal difficulty. And Berenkov was pragmatic enough to know that he hadn’t caused the man any difficulty. The reverse, in fact. There hadn’t been a single, important mistake since Berenkov’s appointment and two – one in Tokyo, the other in Iran – impressive successes.

Berenkov was glad to be home. He missed the comparable freedom of the West – a freedom he was sufficiently personally confident enough to talk about openly and discuss – and the
bon viveur
life he’d been able to enjoy in London under his cover as a wine importer. But in Moscow he had a wife he loved – but from whom he’d spent too long apart – and a son he adored. And secretly – a secret he’d confessed to no one, not even Valentina and certainly not to Kalenin, friendly though they might be – Berenkov knew that after so long in the West, constantly living a pretence, constantly expecting the arrest that finally came, his nerve had begun to go. Now no one would know. So now he could savour the unaccustomed domesticity, which he did, and enjoy the unexpected and important job, which he did also, and consider himself a lucky man, fulfilled and content and safe.

Kalenin summoned him – officially instead of socially – before the cryptologists had broken the code, needing the benefit of Berenkov’s experience in England, an experience no one else in the ministry possessed. The chairman showed Berenkov the meaningless interceptions but because they were meaningless Berenkov merely glanced at them, putting them aside on his friend’s desk.

‘Not a code we know?’ he said.

Kalenin shook his head. ‘And one that’s being difficult: it’s even defying computor analysis at the moment.’

‘Then it’s important,’ judged Berenkov, confirming the opinion Kalenin had already reached.

‘How good are the British?’ demanded Kalenin.

Berenkov shrugged. ‘Don’t forget I’ve been away for a long time,’ he reminded. ‘Almost two years in prison and then back here for two years. Cuthbertson was the Director, during the end of my time. A fool and shown up to be one.’

‘Sir Alistair Wilson is the successor,’ said Kalenin.

Berenkov shook his head. ‘Don’t know of him,’ he said. ‘I’ve always felt that Cuthbertson and his crowd were an aberration, a mistake that occasionally arises in any service, because it can’t after all be avoided. For all the supposed expertise of the CIA, I’ve always had more respect for the British service.’

Kalenin shuffled through the intercepted messages. ‘Twenty,’ he said.

‘Important,’ repeated Berenkov. ‘There’s someone here in Moscow, a spy we don’t know about, shifting an enormous amount of information to which the British attach the utmost priority and importance.’

‘Where?’ demanded Kalenin, simply.

‘We’ll break the code, of course. Eventually,’ said Berenkov.

‘Of course,’ agreed Kalenin.

‘Then we need to work backwards,’ said Berenkov, the superb professional. ‘Knowing what the messages contain will only give us some indication of the damage. It won’t – unless we’re very lucky – quickly identify the source and that’s what we need: a way of stopping the flow quickly.’

‘We don’t have anyone in place in British intelligence, not any more?’

‘It was Sampson who warned us,’ remembered Berenkov. ‘Said he suspected there was someone here. I was making arrangements anyway to get him out. This makes his release even more important. Once there’s a transcription he might be able to indicate a direction.’

‘Get him out as soon as possible,’ ordered Kalenin. He paused. ‘Try to embarrass the British doing it, too.’

Chapter Six

The pressure stopped. Not immediately, because the hostile screws like Hickley and Butterworth were initially suspicious and Prudell and the other landing bosses were uncertain, too, at Charlie’s adjustment. And Charlie didn’t find it easy, not at first. Or even later. It was difficult not to show, by unspoken insolence, what assholes he thought some of the screws were. And let Prudell and the other bullies know he still wasn’t scared of them. The adjustment was a conscious, forced effort, something he was not able to forget, not for a moment, in case in that moment his real attitude came to the surface and they saw through the charade that it was. But the relief was terrific, so good that he had to remain aware of that, as well, to prevent himself slipping into the institutionalised demeanour of acceptance. The library job was bigger than Charlie thought it to be, upon his arrival from the hospital, the actual transfer from the limited room in which it had been housed into a bigger area, further along the corridor. Although Hargrave retained the nominal title of librarian it was soon obvious that Sampson had taken over and because of Sampson’s relationship with the prison officers, even the bastards, they were able to work at their own pace, providing books were available and by maintaining the service, which wasn’t really difficult, Sampson was able to convince any officer who did query the work-rate that keeping the library open slowed the move. Although Charlie made and rigidly maintained the adjustment, he was also aware that the changed response of others to him was in some measure due to his obviously changed relationship with Sampson. Which was as difficult for him as everything else. It made sense for them to behave towards each other as they were but the thought of existing under Sampson’s protection and patronage was one that really pissed Charlie off. He accepted it though – with gut churning reluctance – because there was nothing else he could do. Another helplessness of where he was, doing what he was. And he could never forget that. Because Sampson knew anyway, Charlie openly kept the daily record of his imprisonment, the morning ritual before every day began, even slop-out.