The Blind Run (7 page)

Sampson’s radio became very important, as important as the calendar count. It was a positive, tangible link with outside, something through which Charlie was able to feel that he was not completely cut off and isolated. Sampson was as generous with it as he had been with the hospital whisky – and he still supplied that, too, although Charlie bought his share – rarely imposing his preference for programmes over Charlie’s choice, appearing as eager as Charlie for the current affairs and talk series. They even found they liked the same music.

It took six weeks to move the library because Sampson evolved a way of even further delaying the work by insisting upon a complete re-indexing. But after six weeks even the most gullible of the prison officers were becoming impatient.

‘Heard where you’re going?’ Sampson asked. It was a Thursday and they knew that the following day was the very last that Charlie could expect to remain on library secondment.

Charlie shook his head. ‘Maybe administration.’ By lying about a non-existent pain in his broken arm and saying he still found difficulty in gripping with his hand, Charlie had managed to get a hospital report insisting he should be excused from any heavy work so he hoped to avoid the workshops, even though they would probably be safe now.

Sampson, who was lying on his bunk and looking up at the ceiling, said, ‘I tried to stop you coming back here, you know?’

Charlie frowned across the cell. ‘What?’

‘Tried to stop you coming back here,’ repeated Sampson. ‘After your release from the hospital.’

‘What the hell for?’ demanded Charlie. He felt a stomach-lurch of uncertainty, at the thought of the collapse of their fragile relationship and the physical reaction angered him because he recognised that despite all his efforts to remain aware of what was happening, he had come to rely upon it and didn’t want it to end and go back like it had been before.

Sampson did not immediately respond. Instead he swung up into a sitting position on his bunk, groped to the supports beneath where he hid the whisky and poured into both their mugs. Then he said, ‘Because of the risk.’

‘What risk?’

‘My risk,’ said Sampson.

‘You’re not making sense.’

‘You weren’t, before you went into hospital,’ said the other man. ‘Now you are.’

Charlie sipped the drink, looking warily over the mug at Sampson. ‘I still don’t understand.’

Sampson jerked his head towards the table and Charlie’s carefully annotated calendar. ‘Twelve years, three weeks and two days’ he said. ‘You think you can last another twelve years, three weeks and two days in here, Charlie?’

Charlie drank more deeply this time, not wanting to confront the question. Another indication of becoming institutionalised, he thought, ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘I do,’ said Sampson. ‘I think you’ll go mad. Or try to kill yourself, to get it all over.’

Charlie couldn’t imagine attempting suicide because nothing had ever got that bad. But he wasn’t sure. ‘There’s parole,’ he said.

Sampson made a dismissive gesture. ‘Not for people like us,’ he said. ‘Not for spies and child molesters.’

‘What’s the point you’re trying to make?’ said Charlie.

‘Do you want out?’ asked Sampson, simply. ‘Out with me?’

‘
Out
!’

Sampson made another gesture towards the table, to the radio this time. ‘You didn’t think I got that to listen to the London Philharmonic and
Letter from America
, did you?’

Charlie stared at the radio, then back to Sampson.

‘It was always established this way, if I got caught,’ said Sampson. ‘I knew the radio to get and the long wave frequency to which to tune and how to recognise the messages, when they started to be transmitted. And they have started. Along with other things.’

Charlie felt a tingling numbness, the sort of sensation he’d sometimes known during a heavy boozing session outside, when he’d been celebrating or relaxing. But this wasn’t drunkenness. This was excitement, exhilarating excitement. Careful, important thing that had ever happened in his life so he couldn’t afford a single, minor, miniscule mistake.

‘That’s why I had to get into the library,’ continued Sampson. ‘I got that instruction even before the radio, from a small ad in the personal column of the Daily Telegraph. Every third Tuesday in the month is my contact day, the day I have to look to see if there’s a message for me. I didn’t know why the library was important, not at first, but I do now: that’s why everything has been moved.’

‘Why?’ said Charlie.

‘Outside construction,’ said Sampson. ‘Extension to the wing. Which means scaffolding and ladders and ropes.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Got that from the radio,’ said Sampson. ‘Amazing how easy it is to learn of the outside contracts given by the Public Works Department if you know the right way to go about it. And the Soviet embassy do. Work is going to start in a fortnight. And it will actually involve removing the bars from the windows …’ Sampson grinned, self-satisfied. ‘From the window of a room that I now know intimately, along a corridor where I’m an accepted figure, someone with every right to be there …’ He nodded towards the radio yet again. ‘I’ll be told when the bars are coming out: when to run. Everything will be ready, outside.’

‘That’s how George Blake got out,’ remembered Charlie, looking at the black set in the centre of the table.

‘Exactly!’ said Sampson, triumphantly. ‘Got away from a forty-two year sentence and is now in contented and happy retirement in Moscow. Can you imagine the embarrassment, when it happens again! It’ll make the British look so stupid that no other service in the world will think of telling them the time of day.’

Sampson was right, Charlie thought: the embarrassment would be incredible. The numbness came again, in anticipation this time.

‘Which is why I tried to keep you out of the cell,’ said Sampson. ‘You were a complication I didn’t want. But when I started making moves, through Hickley, I learned that to get you transferred I’d have to have someone else. And I wanted that even less …’ Sampson put his head to one side. ‘You realise what I’m saying, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie quietly. ‘I realise what you’re saying.’

‘I’ll take you with me,’ said Sampson. ‘I’ll get you out of this place and safely to Russia …’ He laughed suddenly, unable to contain his euphoria. ‘And we’ll live happily ever after.’

Out, thought Charlie. Dear God, the thought of being out.

Sampson came forward on his bunk, narrowing the distance between them. ‘But understand something,’ warned the man. ‘I’m taking you because I haven’t any choice. And I’m telling you about it because I haven’t got any choice about that, either. And because I know how you feel about being in here, because I’ve seen the way you go on with that calendar, every bloody day. But if you do anything to fuck it up, anything at all, then I’ll have you killed.’

Charlie just stared back at him.

‘I could do that, you know? Have you killed, I mean. It really wouldn’t be at all difficult, with the contacts I’ve got either inside or out. Nothing, nothing at all, is going to stop me getting out. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I understand.’

I’m getting out, thought Charlie. But not your way, bastard. You’re going to stay in jail forever.

The following day, Charlie was posted to the administration block, where the governor’s office was and where the clerical staff worked. The prison officer caught him trying to slip a paper knife into the waistband of his trousers on the Tuesday.

The rose in Sir Alistair Wilson’s buttonhole matched those in the vase on his desk, pervading the room with their perfume. The messages that had been transmitted from Moscow, from the very beginning, were attached to a master file, indexed in the order of their receipt. The British Director rippled his finger along the edge and said, ‘There’s a hell of a lot here.’

‘Let’s hope it isn’t too much,’ said the always cautious Harkness.

‘They haven’t changed the Baikonur code,’ said Wilson, referring to the uppermost message, the one that had come in overnight.

‘Which means they haven’t broken ours yet,’ said the deputy. He seemed surprised. Or disappointed.

‘It’s taking longer than I anticipated.’

‘We’ve got to assume they’ve intercepted the transmission by now,’ said Harkness. ‘They’ll be going mad not knowing what it is.’

‘They’re never properly going to know that,’ said Wilson.

‘We hope,’ said the restrained Harkness. ‘This is only the beginning, after all. The very beginning.’

‘Still uncertain about the sacrifice?’

‘It’ll be a hell of a sacrifice if it doesn’t work,’ said Harkness.

‘It’ll work,’ said Wilson, confidently. He stretched his hand out towards his beloved roses and said, ‘Know what these are called?’

‘What?’ said Harkness.

‘Seven Sisters,’ disclosed the Director. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think?’

‘The identification comes from
Three Sisters
,’ reminded Harkness.

‘Near enough,’ said Wilson. ‘Near enough.’

Chapter Seven

Charlie knew he was taking a terrible risk; of the governor dismissing what he was going to say as nonsense or of Sampson finding out, because of gossip among the screws. But there wasn’t any other way: certainly not one he had been able to think of since Sampson had told him what he intended doing. The sweat was banded around Charlie’s waist and his hands were damp, clasped obediently behind his back. He couldn’t remember being as nervous as this, not even on a job when things looked as if they were going wrong.

Armitrage sighed up at him, a man of perpetual hope disappointed yet again. ‘This is serious,’ he said. ‘Far more serious than the last occasion.’

‘There’s a reason, sir,’ said Charlie.

The governor picked the knife up from the desk, as if he were weighing it and said, ‘There can only be one obvious reason for attempting to steal a knife, Muffin.’

Commitment time, realised Charlie. He knew very slightly one of the escorting officers, a man named Dailey, but not the other one. What if Sampson did too, like he seemed to know everything and everybody else? Charlie didn’t intend naming Sampson, of course: that was his bargaining counter. But it would make a hell of a story to boast about having heard, to other officers. And other officers would repeat it, even though to disclose what he intended saying outside of this room would be an appalling breach of security. Charlie knew enough about security to know how little of it really existed. He said, ‘I took the knife intending that I should be seen doing it … intending that I would be put on a charge.’

Armitrage came up to him again, frowning. ‘What!’

‘I wanted to be brought before you, sir,’ said Charlie.

‘Definitely trying to conceal the knife, sir,’ insisted Dailey.

‘But I wasn’t trying to hide myself doing it, was I?’ demanded Charlie. ‘I was facing you when I did it, for Christ’s sake!’ Regulations didn’t allow him to question the warders: even behave like this in front of the governor. But he didn’t give a damn about regulations. Only one thing mattered: that they eventually believed him and even if they didn’t fully believe him became frightened enough to react properly.

Dailey waited for the correction to come from the governor and when it didn’t he said, ‘It was a clumsy attempt at concealment.’

‘Intentionally clumsy,’ insisted Charlie. He paused and then he said, ‘There is an escape being planned from this jail, an escape the embarrassment of which will cause repercussions sufficient to bring about your dismissal. Demands for your resignation, certainly.’

Probably too strong, conceded Charlie. But he had to bestir the silly old bugger somehow. On each side of him, Dailey and the warder he didn’t know shifted and actually moved closer, as if they expected Charlie to make a run for it there and then.

Armitrage’s demeanour of vague distraction slipped away. He came tight-faced to Charlie and said, ‘What is it? I want to know all about it. Everything.’

‘No,’ said Charlie.

The governor’s face reddened, the anger obvious. ‘I want to know all about it,’ he repeated. ‘And you will tell me.’

‘No,’ said Charlie again. ‘Not now. I will tell you, but only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson.’

‘Sir Alistair Wilson?’

‘The Director.’

‘Don’t be preposterous!’ said Armitrage.

‘Tell him that it’s important … vitally important,’ Charlie bulldozed on. They might have welched on the earlier deal but they weren’t going to on this one. This time Charlie intended getting his freedom.

‘I have no intention of making any approach to any outside person,’ said Armitrage. ‘This is a prison matter which will be settled by me. And it will be settled. Here. Now.’

Charlie stared at the man across his desk, saying nothing.

‘I’m waiting,’ said Armitrage.

‘In the presence of the Director,’ said Charlie. Then I’ll tell you everything.’

Armitrage looked to the prison officers on either side of Charlie. ‘Any suggestions of unrest, worse than normal?’ he demanded. ‘There’s usually an atmosphere, just before an intended break?’

‘Nothing sir,’ said Dailey.

‘I’d better get the deputy governor in on this,’ said Armitrage. ‘And the chief prison officer.’

Which would be how the story spread, thought Charlie, desperately. He said, ‘There’s no concerted plan: you’ll not discover anything, tightening security.’

To Dailey, Armitrage said, ‘Take him to solitary.’

As the order to turn and leave the office was snapped out, militarily, Charlie said, ‘I’ll say nothing, only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson. If it goes ahead, it’ll be the biggest embarrassment of your life.’

‘Out!’ said Dailey, thrusting him forward.

In the solitary cell, which was internal, without any window and smaller than that he occupied with Sampson, Charlie slumped forward on the bunk, head forward in his hands. Bad, he thought, judging his effort. Bloody awful, in fact. Word that he was before the governor would have already circulated through the prison, because the trusties who worked in administration had seen him marched in and out. They’d know he’d gone to solitary, too. And the silly old fart would convene his conference with the deputy and the chief screw because he was too damned ineffectual to make up his own mind without the advice of as many people as possible. Shit! thought Charlie. He’d been better than this once. A long time ago; too long. Sampson would have him killed. Charlie didn’t have any doubt about that. Any more than he had any doubt that the man would learn that he’d grassed. He could apply for permanent solitary, he supposed. There was a regulation that permitted it, usually invoked for bastards who’d sexually assaulted kids and needed protection from other prisoners, forming an enclave within an enclave, permanently frightened like he was frightened now. People went mad in solitary: Sampson said he would go mad. What was better, mad or dead? Jesus! What a fucking choice!