The Blind Run (20 page)

‘I’m glad somebody benefited,’ said Charlie.

‘Was it bad?’

‘I would never have done it, if I’d known just how bad,’ admitted Charlie. If Berenkov were thinking of running Charlie realised that what he was saying could actually be a disincentive, but again it would provide an opening for the identification if the Russian would accept it. He told the other man, in greater detail than he’d bothered during the debriefing with Natalia, because he knew Berenkov would understand. He talked about dragging around Europe, on the run with Edith, jumping at shadows and of the pursuit when they were discovered and Edith’s death and of the loneliness and the drinking afterwards, just occasionally interrupted by doing things for Willoughby’s son.

‘Remember what you told me, when I debriefed you in jail?’ he asked Berenkov.

The Russian frowned, shaking his head.

‘How glad you were, in the end, that I’d got you? That you were getting scared you couldn’t go on much longer?’

‘I remember,’ said Berenkov. He hadn’t until now. He didn’t think he’d admitted that to anyone: Charlie must have been a better, more insidious debriefer than he recalled.

‘That’s how I felt, in Italy,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d have gone on running, if I’d had the chance, but I was really very tired. The feeling I remember, when I knew they had me, was of relief.’

‘I know that feeling,’ said Berenkov, fully confessional too.

‘Then prison,’ said Charlie, bitterly. ‘Jesus, how I hated prison!’

‘I told you about that,’ reminded Berenkov. ‘When I was there. I told you never to get caught.’

‘I know,’ recalled Charlie. Openly he said, ‘I suppose formally being a defector is different. There’s protection. Security.’

Berenkov smiled but said nothing.

Valentina came from the kitchen with coffee, put the pot between them and then – appearing aware of the depth of their talk – withdrew again.

‘Still surprised you came here, Charlie,’ said Berenkov.

‘You told me I’d go mad in prison; something like that,’ said Charlie, still in memories. ‘You were right. I would have done. Bloody nearly did.’

‘Still didn’t expect you to come to Moscow,’ insisted Berenkov.

‘I’m here now,’ said Charlie, with obviously forced brightness.

‘And?’

‘Tonight’s been the first good time,’ admitted Charlie. ‘The apartment stinks – literally – but I accept I can’t expect anything better. The debriefings I accept are necessary too: part of the procedure. But they’re becoming repetitive. At least, I suppose, I’m lucky to have got rid of that asshole Sampson.’

‘He’s a very clever asshole, Charlie.’

‘Assholes often are.’ It would be too much to hope for an indication from Berenkov of what the man was doing but there was something instinctive about trying, with the disparaging remark.

‘What are you going to do, Charlie?’ asked Berenkov, casually disregarding the lure.

It had been too much to expect, conceded Charlie: offensive almost. He said, ‘You tell me. What am I going to be allowed to do?’

‘There could be something,’ said Berenkov. ‘Something that might not create a conflict.’

So the man had studied the debriefing and knew about his refusal to Natalia, that first day. Charlie carefully put the brandy bowl on the table between them, knowing the gesture wasn’t over-demonstrative. Was it going to be the approach for which he’d been waiting or the offer of a job? ‘What?’ he said.

‘I don’t want to make promises I can’t fulfil,’ withdrew Berenkov. ‘I wanted us to meet and to talk. To get an idea of how you felt. I need to talk to other people, before I go any further.’

‘Will you?’ urged Charlie. He was unsure about Berenkov but knew he had to maintain the link.

Berenkov hesitated, appearing to consider the question. Then he said, ‘Yes. It’s not a commitment, you understand: it could be rejected, by other people.’

‘I understand,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d appreciate it. I don’t want to atrophy, like I was atrophying in prison.’

‘I owe you a favour, Charlie,’ said Berenkov. ‘A very big favour.’

Georgi emerged from his room, to bid them goodnight and Charlie wished him luck with the examinations which could qualify the boy for the exchange course. And then he looked back over the table where the French wine stood and accepted some more French brandy from his hospitable host and decided he should try further. To Berenkov Charlie said, ‘If Georgi passes, when would he go?’

‘This year, sometime,’ said Berenkov, rekindling his cigar. ‘About nine months, I supposed. Maybe sooner.’

According to Wilson, whoever their mystery informant was wanted all his family out. With Georgi freed by the exchange, that would only leave Valentina. Charlie looked around the spacious apartment and at the books again. He had a delicate game to play, Charlie realised; probably a game more delicate than he’d ever played before in his life. If he made the slightest, infinitesimal mistake – and a monstrous mistake like wrongly believing it was Berenkov who wanted to cross back to the West where he’d lived for so long – then the Russian would identify it, immediately. And being the absolutely dedicated professional he was, Berenkov would see him inside a
gulag
so fast there’d be scorch marks left on the ground. Remembering the look that had earlier passed between Berenkov and his wife, Charlie said, ‘How would Valentina feel about his going?’

‘You still don’t miss a lot, do you Charlie?’

‘Like you, it’s automatic.’

‘Valentina thinks of the West as some sort of monster that swallows up people she loves.’

‘How do you think of it?’ risked Charlie.

‘I had a hell of a time,’ admitted Berenkov, nostalgically. ‘I got nervous, in the end. And it was always unreal, without Valentina. Georgi, too. But it was good to me. Damned good.’

Careful, decided Charlie. He was going to have to be very, very careful.

‘Whatever happens – about the job, I mean – we’ll have to meet some more,’ said Berenkov.

‘I’d like that,’ said Charlie.

Tanks had been in the forefront of the Ardennes offensive, the last attempt in the Second World War to break through the Allied front in the West, seize Antwerp and bottleneck supplies for the British and American armies about to invade Germany, and so the Battle of the Bulge was one frequently recreated by Kalenin. He’d had papier maché models created, to scale, of the contours and the geography, with towns like Charleville and Sedan and Revin picked out and he had his tank forces to scale, as well. Kalenin admired von Rundstedt’s strategy – bringing the vehicles across terrain supposedly impossible for them – and regarded Montgomery’s success more due to luck than tactics. Another hour, another day, another person looking in another direction and the outcome might have been completely different, he thought. To test the theory, he moved the American tanks that Montgomery controlled just fifty kilometres from where they’d actually been, using Reims as the marker, and timed von Rundstedt’s assault twenty four hours earlier. Completely different, he thought again. Was he looking in the right direction, to find the traitor opening a window for the British to look right inside his very own headquarters? Kalenin had permanent, twenty-four hour surveillance on the deputies and their immediate subordinates – everyone with likely access – and the reports were being channelled directly to him, even here, at night. The observation reports from the British embassy, too. And discovering nothing, not the slightest squeak from an unseen, unsuspected tank track. The feeling of impotence – and that vaguer feeling of uncertainty beyond – was worsening, as every day passed. When, oh when, was he going to be able to realise where the break had been made? Kalenin rearranged the tanks, in the properly recorded formations and divisions. It hadn’t been necessary in the Ardennes, at the very end of 1944, but it was always possible to detect an assault by inviting one, remembered Kalenin: it had even been an earlier strategy successfully practised by von Rundstedt.

The KGB chairman straightened from his war-games table and crossed to the desk upon which lay the latest batch of meaningless surveillance reports. Beside them lay the master-list of the people under suspicion. He’d have to invite an attack, Kalenin decided, staring down at the twelve names. To each – but exclusively to each – would have to be given specific and apparently vitally sensitive material. They’d broken the key, after all. As soon as they intercepted the message, they’d know the source. Kalenin was irritated that the subterfuge hadn’t occurred to him before. Commanders who took too long to think of strategies usually lost battles. Sometimes even the war.

Chapter Nineteen

Although there are many natural varieties, botanists recognise 250 distinct species of rose, which is perfectly divisible by a factor of two. Sampson summoned the mathematicians who broke the earlier code and instructed them what he was looking for – suggesting the ripple attempt which had been successful before – and had to wait a full, irritating week because there weren’t the necessarily complete listings available in any Soviet textbook. Even when the books from the West were provided, there were still variations which had to be cross-computed and the initial reaction from men accustomed to working within the conforming rigidity of patterned figures was one of scepticism at the aberrations of a clearly deranged romantic. The final entry into the machines began with the hybrid Agnes and concluded with the Zephirine Drouhin, officially designated a rambling, climbing rose. The first week’s failures were confirmation for the men of practical science that they were dealing with a madman. Sampson insisted upon further cross-referencing – discovering, for instance, that the hybrid tea Michele Meilland had been omitted because the programmer had considered the floribunda Michelle to be the same flower – and listing in full, instead of by general description, the spinossima species. The attitude of the mathematicians – men of patterns and design after all – changed when they realised a shape was appearing and by the end of the second week Sampson told Berenkov he considered he had broken the hitherto unintelligible identity line. From the first indication, Berenkov spent all the time with Sampson, watching the designation of operative and sender of the secret messages gradually emerge from the morass. There was practically euphoria with the completion of the sender’s name, which was Wainwright and whom Berenkov knew immediately, from the complete Soviet awareness of the British embassy staffing, was the designated first secretary whom Sampsom had already identified, from his debriefing with Natalia Fedova, as the British intelligence chief of station, the Resident. Wainwright was involved in fifteen of the most immediate messages but then the control changed, the name now appearing as Richardson, whom it was equally easy to identify as someone who served as cultural attaché. The early excitement – an excitement with which the ebullient Berenkov immediately infected Kalenin, who was anxious for just this sort of breakthrough – faded within hours with the discovery that while Wainwright was still on station, Richardson had been withdrawn to London a month earlier, at the conclusion of a normal and accepted diplomatic tour of duty.

Sampson had completely deciphered the identity logo on every message by ten in the morning. The planning conference with Kalenin took place at noon. By four, Wainwright had been arrested during a late lunch return as he passed the Tropinin Museum, on his leisurely way back to the embassy and by six the British diplomat was in jail. Lubyanka would have been more convenient, directly attached as it was to the KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square, but from the time of its notoriety as a slaughterhouse under Yagoda and Beria, the yard-bordering cells and torture chambers at the rear had been converted into miniscule office accommodation for the burgeoning intelligence organisation. Convinced that Wainwright needed to be immediately frightened – and knowing the need for speed, because of the inevitable and difficult-officially-to confront British protests when they began and increasingly anxious to start moving against their traitor as soon as possible – Kalenin had the Briton taken instead to Lefortovo, a more modern prison still conveniently in the centre of the capital and with a matching, more up-to-date notoriety from post-war dissidents.

Moscow was to have been Cecil Wainwright’s swansong as an intelligence officer, the concluding grading guaranteeing him an index linked pension of £15,000 a year upon which he had decided he could live comfortably in the already purchased and paid for bungalow on the outskirts of Bognor, the dark-room already installed and equipped for the hobby of photography that he intended to pursue. Wainwright was a sparse-haired, precise man whose delight in detail made him an efficient fact gatherer and extended to always sharpened pencils and always filled fountain pens to record those details. He had begun in army intelligence in Germany, which meant he saw the bestiality of Bergen, Belsen and Dachau and learned through the interviews with the maimed and crippled survivors in preparation for the Nuremberg war crimes tribunal of the torture ability of the Gestapo.

Wainwright was a brave man because he was a coward and tried not to be. He had been terrified by what he saw and heard in Germany and terrified further by the accounts that had leaked from Russia – long before his posting there – of precisely the same things happening under Stalin and his successors: terrified because Wainwright knew there was no way – if ever he had to confront it – that he could withstand torture. Fully aware of the fear – which he saw as cowardice – he had always rejected any idea of transferring from the service to a branch where the demand for him to find out – and worse, show – just how scared he was might never arise.

He had lived for three years in Moscow, had six months to go before the Bognor retirement and had, as the days and weeks been ticked off from the carefully consulted calendar, begun to convince himself that it was a personal test he was never going to have to confront or an admission never to be known by anyone.

He actually squealed, in fright, when the car pulled up alongside him on the north side of the museum and he realised, in the initial seconds of being manhandled into the back and surrounded by a grappling mob of men, that he hadn’t got away with it and that it had happened – the biggest terror – after all.