The Blind Run (28 page)

So where was he?

Charlie recognised he was incredibly well-placed gaining intelligence of an incalculable value, increasingly trusted and in no danger. He’d actually considered, within the first few days of being in Moscow, that he might have to remain longer than the period he’d agreed with the British Director. So he’d stay on, Charlie determined. Just for a while longer, if no approach were made. He was, after all, a complete professional; and to stay would be the professional thing to do. And meant he didn’t have to consider the thought of losing Natalia. Shit, he thought; why was nothing ever easy?

The absence of any further messages did nothing to relieve the pressure from the Politburo upon Kalenin and therefore his demands upon those answerable to him. Rather, they increased. The Politburo insisted on explanations the KGB chairman didn’t have and his insistences permeated through his immediate deputies to division directors and their subordinates and spread the uncertainty not just throughout Dzerzhinsky Square but to the other divisional buildings in the capital. Even Charlie was aware of a change of attitude from Krysin but was unable to discover the reason, so he wrongly assumed it was just a further indication of alienation between them.

Because of the indications that the leaks were coming from the operational or planning divisions, the concentration evolved particularly on to Berenkov. Edwin Sampson made a further examination, as unsuccessful as those before, and separate competing committees were set up independent of each other – and the Briton’s efforts – to carry out their own enquiries. And were unsuccessful, too. The surveillance upon the British embassy became positive harassment. A car carrying an archivist and a secretary on a perfectly innocent outing to the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall on Sadovaya street was actually involved in a crash with a KGB observation group and the Britons were held for three hours in police custody before diplomatic pressure released them.

It is one of the anomalies of diplomacy that while no Soviet embassy in any Western capital will accept foreign nationals in any support capacity, in Moscow Western embassies employ Russian general help. The attempt was clumsily blatant and was realised almost at once by the internal security staff, who discovered two maids and a male cleaner within a week trying to install listening devices. The Foreign Office in London extended the protests beyond the natural complaint in Moscow itself by summoning the Russian ambassador personally to Whitehall. In addition they released the details to the media and there was extensive newspaper coverage, to which the Kremlin responded with their clichéd rejection that it was anti-Soviet propaganda.

Berenkov recognised the intrusion but knew he had no alternative, because his official position required him to inform Kalenin. He chose the end of their now customary, daily-inconclusive-conference after Kalenin had cast aside the equally inconclusive reports and suggested the vodka, the chairman’s intake of which was noticeably increasing while the crisis continued unresolved.

Kalenin frowned when Berenkov began to talk of his son’s qualification successes, not immediately understanding, so that Berenkov had to repeat himself and Kalenin said, ‘Overseas?’

‘There’s a place for him, in Boston,’ said Berenkov. Remembering there were towns in both countries and conscious of the chairman’s apparent distraction, Berenkov hurriedly added ‘Boston, America, not Boston, England.’

There was no immediate reaction from Kalenin. He finished pouring and handed Berenkov his glass and said, ‘Going to the West?’

‘I think he would benefit,’ said Berenkov.

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

‘Which is why I felt I should officially raise it with you,’ said Berenkov.

‘What do you imagine would happen if the Western intelligence agencies were to discover who his father was?’ said Kalenin.

‘I did not think that was a serious risk,’ said Berenkov.

‘Then I don’t think you’ve considered it sufficiently,’ said Kalenin. ‘The American Central Intelligence Agency actively recruits from universities: apparatus exists, for talent spotting. And if they’re that well organised they’d naturally focus upon visiting Russian students. I’d consider there would be a serious risk of Georgi becoming compromised.’

‘Are you telling me officially that he can’t take up the place?’ asked Berenkov, miserably.

‘I’m saying that I want to think further about it,’ said Kalenin. ‘That maybe we both should.’

‘He’s worked extremely hard,’ said Berenkov, emptily.

‘We’re currently experiencing enough difficulty,’ said Kalenin. ‘You’re a deputy within the Committee for State Security, at the very highest echelon. And someone known in the West. I think we should seriously consider the risk of any embarrassment beyond that which we are already suffering.’

That suffering – and that embarrassment – worsened.

The messages to London resumed in a sudden flurry, three intercepted by the KGB monitoring services on succeeding nights. Each formed part of a sensational whole, the complete identities – and their cover designation – of virtually the entire Soviet espionage system within Britain, from the embassy-based Resident under diplomatic title down through every other diplomatic listing and extending to the Soviet trade mission at Highgate.

The last of the three messages promised further identities of agents in the United States and France. And concluded, ‘Shortly intend making promised personal contact.’

In London Wilson said, ‘Well. Here we go.’

‘We hope,’ said the cautious Harkness.

Moscow intercepted London’s radioed reply. It was ‘People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

All his life Charlie felt he had been running; often literally. He had run in the department, always to stay ahead of the supercilious sods with their nose-lifted accents. He had run, to survive, when those same sods set him up. And run again, to survive again, after he set them up, instead. He’d run in prison, like a trapped animal runs, blindly, from one corner to another corner. And was aware he should have the impression of running here, involved in the most difficult and dangerous operation he’d encountered. But he didn’t. He felt unhurried. Relaxed even. As if there were time – all the time in the world – to rest, with no danger of anyone catching up. It was Natalia, he knew. Just as he knew – without having the rules to guide him, because there were no rules – that he loved her. He loved her completely and absolutely and he wanted never to spend a moment of his no-longer running life apart from her. Which meant staying. Which he couldn’t. Any more than he could consider leaving.

The conflicts – of feelings and loyalty and attitudes and professionalism – crowded in upon him and every time he got halfway towards solving one he tripped over another. Keeping Natalia from the consideration – which would have been a clash of love against professionalism – Charlie became increasingly convinced, after two more failed rendezvous, that there never would be any contact. What had appeared in the Soviet newspapers about the British first secretary was inadequate and inconclusive, like accounts always were in Soviet newspapers, but Charlie guessed whatever had happened involved the person he was supposed to meet at the GUM store. The unanswerable was why, if they’d swept the defector up, he’d remained unaffected. But Charlie recognised there could be explanations, like the man dying rather than face arrest. Or dying under questioning. Or going mad under that same questioning, before he’d been able to disclose and therefore endanger the meeting spot. If that conjecture were correct, then there was no further purpose in remaining in Moscow – another conflict – teaching intended Soviet spies to be better than they were, which was a further conflict. Professionally, he should get out. Professionally he should stop buggering about and start running again. Would she run with him? The idea had been a long time coming – too long – but why not? She hadn’t said so – which he hadn’t, nervous of actually saying it – but Charlie was absolutely sure that Natalia loved him. Why the hell couldn’t it have been her, that day in GUM, who wanted to defect? Or Berenkov, to whom all the signs pointed but who hadn’t committed himself? If it had been Berenkov then Charlie would have been gone months ago, before getting so hopelessly entangled. He shook his head, a physical movement of irritation. What sort of thinking was that, wishing things had or hadn’t happened, like some child! It hadn’t been Natalia and it hadn’t been Berenkov and he had fallen in love and he had to sort it out by logical, sensible thinking, not flights of fancy. It wasn’t just Natalia, of course. There was Eduard. She wouldn’t consider leaving the boy – why the hell should she? – so he’d have to get both of them out, at the same time. Difficult but not insurmountable. Charlie consciously braked the flow of thought. How difficult? Officially he was still British. But Natalia and Eduard weren’t. They were Russian and Charlie doubted the British embassy would consider flying them out if they simply walked into the embassy with him. There would have to be diplomatic this and diplomatic that and a damned good chance that they’d hand them back if the Russian pressure became too heavy. Which it unquestionably would. Practically insurmountable then. What if he lied? What if he took Natalia and Eduard into the embassy and conned London that she was the source for which they were so anxious? They’d bend the rules then and smuggle her out eagerly enough. But what would happen when they got back to London? The Russians would chase, because Natalia was high ranking and because they always chased anyway. And when he realised he had been cheated, Wilson and the department wouldn’t provide any sort of protection. So it would be like it had been before, with Edith, harassed and terrified, from place to place and country to country. Charlie knew he couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t stand it and he couldn’t ask Natalia to endure it: certainly not with a young kid.

A further class came and went, at the spy school, and Charlie knew he couldn’t delay much longer. His confusion and distraction increasingly came between the two of them, like a barrier, marring the earlier tranquility and there were arguments – not serious rows but quarrels of irritability just the same – and it put Charlie under fresh pressure because he didn’t want her to misunderstand and imagine the reverse of his feelings and that he was tired of the relationship.

He tried to plan the occasion. He took her to the Rossiya, where they had had their first meal and from which, on the subsequent occasion, they’d left to go back to her apartment and make love. Everything about Natalia had affected Charlie but a tangible part of their being together had been the reduction in the extent of Charlie’s drinking. That night, however, he drank more than usual with her, needing the support but stayed far short of getting drunk. Completely confident with Russian now, Charlie ordered for them and it was a good choice and seeking omens he decided it was a good augury for later.

She was conscious of his effort and Natalia tried, too, so that the tenseness that had developed between them in the recent days and weeks eased away. Charlie was relieved that Natalia was relaxed again and relieved too that after all the unconcluded agonising the moment had come to be open with her.

‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said, when the meal was over and they had started their coffee.

‘What?’

‘I love you.’

Natalia winced, which wasn’t the response Charlie expected.

‘I said I love you,’ he repeated.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that all, just yes?’

Natalia looked away, refusing his look. Surely he hadn’t got it wrong! Not this. He was convinced how she felt. The silence lasted for a long time and eventually Charlie said, ‘I see.’

‘No,’ she blurted, hurriedly now. ‘No, you mustn’t misunderstand.’

‘You haven’t said or done anything that allows me to understand or misunderstand,’ said Charlie.

‘I love you,’ said Natalia, looking fully at him at last. ‘I love you completely: more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone. I thought I loved my first husband but now I realise it was nothing like love …’

The relief came back to Charlie, so strong that he was glad they were sitting because it was an impression of physical weakness. ‘Then …’ he started but she shook her head, refusing him the interruption.

‘I didn’t, at first,’ she said. ‘I thought you were cocky and conceited …’ She hesitated, seeking the word. ‘Awful,’ she said at last, inadequately. ‘But not for very long. You made me laugh, although you didn’t know it. I always intended to go out with you that night, when you first asked me. I just didn’t want you to know how much I wanted to say yes. And I always knew that eventually we’d become lovers. I wanted that, too, but I equally didn’t want you to think it was casual. Something that didn’t matter. Because it mattered very much to me …’ There was another pause. ‘You matter very much to me.’

‘Everything is going to be all right,’ promised Charlie. ‘It’s going to be wonderful. I know it is.’ He reached across for her hand and although she let him take it there was no answering pressure. He frowned down at her lifeless hand and said, ‘What is it?’

‘I’m Russian, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Do you know what that means?’

‘Of course you’re Russian,’ said Charlie, laughing uncertainly.

‘What it means,’ she insisted. ‘The actual feeling it engenders, in its people.’

‘Maybe not,’ conceded Charlie.

‘It’s stronger, than in any other nationality. The loyalty: that’s what I’m talking about.’

‘I see,’ said Charlie, who thought he did but didn’t want to.

‘I’d never betray that loyalty,’ said Natalia. ‘Not even for anyone I loved to the exclusion of everything else. Not even for Eduard – whom I love differently but just as much – could I make that choice.’

Charlie sat gazing down into his emptying wine glass. Appearing aware of it, he poured more from the bottle, not knowing what to say.

‘You lost the bet, Charlie,’ said Natalia, quietly.

He frowned up. ‘What bet?’

‘The second pursuit,’ said the woman. ‘You did lose me, once. But I picked you up again, quite by chance, at the Marksa metro. You didn’t seem to be making many checks, by then …’