Charlie Muffin: The Blind Run Part 8

He supported himself against the wall, looking upwards to Sampson. There was the briefest outline against the night sky as the man came over the edge and then Charlie had an impression rather than saw him falling. Sampson landed as Charlie had intended to, a fluid, sideways movement at the moment he reached the ground, the cla.s.sic parachute drop.

'f.u.c.k,' said Charlie again, disappointed.

'What's the matter?'

'Hurt my ankle.'

'Just don't become a burden. Or an obstruction,' warned Sampson.

'Get off my back,' said Charlie. He wouldn't let the antagonism interfere if they got to Moscow, because that would be stupid as well as unprofessional, but if it were at all possible Charlie determined that he was going to teach Sampson the sort of lesson that old ladies used to embroider on cloth and frame over bedheads, as reminding cliches.

The main road, where the main gate and the prison forecourt were, was to their right. Sampson moved off in the opposite direction, close against the wall now, wanting its black shadowed protection. Charlie followed, trying to control the limp as much as possible, the pain burning up through his leg at every step. He swore again, but mentally, not aloud, not wanting Sampson to know his difficulty. Just before they reached the end of the wall they were following, getting actually to the rear of the prison, a far-away clock began to strike and Sampson stopped, bringing Charlie to a halt, while he counted. It was a clock that chimed the quarter hours. They both counted three and Sampson said unnecessarily 'Quarter to twelve.'

Charlie stood with his foot lifted slightly off the ground, like a lame animal, trying to ease the discomfort. 'We can't stay out here in the open, for fifteen minutes,' he said.

'I didn't intend to,' said Sampson.

Just before the very end of the wall, Sampson darted across the road, to the bordering houses, holding himself briefly in the protective cover of an unkempt hedge and then, bent double, actually entering the garden in which it grew. Charlie was directly behind, accepting as he finally crouched that the concealment was perfect. The house in whose garden they hid was in darkness but there was light on in the front of the immediate neighbour and Charlie could just detect the sound of a television show. It could, he supposed, have been a radio but he didn't think so: there were too many breaks for applause.

'Know what I wish?' whispered Sampson.

'What?'

'That this were the garden of that p.r.i.c.k Hickley.'

Despite everything, Charlie wished it too.

It seemed a very long fifteen minutes, so long that once Sampson risked raising himself, very carefully, to look over the hedge, imagining as Charlie imagined that they'd failed to hear the hour strike. But then it did strike, easily audible, and Sampson said, 'Come on,' getting up again and scurrying around to the front of the house, still shielded by the hedge but in the road where there was no possibility of their missing the pick-up car.

It came, precisely on time, some indistinguishable black limousine turning the corner from the rear of the prison, going neither too fast nor too slowly.

'How do we know if it's the right one?' demanded Charlie.

'Wait,' cautioned Sampson.

About fifty yards down the road, approaching them, the vehicle stopped. The driver got out, came forward and kicked the front offside wheel as if testing for a puncture, then went to the boot, lifted it, appeared to gaze inside and then closed it again, softly.

'That's the right one,' said Sampson. 'That's the identification.'

He thrust out from their concealment, leading as he had throughout. Charlie hobbled behind, trying to keep up. They were very near, Sampson actually against the front of the car, when the figure rounded the corner. There was a street light there and in its perfect illumination Charlie registered the bell-helmeted shape of a policeman.

The policeman began walking down the road and then hesitated and Charlie realised they would be completely visible in the light and that the light would show perfectly prison uniforms that the policeman would instantly recognise.

'What the ...' he actually heard the man start and then there was a fumbled movement as he groped for something in his pocket, a truncheon or whistle maybe.

Sampson's reaction was quicker. He ran across the road, directly at the policeman. Charlie saw his arm come out, not at once realising what was happening and then there was the m.u.f.fled explosion of a shot, too m.u.f.fled because the gun was held directly against the policeman's body for the sound even to reach the late-night television viewers in the opposite houses. The policeman staggered back, arms thrust out in a physical reaction of surprise and then his legs buckled and he fell, in a stumbling collapse. Sampson did not step back immediately. Instead he stood over the body and Charlie saw him lean down, put his arm out again and then heard another m.u.f.fled explosion. Charlie was against the edge of the door, leaning weakly against it, when Sampson ran back.

'A copper,' said Charlie. 'You shot a copper!'

'You knew nothing was going to stop me,' said Sampson.

'A copper!' repeated Charlie.

Sampson's arm came up, the muzzle against Charlie's chest like it had been against the policeman's. 'Get into that f.u.c.king car,' ordered Sampson.

Berenkov stared down at the brief freedom signal that had been transmitted from the prison pick-up car to the emba.s.sy and sent from London, an hour before, trying to think and digest clearly through a swamp of conflicting emotions. It wasn't easy, because his mind kept being blocked by the name he often almost daily thought about but which he never thought he would again professionally confront. Charlie. m.u.f.fin. Would the man have changed, over the years? Maybe not: only four, maybe five, after all. Shambling, untidy man, suit b.u.t.tons strained and shirt collar frayed, spread-apart shoes for feet that were always causing him discomfort. The sort of man people dismissed as some object of fun, which was a terrible mistake and why he dressed like that anyway, like a chameleon alters its colours to match its surroundings and stay safe. Berenkov knew the Russian service regarded him as their foremost agent, which was why he occupied the position he did today, despite Kalenin's friendship. Yet despite that expertise, Charlie m.u.f.fin had got him. Got him brilliantly and professionally and debriefed him with matching expertise, without any hostile stupidity that the others had shown, imagining they were different people just because they were on different sides. Charlie had admired him as a professional and Berenkov had admired Charlie as an equal no, better professional. Just as he had admired Charlie's brilliant retribution against his own service, when it decided to dump him. And admired it for its brilliance, not because he was a lucky part of it, the prisoner upon whose release Kalenin insisted after the KGB arrest of Cuthbertson and Wilberforce in Vienna, an arrest to which Charlie had led them, like innocent lambs to the slaughter. Except they hadn't been slaughtered. Just rightly exposed as the incompetent, over-promoted fools they were, incompetent first for imagining that Charlie was disposable and secondly for falling into the Viennese trap anyway. Berenkov had often wondered, during the frequent reflections, how Charlie was withstanding imprisonment. Now, it seemed, he could ask him personally when he arrived.

Because of the special relationship that existed between them and because Kalenin was anxious for Sampson's release in their search for the internal spy Berenkov's request for a meeting with the chairman was immediately granted.

'With Sampson?' queried Kalenin, when Berenkov made the announcement.

'That's what the message said,' repeated Berenkov. 'It's very brief, just the first confirmation of the escape.'

'Wasn't it planned?'

Berenkov shook his head. 'I knew Charlie was in the same jail as Sampson, obviously. Just as it was obvious that they would meet, before I could get Sampson out. I actually intended to ask Sampson as much about him as possible, when Sampson got here. I liked Charlie.'

'I liked him, too,' said Kalenin, who had personally met Charlie and led the Austrian arrests. 'But he isn't a traitor, not like Sampson and the rest.'

'I know,' said Berenkov, conscious of his superior's caution.

'I felt sorry for him, after his capture.'

'I feel sorry for anyone in jail,' said Berenkov. 'Even though I knew I'd get out, just like Sampson knew he'd get out, there were times when I felt so depressed that I thought of suicide ...' Berenkov smiled, embarra.s.sed at the confession. 'Difficult to believe that now.'

'Charlie will find it difficult, adjusting here,' predicted Kalenin.

'Not if he adjusted to jail,' said Berenkov.

'Sampson is the important one,' said Kalenin, hurrying on. 'When are they due?'

'Two days ... three at the most.'

'I've blanketed the emba.s.sy here,' confided Kalenin. 'A squad for anyone who leaves.'

'We've had that emba.s.sy in a net from the moment of the first transmission, weeks before there was any transcription even,' said Berenkov. 'We should have established the contact procedure by now.'

'We should have done a lot of things by now,' said Kalenin, bitterly.

Chapter Nine.

Charlie sat pressed into the corner of the car furthest from Sampson, physically wanting to distance himself from the man: from what he'd done and from everything about him. Charlie decided he was b.u.g.g.e.red; b.u.g.g.e.red in every way. A difficult but maybe just possible operation in the comparative orderliness of the governor's office was right out the window now, if they got caught. And they would get caught. There had been occasions, during his time in intelligence, when Charlie had been on the periphery of a cop killing and he knew the affect it had, among the police. Within an hour of the finding of that poor, face-blasted b.a.s.t.a.r.d back there behind the prison there'd be alarms sounding throughout every southern constabulary and an hour after that road blocks and policemen everywhere. Armed. And ready wanting to shoot at two on-the-run spies who were now killers, as well. Cop killers. b.u.g.g.e.red, thought Charlie, again.

He looked with contempt at Sampson, belatedly conscious of the argument that had erupted between Sampson and the front seat pa.s.senger, a bulky, bull-shouldered man twisted round to face them both. Charlie hadn't recognised the row being in Russian, engrossed in his own thoughts, but he isolated the language now. But didn't understand it. He'd had a pa.s.sing ability, a long time ago; but this was too fast; Sampson appeared as fluent as the man whose natural language it was. Not that Charlie needed to understand, even with the driver joining in with matching anger. The demanding gestures from the front seat pa.s.senger were indication enough, beckoning insistence on being given the gun, matching with Sampson's head-shaking refusal to surrender it. It was the driver who resolved the row, pulling the car into the side of the road, stopping the engine and turning to shout 'Out!' in English.

For several moments there was complete silence in the vehicle. Then Charlie said, 'For Christ's sake, give him the b.l.o.o.d.y thing. You've caused enough trouble with it already. We're just asking to be caught, stuck here like this!'

If he got to Russia and managed to achieve what Wilson wanted, the deal might just stick. But not if they got picked up now. If, if, if, thought Charlie; every consideration was ruled by a doubtful if.

Reluctantly, actually halting the movement in the middle of making it, Sampson offered the Russian the gun. In the sudden illumination of an outside street lamp Charlie saw it was a Smith and Wesson. Sampson handed it over b.u.t.t first, so that the Russian took it with the barrel directed towards Sampson.

'Why not shoot the stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' said Charlie, bitterly.

As the car started again the Russian in the pa.s.senger seat said, 'Why the gun? Everything was already difficult, before this.'

'Ask him, not me,' said Charlie. He was glad the conversation had reverted to English.

Sampson looked despisingly across the car at Charlie and then said to the Russian. 'Because it was necessary. And you d.a.m.ned well know it. If I hadn't been able to silence the policeman as I did we'd have been caught, which would have been an embarra.s.sment to Russia. And worst, the vehicle would have been linked to the escape and to the Soviet emba.s.sy and been an even greater embarra.s.sment. I didn't want to kill the d.a.m.ned man. It was his misfortune to be in the wrong place. I didn't have any alternative and every one of you knows it. Just as I know you were bluffing back there. You wouldn't have forced me out of the car.'

'Maybe it was a good thing for everyone that the challenge wasn't put to the test,' said the Russian, appearing unimpressed at Sampson's bombast.

Charlie turned away from the ridiculous dispute. Through the car window he saw a direction sign to Tower Hamlets. They were travelling east. Where, he wondered. The London streets about which he'd reminisced all the long days and nights in the cell were eerily deserted, the actual City of London always quieter than the rest of the capital. He thought he heard the wail of a police siren and tensed but didn't detect it again, so guessed he must have been mistaken. How long would it be before they found the man crumpled back there by the prison wall?

From inside the car he heard Sampson say, 'Where are the clothes? Surely you thought of clothes?'

The arrogant sod was trying the position of command even here, Charlie recognised. From the front the pa.s.senger handed back two grips.

'Me first,' insisted Sampson, twisting and turning in the confined rear s.p.a.ce. After he had changed and stuffed the prison uniform into the grip Charlie switched, aware of the good quality of the clothing as he put it on and aware, too, that the pockets had things in them, as they would have done if they were normally worn suits. What he thought was grey worsted and definitely a well laundered white shirt. The shoes pinched but with his feet Charlie was used to that. He left them half on and half off, for comfort.

'There,' said the Russian, in front, an order.

Obediently the driver stopped and the other man stuffed the refilled hold-alls into a refuse bin at the pavement edge, carefully ensuring the covering flap came back concealingly into position.

'We are returning from a dinner, in London,' dictated the Russian, as the car moved again. 'There are counterfoils of the tickets in your left hand jacket pocket. Tombola tickets, too ...' He smiled back at them, holding up a crystal decanter with a ticket still attached. 'I was the lucky one.'

Very good, decided Charlie, realising as he did so that they were clearing London. Any road block would be hurried, particularly out of the capital. Photographs certainly wouldn't be available, not this quickly. It was the sort of cover story that might get them through, if the need arose. The ever present if, he thought once more.

'It's fortunate we made the departure arrangements that we did,' said the man in front. 'Let's hope they'll still be possible.' Heavily he added to Sampson, 'And this car is not traceable to our emba.s.sy in London.'

Charlie was caught by the disclaimer as the man came to him. 'You are called m.u.f.fin?'

'Yes,' nodded Charlie.

'I am Letsov.'

Charlie frowned at the introduction. There shouldn't have been ident.i.ties if the man were attached to London. The frown deepened, in self-irritation. It had taken him too long to realise that the Russians would never have risked anyone actually from the emba.s.sy. He looked with renewed interest at the two in front. They were called spetnaz he remembered; an elite and highly secret commando group within the KGB, the equivalent, he supposed, of the British SAS or the American Special Forces. Moscow must regard Sampson as very important indeed to go to all this trouble. The other Englishman appeared relaxed and comfortable in the opposite corner, hand casually looped through an a.s.sistance strap near the door, as if he were actually being chauffeured back from some mundane, late night outing.

To Letsov, Charlie said, 'We're getting out tonight?'

'Of course,' said the Russian, as if he were surprised at the question.

Outside Charlie caught brief sight of a signpost to Braintree. 'And you're coming all the way?'

'No further reason to stay,' said Letsov, confirming Charlie's guess at their being spetnaz.

The driver said something that Charlie didn't catch, in Russian, and he didn't hear Letsov's reply, either, but from the way the man stared through both the front and the rear windows at the remark Charlie guessed it was a reference to there being no obvious police presence.

'Thank you,' said Charlie, to Letsov. 'For all this.'

The Russian shrugged. 'There were orders,' he said.

'Which I initiated,' Sampson reminded.

f.u.c.k you, thought Charlie.

They even risked the motorway when it came, travelling almost completely along its full length before a warning from Letsov at a sign that took them off on an obviously reconnoitred route through minor roads. There were two darkened, sleeping villages and then a bigger place, a small town, which they entered without Charlie being aware of any name. They parked once more to an obviously prepared plan, in a covered, multi-storey car park. Letsov turned back towards them, hefted the decanter and said, 'It seems my luck is holding.'

Almost at once, the smile went. 'The car was a cover. It isn't any longer,' he warned.

Reluctantly Charlie put his feet fully into the shoes, feeling his ankle as he did so. There wasn't any swelling from his clumsy landing and he was glad: he didn't want any indication of weakness in front of Sampson. Or the other two men, either.

As they emerged on to the deserted street Charlie saw, about fifty yards in the opposite direction from which Letsov led them, the tell-tale blue sign of the police station. They really meant to rub it in, thought Charlie.

Letsov and the driver led familiarly but cautiously, almost at once leaving the main road for smaller, bordering ones. Charlie smelled the smell of sea and heard an early shrill of seagulls. Dawn was tentatively on the horizon when they reached the estuary, already forming the buildings in black and grey outlines. Boats, too. It was hardly a proper marina, more a parking place for weekend sailors avid for the pastime without the money truly to enjoy it. Charlie guessed the boats, if he could have seen them more clearly, would be run down, like the mooring.

Their boat was at the end of a small slipway, isolated from the other craft and cowled in a protective covering which the two Russians expertly and silently unclipped and stowed, gesturing Sampson and Charlie into the cramped cabin. The odour was of damp and leaked fuel and in the light which Letsov snapped on, behind curtained windows, Charlie saw most of the inside varnish had peeled whitely away from the timbers.

There was another hold-all on a single bunk to the left. Letsov opened it and tossed heavy blue Guernsey sweaters at them and said, 'Now we're enthusiastic amateur sailors, leaving early. But you two stay below until we've cleared.'

Charlie and Sampson swopped the jackets for the sweaters and sat unspeaking on either side of the cabin. Above Charlie heard the muted, careful sounds of the other men preparing their departure. They must have left only one securing line at the end because directly the engine fired, over loudly in the morning stillness, they cast off, without waiting for it to warm up. They proceeded down river at the lowest throttle but from the note Charlie guessed that unlike the rest of the boat the engine wasn't old or disused. At full throttle it would probably have torn itself from its mountings.

'So everyone s.h.i.t themselves for nothing,' sneered Sampson, triumphantly from across the cabin. 'We made it.'

Charlie said nothing.

After about half an hour there was a change in the motion of the boat, as it encountered the sea-swell. The engine increased its note and the smell of diesel permeated the cabin.

'How much longer before we can go on deck?' demanded Sampson, of no one.

Charlie looked at the man and realised he was suffering seasickness and was glad. 'Be slop-out time back at the nick,' he said, wanting to encourage it. 'All that smell of p.i.s.s.'

'Shut up, for Christ's sake,' said Sampson.

Charlie did, not to spare Sampson but because the baiting was pointless and if he made the b.a.s.t.a.r.d sick for the rest of his life it wouldn't be retribution for what he'd done.

It was another hour before Letsov opened the hatch and by then Sampson was heaving. The man fled to the stern of the boat, retching into the wake and momentarily Charlie thought how easy it would have been to have seized his legs and tipped him over the gunwale. The temptation receded as quickly as it came. They could loop easily, to pick him up. Pointless, like encouraging the sickness.

It was fully light now, a dull, grey day with the clouds stubbornly against the sea, as if they didn't want night to go. Far to port Charlie detected a duck line of fishing boats heading back to harbour and wondered which one it would be. He stepped up, into the c.o.c.kpit. The car driver retained his role, as helmsman. Letsov stood with a chart spread between them, minutely focussing a radio. Charlie became aware that the man was concentrating upon a heavy wrist watch and at some clearly pre-arranged time pressed a relay b.u.t.ton on the set. It would be short burst transmission, Charlie knew, expertly: a full message electronically reduced to a meaningless blip to any accidental interception, decipherable only to those properly listening for it.

'We were lucky,' said Letsov, speaking to Charlie but looking beyond, to the still retching Sampson. 'I guess it took a long time to find the body.'

'He didn't have to die,' insisted Charlie.