The Blind Run

Chapter Twenty-Two

Natalia Fedova was the third person to enter the room. Her arrival completely confused Charlie but he was sure there was no outward indication. He remained as he was, lounged over the lectern in the front of the small lecture hall, glad there were more behind, which meant he didn’t have to begin immediately, having time to think instead. What the hell was she doing there! Berenkov wouldn’t have made contact and he wouldn’t have got past the selection interviews or – most indicative of all – been allowed in a place with the security of Balashikha if they didn’t trust him. So it couldn’t be a test. And if it were a test then it wouldn’t be done like this, with her taking her place sedately in one of the seats confronting him: it would be with microphones and cameras, entrapment devices trying to catch him in an unguarded moment. Maybe it was a move of Krysin’s. Charlie recognised he’d made the academy director look a fool in front of the other selectors so maybe the man was invoking whatever authority he possessed to get Natalia to run another check and maybe make an adverse report, reducing the impression that he appeared to have made with the other examiners.

Charlie was waiting when she finally looked up. He smiled at her. She made no response, instead looking away with the appearance of discomfort. Charlie accepted that his conclusion might be wrong, but it was the best he could manage. OK, Natalia Nikandrova Fedova he thought, if you want to see a performance then you’ll see a performance. As the one thought came, so did another. Always honest with himself, Charlie realised that he’d enjoy showing off to her.

There were five, in addition to Natalia, one other woman and four men. Although the room was small, it still left a lot of space. They arranged themselves in seats in varying rows: Natalia was third from the front. Charlie waited until they had settled themselves, watching while the other woman and two of the men took out notepads and arranged pencils alongside.

‘ Dobraya utra,’ said Charlie.

‘ Dobraya utra,’ every one of them replied and Charlie slapped the desk and said, ‘You’ve all just been arrested.’

The group assembled in front of him looked among themselves uncertainly and Charlie said, ‘What you’ve just done is inconceivable! You are supposed to have qualified from every training course, to be ready to be infiltrated anywhere in the West. You’re not Russian any more. You don’t think Russian, speak Russian, you’re not Russian.’

It had been gimmicky – the oldest gimmick in the book – but it had worked. He had their attention. The fact that they had fallen for the oldest entrapment gimmick didn’t say much for their training.

‘You,’ said Charlie, pointing to a fair-haired man nearest to him, in the front row. ‘What is your name?’

‘Belik,’ replied the young man, ‘Gennadi Belik.’

‘What have Zachary Taylor, James Buchanan and Rutherford Hayes got in common?’

The young man smiled, relieved. ‘They were all presidents of the United States of America.’

Charlie sighed. ‘Shall I tell you who knows that?’ he said. ‘American historians, academics, know that. A few hundred college students. And foreign agents force-fed facts, in the stupid belief that it gives them cover…’ If Krysin heard this – and Charlie didn’t have any doubt that he would – he’d be even more unhappy. He said to the man, ‘All right, what should you have said?’

Belik coloured, the uncertainty obvious. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, responding to Charlie’s question.

‘Exactly!’ accepted Charlie. ‘You didn’t know. Don’t ever go beyond what is absolutely essential to maintain whatever legends you’re living. Someone who can recite the names of three obscure presidents of the United States is drawing attention to himself. The essential requirement if you are going to survive – and this is what we’re literally talking about, survival – then you must never, under any circumstances, draw attention to yourselves. You become people of whom nobody is aware. You see but are not seen…’ He pointed to the other women. ‘What is your name?’

‘Olga Suvorov,’ replied the woman. She was nondescript and mousy haired: a good choice, thought Charlie.

He said, ‘Before entering the room, you assembled, outside?’

She nodded.

‘You see but are not seen,’ repeated Charlie. ‘Stay looking directly at me, like you are at the moment. Stay looking directly at me and describe how everyone else is dressed, in the room.’

Olga’s eyes flicked sideways and Charlie said, ‘Look at me!’

Predictably, Olga began with Natalia. ‘Grey dress,’ she began, awkwardly. ‘Belted. Shoes… I think the shoes were black. The men… suits, all but two. I think three were grey… no, two were…’

‘Stop,’ said Charlie. Holding the woman’s eyes he said, ‘You have an oatmeal dress, brown shoes and a ladder in the left leg of your stockings. It’s not visible now, because of the way you are sitting, but you have a necklace with a black stone pendant, and your ear-rings don’t match. They’re dark blue. The other woman in the class is wearing a grey dress. The shoes aren’t black, they’re dark grey and if you remembered that the dress was belted you should have remembered also that the front buttons are heavy and black. She has a gold chain at her throat, not ear-rings, although her ears are pierced. She isn’t wearing stockings. The man in the front seat is wearing a green sports jacket and grey trousers, which haven’t been pressed. He’s a smoker, because the fingers of his left hand are nicotine stained. That’s not the only indication of his being a heavy smoker. Sometimes he does it surreptitiously, holding the cigarette cupped in the palm of his hand. The hand is stained, too…’ Instinctively Belik moved to cover his hand. Charlie went on… ‘He has a grey shirt and a grey knitted tie. The left cuff of the shirt is frayed. Sometime in the past his fountain-pen leaked: there’s a large stain, which was visible when he took out some pencils to take notes, at the beginning of this session. The two men in the back row are wearing suits. One is plain grey, the other with a predominant blue check over grey. Both the shirts are white: one tie is red, the other a pattern, mostly blue. The grey suit is old: there is a repair mark on the left knee. The check isn’t new, either. The seat is worn and shiny. Both have black shoes. The man in the grey suit has the nervous habit of biting his nails, left hand more than the right…’ The accused man moved his hands, like Belik had earlier. ‘The man in the patterned suit also has a nervous mannerism, moving the ring on his left hand. The fourth man in this class is wearing a brown sports jacket with lighter brown trousers, with brogue shoes. The shoes are in need of repair, both badly down at heel. The tie is red and trying to conform to some earlier instruction, the knot is a wide one, no doubt a style you’ve been taught is popular in the West, particularly in America. The man in the brown jacket is impatient with this lesson, considering it a waste of time: five times already he’s checked the time. He’s appeared to make notes but from the movement of the pencil, they haven’t been notes. They’ve been doodles, a way to pass the time…’

Charlie broke away from his direct stare at Olga Suvorov, encompassing the class. The face of the man in the brown jacket blazed red and both Belik and the man at the rear sat with their hands beneath the desk now. Gimmicky again, conceded Charlie – later they might even decide it hadn’t been such an impressive trick, because he’d had the advantage of looking out at them, even though they’d have to accept that all of them were partially hidden by the desks at which they sat – but it was still effective. They were all looking among themselves, with the exception of Natalia. She met Charlie’s gaze this time, the expression on her face one of faint amusement. Was it amusement? wondered Charlie. Or contempt?

To the embarrassed man in the brown jacket Charlie said, ‘How are you called?’

‘Popov,’ said the man. ‘Yuri Pavlovich Popov.’

‘No!’ said Charlie. ‘Listen, for Christ’s sake listen! You’ve been trained to infiltrate countries that speak English. Which means England or the United States or Canada or Australia or New Zealand or – although unlikely – South Africa. No one there, seeking your name, says “How are you called?” That’s English constructed from a foreign language. It’s another interrogation trick, like saying good morning in Russian.’

‘How should we respond, then?’

The question came from Natalia. Charlie looked to her, thinking again how attractive she was: not beautiful, but attractive. A contemptuous question? he wondered, recalling her earlier expression. Or one of genuine interest? He was talking of interrogation – entrapment – and she’d interrogated him. It could be a test. If he proved himself too adept at confronting and resisting interrogation then she might suspect that he’d tricked her. ‘Always with innocence,’ he said. ‘Because that’s what you always are, innocent of whatever stupidity has caused whatever has happened to you. Not anger. Or arrogance. Anger and arrogance fit, of course, but unless they’re absolutely genuine they’re too easy to detect and undermine. Innocence is the barrier. Because if you’re innocent then it’s natural to be confused and if you’re confused then it’s perfectly understandable if you stumble and appear awkward – if you make dangerous mistakes, even.’ Charlie hesitated, wondering whether to continue. She was concentrating absolutely upon him and Charlie was warmed by the attention. He went on, ‘But use being a confused innocent…’ He looked to the brown-jacketed man who had identified himself as Yuri Popov. ‘“How are you called?” didn’t fit and instead of being anxious to respond you should have come back at me and asked me what I meant. By doing that, you tilt the balances so that I have to provide, to your questioning.’

‘You!’ demanded Charlie suddenly, gesturing to the man at the rear in the overchecked suit. ‘What’s the point I’m making?’

The man twitched, unhappy at the sudden, unwelcome attention. Blushing at his inability – like Popov had blushed before him – the man said ‘I’m not sure,’ and stopped, miserably.

‘Good!’ praised Charlie, aware of the other man’s look of surprise. ‘You didn’t mean it but that was exactly the lesson. Never make the mistake of trying to respond either fully or at once to any question. Always remember you’re confused, that you don’t understand. Always misunderstand and gain time from it.’

‘You!’ said Charlie, finger-pointing again and continuing the demands, this time to Natalia. ‘What’s been peculiar about everything I’ve said, so far today?’

The relief from everyone else in the room at having avoided such a question was palpable. Natalia showed no discomfort. Nor hurry, either. She actually looked down at her desk, considering the answers and then she came back to him and said, ‘Defeat. Everything you’ve said has been directed towards our detection; the need for us satisfactorily to withstand investigation.’

Charlie’s reactions were mixed. The first was a satisfaction of his own, that she’d got the answer right. Then there were others. Us, she’d said: the need for us satisfactorily to withstand investigation. Was Natalia really someone under consideration for overseas posting: someone who, when she was posted, he was going to betray? Just once, thought Charlie, he’d like there to be more answers than there were questions in a single day. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Exactly right.’

Natalia flushed, pleased, and Charlie was pleased, too.

‘You!’ he said, schoolmasterly again, to the man in grey whom he’d so far spared. ‘What are you called?’

The man frowned and said, ‘I’m sorry. I do not understand.’

‘Good,’ smiled Charlie. ‘Very good. What is your name?’

‘Valeri Pavlovich Vlasov,’ said the man, grateful his test had come last, so that he’d had time to learn.

‘So tell me, Valeri Pavlovich Vlasov. Why do you think I’ve been concentrating upon how to resist interrogation?’

The man’s relief seeped away, like air from a balloon. ‘Because it is important,’ he blurted desperately.

‘Why is it important?’ pressed Charlie.

Recalling the earlier instructions, Vlasov said, ‘To survive.’

‘Should it have got this far?’ said Charlie.

‘I don’t understand,’ said the man, trying to flee up the already signposted escape route.

Charlie didn’t allow him the escape, but he spread the question to involve everyone in the room. ‘Why?’ he said, again. ‘Why do you imagine that I consider resistance so important, at our very first meeting? You!’ He pointed to Natalia. ‘Tell me what you think.’

There wasn’t the hesitation this time. ‘I don’t think you’ve any confidence in our being able to escape detection,’ she said simply. ‘I think you imagine that we’d be swept up, almost as soon as we arrived.’

‘You would,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t think any of you would stand a chance. You’ve been taught like animals, to perform tricks. Seals can balance balls on their noses and dogs can balance on their hind legs providing the trick is always demanded in the same way, through the same formula. You’ve been taught in a formularised way and the easiest way to be detected is to behave to a formula. Agents behave to a formula; not ordinary people. Ordinary people – the sort of people that you’re expected to be – make mistakes and get drunk and forget to pay the rent…’ Charlie raised his hand, seeing the look upon the faces of both Belik and Popov. ‘Which is not a contradiction of what I said about being unobtrusive. It’s in support of it. Ordinary, unsuspicious wallpaper-on-the-wall people do those things. No one hasn’t ever forgotten to pay a bill or parked wrongly on a line or taken too much at a party. Who are the good guys, at a party? The drunks or the sober ones, who get remembered afterwards?’

‘So what are you saying?’ asked Natalia, who appeared to be emerging as the spokesman for the group.

‘That’s better,’ praised Charlie, almost over-effusively. ‘Turn as many questions back as you can. What I’m saying is that I think you’ve all got to relearn – every one of you. I don’t mean go back to the basic classes and undergo every course again. I mean that having assimilated the courses, you’ve got to adapt what you’ve learned into what it’s supposed to make you, a Westerner. And stop being Russians who’ve been taught to balance balls on their noses, when the trick is demanded of them.’

Charlie’s ability to describe how every one of them was dressed from their initial entry into the room wasn’t a trick; not any longer, anyway. It had been, years ago, when the need was first explained to him, a conscious effort at memory but now it was instinctive. The conscious effort he was making was about their faces, faces he was later going to have to recall, to photofit artists so that complete reconstructions could be made and circulated throughout the security services, for them to be detected. He was fairly confident that he could do it already, from this first meeting. Every succeeding day was going to be an advantage. He said, ‘I’m going to make you Westerners: instinctive, automatic, easily assimilated Westerners. There are going to be times when you think I am wasting your time…’ He glanced at Popov, who looked discomfited again. ‘I won’t be wasting your time. I’ll be teaching you apparently stupid, inconsequential things and it’s what appears stupid and inconsequential that will keep you safe from detection.’ Charlie smiled around the room, the first time he had appeared to relax. Before they had time to get that impression, he said, ‘All right. With one exception – because it wasn’t demanded – you’ve all made a mistake. What was it?’

Yet again there were uncertain movements throughout the group, Natalia less than the others.

‘You told me your names,’ said Charlie. ‘Because I’m standing here, at the head of the class, you assumed I had authority – the right to know – and when I asked you responded to that authority. Weren’t you all provided with pseudonyms, when you came here?’

It was a question for later, when he returned to England. While he was at Balashikha he would learn all he could about the training and the instruction. To know precisely how the Russians taught their agents would be invaluable.

From the people in front of him there were nods of agreement.

‘Then they were provided for a reason,’ said Charlie. ‘For protection, even here. It’s the same lesson as before; don’t feel the need to respond. Until it becomes an automatic response, consciously look behind every question – every instruction – for a second or third or fourth reason for that question or instructions…’ Charlie hesitated, remembering the lessons he had learned at the knee of Sir Archibald Willoughby, the Director under whom he had worked for so long. Recalling one verbatim, Charlie said, ‘There is never a straight line, in espionage. Always too many, conflicting lines.’

Charlie generalised for a further hour and it was a more subdued group that prepared to leave than the one that had entered. As they gathered their things, Charlie said to Natalia, ‘Can I speak to you?’

The woman appeared embarrassed at being finally singled out from the rest, smiling at them apologetically and then turning back to Charlie. When they were alone Charlie said, ‘I was surprised.’

‘So was I.’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘Not that it would be you… just that it was an extra course. Something special…’ She hesitated, smiling at him this time and said, ‘Should I be looking for a second or third or fourth reason in the questions?’

He grinned back at her. ‘Maybe we both should.’

‘I don’t know if it’s possible but I think it would be best if I applied to be taken off the course, don’t you?’

Did that mean she really was undergoing overseas instruction? He said, ‘Would it really be difficult for you?’

‘Obviously,’ she said, appearing surprised at his question. ‘Wouldn’t it for you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t think so.’ Having re-established contact, he didn’t want to lose it. He said, ‘Why don’t we talk about it further… somewhere other than here?’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, either.’

‘We don’t seem sure about anything, do we?’

‘I think you upset everybody,’ said Natalia.

‘Seems to be a habit I have,’ said Charlie.

‘Having you here is an innovation, instructions from outside.’

Berenkov, Charlie presumed. He said, ‘Resented?’

‘The other instructors didn’t appear very keen. Today’s group were supposed to be graduate level.’

Charlie wished he could categorise Natalia’s place in all this. He said, ‘And supposed to test me?’

She nodded. ‘You were very impressive.’

Charlie felt a physical reaction to her praise, a stomach tightening. He said, ‘They weren’t.’

‘Maybe they thought it was going to be too easy. Relaxed too much.’

‘That isn’t any sort of excuse. Explanation even,’ said Charlie, professionally.

Her face closed against him and Charlie wished he hadn’t spoken so curtly. ‘That wasn’t meant to be a rebuke,’ he said.

‘I should be joining the others.’

‘I can do it now,’ said Charlie, purposely obtuse.

She frowned back at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘During one of the debriefings I said I couldn’t invite you out to dinner, because I didn’t have any money. This job pays. What are you doing tonight?’

She smiled at him again, shaking her head. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Charlie, still intentionally awkward. If she refused him now then any subsequent refusal would be easier for her.

‘It wouldn’t look right.’

‘Who’d be looking?’ If they knew, they’d both probably be surprised, he thought.

‘Going out to dinner in Moscow isn’t easy, like it is in the West.’

She was weakening, Charlie realised. ‘I’d still like to try,’ he said. ‘Please.’

Natalia hesitated. Then she said, ‘All right.’

Charlie felt the stomach tightening come again.

Kalenin set out his miniature tanks to recreate Montgomery’s confrontation in North Africa against Rommel, fully familiar with the ploys and the strategies of the battle. Having assembled them, he remained staring down. There had been a sandstorm, he remembered; a blinding, concealing sandstorm and Montgomery had utilised the advantage.

Was he being deflected by a sandstorm? wondered the KGB chairman. Kalenin knew he had done all the right things and made all the right moves to try to locate his traitor. But he still couldn’t see anything. So what was he doing wrong? What was blinding him from looking in the right direction?

Kalenin turned away from his game, uninterested. The order had come from the Politburo for regular reports. Kalenin was aware that rarely – at any time during his career – had he been so exposed.