The Blind Run

Chapter Three

The man shuddered as the cell door closed solidly behind him, turning to stare at it. Charlie remembered doing the same; everyone did, the first time. After several moments the man moved further into the cell, his belongings collected in a rolled up towel. In his swamping tunic, Charlie thought he looked like a shipwreck victim rescued on an island of big men. The newcomer seemed aware of it as the impression came to Charlie, looking down at himself as if for the first time, plucking disdainfully at the rough cloth with his fingers. He put the towel roll on the empty bunk and gazed around, at the table and the chair and the wall rack, briefly at Charlie and then, for the longest time, up at the narrow triangle of light from the only window. Charlie waited and saw the abrupt sag of his shoulders.

‘Christ,’ he said, hollow-voiced.

‘You get used to it.’

The man started, as if he’d forgotten Charlie’s presence. He turned to face Charlie and said ‘Sampson. Edwin Sampson.’

He offered his hand. The instinctive politeness of public school, thought Charlie. He allowed the briefest contact between them, not bothering to stand. Sampson frowned at the rudeness.

‘I know who you are,’ said Sampson. ‘They told me.’

‘I read about you,’ said Charlie. ‘The beginning of the trial, at least.’

‘Thirty years!’ said Sampson. ‘That’s what I got. Thirty years.’ He looked again towards the window.

‘You must have done a lot of damage.’

‘That sounded critical.’

‘It wasn’t meant to sound anything.’

‘You can hardly bloody talk: there isn’t a section in the department that doesn’t know what you did,’ said Sampson, viciously, if you hadn’t managed to run until the Treason Law limitation ran out, you’d be doing thirty years too: most probably.’

‘I wasn’t criticising,’ repeated Charlie, wearily.

‘Everyone said you were bloody rude: people who could remember you, that is.’

Sampson swore with a small-boy defiance, as if he were trying to shock. Charlie swung back on to his bunk, lying with his hands cupped behind his head. He had bigger problems than worrying about offending a snotty-voiced little bugger who’d sold his country down the river. Charlie hadn’t done that; no one but he could ever accept the qualification, not even the damned judge to whom it had been so patiently explained, but it was the truth. Charlie knew he wasn’t a traitor.

‘What am I supposed to do?’ asked Sampson. There was a plaintiveness about the question.

‘Why not make your bed?’ suggested Charlie, nodding towards the folded blankets. ‘This is recreation period but you don’t get it first night in.’

‘Recreation?’

‘There’s a television room, place to play chess and draughts and things like that.’

‘Why are you locked up then?’ demanded the younger man.

Clever, thought Charlie, ‘I’m on restrictions… punishment,’ said Charlie.

‘What for?’

Charlie sighed. ‘In prison you don’t ask anyone what they’re doing time for and you don’t ask about their punishments. You don’t ask about their background or their families. In fact you don’t ask about anything. This is the nick, son: not a public school.’

‘That was another thing they said about you: that you’re an inverted snob,’ said Sampson.

‘I don’t give a shit what they say about me,’ said Charlie. It was all past: too long past.

‘Is it bad? In here, I mean?’ The nervousness was obvious in Sampson’s question.

Charlie turned again to look at the man. ‘You’ll find it rough, at first,’ he said, ‘In fact, you’ll find it bloody awful. But you adjust, learn to behave prison fashion. Keep your head down, until you learn the rules,’ Charlie paused. ‘And I don’t mean the official ones, on the printed form.’ Pity he didn’t practise what he preached, thought Charlie.

Sampson had his back to Charlie, trying to arrange the blankets in some proper shape over the bed and failing. Charlie thought kids made their own beds at public school: or did they still have fags to do it for them? Sampson would get a bollocking at cell inspection. After several moments Sampson turned and sat down, squatting forward towards Charlie.

‘I want you to know,’ he announced.

‘Know what?’

‘What I did.’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘It’s important,’ insisted Sampson, ‘I’ve been operating for them for eight years: I was on station in Beirut, so I was able to monitor all the Middle East activities of the British. Then I was liaison in Washington. Made some good friends there, not just in the CIA but in the FBI as well. Managed to let Moscow have a hell of a lot of personnel and biographical stuff; you know how they like that, for the personality index they keep. For two years I was in European Planning, with access to the NATO desk. I suppose that was the most productive time…’

‘I said I didn’t want to know,’ said Charlie, not looking at the man. Sampson was a bastard, to have done all that. Even his arrest would have worked in Moscow’s favour: disclosure of what Sampson had leaked would make America as well as NATO suspicious about co-operating with British intelligence for a long time. Mean a lot of agent and schedule changes would be necessary, too.

‘I’ve got rank, in the Russian service,’ said Sampson, ‘I’m a major.’ He sounded proud, ‘I warned them they could face a disaster.’

‘Good for you,’ said Charlie, uninterested in what the man meant. Bastard, he thought again.

‘You don’t understand why that’s important, do you?’ said Sampson, impatiently.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, with equal impatience. ‘For your sake I hope you’re not disappointed.’

‘I won’t be,’ said Sampson, with confidence. ‘The great difference between the Russian service and every other one is that they’ll never let their people rot in jail. They always arrange an exchange. They will, for me, certainly after all I’ve done.’ He started up, suddenly encouraged. ‘I won’t spend thirty years in here,’ he said. ‘Maybe a year: perhaps two. That’s all.’ The man had been moving jerkily between the bunks. Caught by the thought he stopped and said, ‘How long have you been in?’

Charlie hesitated. He wouldn’t let the other man know about the daily count. ‘Nearly a year and a half,’ he said.

‘Oh.’ Sampson’s confident excitement leaked away.

‘Don’t use that as any sort of criterion,’ said Charlie. ‘Moscow wouldn’t regard me as they do you. I’m not one of theirs.’ That was the biggest illogicality of all; the people for whom he was supposed to have been an operative knew he wasn’t a traitor and couldn’t give a sod about him.

‘That’s not true,’ said Sampson, more to reassure himself than Charlie.

‘Yes it is,’ said Charlie. ‘Don’t get any half-assed idea that you and I are the same.’

‘Why are you so fucking belligerent?’ demanded Sampson, in sudden, surprising anger.

Fuck: the ultimate defiance, thought Charlie. ‘Can’t seem to help it,’ he said.

‘We’re stuck together,’ said Sampson, the anger growing. ‘Whether you like it or not, that’s a fact. From what I’ve seen thus far, I don’t like you. I think you’re scruffy and you smell and I think you go out of your way to be unpleasant. And all the stories I ever heard, about your stupid social attitudes, they seem to be true, as well. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t touch you with a long, disinfected pole. But I haven’t. I’ve got to live just five feet away from you: I hope to Christ for the shortest amount of time possible. But still live with you. I know all about this crap that you did what you did because the Director set you up to be sacrificed: that you’re still loyal. It’s all bullshit, something you cling to like a child clings to a comfort blanket. You know the Russian way is best, just like I do. I know what’s going to happen to me. I’ve just got to tolerate you, until my release is arranged. So what do you say? Are we going to be friends? Or fools?’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Charlie, turning determinedly against the wall, with his back to the man.

Behind he heard Sampson laugh at him. It was a fitting reaction, decided Charlie. He was being a prick.

‘Chekhov,’ identified Wilson.

‘Yes,’ agreed Harkness. ‘It’s from Three Sisters. ’

The British Director looked down at the chosen identification message. ‘If I lived in Moscow,’ he quoted. ‘I don’t think I’d care what the weather was like.’

‘The preceding lines provide the response,’ said Harkness. ‘“People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.”’

‘Good,’ judged Wilson. ‘Innocent enough.’

‘Do you know the other play of Chekhov’s, The Seagull?’ asked Harkness.

Wilson shook his head.

‘There are two characters in it, Medvedenko and Masha,’ reminded the deputy. ‘There’s a scene in which Medvedenko asks Masha “Why do you wear black all the time?” And Masha replies “I’m in mourning for my life. I’m unhappy.”’

‘Maybe that’ll be appropriate,’ agreed Wilson.