Part 5 (1/2)

'Got that from the radio,' said Sampson. 'Amazing how easy it is to learn of the outside contracts given by the Public Works Department if you know the right way to go about it. And the Soviet emba.s.sy do. Work is going to start in a fortnight. And it will actually involve removing the bars from the windows ...' Sampson grinned, self-satisfied. 'From the window of a room that I now know intimately, along a corridor where I'm an accepted figure, someone with every right to be there ...' He nodded towards the radio yet again. 'I'll be told when the bars are coming out: when to run. Everything will be ready, outside.'

'That's how George Blake got out,' remembered Charlie, looking at the black set in the centre of the table.

'Exactly!' said Sampson, triumphantly. 'Got away from a forty-two year sentence and is now in contented and happy retirement in Moscow. Can you imagine the embarra.s.sment, when it happens again! It'll make the British look so stupid that no other service in the world will think of telling them the time of day.'

Sampson was right, Charlie thought: the embarra.s.sment would be incredible. The numbness came again, in antic.i.p.ation this time.

'Which is why I tried to keep you out of the cell,' said Sampson. 'You were a complication I didn't want. But when I started making moves, through Hickley, I learned that to get you transferred I'd have to have someone else. And I wanted that even less ...' Sampson put his head to one side. 'You realise what I'm saying, don't you?' he said.

'Yes,' said Charlie quietly. 'I realise what you're saying.'

'I'll take you with me,' said Sampson. 'I'll get you out of this place and safely to Russia ...' He laughed suddenly, unable to contain his euphoria. 'And we'll live happily ever after.'

Out, thought Charlie. Dear G.o.d, the thought of being out.

Sampson came forward on his bunk, narrowing the distance between them. 'But understand something,' warned the man. 'I'm taking you because I haven't any choice. And I'm telling you about it because I haven't got any choice about that, either. And because I know how you feel about being in here, because I've seen the way you go on with that calendar, every b.l.o.o.d.y day. But if you do anything to f.u.c.k it up, anything at all, then I'll have you killed.'

Charlie just stared back at him.

'I could do that, you know? Have you killed, I mean. It really wouldn't be at all difficult, with the contacts I've got either inside or out. Nothing, nothing at all, is going to stop me getting out. You understand?'

'Yes,' said Charlie. 'I understand.'

I'm getting out, thought Charlie. But not your way, b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You're going to stay in jail forever.

The following day, Charlie was posted to the administration block, where the governor's office was and where the clerical staff worked. The prison officer caught him trying to slip a paper knife into the waistband of his trousers on the Tuesday.

The rose in Sir Alistair Wilson's b.u.t.tonhole matched those in the vase on his desk, pervading the room with their perfume. The messages that had been transmitted from Moscow, from the very beginning, were attached to a master file, indexed in the order of their receipt. The British Director rippled his finger along the edge and said, 'There's a h.e.l.l of a lot here.'

'Let's hope it isn't too much,' said the always cautious Harkness.

'They haven't changed the Baikonur code,' said Wilson, referring to the uppermost message, the one that had come in overnight.

'Which means they haven't broken ours yet,' said the deputy. He seemed surprised. Or disappointed.

'It's taking longer than I antic.i.p.ated.'

'We've got to a.s.sume they've intercepted the transmission by now,' said Harkness. 'They'll be going mad not knowing what it is.'

'They're never properly going to know that,' said Wilson.

'We hope,' said the restrained Harkness. 'This is only the beginning, after all. The very beginning.'

'Still uncertain about the sacrifice?'

'It'll be a h.e.l.l of a sacrifice if it doesn't work,' said Harkness.

'It'll work,' said Wilson, confidently. He stretched his hand out towards his beloved roses and said, 'Know what these are called?'

'What?' said Harkness.

'Seven Sisters,' disclosed the Director. 'Appropriate, don't you think?'

'The identification comes from Three Sisters,' reminded Harkness.

'Near enough,' said Wilson. 'Near enough.'

Chapter Seven.

Charlie knew he was taking a terrible risk; of the governor dismissing what he was going to say as nonsense or of Sampson finding out, because of gossip among the screws. But there wasn't any other way: certainly not one he had been able to think of since Sampson had told him what he intended doing. The sweat was banded around Charlie's waist and his hands were damp, clasped obediently behind his back. He couldn't remember being as nervous as this, not even on a job when things looked as if they were going wrong.

Armitrage sighed up at him, a man of perpetual hope disappointed yet again. 'This is serious,' he said. 'Far more serious than the last occasion.'

'There's a reason, sir,' said Charlie.

The governor picked the knife up from the desk, as if he were weighing it and said, 'There can only be one obvious reason for attempting to steal a knife, m.u.f.fin.'

Commitment time, realised Charlie. He knew very slightly one of the escorting officers, a man named Dailey, but not the other one. What if Sampson did too, like he seemed to know everything and everybody else? Charlie didn't intend naming Sampson, of course: that was his bargaining counter. But it would make a h.e.l.l of a story to boast about having heard, to other officers. And other officers would repeat it, even though to disclose what he intended saying outside of this room would be an appalling breach of security. Charlie knew enough about security to know how little of it really existed. He said, 'I took the knife intending that I should be seen doing it ... intending that I would be put on a charge.'

Armitrage came up to him again, frowning. 'What!'

'I wanted to be brought before you, sir,' said Charlie.

'Definitely trying to conceal the knife, sir,' insisted Dailey.

'But I wasn't trying to hide myself doing it, was I?' demanded Charlie. 'I was facing you when I did it, for Christ's sake!' Regulations didn't allow him to question the warders: even behave like this in front of the governor. But he didn't give a d.a.m.n about regulations. Only one thing mattered: that they eventually believed him and even if they didn't fully believe him became frightened enough to react properly.

Dailey waited for the correction to come from the governor and when it didn't he said, 'It was a clumsy attempt at concealment.'

'Intentionally clumsy,' insisted Charlie. He paused and then he said, 'There is an escape being planned from this jail, an escape the embarra.s.sment of which will cause repercussions sufficient to bring about your dismissal. Demands for your resignation, certainly.'

Probably too strong, conceded Charlie. But he had to bestir the silly old b.u.g.g.e.r somehow. On each side of him, Dailey and the warder he didn't know s.h.i.+fted and actually moved closer, as if they expected Charlie to make a run for it there and then.

Armitrage's demeanour of vague distraction slipped away. He came tight-faced to Charlie and said, 'What is it? I want to know all about it. Everything.'

'No,' said Charlie.

The governor's face reddened, the anger obvious. 'I want to know all about it,' he repeated. 'And you will tell me.'

'No,' said Charlie again. 'Not now. I will tell you, but only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson.'

'Sir Alistair Wilson?'

'The Director.'

'Don't be preposterous!' said Armitrage.