The skin was torn as well, because the metal was sharp, and although the wound was cleaned almost immediately an infection developed – from the air laden with paint and solvent spray the doctor thought – which meant Charlie was detained in the infirmary. Safe again, thought Charlie; like he had been on restrictions, when Sampson first arrived. The relief, at that awareness of safety, was a physical thing; the muscles of his body ached, at the tenseness with which he’d held himself and now he relaxed he felt that ache – the discomfort almost as much as that from his arm, dulled by local anaesthetic. Was Hargrave right? Now it had happened, now that he’d taken his punishment, would things get better? Dear God, he hoped so. He knew – always objective – that he couldn’t go on as he had, these last few weeks. He wanted to continue defying them. And the system. Christ, how he wanted to! But like Hargrave said and like Sampson said, it wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. He had to adjust. Not conforming: not giving in. Just adjusting. Just being realistic. Was it true, what Sampson had said, about his still having a reputation within the department for realism? He liked to think so. Be good, to be remembered in the department. To be admired. Abruptly Charlie stopped the reverie. If it were admiration, it would be begrudging, after what he’d done.
Miller, the state registered nurse who replaced Sampson as the hospital orderly, made the approach to Charlie after supper the first night. He was a flaking skinned, nervously smiling man: Charlie thought he looked capable of indecency but hardly of making it gross.
‘Sampson said he’s sorry you got hurt.’
‘Tell him thanks,’ said Charlie.
‘Want anything for the arm? I could give you some pain killers.’
‘It’ll be all right.’
‘Sampson sent you this,’ said the man, offering his hand palm down, his body shielding the gesture from the doctor and the duty prison officer in the ward cubicle. Charlie cupped his hand beneath Miller’s and looked down at the small container.
‘It’s whisky,’ identified Miller.
Another medicine bottle, Charlie saw. Would it be watered like last time. ‘Thank him for this, too,’ he said.
‘He said to say if there was anything else you wanted.’
‘Tell him this will be fine. That I’m grateful.’
Charlie waited until long after lights out, the bottle hidden within the pillow cover, his fingers against its hard edge. Set-up, like he’d feared before? Or the bridge that Sampson said he was offering? Adjust, remembered Charlie; he’d decided to adjust. And it would, after all, be a way to discover if the pressure were still on. Easily able to conceal the movement from the ward cubicle, Charlie eased the small bottle from its hiding place, unscrewed the cap and drank. It wasn’t watered this time. It was malt and smooth and although the bottle had seemed small there seemed to be a lot of it and Charlie took it all. If it were a set-up then Charlie decided he couldn’t give a damn; it was worth it.
But it wasn’t a set-up. There was no search and no discovery and two nights later Miller brought in more and Charlie got away with that as well.
Charlie’s arm was still strapped when he was released from the hospital, which meant he didn’t return to the registration plate workshop. He thought he might have got kitchen duties but instead was seconded back to the library, a temporary assignment because they were restocking and needed someone who knew the system. Charlie went direct from the hospital to the library the first day, so it was not until the evening that he returned to his cell and felt able to talk openly to Sampson.
‘Appreciated the whisky,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Glad you felt able to drink it this time,’ said Sampson.
Charlie hesitated at the moment of commitment, finding it difficult. Sampson was still a snotty little sod who got up his nose. At last he said, ‘There doesn’t seem a lot of point in fighting running battles.’
There was no obvious triumph in Sampson’s smile and Charlie was glad of it. ‘No point at all,’ agreed the other man.
Charlie sat down on his bunk and gazed around the tiny cell. ‘Forgotten how small it was, after the space of the hospital,’ he said.
‘Notice anything new?’ demanded Sampson.
Charlie did, as the man spoke, standing and going over to the small table, better able to see the radio. ‘How the hell did you get this?’
‘Applied for it,’ said Sampson, simply. He came beside Charlie and indicated a coiled aerial wire. ‘I can run that up to the cell window,’ he said. ‘The reception is terrific.’
‘This will make life much more pleasant,’ said Charlie.
Sampson smiled at him again and said, ‘You’d be surprised.’
Alexei Berenkov had been repatriated from British imprisonment to Moscow aware of his in absentia promotion to general as a recognition of a lifetime of spying in the West, expecting a dacha at Sochi and maybe a sinecure lecturing at one of the spy colleges. He wondered, initially, if his appointment instead to the planning department of the KGB, attached to the Dzer-zhinsky Square headquarters itself, was nepotism, the visible indication of the friendship that existed between himself and Kalenin. There were obviously some who felt the same thing and clearly the relationship between himself and the chairman was an important factor but Berenkov knew he would not have got the posting if Kalenin hadn’t thought he was capable of performing the function of division director – officially designated a deputy – because Kalenin was too adroit to do anything that might cause him personal difficulty. And Berenkov was pragmatic enough to know that he hadn’t caused the man any difficulty. The reverse, in fact. There hadn’t been a single, important mistake since Berenkov’s appointment and two – one in Tokyo, the other in Iran – impressive successes.
Berenkov was glad to be home. He missed the comparable freedom of the West – a freedom he was sufficiently personally confident enough to talk about openly and discuss – and the bon viveur life he’d been able to enjoy in London under his cover as a wine importer. But in Moscow he had a wife he loved – but from whom he’d spent too long apart – and a son he adored. And secretly – a secret he’d confessed to no one, not even Valentina and certainly not to Kalenin, friendly though they might be – Berenkov knew that after so long in the West, constantly living a pretence, constantly expecting the arrest that finally came, his nerve had begun to go. Now no one would know. So now he could savour the unaccustomed domesticity, which he did, and enjoy the unexpected and important job, which he did also, and consider himself a lucky man, fulfilled and content and safe.