by John Lawton
And for three weeks it worked flawlessly.
On the sixth dummy run, a familiar face followed Ben to the Dodo. It was almost tempting to wave.
Ben sat at a table in the window, nursing a coffee he would not drink, plagued as he was by insomnia, and waited for an unsuspecting phantom pisser to use the gents. One did. He’d wait for a second. He stared out of the window, the street was busy with people making their way home from work—somewhere on the other side of the passing crowd was the man he’d come to think of as “Belt-Buckle.” The other two were “Oskar” and “Walrus Moustache,” but it was always Belt-Buckle who stood outside the café.
And when the crowd cleared, he had gone.
§97
Jessica burbled in her sleep. Sarah leaned into the pram, wiped spittle from the baby’s pouting lower lip and pulled the hood of the pram a little higher against the western sun.
She’d given it the usual ten minutes, seen not hair nor hide of anyone watching. Time to go home. She slipped the newspaper down one side of the pram, between baby and blanket, and held the black plastic film cartridge tightly in her fist—the easier to drop it down the drain if needs be.
She was about twenty feet from the park gates when a bicycle swerved in from the street and side-swiped the pram. The pram tilted, took flight, bounced, and the baby shot up into the air. Sarah screamed. Out of nowhere a man in flat cap and a leather jacket came running and caught the baby in his arms.
Now Jessica screamed and screamed and screamed.
“Oskar Werner” looked shocked.
“I am so sorry. I am so sorry. We thought it was a dummy!”
He handed Jessica back, lodged her in the crook of Sarah’s left arm, righted the pram, saying over and over again, “We are so sorry. We are so sorry.”
“Bastard! Motherfucking bastard!”
Sarah decked him with a swift right hook. The film cartridge firming her fist up nicely, rather like a knuckle-duster.
The cyclist bolted.
“Oskar” went out like a light and lay coldcocked upon the flagstones.
Two policemen were approaching.
She slipped the film into the baby’s blanket and stood firmly upon dignity and diplomatic immunity.
§98
They’d pushed Brynmawr to the limit.
He’d no idea what to say.
“I’ve no idea what to say,” he said, and then he said it. “Mr. Novotny called me personally. Was I trying to provoke the Russians? Was I trying to start a war? Said something I didn’t quite understand about poking the bear with a stick. It almost beggars belief. A Soviet cultural attaché—a specialist in nineteenth-century Czech music, I am told—knocked out in a public park by the wife of a British diplomat! And the language. What was it you called that chap?”
Part of Ben Crosland hoped his wife might feign ignorance. She didn’t.
“I called him a motherfucking bastard, Ambassador.”
Brynmawr turned the colour of freshly sliced beetroot. Ben doubted he’d ever heard a woman swear quite like that and was pretty certain he’d never heard the neologism “motherfucking” before. It could hardly be in common use in the House of Lords or the valleys of South Wales.
“There’s only one thing we can do,” Brynmawr went on. “It’s come to this—you’ll have to be recalled. You’ll have to go home.”
Ben Crosland’s inner voice said “yippee.”
“Both of you, I’m afraid.”
And “yippee” all the louder.
§99
Dublin: June 17th
Balmy
Wilderness awoke with a hangover. He had a low tolerance of hangovers, and a low tolerance of spirits, so quite why he had agreed to trace Leopold Bloom’s odyssey round the pubs of Dublin yesterday was baffling. It had been Bernard’s idea. They’d take the walk instead of playing their usual Friday night game of chess, and have a whiskey in every pub Bloom had. They’d begun in Eccles Street, but nothing in his fogged morning-after memory could tell Wilderness where they’d finished.
Bernard had got him back to Duke Street, shoved him in through the Fitzsimmonses’ front door and legged it. He might be an acculturated Anglo-Irishman these days, but his liver was still Russian.
Wilderness had not made it up the stairs and had woken on Gladys Fitzsimmons’s sofa to a nudge from her husband.
“Young Alice phoned.”
“Uhh?”
“About two hours ago. I couldn’t wake you. She left a message.”
Wilderness swung his feet to the floor. It swayed.
“Read it, Bob. Read it.”
“Doesn’t make a deal of sense. ‘The dog it was that died.’ That mean anything to you?”
“Yep. Needs an answer too. Give me a moment.”
“I’ll bring you a coffee while you think.”
It needed very little thought. It was a basic code Alice had worked out a year or two ago. A six-word message meant “drop everything and get back.” A four-word message meant “wind up your affairs and be back in ten days.”
All that was needed was a six-word sentence to indicate he had received and understood.
Bob shoved black coffee under his nose—awful, chemical, instant coffee. A smell to make the strongest stomach heave. He’d pretend to drink it.
“Just off to roger a skunk.”
“What?”
“Give that message to Alice. She’ll understand. Trust me.”
Three hours later he was at Dublin airport.
When Bernard called by around seven thirty only to be told that Wilderness had departed for England, he felt as though something in him had died.
§100
London, 54 Broadway
“I need you in Prague a bit sooner than I’d anticipated. We’re down to the wire … no Second Secretary and now no First—”
“You want me in the embassy? A civil servant? I don’t run agents, Alec. I am an agent.”
“Have you quite finished? I had merely thought to begin at the beginning. Often the best idea. We lost the Second Secretary a while ago. He would, on occasion, do the odd job for us. Not strictly kosher. Not one of the old firm, after all. When he left, the First Secretary took over. Always unwise for a station head to enter the field, but needs must. The only virtue to it is that it keeps it within SIS. Czechoslovakia is a damn sight more important now than it was eighteen months ago—a small, faraway country about which we cannot know too much. But our man was rumbled. The other side took to dogging his every step.”
“Who is the Station Head?”
“Ben Crosland. You know him?”
“Yep.”
“He’s on his way home. Good man. But his wife has a bit of a temper. She acted as courier for a week or two while Ben just became the decoy. She punched a KGB man in public.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Knocked him cold, I gather, so poor old Ben’s been recalled. The Czechs insisted.”
“As you said, he’s a good man. Don’t waste him.”
“I won’t. The stuff he and his wife got out of Prague these last few weeks is priceless. Almost every missive between KGB Prague and Moscow Centre.”
“Everything but the date of Novotny’s resignation?”
“I don’t think he’ll ever resign. But Ben tells me there’s an … I think he called it an undercurrent. And I’m not inclined to ignore the idea. There’s always dissidence, mostly it gets stepped on pretty damn quick. Ben reckons this ‘undercurrent’ will surface.”
“When?”
“Damned if I know. Six months, a year? Novotny might be the dullest leader in the Warsaw Pact. That alone might ensure his survival. However, Ben’s made his report and he’s earned a promotion. I’ve suggested to Upstairs that he’s posted to Washington as Head of Station.”
“Philby’s old job.”
“Not a comparison I would have invoked. Nor a name I care to mention—but yes. Let’s see who Mrs. Crosland can thump in Washington. I could give her a
list if she wanted … J. Edgar … Senator Thurmond. But I digress—we have yet to find a Station Head for Prague and the FO needs to find a Second Secretary. It remains, whoever we send out, the other side will be on to them straight away. Until now we’ve always relied on them being strapped for cash and manpower—much as they probably do with us—but they threw everything they’ve got at Ben. Hence you find yourself sitting here. The only way this will work is if the decoy is at the embassy and the real agent is in deep cover.”
“Might work.”
“And it might not—all the same we have to try.”
“How deep is deep cover?”
“How shall I put it … no diplomatic protection. You get caught, you’re on your own.”
“And this cover would be what exactly?”
“You’ll appreciate that this would be a very good moment to phone A&R and send for The Dresser.”
§101
A&R stood for Artists and Repertoire, a phrase Wilderness himself had pinched from Tin Pan Alley. The real purpose of the nameless department was to devise and assemble cover for field agents. The Dresser, another show biz term, was Wilderness’s name for the department head, Commander Miles Grindleford RNVR, a man of firm opinion, even firmer conviction, and a man unlikely to relish a nickname of any kind. Wilderness sincerely hoped he’d never learn what his nickname was.
Grindleford rolled out his plan on the “boardroom” table in the meeting room next to Burne-Jones’s office. Wilderness, Burne-Jones and Alice stood on one side, Grindleford on the other.
“First things first, am I right to assume you cannot pass as a Czech?”
“Yes. Not good enough for that.”
“Would you be happier as an Austrian or a German?”
“Make me a Berliner. I’ve got the accent pretty well honed.”
“And a Berliner working out of Vienna would be no problem?”
Wilderness just nodded. Grindleford scribbled.
“Jolly good.”
Grindleford looked at Wilderness’s face, scrutinising.
“And you’re how tall, Mr. Holderness?”
The same tone of voice a doctor might use in asking a child’s age.
“Six two.”
“OK. I suppose we’re stuck with that. Always possible to make a short man seem taller, but adding an inch or two to your height would be pointless. You’d be even more conspicuous.”
“Hair. Does your hair grow fast?”
“Are we talking head, face or balls, Commander?”
Alice dug him in the ribs with an elbow.
“Do take this seriously, Flight Sergeant. Lives depend on it, yours included. Specifically, could you grow a moustache in a week?”
“Just about.”
“Very well. Later today we’ll have you made up and photographed for your West German passport. You don’t wear spectacles at all?”
“No.”
“Very well. A pair with plain glass would work nicely. Contact lenses, I think. Brown. Stick on ’tache, pro tem. And we’ll dye your hair a shade or two darker. Mousey. Colonel Burne-Jones is confident that none of your old adversaries are currently serving in Czechoslovakia, but … you never know, so some disguise is called for.”
Wilderness had never done any mission disguised. The novelty appealed to him.
“Now,” Grindleford said, turning his attention to the spread of papers in front of him. “The McGuffin. You are Walter Hensel, you work for the Austrian company Erdbahn, the biggest manufacturer of tractors in the country, although that’s not saying much. On the other hand, they do have offices in Norwich, Eindhoven, and their HQ in Vienna. And they’re keen to export—”
“Are they real?”
“Oh yes. We have their cooperation at the highest level. The top man in Vienna, and the heads of their two branches in Czechoslovakia. They will all be part of this. Active cooperation will, tactically, be limited but all three chaps will be aware of your mission, and the cover could not be better. They’re keen to export both parts and finished tractors to the Eastern Bloc. Last year, they opened an office in Prague and another about forty miles north near Mělník. You’ll work out of Mělník. It’s rural, close to the farmers you’ll be selling to and it’s about half an hour’s drive from Mladá Boleslav. That’s where Škoda are based—Erdbahn have all sorts of deals with Škoda. Their sideline, if I can call it that, is they import Škodas into Austria. Škodas are heaps of unreliable scrap metal held together with pop rivets—just my opinion, you’ll understand—but the Austrian car industry has never really recovered from the war. In fact it’s at its lowest point in years right now—and it’s cheaper to import rubbish Škodas from Czechoslovakia than expensive, reliable Volkswagens from West Germany … currently Austria makes more tractors than cars … hence your cover story.
“In Mělník you’re far less likely to be noticed by the other side, but needless to say you’ll have plenty of reasons to be in Prague should circumstances demand. Better still, Czechoslovakia has only one tractor maker—‘Zetor,’ in Brno, about a hundred and fifty miles to the south, and on your route to and from Vienna. Erdbahn liaise with them constantly. Exchanges of ideas, new developments, that sort of thing. All sort of jolly Ostpolitik.”
“What?”
“Ostpolitik. I think the meaning’s pretty obvious. Willy Brandt is said to have coined it during the last federal election.”
“Catchy.”
“Quite. Now, let us press on. Time and tide and all that. Erdbahn … You’ll replace the liaison chap we’ve asked them to withdraw. Actually I say liaison … salesman might be more accurate. No matter, Erdbahn have recalled him to Vienna, so the field is clear. You’ll have a perfectly legit reason to be driving halfway across the country every so often. In and out of Vienna. In and out of Brno. In and out of Mladá Boleslav.”
A tractor salesman?
Good fucking grief.
Wilderness had spotted the flaw in this at once and wondered if anyone else had.
“I don’t know the first thing about tractors.”
Grindleford pushed a glossy-covered file, an inch thick, across the table to him.
“While you grow your moustache, study this.”
Wilderness looked and fought back despair.
ERDBAHN
In red capitals, and below it the company logo—a blue planet Earth suspended in space, the photograph that had left everyone awestruck sometime during the early Apollo missions—suspended in space and orbited by a sputnik … a sputnik in the shape of a tractor.
§102
“I’ll never get used to this,” Judy said, giving his new-found mousey hair another ruffle.
Wilderness had taken out the contact lenses. They stung like merry hell and would take some getting used to.
“And if you grow a moustache you might look like Dad. Not sure I could cope with that—and hanky and panky would certainly be taking a break.”
“I have a week. The first couple of days will just be stubble.”
“A week at home?”
“A week studying how to become a fucking tractor salesman.”
“All the same, a week at home is a week at home. I’m delighted. So are hanky and panky.”
“Judy. I have to study a two-hundred-page dossier.”
“Oh fuck that. Just bullshit. You usually do. You’re a past master of the noble art.”
And with that she took the Erdbahn dossier and flipped it over her shoulder to slap down in front of the fireplace.
“And what’s the name of this tractor salesman?”
“Walter Hensel.”
“I’ve always wanted a Walter. Take me, my mousey-haired stranger. I’m yours.”
“Knock it off.”
“No, honestly. I don’t have burglar or wicked landlord fantasies. I have rough-trade, man-on-a-tractor fantasies. A good tan, hefty biceps, bare-chested under a seriously filthy pair of dungarees. Sort of Thomas Hardy updated.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—�
�
“Just call me … Bathsheba.”
Warm. Wet. Whispered into his ear.
And he knew he had lost.
§103
In the morning Wilderness and Burne-Jones met in Burne-Jones’s office. No experts, no one to take notes, no one who didn’t need to know. And Ben Crosland, who already knew.
“Long time no see, Ben.”
“Doesn’t feel that way, Joe. Your antics in Finland kept us all amused.”
Burne-Jones scowled at this.
“Cut the chitchat, chaps. And get down to business.”
Finland had not amused him any more than Berlin had.
“Ben’s contact … we don’t know his real name. Just as well, I suppose. Ben just refers to him as Tibor K. I don’t suppose it bears any resemblance to his real name?”
Crosland shrugged.
“It does sound a little like Josef K.,” Wilderness said.
“Who he?”
“The hero, if that’s the word, of a couple of novels by Kafka.”
“Ah,” said Burne-Jones. “Never read him.”
Crosland picked up the briefing.
“We began with real documents. Photocopies. Bulky. Awkward. But the diplomatic bag is capacious as you proved with the truckload of booze you got into Berlin in ’65. Couple of months on, we switched to microfilm. It was almost always dead drops. Tibor and I would pass but never meet. I pinned him down to one meeting, gave him a Minox. He didn’t need me to tell him how to use it. Just before I was rumbled we met again, for the last time, and I gave him the ‘plum duff’ kit for making microdots. He was less certain of that and the last few runs were still on cassette. It’s a minor miracle the KGB didn’t spot him on the last dead drop. They nabbed my wife, but they somehow missed him. Tibor is bright and he’s thorough. I’ve no reason to think that he’s not au fait with the kit by now. We simply need to work out a way to use that.”
