by John Lawton
“Do we trust him? All sounds a little after the act.”
“Eh?”
“He came close to being caught. Perhaps he was caught. We don’t know.”
“Joe, I trust him. I understand why you might not, but we don’t have a choice. He is what we have. By which I mean all we have. If he’d been caught … well, there are, shall I say … other sources that would have told us.”
Wilderness looked to Burne-Jones.
Burne-Jones just nodded.
Wilderness changed tack.
“Ben, honestly, you have no idea of his identity?”
“No. Nor would he let himself be photographed. Youngish bloke, probably no more than twenty-eight or thirty. Scant but terrifying memories of the war. Still a kid when the Communists took over in ’48. An adolescence in an increasingly repressive state. Exactly the kind of young man you’d expect to be an opposition supporter.”
“There is no opposition.”
Crosland paused, looked at Wilderness as though he thought him an unrelenting cynic.
“Not as such, no. But I’ve been telling Alec … there’s something in Czechoslovakia … well, in Prague, at least … that might cohere into one.”
“What will make an opposition coherent?”
“Dunno. A new leader?”
“Such as?”
“Perhaps someone we’ve never heard of.”
“We’ve heard of every Czech politician. That’s our job.”
“OK. Then perhaps someone the Czechs have never heard of.”
“That’s a possibility. Can’t help but wonder who.”
“I’m not taking any bets. Now, could we get back to Tibor?—I can guess at his sources from what he’s sent us, and Alec and I agree he is Czech—I never for one moment thought he might be Russian—and we think he works in either Czech Intelligence or Counter-Intelligence. If we had a list, a Who’s Who of the Czech Secret Services, we might be able to narrow it down to a dozen possibles—but we don’t have such a list. Everything we get from Tibor looks to be the result of the Czechs spying on KGB Centre, Prague. The Russians may very well think they’re the masters of phone-tapping and hidden bugs—but the Czechs were good pupils. The schoolboys are spying on the teachers now. After all, why wouldn’t they?”
Wilderness looked at Burne-Jones, the faintest of smiles on his lips. Burne-Jones did not return it. Change the subject.
“Dead drops?” Wilderness said.
“The preferred method,” Burne-Jones replied.
“I’d prefer to meet.”
“Oh bugger.”
“Alec … I’m not happy stepping into what you will not deny is a mess without knowing all the players.”
“You mean meet with this chap just the once?”
“No—I mean that we meet every time there’s an exchange of information.”
Now Burne-Jones and Crosland looked at one another.
Crosland spoke first.
“That’s an increased risk, Joe.”
“If we have a long enough chain of communication, something so complex the Russians cannot follow it, then it’s a diminished risk. Go on making dead drops in the caffs and loos of Prague and one day they’ll be waiting for him. You said it yourself … a miracle they didn’t bust Tibor when they busted your wife.”
“The more people, the greater the risk of betrayal.”
“As you said not five minutes ago, Ben, there has to be trust.”
Burne-Jones cut in. “We’re currently without a station head. We’re trying … but … you know … right chap in the right place … but without one the chain of communication you want will be bloody difficult to set up.”
“I’ll take a week getting there. That’s long enough.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Wilderness waited a heartbeat for the pulling of rank to slacken off, then said, “Janis Bell.”
“Eh?”
“The kid from the Helsinki embassy. Where is she now?”
“Oh,” said Burne-Jones. “I moved her to Bonn six months ago. In fact I did exactly what you said and promoted her. Second Secretary is her nominal cover.”
“Good. Now promote her again. Station Head, Prague.”
As much as he ever could, Burne-Jones looked shocked.
“She’s very young, Joe. It was you called her a kid.”
“’Scuse my slang. I meant ‘highly capable young woman.’ ‘Kid’ was just shorter.”
Burne-Jones pondered. Crosland wisely said nothing.
“It would have to be ‘Acting,’ you understand.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Just leave this one with me, will you?”
§104
In a dark, dirty bar behind Victoria Railway Terminus, they drank Scotch and soda beneath a cumulonimbus of cigarette smoke.
Crosland said, “Joe, what exactly did you mean ‘after the act’?”
“That Tibor might have been compromised by the incident that got you recalled. Compromised and turned.”
“That seems unlikely. I got compromised, not him. As far as I know the other side never got a good look at him. Sarah never set eyes on him either. As dead drops go it worked perfectly.”
“Except she got nicked.”
“She got nicked, Tibor didn’t, and the KGB never got their hands on the film. And as for my being recalled, I can’t tell you how glad I was to get out of Prague. You know, Joe, I wouldn’t take this posting if I were you. It’s all going to come apart at the seams. And you’ve no diplomatic immunity.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Yet … yet … you want to meet Tibor in person?”
“Yes. As soon as possible. As soon as we can set up a new chain of communication.”
“Joe, please don’t go in there guns blazing.”
“I won’t. Guns have blazed a bit too much of late.”
They stood a few moments before Crosland spoke his mind.
“Then, Joe—try not to get yourself killed.”
§105
Bonn, West Germany. Das Bundeshaus: Half an Hour Later
Das Bundeshaus was a grim example of 1930s architecture. It bore more than a passing resemblance to the annex wing of an English polytechnic.
Brandt did not care.
Nell thought it suitably symbolic of living in Bonn—you were in the annex … the sideshow … the main event was happening under the big top elsewhere.
West Germany had, Brandt concluded, made a fundamental error in policy. He’d been certain of this since the visit of President Kennedy to Berlin four years earlier, when the President had publicly declared his solidarity with Berlin and Berliners whilst privately assuring him, “You’re on your own, kid.” A paraphrase of what JFK actually said, but neater than his statement of NATO’s negative position vis-à-vis both Berlin and the Bundesrepublik. And being “on his own,” Brandt had silently promised himself that he’d ditch the Hallstein Doctrine, conceived in the late 1940s—whereby the Bundesrepublik would not recognise any of the Soviet satellite states (Hungary, Bulgaria, Poland et al.) if said satellite states chose to recognise the German Democratic Republic, that is East Germany (aka the DDR: Deutsche Demokratische Republik). It was nonsense, it was unproductive and it was going nowhere.
As foreign minister, albeit responding to advances from Bucharest, he had managed to establish diplomatic relations with Roumania, and he’d overcome resistance in the federal government to do this. Now … he had his sights set closer to home, on a country with which the Bundesrepublik shared a border—Czechoslovakia, one of those oddly misshapen offcuts created when the Austro-Hungarian Empire had been dismembered like a side of pork; on the map of Europe it resembled nothing quite so much as a slice of bacon with crinkly edges. The treaty of this place, the treaty of that place … one or other of them had considered it a really good idea to lump the Czechs and Slovaks together into one country.
Czechoslovakia had changed very little since 1948, and the Communist Part
y’s takeover of the country. Brandt wasn’t wholly sure whether it was a coup or a putsch, but there’d been no election, so it was about as democratic as the fall of an English prime minister. Thousands had been purged from office, tens of thousands arrested, hundreds hanged—after which Czechoslovakia had seemed to settle down into a Stalinist lethargy, a torpor so profound even the Khrushchev thaw had merely wafted over the chasm.
But … things were changing. There was … what to call it … an “undercurrent.”
“I need you in Prague a bit sooner than I’d anticipated.”
Nell was not aware he’d ever needed her in Prague, either sooner or later.
“Could you be a little less cryptic.”
“There’s another deal in the offing. Nothing as firm as Roumania. Roumania never had to kick out all its Germans, after all, and if I were to put the idea of full recognition on the table, both sides would reject it. But, the Czechs have agreed to an official Cultural Mission.”
“How official?”
“I’m aiming for consular status. Eventually. For now, we try it out. Cultural exchanges. We introduce our painters, writers and filmmakers—sponsor them on visits, set up some sort of arts festival, a literary prize … I dunno … ‘The Attila the Hun Award for East-West Mutual Understanding’? … and so on—and the Czechs reciprocate, except that I rather think we’ll be picking up both halves of the bill.”
“Wouldn’t a trade mission be more … more typical? You know, bicycles, adding machines … tractors?”
“The time is right for the Arts. There’s a Czech film doing awfully well in the West. People are beginning to take notice.”
Nell had taken notice. She’d seen a lot of Czech films—she’d read books by Bohumil Hrabal, and whilst she’d not yet read him she’d at least heard of this new bloke, Kondera? Kundera?—and what struck her was the difficulty of representing life in contemporary Czechoslovakia. The sheer quality of Czech cinema was undeniable, a Nouvelle Vague for the East, but it seemed to her to operate of necessity so obliquely to the present-day reality that it produced absurdist fantasies like Daisies or reflections on the Second World War—a safe subject … unsafe subjects would get your work banned—such as the film Brandt was surely referring to, Closely Observed Trains. It was tipped for an Oscar. Probably the first Czech film ever to make even this small arty dent on Hollywood. Brandt was right. The time was right.
“What do you want me to do? Help set it up?”
“No. I need you to run it. Let’s start with a film festival. Get the Prague office open and then invite some of those young Czech filmmakers over here. We’ll put on a film festival. Let’s aim for the summer … say July or August.”
“August ’68?”
“Yes.”
“In Bonn?”
“Bonn? Of course not. Berlin.”
§106
London, 54 Broadway: A Couple of Days Later
Wilderness was back in the library. Still mugging up on Erdbahn. The moustache was beginning to itch horribly.
He was slowly mastering tractors and had reached the Erdbahn T64, which sounded like a type of Russian tank, except that it was available in yellow.
Forty-four horsepower with three-point linkage.
Linkage was obvious—it was surely how the tractor connected to all the other bits at the arse end … plough, harrow, washing machine … whatever. Horsepower? How powerful was a horse? Were all horses as powerful as each other? Forty-four horsepower? Didn’t sound like much. Wasn’t a Jag E-type two hundred–odd horses?
He was beginning to think his brain might be numb from boredom or confusion when Alice Pettifer appeared with a decode.
—Arrived in Prague. H.E. not happy … woman, far too young … blah blah blah. I have you to thank for this? If so, thank you, but I need time to get me knees under the table. Could you string out your journey for a couple of weeks? I’ll arrange an embassy reception, something you can mingle with. Dunno quite what, just yet. BELL.
“Any reply, Joe?”
“Tell her yes. I could use the time too.”
“Oh, and …”
“And what, Alice?”
“Burne-Jones says you should be armed for this one, so you can tool up again. But—you never really tooled down, did you, Joe?”
Wilderness said nothing. The less Alice knew about what had happened out on the ice the better. It wouldn’t stop her guessing, it wouldn’t stop her putting two and two together and making four, but she’d never hear it from him.
§107
West Berlin: July 6th
Wilderness insisted on travelling via Berlin. Alice did not object. It pushed his arrival a day or two beyond the fortnight Janis Bell had asked for and gave him a chance to test his passport in relative safety—if it passed muster at Heathrow, at Tegel, then he’d be sure it would at Vienna and at the Břeclav crossing into Czechoslovakia.
He preferred to avoid both the SIS station in West Berlin—badly disguised as a travel agency (the station head, Dickie Delves, was unlikely to forgive Wilderness for trashing his Triumph Sprite anytime in the next century)—and the Kempinski Hotel (which was where Delves would look for him if some silly sod back in London were to let slip that he was in Berlin). The threats Dickie had made involving Wilderness’s head and a starting handle were not to be lightly forgotten.
He asked Erno Schreiber for the use of his couch for a couple of nights. Erno, the best forger Wilderness had ever come across, could check out the passport for him while he was there.
“My eyes are not what they used to be,” Erno said. “But it looks real. Perhaps it is real. Who knows?”
An evening of catching up ended with the blonde from the room above making cocoa for three.
She was, Wilderness thought, oversolicitous of Erno, displaying too much care—almost to the point of fuss, and Erno, he knew, hated being fussed. Yet the old man now seemed to relish the attention. It was almost as though she had called bedtime when Erno hauled himself out of his chair and bid them both good night. And Trudie had replied, “Schlaf gut, Schneckchen”—the sort of thing one might say to a seven-year-old. Little snail, indeed.
Left alone, there was a clumsy silence between Wilderness and Trudie, neither really wishing to speak, each wishing the other would just bugger off.
“It’s not just his eyes, you will understand,” she said at last. “It’s everything.”
§108
Vienna: July 10th
Wilderness got five minutes with the head of Erdbahn—one Josef Voigt.
Voigt was dapper to excess in his dress—bow tie, shiny waistcoat … Wilderness dared not look down in case the man were wearing spats—but plain unto blunt in speech.
“I do this because I have seen Russians firsthand. I was here when they took Vienna. Need I say more? All I ask is this—whatever you do, wherever you go, do no damage to my company’s good name.”
Tricky one, Wilderness thought.
“And I have, as your people in London requested, arranged a company car for you.”
§109
The car wasn’t new. It had five thousand miles on the clock and a few dents on the body. Just as well. He wasn’t supposed to be new to the business so the car should look as though it had fought its way along a few farm tracks in its time.
It was a black 1966 four-door BMW 2000 Neue Klasse. Boxy and unprepossessing. He’d seen better looking jeeps. “Functional” was the most positive description that could be applied to it—red leather upholstery did little to diminish this—and it was probably all he needed, a car that deliberately avoided attracting attention.
Voigt’s mechanic talked him through it. Flipped open the front panel of the passenger-side footwell to show him a specially installed clip to take a handgun. Good grief, did every bugger in Austria know his secrets?
“They’d really have to be looking for it to find it,” the mechanic said.
“Well,” Wilderness replied, “they usually are.”
This
was ignored as the man went into a rambling techspeak lecture on the specs of the car, the suping up, of which he was inordinately proud and to which Wilderness was wilfully indifferent.
“Lots of modifications—”
“Don’t tell me … An ejector seat?”
“No. Just tweaks to the engine. Gas-flowing cylinder head, twin forty Dellorto carbs, high-lift camshaft and a less-restricted exhaust. It’ll be a noisy bastard … but with eighty hp it’ll outrun any cop car.”
Eighty hp? Wasn’t that more than the tractors Erdbahn made? And was that eighty hp towing a plough or a harrow?
Outrun a cop car? Wilderness had not anticipated that necessity, and he thought the mechanic hadn’t either. He simply had his toy so he was going to play with it.
“One word of warning,” the mechanic said as Wilderness slid into the driver’s seat wondering what all the knobs and buttons did.
“Didn’t have time to modify the brakes … so mind how you go.”
Ah, the standard farewell of the London beat Bobby … “Evenin’ All” to “Mind how you go.”
Wilderness found this less than reassuring. All he wanted of a car was that it should be comfortable and unobtrusive.
“Put your foot down and you’ll be doing a hundred and fifty before you can blink, and it’ll top out around two hundred kph.”
Two hundred kph. That was … he totted it up … one hundred twenty-five mph. His wife would love this car. Turn her loose on the Kingston bypass in a suped-up BMW and she’d do a hundred twenty-five and love every second of it.
He slipped his Smith & Wesson into the clip behind the footwell. Right now he had no idea if he’d ever need to take it out again. And no wish to take it out again. He was perfectly willing to take Crosland’s advice. Not only would he not go in “guns blazing,” he would go in without a gun and put trust above risk.
Perhaps he wasn’t a secret agent after all?
