by John Lawton
“It seems we have been here before.”
“We have … I’m trying not think about Marx’s tragedy and farce line.”
“It is most odd to think of you all here again. All the Schiebers in one room. You have a life in London. A wife. Children. A life without men like Frank. I thought you had turned your life around, Joe.”
“So did I.”
“But have you?”
“You tell me.”
“No. Let me ask you a question. Do you expect to pull this off?”
“I don’t know. But, as you said, it’s endgame.”
“And when it ends?”
“I don’t know that either.”
§213
Glienicke, Berlin: Friday, December 13th
“Are we set?”
“Yep. My guys are briefed. They know to keep out of the way and to keep their mouths shut. As far as they’re concerned this is strictly a Company matter.”
Frank had arrived first and had parked under the trees where it was darkest. He stuck his head through the window of Wilderness’s rented Mercedes, twenty yards back from the American side of the bridge.
“What’s your name today, Frank?”
“Fuck. I forgot already. I dunno. Molloy or Murphy, something like that. Just call me ‘Colonel.’ It’s safer.”
The great advantage of the Glienicke Bridge, which in better days had linked Berlin to Potsdam, was that it was not a designated crossing point, it was hardly ever used—no regular human traffic—so the road leading down to it had become little better than a cul-de-sac. It had a simplicity that border crossings in central Berlin could hardly afford. No floodlights, no barbed wire, no concrete chicanes, just well-mannered guards from the USA and the DDR. They probably swapped cigarettes and moaned about boredom to each other.
Wilderness saw the lights of a car coming up behind them.
“That’s Eddie,” he said. “Don’t bug him.”
“Yeah, yeah—as if …”
Wilderness and Frank met Eddie and Bernard between the two cars.
Bernard was very formal, shook hands with both of them. He’d be polite to his own executioner, Wilderness thought.
Eddie looked worried, but he always did. It was a cold December night, under a sliver of moon. He’d far rather be in bed. In any situation like this his mind would be saying, “Can I go now?” while his lips said nothing.
Wilderness said, “Are we waiting on the Kopp brothers?”
“Nope. We got here half an hour ago. They’ve been scoping out the opposition with night sights.”
“And?”
“Hard to tell. Let’s just say the Russians haven’t mobilised a division. Six, maybe seven guys.”
“So, where are the Kopps?”
Frank pointed to his car under the trees.
“They’re over there by my car.”
“I can’t see anyone.”
Then one twin or the other moved. He was completely black—a tight-fitting black track suit, black gloves, a black balaclava, burnt cork all over what little of his face showed—and a Russian-made, gas-operated Dragunov sniper rifle in matte black. The only reflective surface was the lens on the night sight.
“If you can’t see me, neither can they,” Rikki said.
Wilderness looked at his watch. He couldn’t even see the hands. Rikki looked over, his eyes accustomed to the dark.
“Six minutes to twelve. Don’t go just yet. I have something for you.”
He opened the boot of Frank’s car and took out a bulletproof vest.
“I could only get one,” he said. “Put it on.”
Wilderness hefted the vest.
“I’m not the target,” he said. “Bernard, take off your overcoat.”
“Joe, really?”
“Just do it.”
The Kopps fitted the jacket around him—death’s tailors.
Wilderness said, “Bernard. You have your gun?”
“Yes. In my pocket.”
“Safety on?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then flick it off and rack a bullet into the chamber. And don’t get between these blokes and their targets.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Give them a sight line. When we’re facing people try not to stand directly opposite.”
“Do we know what we’re facing?”
“Frank reckons six or seven at the most.”
“Ah.”
“Ah what?”
“If they’re all on the bridge at the same time …”
“Then yes, it will be a shoot-out.”
At two minutes to midnight a US Army corporal raised the barrier—a touch of the ludicrous as he saluted—and they set foot on the bridge. Somewhere behind Wilderness the Kopps had chosen their positions, but he did not look back.
They’d taken twenty paces and Bernard asked softly, “Have you ever killed anyone, Joe?”
“Yep.”
“I haven’t.”
“Bernard, you picked a fine time to tell me.”
A couple of feet beyond the centre line, the official border, over the Havel, Kostya stood with his hands in his greatcoat pockets. He looked about as comfortable as Eddie. A small woman wrapped up against the cold stood six feet to his left. There was no one else.
“Nell. Show me your face.”
Nell unwrapped her headscarf.
She did not smile, she did not speak.
Kostya said, “We must wait.”
“Wait for what?”
Wilderness could see movement at the East German end of the bridge, figures vague as ghosts. The Russians might have their own snipers, and he’d never know.
“We wait. That is all. Not for long.”
“You have Nell. I have Major Liubimov …”
“Please, Joe. This will not take long.”
He could outshoot Kostya blindfolded.
He could shoot Kostya now and the three of them could run for it.
He didn’t want to shoot Kostya.
He did not want to run for it.
He wanted to walk away quietly with every piece of the puzzle back in place.
From the far end of the bridge, a stately, possibly fat figure lumbered towards them, the hips swinging slowly, the feet wide apart, plonking down with bodily weight, the head swathed in fur and scarves.
As it grew near Wilderness could see a silver box clutched between gloved hands—about big enough to hold a large chess set. Then proximity told and he perceived the outline for what it was—female. And with proximity, uniform—a full-blown KGB general.
She clutched the box with one hand, and with the other pulled off her hat; a mass of greying ringlets cascaded down and Wilderness found himself looking once again into those brown and beautiful sad eyes. General Zolotukhina … Volga Vassilievna.
She dropped her hat and touched Nell lightly on the arm.
“Go now,” she said.
Nell looked baffled, did not move.
Wilderness called on her by name.
“Nell?”
Nell looked back at him—eyes wide.
Wilderness said, “Nell, just walk past me, keep on walking and don’t look back.”
Nell crossed the line on the far side of Bernard Alleyn.
Wilderness was tempted to look back in her direction, but did not want to find her looking back at him. He listened to the click of her heels on the asphalt, every step sound-diminishing, every step nearer her freedom.
Bernard waited. Did not move. Hands in his pockets. One of them, Wilderness hoped, wrapped around the butt of his gun, safety off.
Wilderness could not hear Nell anymore.
Silence. Wind upon water.
Then Volga looked straight at Bernard.
“Comrade Liubimov. I am the bearer of sad news. Your mother, Krasnaya, is dead—Nastasya Fillipovna died in April. Died like so many, in the first breath of spring. She was a loyal servant of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and was cremated with all military ho
nours. And she was my dearest friend. Shoulder to shoulder we stood in October 1917. Side by side we took Berlin in 1945. I have here her ashes. I am sorry to drag you away from the life you have made, but I felt I should deliver them in person, and as I could not come to you, you needs must come to me. My deepest condolences, comrade. Krasnaya was a hero. May she rest in peace … in Ireland.”
She held out the silver box.
Bernard took it, the perplexed look in his eyes yielding to tears.
Such is irony that for the first time, Wilderness could discern in this tearful adult the little boy sitting on his mother’s left arm, looking out at the world from half a million posters—Krasnaya and son—defiant.
Then Volga turned to Wilderness.
“You see, Joe. You need to know who to trust.”
She smiled. Held out her hand for him to shake.
One shot rang out.
§214
Frank kicked the gun out of Rikki’s hands.
“Everybody down!”
“It was an accident,” Rikki said softly.
“Shuttup! Everybody down, I say!”
Silence.
More silence.
The volley of fire Frank was expecting didn’t seem to be happening.
A minute passed.
He rose to a crouch, looked behind him. Eddie was a large blob upon the tarmac, struggling against nature and corpulence to lie flat. Nell had not moved. She was still standing, staring out across the bridge like Queen Christina on the prow. The wind shifted and the bridge was suddenly wrapped in river mist. Frank stood up. If he couldn’t see the Russians, they couldn’t see him.
“What the fuck just happened?”
“It was an accident,” Rikki said again. “I slipped.”
“Who were you aiming at?”
“I wasn’t aiming at all.”
“Did you hit anyone?”
“I don’t know.”
Nell started out across the bridge, paused to kick off her shoes and ran. Frank lunged for her, tripped, reached for her ankle and missed. “Nell, for fuck’s sake!” But she was gone, folded into mist.
§215
Nell slammed into someone.
Arms embraced her.
She put her head against his chest.
“Joe, Joe, Joe.”
A moment’s stillness, then, “It’s me. Bernard.”
She drew back just as the wind changed again, and his face became visible.
“Where’s Joe?”
“Joe’s been shot.”
“Is he …?”
“I don’t know. The bullet hit him in the back.”
Nell thrust off the restraint of Bernard’s arms and tried to move past him.
“Nell!”
“I must.”
“The Russians have him.”
“What … is he dead?”
“Nell, the Russians have him. Dead or alive, the Russians have him.”
“No. Oh no. Oh no.”
Her strength drained away. She leant her head against Bernard’s chest, sank slowly to her knees and wailed like Hecuba. The wind turned again, the river mist wrapped itself around them once more, and they vanished from sight.
§
End
Stuff
Finland
The first part of this book was always going to be set in Finland, but it might not have taken the course it did had I not read The Most Dangerous Game, by Gavin Lyall (Hodder & Stoughton, 1964). But for that I don’t think I’d have included pilots. That I named one of them “Gavin” may be taken as homage.
Russian Shortages
These are recurrent in the history of Russia, be it Imperial Russia or the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union has imported grain ever since the last famine of 1947–48. However, I know of no mid-sixties crop failure after the disastrous harvest of 1963, which led to increased imports of grain from the West and to bread rationing—nor was there any shortage of cobalt that I’ve heard of. I made both up. In fact, 1965 was a bumper year for both wheat and barley. Unless I’m mangling the statistics … (always been crap at maths—living proof that you cannot educate kids with your fists, but … the English are like that, so fukkem). What I didn’t make up was the shortage of bog paper and the attempts by MI6 to obtain it and clean off the … That happened in East Berlin.
Cobalt
As far as I know, the UK is the only country ever to have tested a dirty bomb, in 1957 in South Australia. It wasn’t large, but the area around Maralinga is still polluted. The idea that the UK were ready to try again in 1966 is entirely fictional.
Most of what I say about cobalt, nickel et al. is true … at some point. I’ve moved dates around for purposes of plotting. Russia did suffer earthquakes, Finland did pollute a river with nickel (more than once)—but in neither case in the year I give.
Years ago (1978, I think) I was in the 100 Club in Oxford St. (London) sharing table with a recently retired “city gent.” “Retired?” I said. “You’re no older than me.” He then told me how he had cleaned up £250,000 on cobalt as he had spotted that a decimal point was in the wrong place, bought shares, and waited for someone else to spot the same mistake. This duly happened, and I think his quarter of a million to be about £6,000,000 at today’s prices.
Alfie
I am well aware that the song sung by Bruce and Momo in chapter 60 wasn’t in the original version of the film. Alfie was released early in 1966 without the eponymous song. Alfie himself had been around for several years by then … as a radio play on the BBC and as a stage play at the Mermaid. I suspect Bill Naughton had been working and reworking Alfie since the 1950s. Its final form was as a novel, and I think I read that before I saw the film. It’s often held up critically as the epitome of the sixties values. Hmm? That’s complete bollocks. It’s very much a 1950s work and even in the film Alfie is portrayed as a fifties man (RAF badge on his blazer?—about as cool as Alan Partridge) somewhat lost in the sixties. Alfie doesn’t know that, but then, what does Alfie know? What’s it all about, Alfie? A question directed at the wrong man.
West German Cultural Mission in Prague
What Czechoslovakia agreed to was a trade mission, and eventual consular status. But I had no use for a trade mission.
SIS HQ
I’m well aware that SIS had moved to Century House by the time this book opens—indeed it had for much of the action of my previous Wilderness novel. I left it at Broadway/St Anne’s Gate for no other reason than that Century House, their London home in the mid-1960s and for some thirty years after, was an ugly monstrosity—the sort of architecture that brings to mind the Prince of Wales’s “carbuncle” comment—and I have no wish to attempt to describe it. I wanted “C” to be in an office like the one “M” and Moneypenny have in the Bond films … with lots of dark wood and green baize on the doors and one of those curly hat rack things you can frisbee your hat at and … (er … that’s enough. Stop kvetching. ed.)
Embassies
The wife, pram, baby thing actually happened in Moscow, not Prague. The tents full of refugees also happened elsewhere and elsewhen (I think I might just have made up a word) in that it was at the West German Embassy in Prague in 1989, when around two thousand East Germans sought refuge there.
My memories of the British Embassy might be flawed. I first visited Prague during the Velvet Revolution of 1989 to meet Václav Havel. The British Embassy welcomed me and the film crew. We sat in the embassy garden—cup of tea, bit of a chat with the ambassador, can’t remember if there were biscuits—not imagining I’d need to write about it thirty years later. Fool that I was, I took no notes.
In 2018 the embassy couldn’t even be arsed to reply to my letters—ringing the doorbell got me a curt “What do you want?” rather than a courteous “How may I help you?”—and after the second attempt I gave up. “Fuck off” would have been straight to the point, with the added benefit of brevity. This will now lead to a two-page rant of unparalleled umbrage on “whaddafukk do I pay my ta
xes for?” … (er … no it won’t. ed.) … OK, OK … let’s leave the usual disclaimer: “No Ambassadors Were Harmed in the Making of this Film … er … Book.” ’Nuff said.
Bohumil Hrabal
Advertisement for a House I do not Wish to Live in Anymore is the title of a collection rather than an individual story. Reading the collection, watching the film Larks on a String, it might seem that “based upon” is not really precise. Unless I’m mistaken, the book was not translated into English until 2015, almost twenty years after Hrabal’s death and almost fifty years after the film was made. The film was banned in Czechoslovakia until 1990.
Malá Strana
I am grateful to long-serving travel writer John Bell, of Islington and so many other places, for lots of tips about Prague, in particular for steering me towards the “other” bank into Malá Strana.
William Goldman
A couple of lines in the final chapter are paraphrases of lines Goldman wrote for Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. Goldman died while I was writing this—so did Nicholas Roeg and Bernardo Bertolucci; 2018 was a bad year for film. Goldman was the first writer ever to make me want to read a screenplay as well as watch the film … Truffaut and Pinter soon followed, but it began with Goldman.
Jiří’s Slogans
They’re mostly fakes, but fakes I would hope capture the spirit of the age, or they’re paraphrases of slogans that were in use in 1968—some of which I saw sprayed on walls at that time. Alas, so many of them were song quotations, Dylan, Lennon, Jefferson Airplane and so on … just a tad costly to repeat here … anyone reading the line “Remember What the White Queen Said” will surely think of the original? And I would refer anyone seeking the most cryptic of sixties slogans to the back cover of Dylan’s John Wesley Harding—and the last four words of the opening paragraph. “Key to what?” I have been asking for fifty-two years.
The only line I’d hold up as being 100 percent authentically sixties is “We are the people our parents warned us against.” That much is real.
Volga
Volga Riccucci died while I was writing this book. I’d already pinched her name and her appearance at the suggestion of her daughter, Alessia Dragoni—an idea that helped my plot come together. Volga may well have been the last Tuscan Communist I will ever meet, a member of the Partito Comunista Italiano (PCI), and whilst I doubt they meet today, the plaque on the outside of their local HQ might be regarded as a memorial to the Riccucci family, and hence to Volga.
