by John Gardner
It was obvious that Naldo was not going further.
‘Thanks.’ Arnold grinned. ‘I’ve got a bit of news for C myself. Don’t know if my people want me to talk about it, but I will.’
He told them about Dollhiem as soon as C arrived, before the head of SIS could begin talking about Symphony. When he got to the decision that Dollhiem should be left in place, as a stalking horse to cut out a larger prize, C flushed scarlet with anger.
‘Why haven’t your people told me anything about this?’ It was a question delivered to the air, not specifically to Arnold Farthing, even though he was the only person who could answer it.
‘Saving face, I guess. No intelligence service likes people to know it’s got a penetration agent in place.’
‘I’ll bet. Got him boxed in, have they?’
‘Well boxed, sir.’
‘Small mercies, small mercies. Well, young Farthing, I suppose we’d better fill in the blanks for you, join up the dots, eh?’
‘When I left, you were proposing to send Herbie into the Russian Zone – ’
Naldo gave him a look of gratitude.
‘So we were. Indeed we were. And what conclusions did you draw from that, Arnold?’
Arnie thought for a moment. ‘That you believed the brutal Klaubert had been playing both ends against the middle. That Tarot had a dedicated Communist on the inside who gave him information and led the réseau astray. That Klaubert was also an agent planted – maybe years before – within the SS. That Klaubert was one of the so-called Orléans Russians your listeners picked up. That, at the last, he spirited the Russian agent out of Tarot – either when he pulled them in, or after. That Dollhiem was an agent for the Russians inside the OSS. That Dollhiem helped Klaubert to get out and back to his masters – probably with the Tarot traitor – ’
‘Who was possibly a woman, yes. Well done, though it wasn’t difficult once Naldo had found the wireless in the old SS HQ in Orléans. So where do we go from that point, Arnie?’
‘If you’re still thinking of finding Klaubert, you go East, I guess. Herbie was sent to look for him. Right?’
C nodded. ‘Him or anyone else with connections, yes.’
‘He found him?’ Farthing asked.
‘No.’ C clamped his lips together. ‘No, not him. But he found somebody.’
*
It had been toward the end of May when young Kruger saw him first, and on that occasion he was uncertain whether it was him or not.
At that crash meeting in the first week of June, he had leaned forward, as though about to impart some great secret to Naldo.
‘In the East it’s worse than here, you must understand,’ he said. They were in a safe flat in one of the few streets left standing near the Ku-damm. Streets were still being cleared, unsafe walls brought down, rubble being sifted and carted away. Already building had begun, but water and electricity had not yet been fully restored throughout the whole of the city. There was dust everywhere, but that was true of the whole of Berlin at the time.
Dust and the thin tattered curtains blew in the breeze through the open window of the safe flat, with its large old German furniture and an oil painting of somewhere that looked like the Wannsee hanging above the bed.
‘I try often to walk somewhere near to the military headquarters – in Karlshorst,’ Herbie said. ‘This was where I first saw him. He was in uniform. A colonel. NKVD. I have done my learning well, Naldo, yes? I can tell ranks and know the uniforms. I thought it was him, but not for certain.
‘So I keep my eyes open and wait.’ Herbie gave a big smile. ‘I know a girl who has work in the barracks – in Karlshorst. Typing she does. Typing for the Russian military police and NKVD. Maybe she’ll give me a little something in time – who knows? I think I will get the name from her if necessary.’
‘That’s good, Herbie.’
Kruger smiled, very happy with the small praise. ‘Two days later I see him again. This time by accident. He is in a car – military car – sitting in back looking at papers. I get only a fleeing glips – ’
‘Fleeting glimpse, Herb.’
‘Ja, yes, so. A fleeting glimpse. This time I’m pretty sure. But still not certain. Not one-hundred-percent sure. I see the girl who works for them. We go for a walk together – it is Sunday – and I say if she wants chocolate or stockings or anything I can get them possibly. I let her know I have American friends. She likes this and we have a good time together, you understand? We – well, we… In an old house scheduled for demolition – you understand?’
‘You made love, Herb. Most natural thing in the world. No need to be shy about it.’
‘For me only the second time. For her, I don’t know. It is good and she says she likes me a lot – her name is Helene Schtabelle. Her parents are dead from the Russians. I think her mother was raped and shot – maybe Helene also raped, so many were; but she is there and she must work, so she does good work for them. I ask her if there is any new NKVD officer arrived at headquarters – ’
‘And she told you?’
‘No. She says she will discover it for me. So I keep watching and then I see him in daylight and with no uniform. He is in a car with the window open. The car is parked near where the zone changes from Russian to American – you know how sometimes they have sudden checks on people crossing one zone to the other?’
Naldo nodded but said nothing.
‘He was watching as soldiers did the checking. He took much interest, as though looking for someone. Over there they arrest people often if they don’t think the papers are in order.’
‘They do it in all the zones, Herb.’
‘But there it seems more – how do you say it – sinister? Yes, more sinister, like the Gestapo or the SS. In the war when they come and knock at the door you know it is someone’s big trouble – well, usually.’
‘And you recognised him this time?’
‘Oh, for sure, Naldo. For sure from the photographs it is him. And I see my Helene the next day. She tells me, so that settles it.’
‘Who?’ Naldo Railton asked calmly.
‘The Russian from England; from your family. He is Colonel Gennadi Aleksandrovich Rogov, second-in-command NKVD Russian Zone, Berlin. Your family, Naldo, your uncle’s brother, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Naldo’s throat had become a desert and his hands trembled. Ramillies Railton, Caspar’s long-missing brother, was so near to where they sat, yet a million miles away.
C allowed Naldo to tell at least a version of the Ramillies Railton story, to put Arnie in the picture. Now C spoke. ‘Rogov could be a little lever. He could be of use, Arnold. You follow me?’
‘Oh, my God!’ Arnold was genuinely concerned. ‘Don’t tell me we’re going to lift him.’
‘That’s exactly what we’re going to do.’ C’s smile would have melted thick ice, yet nobody else looked happy about it. ‘Yes, eventually we’ll lift him, but we must have more on the man.’ Hardly pausing for breath, C asked Herbie to go and make some tea. ‘You make good tea, Herbie,’ he said, and the big youth smiled a daft smile that covered his own knowledge. Herbie knew they wanted to be alone, to talk about this Englishman, Ramillies Railton, whom he had spotted near what used to be the Unter den Linden. Odd that so many of the old linden trees had survived.
‘We must make a new study of Ramillies Railton,’ C said, speaking softly. ‘Any ideas, Naldo?’
Chapter Twenty
‘So how old is this asset of young Kruger’s?’ C looked at Naldo, his whole face softening, as though Naldo Railton was his nearest and dearest friend.
The old devil, Arnie thought, he’s going to pull the strings and make Naldo do everything. Herbie and Naldo.
‘Helene Schtabelle. Age twenty. Berlin born and bred. Orphan. She probably went through the mill, like all women in Berlin before the Yanks – begging your pardon, Arnie – and ourselves took over the other sectors.’ He did not even bother to mention the French, whose Berlin zone was small and did not count for much. Hel
ene had stayed in the Russian Zone. She was already an efficient secretary. Naldo sketched it all for them. ‘She worked in Goebbels’ Propaganda Ministry until the last days. No love for the Nazis, and certainly none for the Ivans. Clever, good looks – blonde, slim features, good figure. Has a room somewhere off the old Alexanderplatz. There are still some solid houses standing in that area. We’ve nothing on her. Looks clean as a whistle.’ It was all committed to memory, Arnold noticed; nothing on paper. The Agency would have had a dossier thick as a telephone directory.
‘Mmmm,’ C mused. ‘What about Kruger? You think he’s ready for it?’
‘He’ll need more than one asset if you’re thinking of surveillance, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, of course he will. I’m thinking out loud.’
‘We need to know more – ’ Naldo began.
C sighed. ‘Of course we need to know more. Your Uncle Ramillies went into Russia on October 14, 1918, on instructions from the then C, and with guidance from his grandfather, Giles Railton. We had people there for a long time after that – it’s all in the history books, Donald.’ The Chief was annoyed, nobody ever called Naldo by his proper name.
‘What isn’t in the history books, sir?’ Naldo seemed unperturbed.
‘You know some of it yourself. You’ve never seen the file. I have, and when we got the sighting during the war – Rogov with the NKVD agents destined to be dropped into Germany – it wasn’t much of a surprise. The file fills in some of the blanks. Your kinsman is a survivor, Naldo. He went in knowing he would not come out – not on our side anyway. He’s served the Cheka – or the NKVD, OGPU, NKGB, MGB, MVD, or whatever they’ve called it over the years – since the end of 1918. That is no mean feat. He must be a very experienced and respected officer. He’s really part of the history of the Revolution; served under the Cheka’s founder, old Iron Felix Dzerzhinsky himself. That must make him a figure of some awe, especially as he’s avoided the purges, worked under Yakov Peters, Menzhinsky, and now that bastard Beria – who must be a load of fun, especially as he appears to control the entire shooting match – Intelligence and Security.’
Naldo nodded, as though agreeing with C. He had only a sketchy idea of the NKVD’s history. Only the names of Dzerzhinsky and Beria were familiar to him. ‘We know he did a recruiting drive in the 1930s’ – Naldo was talking of his Uncle Ramillies again – ‘and that he came over when SOE gave assistance to dropping their people into occupied Europe – ’
‘My dear fellow.’ C held up a hand. ‘We know pretty well what he’s been up to throughout his career – until now, that is. Young Kruger’s put his finger on the Russian Railton’s latest appointment. What we need is dirt. Levers. Pressure points, Naldo, that’s what we want.’
‘Should we talk to my Uncle Caspar?’
C gave a little nod and there was a rattling sound from the kitchen – Herbie testing to find out if he could yet return. ‘How long d’you think you’d last in the Russian Zone, Naldo?’
‘A week, with luck. Passable German, not spectacular.’
‘If we could bait some kind of Beartrap…’ C appeared to be speaking his thoughts aloud. Then: ‘Oh, I’m sure young Kruger could get a sympathetic team together, lure him, and get him into the West. No real problem there. But the fellow’d yell blue bloody murder. Wouldn’t serve any purpose. Unless of course we can dig up some dirt.’
‘Our own Russian and Eastern networks, sir?’
‘Oh, they’re coming along nicely, I gather, but I’d like to keep this circle closed tight if we can. No office chitchat. Been our downfall before this.’ Another rattle from the kitchen, so C yelled at Herbie, ‘When’s that bloody tea coming, Kruger?’ Then, quietly, ‘I’d like you to sound out Caspar for me, Naldo. Then report. Right?’
Naldo nodded as Herbie lumbered in with a tray balanced precariously. ‘Tea is served,’ he intoned with a huge grin.
*
‘Do you know about the Railtons’ dark horse?’ Arnold asked Fry as they sat having a very old-fashioned tea at Brown’s Hotel.
‘The Dreaded Ramillies? Yes.’ Fry sipped his tea. To his surprise, Arnold noticed that he held his cup with the little finger of his right hand extended.
‘I think they’re on the verge of some op to lift him out of the Russian Sector. He’s second-in-command, NKVD Berlin.’
‘Well, that’s going to be a great help, isn’t it?’ Fry’s face betrayed none of the petulance which encrusted his voice. ‘Just the kind of thing we want, some Russian NKVD bigwig screaming rape.’ He took hold of a tiny triangular sandwich and pushed it greedily into his mouth, an action at variance with the little-finger routine with his teacup. ‘Is this for real?’
‘They seem serious.’
‘God in heaven. Berlin’s difficult enough already – plunked in the middle of Russian-occupied Germany, with this four-way split in its military government.’ The Americans, British, and French could only get to their Berlin zones by using strictly defined roads, railways, and air corridors.
‘There’s talk of Beartraps. I guess what we’d call Honeytraps.’
‘Well, for God’s sake try and dissuade them.’ He paused, as though in two minds whether to tell Arnold something weighing on his mind. Then: ‘There’s still nothing on Screwtape. No contacts. Working normally…’
‘And sticking to the same routine?’ Arnie sounded smug.
Fry nodded and gave a dry affirmative. It almost made Arnold feel pain in his own throat when Fry had a particularly bad day.
‘Fishman’s acting oddly about him. Won’t let us haul him in. It’s gone on long enough, we’re using a lot of manpower, and the longer it continues the more likely he is to spot the surveillance.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like me.’ Farthing smiled. ‘I thought from the start that we should lift him and open him up.’
Fry did not reply. Instead he altered the conversation in a quick curve. ‘What’re you doing with your spare time? I presume you have spare time?’
‘We’re not meeting again for a week. Naldo’s talking to his uncle, and they’ve put the lad Kruger out of play. Fattening him up for more action I guess, running him through more advanced training at that place they have near Warminster, as well as Ashford and Fort Monkton, for “outdoor pursuits.”’
Fry gave an uncharacteristic grin. ‘B-movie stuff – Schools for Spies,’ he said in a dramatic tone.
‘Nobody uses that word, Roger. Spies. You should know better.’
Fry laughed aloud, then asked again what Farthing was doing with his time.
‘I have a date tonight. Old flame. See where it leads.’
‘High time we got you married off, Arnold. Some nice Radcliffe graduate.’
‘Save me from the Cabots and Lowells, Roger. My old English flame is very high up the social ladder here. Let me find my own level.’
That evening Arnold found it. The moment he saw Faith Kirk again he knew it was over for good. In uniform there had been something oddly vulnerable about her. In the severe tweed suit she wore that evening, combined with the painted mask of a face and hair that appeared to have been sculpted rather than styled, she was about as vulnerable as a python.
They ate at some little Italian restaurant which in spite of the food restrictions still in force had just reopened in Soho, and the conversation – after the first cool greeting – lapsed quickly into a monosyllabic round of questions and answers. Where are you now? Arnold wondered. Where’s the lively laughing girl who gave off waves of passion as a crackling fire provided the warmth? He was never to discover the real answer – though he supposed it had a lot to do with the British class system. Things were returning to normal in that tight little island where the wartime friendliness and we’re-all-in-it-together attitude had quickly given way to a regrouping of the old unwritten rules. As an outsider, Arnold could see how much the new Socialist Government was to blame, taking sides, splitting people into categories. However, one clue to Faith’s attitude appeared almost o
ut of nowhere.
‘Sorry I wasn’t able to get in touch before,’ he said, trying hard to be charming. ‘After I left for the Continent it became difficult. Then Berlin; then back to the States. This is my first trip to England since I last saw you.’
She looked up at him with a dead expression, as though she was speaking to someone on the telephone, miles away. ‘That’s not quite true, is it, Arnold?’
‘What?’
‘You were in England a year ago.’
Flustered, he made little swimming movements with his hands. ‘Oh, that? A quick in and out. No time for anything social.’
‘I found out quite by accident. You see, Sara Railton Farthing’s a second cousin of mine, on her mother’s side. She had dinner with us shortly after you’d spent the weekend at Redhill.’
And that, thought Arnold, was that. The Railtons were real sons-of-bitches. Had relatives every which way. The hell with it. Her side of the conversation became rather stuffy. He just could not see through the layers of class she appeared to have spread over her real personality. Even the voice had assumed that pretentious singsong arrogance of the so-called upper classes. As she talked, Arnold began to switch off, seeing her lipsticked mouth moving, hearing nothing but picturing the girl he had once known, lying naked and laughing on the bed of a second-rate hotel room. He saw her home in a cab and went back to Kensington where Naldo had given him a room. On the way home, for the first time in his life, Arnold contemplated stopping the cab and approaching one of the whores pacing her beat in Knightsbridge.
So preoccupied was he that he failed to note the Daimler car following his cab, pulling up fifty yards or so in front of them to let out a passenger who sauntered toward him, keeping to the shadows, walking silently past Naldo’s house to be certain Arnold was safely in for the night.
*
Naldo was also out on that night, dining with Caspar and showing off his bride-to-be. After dinner, Phoebe Railton led Barbara out of the dining room, to leave the two men alone with their port and, as she put it, ‘Your unsubtle dirty stories.’ Phoebe, like many women, had come to despise this old ritual of dividing the sexes after a pleasant meal. She said as much to Barbara, who kept her peace, knowing they might have to wait for a long time before the men came to the drawing room. Naldo had already hinted to her that there was ‘business’ to discuss.
