by John Gardner
‘Watch the fucking language, Herb.’
‘Okay. But we can probably use them again – the team, I mean – if we have to. I shall put the fear of God into them tomorrow. Make them stop being lie-abouts. Make them get work. For the Russians if possible. They come in very useful one of these days.’
‘And tomorrow you’ll bring the gubbins to the house in the British Zone.’
‘What is gubbins?’
‘The pretty pictures and the recording.’
‘You not taking them?’
‘No. Just in case anything goes wrong.’
*
And that was it. Nothing did go wrong. ‘It seemed almost too easy,’ Naldo said to Arnold later.
‘Ops that run smoothly always seem too easy. Question yourself again after they’ve started to dry out your uncle. If there are problems, it will have been too easy.’ They were in the British Zone’s safe house by then, and Naldo was winding down from the stress of the last hours.
He had left Herbie alone with their prisoner while he walked a kilometre to the cleared bomb site where he had parked the Humber, hidden away behind a broken wall.
Carefully, he drove back to the Alexanderplatz house and drew up directly outside. Then he helped Herbie carry Ramillies to the door. He opened the truck, and they chose a minute when the street was empty, in the gathering gloom, to dump their captive, covering him with sacks. Naldo drove carefully until he reached one of the many streets that divided the zones, when he put his foot down and – to use his own words – went ‘Split-arse into safety.’
Now, in the safe house, with Ramillies still asleep in one of the bedrooms, he asked Arnold what arrangements C had made to get their man to England.
Arnold looked at his feet. ‘I have news.’ He looked up, and Naldo saw something had gone wrong. ‘In his infinite wisdom, our lord and master has decided we should keep your uncle here.’
‘What? Here? Here – in Berlin?’
‘Not necessarily Berlin. He came over for the day. Called me in this morning.’ Arnold grimaced. ‘Lots of cloak-and-dagger stuff – telephone calls; a bodyguard, and an ultra-safe house near the airfield – near Gatow.’
‘And he doesn’t want my uncle back in the land of his forebears?’
‘His op, Nald. He’s obsessive about it – his op. He keeps repeating it, and what he says goes. He feels, and I quote, It would be unwise to bring Ramillies into the UK – for a while at least. I can understand it. The Ivans’re going to get themselves really screwed up. NKVD officer missing. In he dead or was he filched? Do the Brits know where he is? Stiff notes to the Military Governor, telephones ringing at midnight in Whitehall…’
‘You mean he wishes to be able to say he has no idea where the missing Russian colonel has gone? None of his business?’
Arnold said that was the way he had read it. ‘He suggested we take him to the big safe house in Munich for a start. Says we should avoid military bases if possible.’
‘Interrogation?’
‘We know what it’s all about. We sort him – oh, we do get some help. By the devious methods he’s going to get your Uncle Caspar into the act. Said Caspar’d know how to do it.’
‘That’s what I figured.’
Ramillies was awake, but looking ill by the time Herbie turned up.
‘I fix them all,’ Herbie told Naldo. ‘No trouble there. I have trouble with Helene. Doesn’t want me to leave and all that stuff. You know women?’
Yes, Naldo said he knew women, and marvelled at Kruger’s maturity. They had made their own arrangements for processing the film right there in the safe house, and while Naldo waited for the prints to dry, he played the wires, which were perfect. He grinned at Arnie. ‘Snaps’re fairly dramatic as well.’
They gave breakfast to Ramillies, who refused to eat and demanded to see a senior Russian officer. ‘No Russian officers here,’ they told him. Then Naldo took a turn around the block – to be certain there was no ‘iffy surveillance,’ while Arnold and Herbie baby-sat their prisoner.
‘We going back to England, Arnie?’ Herbie asked, and Arnold gave him a watered-down version of what he had told Naldo.
They left that evening without really saying much to Ramillies. There was a Dakota at Gatow, and Naldo drove them onto the base, with Ramillies well sedated. They had genuine papers for the trip, but did not attempt to get their captive on board until they were certain nobody had hidden eyes on them, apart from the two ground crew, who were RAF types and knew how to zipper their mouths.
Naldo had used the Munich house before, and could see why C suggested it. It lay about three kilometres out of the city, set on two acres, surrounded by trees, and fitted with security locks throughout. There were even several Service hoods permanently based there to patrol the grounds with a pair of evil-tempered German shepherd dogs. The Service hoods were of the kind who asked no questions and talked to nobody as long as the paperwork was genuine. C had given Arnold very good paperwork.
They dumped Ramillies in the most secure room, reserved for people like him or agents out for a day or two of debriefing. Over dinner, after explaining the situation to Herbie, they started planning strategy.
‘Go in hard, I think,’ Naldo decided. ‘Hit him with the lot, dangle the carrot, then get straight down to the nitty-gritty – Klaubert, the Orléans Russians, Klaubert’s escape, and who went with him.’
‘Promise him immunity?’ Arnie asked.
‘Anything – so long as it’s not recorded or written down. Promise him the earth, a place in the sun, and as many young boys as he requires, for the rest of his life. If he doesn’t cooperate, we use the first stick: pretty pictures and the recording.’ In the basement they had more sophisticated equipment, which could transfer the wire sound to twelve-inch acetate discs. They were also equipped with both wire and cylinder recording apparatus. The more simple magnetic tape would not come into use until the 1950s.
No things are that easy – particularly in Naldo’s and Arnie’s line of business.
Ramillies did more than just not cooperate. ‘I am a Russian citizen, an officer of the Red Army. You hold me here against my wishes. There will be a diplomatic incident when it becomes known. My name is Gennadi Aleksandrovich Rogov. I am not this Ramillies you claim.’
Naldo sighed and tried again. ‘Look, we know who you are – an officer of NKVD; a former officer of the British Secret Intelligence Service who defected to the revolutionary forces in Russia in 1918. October to be exact. Under the cover name of Vladimir Khristianovich Galinsky, if you want the details. We can prove who you are. Let’s make it easier on you, Uncle Ramillies. Christ, you met me in Cambridge in 1935 when I had some half-baked ideas about Communism. I remember you. Let’s talk properly.’ But Ramillies recited only his Russian name, rank, and number.
The day afterward, both Naldo and Arnie went in, leaving Herbie by the door, outside.
‘Okay, Colonel Rogov, we’re convinced. What do you want?’
‘I wish to be returned to the Russian Sector, where I shall make a full report. Then we shall see where the explosions come from.’
‘You want to take the photographs with you?’ Arnold asked.
‘And the recordings?’ Naldo added.
‘Recordings?’ The Colonel had probably worked out how to get around embarrassing photographs by saying he had been drugged and set up for the camera – after all, had he not directed such operations himself? Recordings were another thing entirely.
‘Recordings,’ Naldo repeated. ‘You didn’t think we’d rely on photographs alone, did you? We have every word that you and the boy said from the moment you entered the room. Everything, including his price. We told him he particularly had to say the price aloud. He did. So, all the conversation plus the, ah, sound effects.’
Ramillies went a shade lighter in colour. ‘You bluff.’ He laughed unconvincingly.
‘It’s a good recording,’ Arnie said brightly. ‘We’re thinking of giving it to the Voice of Amer
ica – your people listen to our programmes, I presume.’
Ramillies shrugged. ‘If you have this recording, then play it.’
‘You want to hear it first?’ Naldo asked.
‘I – ’ There was a tap at the door and Herbie put his head into the room, inclining it toward Naldo, who excused himself.
‘Man says he’s your uncle on the telephone.’ Herbie pointed to the hall.
It was Caspar. ‘Our mutual principal suggested I call this number. Says you have a surprise package waiting for me.’
Naldo thought, Christ, he hasn’t even told Caspar. Into the telephone he asked where Caspar was.
‘Here.’
‘We’ll pick you up. You know the Three Rs?’
‘Yes, very well.’ Caspar indicated that he realised his nephew would give him a time three hours later than any proposed meeting time.
‘Okay, go there at three this afternoon. I’ll drive in and pick you up at the ladies’ entrance. Got it?’
For ‘ladies’ entrance’ read the imposing Frauenkirche, in the Marienplatz, which had escaped serious damage in the Allied bombings. Naldo hoped his uncle was quick off the mark.
‘Got it.’ Caspar was very quick off the mark. ‘Look forward to seeing you.’ He hung up abruptly and Naldo went back into the interrogation, immediately seeing that Ramillies looked more than a little shaken. Arnie had been playing some of the more salacious passages of the recording.
*
‘So what’s all the mystery? Your father sends his best, by the way.’ Caspar settled into the Humber next to Naldo. ‘You mean you really don’t know?’ Naldo negotiated the streets out of the Marienplatz.
‘Not a clue. The Old Man simply said you would have a surprise, and that I was sailing under sealed orders.’ He tapped the breast pocket of his coat. ‘You know what he can be like. I have a sealed envelope, not to be opened until I’ve seen what you’ve got.’ He paused for a second too long. ‘Says you can tell me everything you’ve been up to.’
‘Really?’ They always warned you about being obsessive, of seeing agents everywhere and becoming overly suspicious of everyone, but Naldo just did not believe his uncle. ‘The Old Man didn’t tell me that, Caspar. Mind if I check on it?’
‘Well…’ Caspar laughed, caught by his own devious words. ‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t, really.’
I’ll bet, Naldo thought. Caspar was a cunning old fox, but he had been out of the field a long time. ‘You a trained inquisitor, Cas?’ he asked.
‘Done all the courses, yes. Had a go at a couple of probables. One was a definite. Yes, I’m a fully fledged interrogator. Why?’
‘One of the reasons the Old Man’s sent you, then.’ Keep it in the family, he thought to himself.
Caspar asked if anyone he knew was working with Naldo. ‘Arnie Farthing and the German lad, Kruger.’ He did not elaborate, and Caspar grunted.
Naldo slowed the car to show his face to the hoods who opened the gates to the safe house. The garden was walled, topped by great shards of broken glass and barbed wire thick enough to make even a professional think twice. Trees ran inside all the walls, and a great stretch of open lawn was floodlit during the night, from dawn to dusk. A gravel drive swept down in a series of S-bends to the circle in front of the house – ornate, very Bavarian, with distinctive wooden eaves.
‘Been here before.’ Caspar almost shuddered. ‘We cornered an SS general in this house. Bastard shot his lady friend and bit the old L pill before we could get at him. Made a nasty mess all over the carpet as I recall. Yes, I suppose I liberated this property for the Service.’
‘Good for you, Uncle Caspar.’ Naldo brought the car to a stop with a swerving flourish of gravel.
‘Oversaw some of the refurbishing as well.’ Caspar seemed to be off in a world of his own. ‘Expect that’s one of the reasons the Chief wanted me here. We built one or two little surprises into this place. Extra-interrogatory devices.’
‘Maybe that’s one reason. The other’s a little closer to your heart. Come on in and meet the subject.’
Caspar swung his artificial leg onto the gravel. As he stood up, his face underwent a strange change. ‘Oh, Christ!’ He looked Naldo straight in the eyes. ‘It’s the Rammer, isn’t it? You’ve snatched Ramillies from the Ivans?’
Naldo took his arm, speaking briefly, giving him a shortened version of how they had entrapped Ramillies, adding details of the recordings and photographs. ‘Come and meet your brother, Cas. He’s being a bit bolshie at the moment.’
‘Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? That’s what he is.’ But the smile on Caspar’s face did not speak of humour. After almost thirty years, he was about to come face to face with his own flesh and blood. A Railton traitor he had come to hate, since he learned that he was alive and a shade too well. After all, had not C given him all the secret intelligence they had on Colonel Rogov – a thick dossier containing times, dates, places, names, analysts’ reports? It was an incomplete, fragmented map of Ramillies’ life since he had first gone into Russia for the Secret Intelligence Service. A lot of the topography was substantial, though some sections were only half-explored, and others guessed at from makeshift readings.
In later years, when they were able to talk more freely to people in the trade, both Naldo and Arnie heaped praise on the way Caspar handled things. ‘It was the most ruthless, determined, and well-timed breaking of a subject I ever saw,’ Naldo would say. But, of course, Caspar was the ideal choice – the suspect’s elder brother, and also a man of great experience in the business, as well as one who had studied what was known of Ramillies’ secret life backward, forwards, and almost sideways since he had been given access to the files. He wasted no time, walking into the room, his face set, eyes rimed with frost. You could almost feel the cold.
‘Hello, Ramillies,’ he said, as though he was empty of any emotion. ‘Our mother does not send her best wishes. She would rather that you were dead – which of course will probably be the end of it, soon. They’ve shown you the pictures.’ He looked at Arnie. ‘Played him the words?’
‘The best bits.’
‘Well, let him hear the lot, then package up three copies with three sets of photographs. I’ll dictate the covering letters. One set to Marshal Stalin; one to L. V. Beria, who has overall control of the Russian Intelligence and Security Services; one copy to L. F. Raykhman, Chief of NKVD Executive Action Department. You know how to get them delivered.’
‘Wait!’ There was nothing weak or pleading about Ramillies’ voice.
‘Why should we wait? You’ve been shitting on us for years. You think we snatched you to have a show trial or an international incident? Or did you imagine we’d subject you to some sort of interrogation – like your people do in those unhealthy cellars behind Dzerzhinsky Square, in the Lubyanka? You think we’d prise secrets out of you, Ram? Think we’d use electricity and pincers? You think your crony Beria is going to show you mercy?’
Ramillies looked white but in control of himself.
‘There’s nothing to ask, brother. We know it all. But the family – I mean in its broadest sense – felt it was time we had you scraped away, like surgeons scour infected tissue. It hurts, old son, and most of us here are real family.
‘No. No secrets. We post this stuff back. Then we put you in a registered package to Moscow. It’s as good as done.’ Caspar turned to Arnold again. ‘Play him the whole recording, now – all of it. Make him listen. Goodbye, brother!’ And he turned toward the door and walked away.
Naldo caught up with him in the hall. ‘Cas? Caspar – you’ve got him on the run! Go back and blaze away.’ He stopped short as his uncle slumped against the wall. There were tears pouring down his cheeks.
‘Cas?’ Naldo put a hand on the older man’s shoulders.
‘Don’t.’ There was no sob in his voice, only a hardness he had never heard from his uncle before this. ‘That little shit in there’s my brother – your uncle. We should do what I suggested. I have to f
ace my mother – his mother; and I have to live with the memories of what the little bastard’s done.’
‘But, Caspar…’
Casper flapped his artificial arm. ‘It’s okay, Nald. No, of course we’re going to dry him out. But this is the best way to soften him up. Give him time to think about what would happen to him in Moscow. Then he might just start to plead, and even if he doesn’t, we’ll find a way.’
They did not let him sleep – Naldo, Arnie, and Herbie exchanging watches, talking to him the whole time. They asked no questions, but followed Caspar’s explicit brief. Both Naldo and Arnie were amazed that Ramillies’ brother knew so much about the traitor’s secret life, and even more dazzled by the detail he managed to keep in his head. He was able to recite whole chunks of the NKVD man’s personal history – recruiting in English universities during the 1930s; his contacts with known Russian agents in occupied Europe during the war; his prime job within the First Directorate, or Foreign Department as it was known during what the Russians called the Great Patriotic War; and his close relationship with the beast Beria, a delicate friendship forged by Ramillies to preserve his own survival during the purges and reorganisation within the NKVD during the late 1930s and early 1940s. He even knew the names of some of Ramillies’ agents in the field: admittedly most of them were blown agents, but Caspar had chapter and verse on them.
‘You’ve got one hell of a lot on him,’ Arnie said.
‘That’s what it looks like to you.’ Caspar smiled. ‘I hope it’s going to seem the same to him. If we give him too much time to think, he’ll see that we really don’t know about anything that matters. Mind you, he has to see that in due course, otherwise we don’t win the golden chalice from him.’ He chuckled. ‘If anyone knows about Klaubert of Orléans, and what’s happened to my nieces, that bastard does. They’re his nieces as well, don’t forget.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘The Old Man didn’t have to put it in words to me, but he’s allowed you to risk your necks pulling the Rammer out of the Russian Zone, so that I can put him to the question about Klaubert and the girls. I presume that’s why the whole of this business is tied up so tightly – I mean, nobody else knows, do they, Arnie?’
