The Dark Chronicles: A Spy Trilogy

by Jeremy Duns

  Had I just signed Anna’s death warrant?

  As soon as I thought it, I knew I had to reach her again. We would do just as she had said: leave here and start again. I had an image of her in her nurse’s smock in a clinic somewhere in England. She loved me – how could I let her go?

  *

  After eating a handful of wild berries to give me energy for the journey, I walked back to the outskirts of Sankt Gertrud, then ran the remainder of the way to the sanatorium. The other nurses seemed perturbed at seeing me, and after I had managed to push past some of them into the ward area I saw why. One of the doctors was talking to a group of men in uniform. Russian uniform. As one of the men saluted, he turned away and I saw the stretcher. Blankets had been placed over her body, but her head was still exposed and the features beneath the yellowish grey complexion and closed lids were unmistakable. One of the nurses told me in a hushed voice that she had been found in her quarters a few hours earlier, and that her body was being taken to the Russian Zone, and then back to Georgia. Apparently the soldiers were looking to trace a visitor she had had the previous evening: a man wearing the uniform of a British officer.

  Father had received my message loud and clear, and had acted to eliminate the threat: nobody could know about Sacrosanct. I turned before any of the soldiers spotted me and started running for the farmhouse.

  *

  As I finally crested the hill two hours later, I saw the outline of the jeep and made a desperate effort to increase my pace. He was still here! I pushed open the front door and almost fell into the living room. ‘Where are you, you bastard?’ I screamed. ‘Where the hell are you?’ But there was no reply, to that or the other abuse that I hurled at him, and I found out why when I reached his bedroom. He was lying at the foot of the bed, still in his uniform. No pills – he hated the easy option. He’d done it the same way he had meted it out, with a bullet to the temple from his Luger. The left side of his face had been completely destroyed, and the wall behind him was splattered with blood. There was no note, so I could only guess as to why one more murder had woken his conscience. Perhaps she had begged for her life, or told him about her love for me.

  It didn’t matter any more. He didn’t matter. I took him out to the garden and buried him. The wind was fierce – winter would be here soon. I had only one thought in me. I had to get to Burgdorf and find Anna’s handler.

  I had a proposition to make him.

  III

  Sunday, 23 March 1969, Hampshire

  As I crouched down to take a closer look at Chief’s body, there was a noise somewhere behind me and my hand flew to the Luger. But it was just the bleating of the telephone from the sideboard.

  I let out my breath and placed the gun back in my jacket. I had taken it from beside Father’s body twenty-four years ago, and kept it as my personal weapon all this time. Now I had learned that he had apparently not used it to take his own life, or Anna’s: he himself had been murdered, as part of a squalid little conspiracy to lure me into serving Mother Russia. The British officer who had been seen visiting Anna’s quarters hadn’t been him, but Chief. And the soldiers carrying Anna off in a jeep would have been NKVD – they had probably driven round to the farmhouse minutes later. Had Anna been the one to pull the trigger, or had she still been in her coma? It didn’t matter: she’d been part of it.

  Now I had murdered Chief. I had had no choice. He had spotted something crucial in the Russian transcript of Slavin’s interview: that the double had been involved in secret secret work – some kind of deep operation. He’d known that Father had been involved in just such an operation, because Father had told him, but he hadn’t known who else had been involved: me. However, Pritchard, the only other surviving participant of Sacrosanct, did know that. If Chief had lived another half hour, he would have told Pritchard about the translation error and the rest, and Pritchard would have realized at once that I was Radnya.

  I had had to kill him, but it had only bought me a little time, because I had no idea what else Slavin might know about me. Defections usually involved delicate negotiations, and Slavin would know not to use all his bargaining chips too early. He was due to be interviewed again at the High Commission in Lagos on Tuesday morning, where the deal would no doubt be done to exfiltrate him to London. They could also try to get hold of Anna – she wasn’t offering to defect, but they knew she had recruited the agent. I had to reach both of them before anyone else did, otherwise… Otherwise what? I would either be jailed or hanged. But what was the alternative? The masters I had served for over half my life had killed Father: how could I continue to serve them now? I knew I couldn’t.

  The phone stopped ringing, bringing me back into the room with a jolt. Who had called? I knew from previous visits that Barnes usually rang just before Chief sat down to dinner, so it was unlikely to have been him. Pritchard, to say he couldn’t come? It made no difference – I had to act on the basis that either of them might arrive at any moment. But I couldn’t kill either: while I might still manage to make it look like Chief had disappeared, nobody would believe that the Head of Africa Section or his personal minder had also happened to go missing at the same time. I would have to make other plans.

  Still, there was only one road leading into the property, so I couldn’t leave until Pritchard had been and gone, or I’d risk meeting him on the way out. But I had to hide the car – if he saw that, I was done for.

  I took the key from the front door and walked out, locking it behind me. The moon’s dull glow illuminated the car. It was a sports model, and I remembered with horror that it had no boot. Still, it was futile blaming myself – it wasn’t as if I could have considered where to store Chief’s body when I’d bought the thing.

  I didn’t have time to waste on it now – something would have to come to me while I worked on other problems. As I turned the ignition key, I added another to the list. I was used to starting her up in London; out here in the sticks, the noise was deafening. I could drive out of here at 150 miles an hour, but the decibel level would bring Barnes running, if not everyone in the county.

  Very gently, I took her deep into the shrubbery that backed onto the riverbank. Then I ran back up to the front door to examine the result. She was completely hidden behind a hedge, lying under the canopy of one of the larger beeches, but there were now marks across the gravel where I’d turned. I hoped it wouldn’t be noticeable to a new arrival coming up the driveway.

  I unlocked the door, went in and locked it again from the inside. Then I drew the curtains and switched the lights off in the living room and hallway. After rummaging around under the kitchen sink, I came up with a torch, a dishcloth, a pair of rubber gloves and some gardening bags. I took an empty bag, soaked the cloth, put on the gloves, picked up the torch and went back to the living room, where Chief lay on the floor, his eyes staring up at me.

  I closed the lids, and tilted his head so I could inspect the damage. I’d used a full metal jacket, so the exit wound was small. Thankfully, the little spillage there had been had fallen on the spread of papers that had been under his chair. I placed these in the bag, and then got to work cleaning the wound thoroughly – I didn’t want remnants of matter brushing against the carpet when I moved him.

  Then there was the bullet itself: it was embedded in the wall behind where Chief had been standing, to the right of the Georgian fireplace. I managed to jimmy it out and cleared the resulting dust with the other corner of the dishcloth. Now I had to find a way to hide the mark. The bookcase would have done the trick, but I didn’t have time to move it, and anyone who had visited Chief in recent weeks would spot such a large modification to the room’s layout anyway. On the other hand, anything I could easily shift would be moved by an investigating team later on, if it came to that.

  I settled on the piano, which stood about a hand’s width to the right of the mark. It was on a carpet, one of Chief’s finest Afghans. I got down on my knees and pulled it, a fraction of an inch at a time, towards the corni
ce. After a few minutes, I had it in place. I left it a couple of inches short of the wall to make it less obvious, but the mark couldn’t be seen unless you were right above it.

  I continued my tour of the room, searching for anything either of us had touched. I threw both tumblers and the Becherovka bottle into the bag, along with the ashtray, the unfinished egg sandwich and the Slavin file. As I executed the moves – pick this up, clean that, check this – another part of me circled over the scene and wondered how I was capable of it. Why I was doing it. What I had become. But the machine in me drove on…

  I climbed the staircase and negotiated my way along the narrow corridor to Chief’s bedroom. From a quick sweep with the torch, it looked cramped and rather untidy. I took a few summer suits from the wardrobe and stuffed them into my bag with a couple of lightweight shirts, underwear, socks and a couple of pairs of shoes.

  The bag was now full to the brim, so I left it at that and carried my haul back down the stairs. I took my coat from the hook in the hallway, put it on and headed into the living room to collect Chief. I took him in a fireman’s lift. He was heavier than I expected, and I could still smell the Becherovka on him. I picked up the bag with my spare hand and half-staggered to the hallway, taking care not to move too fast – the batteries in the torch were going and the last thing I needed now was to break a vase.

  By the time I’d reached the front door, my shoulders were starting to ache. I rested for a moment, then switched hands on the bag so I could open the door. I nearly cricked my neck doing it, but I eventually managed to squeeze through.

  I locked the door a final time, pocketed the key and stumbled down the stairs onto the drive. By moving the car, I’d ensured a longer walk for myself. I focused on the thought that had Pritchard arrived before I’d moved it, I would have had to kill him, too. And, as I had already reasoned, I couldn’t stage disappearances for both of them.

  It had started to rain: just a drizzle, but the wind was gusting it around. I got a sudden whiff of urine, and held my breath for a few seconds. There were some large beeches with plenty of shadow, and I headed for them. I had to stop several times, but then, somehow, I was there. I let Chief slide to my feet. I could see by the moon now, so I let the torch fall into the bag, then counted to ten before picking him up again, ready to attack the final few steps to the car.

  Crunch.

  Wheels on gravel. I froze. Then, in one movement, I stepped back a pace, deeper into the undergrowth.

  A moment later, headlights flooded the drive.

  I dropped the bag and laid Chief on the ground by my feet, then turned up the lapels of my coat and buttoned them across so that nothing of my shirt or jacket could be seen. It wasn’t the best camouflage routine I’d ever executed, but it might make all the difference.

  The car sidled up alongside Chief’s Bentley. The driver craned his neck out of the window to check whether he was near the verge. I could make out a few features: silver hair, glasses, and a neat little beard.

  Pritchard.

  *

  I stood in the undergrowth and watched as he stepped out of his car. He was wearing a close-fitting red coat, white breeches, and leather boots. I remembered he liked hunting – he must have come straight from the chase. He walked round to the rear door and opened it. A dog leapt out: a black, white and tan dog with a long muzzle. The sound of its bark came like a shot, travelling across the drive and negotiating its way through the branches until it reached my ears, sending my brain a simple, stark message: I was done for.

  They started for the house, Pritchard striding as though he were measuring out a distance, the hound zigzagging manically around its master. As they passed, I caught the expression on Pritchard’s face. Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, or one of those odd extrapolations induced by proximity to extreme danger, but I could have sworn he was smiling.

  This baffled me. What did he think he had been called here to discuss? Chief had said he hadn’t yet discussed the Slavin file with any of the others. At least, I thought he’d said that. If I’d misunderstood, I had no option but to kill Pritchard now. I thought of the old Service proverb: three people can keep a secret, as long as two of them are dead.

  But killing Pritchard would mean an immediate murder inquiry.

  As he took the stairs to the front door, I weighed the odds. It seemed clear that I should stay my hand and simply wait for him to leave, but the uncertainty of it nagged at me. It would have helped if I could have convinced myself I’d imagined his gleeful expression.

  Then another thought occurred to me: could it simply be that, far from resenting having his Sunday evening interrupted – as I had, and as most people would – Pritchard relished the prospect of a late-night rendezvous with Chief? Was he simply aroused by the scent of intrigue? I didn’t have many dealings with Pritchard these days – I tried to avoid him as much as I could – but thinking back to the safe house in Sankt Gertrud, I decided it was quite possible.

  He was ringing the doorbell now, rather forcefully – the car and the barking would normally have been enough to bring Chief to the door, so perhaps he was already wondering why they hadn’t.

  ‘Hallo? Anybody there?’ After he had called out a few times, he checked the door was locked, found it was, and so walked round to the window and tried to peer in, the dog following at his heels.

  The wind suddenly became stronger, whipping the branches to and fro, and I stopped one with my arm before it took out one of my eyes. The gust had also hit the bag, spilling its contents over the ground. There was the unmistakable clank of glass, and the dog swivelled its head to locate the source of the disturbance.

  Keep still.

  Keep very, very still.

  The dog started barking.

  Pritchard chucked it under the neck. ‘What’s the matter, Fizz?’

  Barking in my direction. There, master, the traitor and the corpse. In the undergrowth.

  ‘What is it?’

  Barking ferociously, pointing its head, trying to get its message across. Pritchard peered out at the drive.

  ‘Find!’ he shouted suddenly, and let go of the leash. The dog bounded down the steps and headed straight for me at a terrifying pace. Pritchard set off after it.

  Keep still, and stay calm, I told myself. Foxhounds are trained to hunt foxes, not men, so it would not be looking for my scent, nor Chief’s.

  It was just a few feet away now. I could hear its rapid panting and see the wet glint of its snout foraging through the leaves. Pritchard came stamping up behind, talking all the while in a tender, singsong voice: ‘What’s eating you, you silly fool; what’s wrong, eh?’

  Foxes, not men, I repeated in my head, foxes, not men, trying to blank out the cramp, the fear, the ache in my jaw from the rain.

  ‘There are no foxes here, you daft old thing.’

  And then I could almost hear him thinking it: no, but there might be something else. And now he started to sniff the air, too, and my mantra no longer helped me.

  Because Pritchard was trained to hunt men.

  I breathed through my nostrils, as slowly and evenly as possible, and prayed that the rain and the mud and the foliage would mask any scents emanating from me, the bag or Chief. I closed my eyes. He might pick out my whites from even the tiniest of movements, or see the reflection of the moon in my pupils. I shut down my brain and retreated inside myself, urging every fibre of my being to blend into the tree, the wind, the night, so that Pritchard would not register my presence.

  I don’t know how long I stood like that. Perhaps several minutes, perhaps only seconds. Then I heard a footfall and I broke back into full consciousness. He had moved into the hedge, a step closer to me. Could he sense me? If he came any nearer, he would see me. I wondered how quickly I would be able to draw the Luger. It shouldn’t be a problem: I was younger, fitter and stronger than Pritchard, and he wouldn’t be expecting it. Fizz wouldn’t like it, but I could handle a few bites, if necessary.

  Two s
teps more and I would have to kill him. I had killed Chief so that Pritchard would not suspect me of being the traitor. But if he discovered me now, with Chief and the debris from his murder beneath my feet, it wouldn’t have helped me much.

  The debris beneath my feet. I opened my eyes a fraction and looked down. I could see the Becherovka label, and a small greyish lump. Chief’s sandwich.

  Pritchard had his back to me now, turning to see where Fizz had gone. Taking care not to brush against any branches, I crouched down very slowly and picked up the sandwich. The rain had transformed it into a knot of mush. With my hand still an inch or so above the ground, I flicked the thing with my wrist, as though I were skipping a stone, in the direction of the riverbank.

  Fizz barked at the rustle in the leaves, and ran over to see what it was.

  Pritchard waited a few seconds, and then followed.

  I stepped back another pace, deeper into shadow, and looked up to count the stars to calm myself. I couldn’t make out much through the spitting rain, though, so I soon gave up and tried to peek over towards where I’d thrown the sandwich.

  Where were they?

  And then I saw Fizz emerging from the undergrowth a few feet down. The dog had a bird in its mouth, and Pritchard was laughing and calling it a stupid beast and then he took it by the scruff of the neck and they set off back up the drive.

  Pritchard walked round the house and rapped on the windows again, then went back to try the front door again. He was puzzled and frustrated now, but finally he marched back to the car, the buttons of his coat clinking as he walked, stroking Fizz’s ears with one hand.

  The sound of the engine faded. I waited a few minutes, still breathing at the same slow pace, until I was sure he was not returning. Then I set about putting everything back into the bag. I picked it and Chief’s body up again, and made my way through the bracken to the car.