Disorderly Elements

by Bob Cook

  “I know,” Owen said. “But that can’t be helped. I must say, Wyman is being very sporting about the whole thing.”

  “Glad to hear it. The last thing we need is acrimony.” The Minister poured out two more glasses from another decanter, and sipped his appreciatively.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Damn good vintage, isn’t it? So what is Wyman going to do?”

  “He’s going to Europe. Inquiries are going to have to be pursued discreetly, so he’s going to look up a few old contacts. Back-door inquiries.”

  “Yes,” said the Minister suspiciously. “Sounds expensive.”

  Owen’s moustache twitched with embarrassment.

  “I know. But that can’t be helped. Under the circumstances.”

  “Mmmm.” The Minister frowned. “I really must get a case of this stuff for my home. Listen, Owen, I can’t afford to subsidize Wyman’s old-boy reunions if they don’t bear fruit. That will have to be made clear to him.”

  “It has been,” Owen said reassuringly.

  “Thing is,” the Minister said, “there are little goblins whispering impure suggestions into the PM’s ear. One of them is that your place should be shut down.”

  “Shut down?” Owen looked horrified.

  “Well, that isn’t the term they’re using. They’re talking about merging you with another Division. It amounts to the same thing.”

  “That’s terrible,” choked Owen.

  “I know. I’m defending you to the death, old boy. Rest assured of that. The problem is that my words count for less and less nowadays. It’s the humidity situation in the Cabinet, you know.”

  “Humidity?”

  “Yes. No one likes wets any more.”

  “Ah. Yes. I see.”

  “So,” the Minister went on, “the case for your continued existence must be based upon your willingness to function on a much tighter budget. No more of these ridiculous expense accounts. Wyman’s a bit of a spender, isn’t he?”

  He made it sound like an accusation of homosexuality.

  “I’m afraid so,” Owen confessed. “But he is good.”

  “More to the point, he’s leaving. Just make sure he doesn’t burn up too much cash before he goes. I really must ask where they get this port from. I can’t get hold of anything this good.”

  “It is a very fine port,” Owen agreed. “What happens if Wyman finds anything—an infiltrator I mean?”

  “I’m not convinced that there is an infiltrator. But if there is—well, I thought you chaps knew how to handle that sort of thing. Surely, the problem consists simply of finding the blighter. Just keep it all discreet, will you? We can’t afford another Bettaney fiasco.”

  “There seem to be a lot of things we can’t afford,” Owen observed.

  “Too right,” said the Minister. “There’s a recession on, you know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  BETWEEN HALF PAST SEVEN and nine o’clock on weekday mornings, East Croydon railway station is thronged by commuters. Trains run from there to two destinations in central London: Victoria and London Bridge.

  The morning of May 10 was no exception. Among the plethora of stockbrokers, clerks, secretaries, accountants and civil servants stood a well-dressed man in his late thirties called Anatoli Bulgakov.

  Bulgakov was short, good-looking and permanently cheerful. His geniality was matched by excellent manners and a fine sense of humour, and his warm, open laugh won over almost everyone who met him. Ostensibly, he worked at the British-Soviet Chamber of Commerce. In fact, he was a major in the Komitet Gossudarstvennoi Bezopastnosti, the KGB.

  His peers regarded Bulgakov with mild suspicion. They mistrusted his fondness for Savile Row suits, Rolex watches and other trappings of Western decadence. Only Bulgakov’s superiors knew better. Despite his relatively low rank, he had been given a free hand to do whatever he pleased throughout Europe: his freedom from bureaucratic restraint ensured the safety of countless operatives in his care. His record was one of unblemished excellence.

  Bulgakov boarded the 9.05 train for Victoria and sat in the window seat of a second-class smoking compartment with his attaché case and a pocket romance entitled Love’s Revenge by Bernadette Williams. Books like this baffled Bulgakov. He failed to see why the British working people should devote so much time and money to prose of this sort:

  Vera’s heart throbbed in anguish as Milo held her in his passionate embrace. She felt his warm, sweet breath, and panic surged within her.

  “No, Milo,” she breathed. “We mustn’t. The Count will be here soon.”

  “Hush,” Milo whispered. “I will deal with Count Adolfo when he arrives.”

  He kissed her tenderly and stared deep into her azure eyes. A tear rolled down her face, and he brushed it away with a gentle sweep of his finger.

  “We will never be parted,” Milo said.

  Bulgakov suppressed an urge to vomit all over the page, and he reflected that Marx’s dictum on the opium of the people could be fruitfully applied to areas other than religion. Indeed, it was a mystery to Bulgakov how Marx, who had written his great works in London, could ever have drawn inspiration from the British proletariat. Judging by the contents of Love’s Revenge, the Anglo-Saxon workers had a long way to go.

  He shut the book in disgust and put it beside him. The train rolled into Clapham Junction Station, and more passengers got on. A vast, wrinkled woman in an orange floral dress sat beside Bulgakov. She too had a copy of Love’s Revenge. Unlike Bulgakov, she found the saga of Milo and Vera enthralling.

  Bulgakov stared at the woman in horrified fascination. All his doubts about the English proletariat were summed up by this menopausal monstrosity. What would Marx have made of such a creature, with her blue-rinsed hair, butterfly spectacles and huge plastic earrings shaped to resemble bunches of grapes? Could the Revolution truly begin here?

  Bulgakov forced himself to look away from the woman. He could face tortured suspects with equanimity, he was indifferent to the sight of demonstrators being shot, and the faces of arrested dissidents left him wholly unmoved, but this—this was too much. There were limits to what even a KGB officer should be expected to witness.

  The woman continued to read Love’s Revenge with avid interest. As the train entered Victoria Station she put the book down and dipped into her handbag for her ticket. Having found it, she shut the bag, picked up Bulgakov’s copy of Love’s Revenge, and got off the train.

  Bulgakov watched her go, and noted that her stockings were full of holes, exposing tufts of hair and varicose veins. He shuddered and picked up her copy of Love’s Revenge. Stapled to the inside back cover were some folded documents. He put the book in his attaché case and left the train.

  Inside Victoria Station is a branch of the National Westminster Bank. Bulgakov entered it, took £400 in cash from his attaché case, and paid the money into the account of Mrs J. Hobbes. He then left the station and hailed a taxi, which took him to the British-Soviet Chamber of Commerce, 2 Lowndes Street, SW1.

  Chapter Twelve

  “DO COME IN,” Owen said. His tone was glacial. Wyman closed the door and sat down in front of Owen’s desk.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “The Minister was not pleased,” Owen said solemnly.

  “You know, I had a vague suspicion that he wouldn’t be,” Wyman smiled.

  Owen gave a disdainful sniff.

  “Like myself, the Minister is not entirely convinced by your conjectures.”

  “Indeed? Then how does he account for the fate of Dovetail and his network?”

  “He doesn’t. It is for us to explain these things.”

  “Quite,” Wyman said. “So what exactly is going to be done about it?”

  Owen looked downwards and toyed pensively with his moustache. He was one of those people who believe that long theatrical pauses can make the most mundane speeches sound impressive.

  “The Minister has one overriding preoccupation. It is one I share. We are both conce
rned that this matter should not prove to be unduly expensive.”

  Wyman smiled cynically. “In medieval times there was a fashionable view to the effect that everything had a ‘just price’. This notion seems to have been revived recently. What exactly is the just price of weeding out a Moscow infiltrator?”

  Owen sighed wearily.

  “Please don’t be difficult. We are all under immense pressure with regard to money.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “My only concern is to keep the cost of this work to a minimum. There is no question of a ‘just price’. We will pay whatever the job requires, within reason.”

  “Splendid,” Wyman said. He suspected, however, that his idea of what was “within reason” would not correspond to Owen’s.

  “Hence,” Owen said, “you may take a week’s leave to pursue unofficial inquiries.”

  “A week?” said Wyman incredulously. “This could take months! What could I possibly achieve in a week?”

  “You will at least be able to confirm your suspicions about the Dovetail network.”

  “They do not require confirmation. As far as I am concerned, we simply need to establish the identity of the KGB plant without delay. If I had a month, I think I could do it. In a week I could only begin my inquiries.”

  “Very well,” said Owen. “Begin them. Your success or otherwise in the coming week will determine how we will proceed after that.”

  Wyman nodded. Clearly, Owen and the Minister were trying to persuade themselves that there was really no infiltrator in the Department. If Wyman returned with empty hands after a week, that would “prove” that his suspicions were unfounded.

  “You said you would be making ‘back-door inquiries’,” Owen said. “But you weren’t very specific about them. Perhaps you’d like to tell me now.”

  “I’d prefer not to. All I will say is that obviously we can’t afford to tell this story to people who currently work for us or for the CIA. Hence, I will try to see what can be obtained from people who are no longer directly involved in intelligence work, but who still have some field contacts. I also have one or two personal connections who may be able to help.”

  “I see. Do impress upon these people the need for absolute secrecy. We can’t—”

  “I think they are quite capable of understanding the problem,” Wyman said sardonically.

  “Good. May I ask where you are proposing to make your inquiries?”

  “I will need to go to Rome, Paris and Vienna. As I only have a week, I will have no option but to fly to these places, regrettable though the expense will be.”

  The irony in Wyman’s voice had turned into mordant sarcasm. Owen, who was oblivious to sarcasm, gave a grunt of disapproval.

  “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped.”

  “I do not propose to keep in contact while I am away. When I have returned you will be presented with a full report of my findings.”

  “Good,” said Owen. He approved of written reports.

  “I also have a request to make. I have now taken charge of all the documents relating to Grünbaum and his merry men. Before I leave I will lock everything in my office, and I would be grateful if the office remained locked until I return.”

  Owen gave Wyman an inquiring look.

  “You are taking this very seriously, aren’t you? Very well. I see no reason why you can’t lock the office.”

  “Yes,” Wyman said. “Unlike you and the Minister, I do spy strangers. And when I said I wanted the office locked, I meant that it should be permanently locked. No one should have access to it—not even the secretaries or Mrs Hobbes.”

  “I understand,” Owen said curtly. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” Wyman said. He got up and walked over to the door. Just before opening it he turned and smiled at Owen.

  “Wouldn’t it be amusing if I’d made one fatal error of judgment?” he asked.

  “And what would that be?”

  “The childish assumption that you yourself are above suspicion.”

  He laughed quietly as he left the room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WYMAN FLEW TO ROME on the morning of May 11. He travelled under the assumed name of Edmund Ryle, using a false passport he had acquired when doing field work for the Firm. When its employees have finished their work abroad, the Firm insists on the immediate return of all their bogus documentation. However, Wyman had managed to delay the return of the Ryle passport until it had officially expired. He then applied to have the passport renewed, and upon receipt of the new passport he returned the old one to the Firm. Hence, unknown to his employers, Wyman was able to travel under an assumed name whenever he pleased. Given the nature of Wyman’s trip, and his obvious desire that no one but himself and Owen should know what he was doing, keeping the false passport had turned out to be a good idea.

  The flight from Heathrow Airport to Rome was brief and comfortable. Wyman sat in the first-class compartment of a British Airways TriStar, sipping brandy and smoking duty-free cigars. About halfway through the journey, the pilot pointed out that they were flying directly above the Alps. Wyman looked out and saw nothing but a thick carpet of cloud. He leaned back in his seat and wondered how Owen would react when presented with his expense account for the trip.

  Gradually the weather brightened, and the pilot announced that they would soon be landing at Fiumicino airport. Wyman was reminded to put his watch forward by one hour, and was told that Italian customs would allow him to bring in 300 cigarettes, a bottle of wine and a bottle of spirits. Since all these items were cheaper in Rome than on the plane, Wyman ignored the offer.

  Just under three hours had elapsed when the plane landed. Aeroporto Leonardo da Vinci, better known as Fiumicino, consists of two terminals about 18 miles from Rome, on the Tyrrhenian shore. The airport epitomizes the Italian flair for needless bureaucracy, inefficiency and confusion. As Wyman waited to collect his suitcase, he watched the scattered regiment of airport officials run about shouting, cursing, demanding and receiving entire forests of official documentation, annoying travellers and abusing porters.

  With a skill born of bitter experience, Wyman managed to escape this confused mêlée with relative ease. He walked out of the airport into a warm sunny day and hailed a taxi. Forty minutes later he was in Rome.

  Few cities can be summed up briefly, and Rome defies all concise descriptions. Suffice it to say that Rome is a coffee-coloured city whose exquisite beauty stems from paradox and contradictions. It is both vibrant and sleepy, surging with life twenty-four hours a day, and calmed by indifference to time. It is wildly cosmopolitan and yet typically Italian. It is both tasteful and vulgar, noisy and gentle, elegant and gauche. On a glowing spring day its streets are filled by tourists clutching cameras, fawning shopkeepers who shortchange their customers, plump housewives and their shrill Catholic progeny, wrinkled old men reading newspapers in cafés, slim youths on motorbikes, bronzed workmen, bubbly young virgins, stern priests, nuns with moustaches, homicidal motorists, the pilgrimage to the Vatican, the smell of roasting coffee and pungent cigarettes, blasts of laughter, torrents of abuse, appeals to heaven, shrugs of the shoulder, fury, joy, love and total indifference.

  Wyman had not been to Rome for eight years, and he was delighted to be back. He was driven through the centre of town and up to his hotel at the top of the Via Veneto.

  Rome’s hotels are graded deluxe, first, second and third class. Wyman chose to stay at the Hotel Flora, which is graded first class. Its slightly dated décor and excellent service appealed to his collegiate tastes, as did the view it enjoyed of the Villa Borghese, Rome’s most famous park.

  He was led up to a sumptuous double room, where he unpacked his suitcase and washed off the dust of two airports. He shaved, dressed and smoked a cigarette. At 6.15 he went downstairs, gave in his key, and walked out into the Via Veneto. He saw the Porta Pinciana, two squat sixth-century towers that lead into the Villa Borghese. Opposite him lay Harr
y’s Bar, one of the favourite haunts of the American fraternity. When Wyman had been posted to Rome, Harry’s was an excellent source of CIA gossip.

  He walked down to the corner of the Via Ludovisi, and smiled with recognition as he saw the Café de Paris over to his right. He made his way past rich tourists, flower vendors and newsstands, down to the intersection with the Via Bissolati. He passed the large, bright Palazzo Margherita, now the United States Embassy, and watched the embassy staff float in and out of the American Library across the road.

  After this the Via Veneto quietened down, and Wyman walked a little more swiftly past older hotels, travel agencies and cheaper cafés where low-budget tourists haggled with high-budget whores. Eventually he came to the end of the Via Veneto and into the Piazza Bar-berini. Two centuries ago the Piazza had been a market-place. Now it contained a large hotel, a cinema and an underground station. The only clue to its history lay in the baroque Tritone fountain, which Bernini had chipped out in 1637.

  Wyman turned down the Via Sistina and finally arrived at his destination, an unremarkable little street called the Via della Mercede. He stopped at Number 55, a tall grey building bearing a plaque which read “Stampa Estera in Italia”, and went in.

  The Stampa is Rome’s foreign press centre. It had been given by Mussolini as a gift to the world’s journalists. Ostensibly, this was a civilized, benevolent gesture on the part of a great statesman who had once been a journalist himself. In fact, Mussolini’s intention had been to put all his rotten eggs in one basket, and the Stampa had been liberally seasoned with phone-taps and other listening devices.

  After the war, the Stampa’s importance as a press centre grew steadily, until its heyday in the 1960s, when it housed a bizarre collection of international scribes whose professionalism was matched only by their eccentricity.

  In those days, Rome was the playground of the rich and famous, and no one was better qualified to report their antics to an incredulous world than the denizens of the Stampa. Hungry for copy, their editors drove these correspondents into the sort of workaholic frenzy that results in heavy drinking, failed marriages, fights, nervous breakdowns, and first-rate newspaper stories.