Disorderly Elements

by Bob Cook

  Presiding over all this mayhem was Frank Schofield, the grand old man of the Stampa. Schofield was a vast edifice of sardonic American lard, famed for his trenchant wit and ferocious drinking. He had corresponded from Rome since the 1930s, and had managed to survive over four decades’ worth of social, political and journalistic lunacy. The turbulent 1960s had come and gone, but Schofield was still there, watching the world with cynical detachment.

  Wyman had befriended Schofield when working as the Section V (Counter-Intelligence) officer at the MI6 Rome station. Unlike most of his colleagues, Wyman was a true cosmopolitan, and this had earned him Schofield’s respect. Wyman had quickly realized that Schofield’s caustic, boozy front masked an active, penetrating intellect, and that the two of them had a great deal in common. They shared a mordant sense of humour, as well as a taste for good food, drink and intelligent company. Both men were skilled professionals, and both preferred to hide the fact. Furthermore, they had more in common than was generally supposed. Schofield had been involved in US intelligence during the last world war and he maintained acquaintances in the “Company”, the CIA.

  Wyman entered the Stampa and saw Schofield’s sixteen-stone frame leaning against the bar. There was no one else there, apart from a long-suffering barman who was already catering for the American’s liquid requirements.

  “Hello, Frank,” Wyman said. “How are you?”

  “About five drinks under par,” said Schofield. “How about you? Still pushing paper in Percy Street?”

  “That’s right. But not for much longer, I’m afraid.”

  “Fired?”

  “The English call it redundancy. It amounts to the same thing.”

  Schofield shook his head and emitted a low whistle.

  “I heard they’re economizing.”

  “Yes,” Wyman said. “I’ve heard the same thing.”

  Schofield grinned.

  “Drink?”

  “Scotch please.”

  The barman poured out the drink and gave it to Wyman.

  “Were you prepared for it?” Schofield asked.

  “I have to confess that I wasn’t. Cheers.”

  “Still,” Schofield observed, “I suppose you can go back to your university now.”

  Wyman shook his head.

  “No I can’t. The College is taking similar steps. Very soon I shall be entirely without work.”

  “Nobody likes an old-timer, Mike. What are you going to do?”

  “God knows. I haven’t really had time to think about it. Something rather unexpected has cropped up in the Firm, and I’m supposed to sort it out before I leave. That’s why I’ve come to see you.”

  “I didn’t think you came here to exchange pleasant reminiscences. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d prefer to talk about it elsewhere, if that’s all right.”

  Schofield’s eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it? Is there any money in this?”

  “Only my expense account.”

  “That’ll do. I presume we can talk over a quiet meal, thanks to the munificence of the Firm?”

  “I don’t see why not. It’s the least they can do, isn’t it?”

  “Too damn right,” Schofield growled. “I might be cheap, but I don’t work for free.”

  “That,” Wyman observed, “should be the motto on your coat of arms.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  WYMAN AND SCHOFIELD left the Stampa and walked down to the Via del Corso. The main streets were still full of people, so they turned off into a series of small lanes that led to the Piazza Navona.

  “It’s much quieter nowadays, Mike,” Schofield said. “No more big parties, crazy film stars, all that crap. Rome still makes for good stories, but I think it’s sobering up.”

  Wyman gave a sly grin.

  “Are you talking about Rome or Frank Schofield?”

  “Both, I guess. You know, I think I’ve become just another tourist attraction. People put me down on their itineraries, somewhere between Trajan’s Column and the Trevi Fountain. I get all these weirdos from the States coming up and telling me how they’ve heard all about me. It’s very disconcerting.

  “The other day I got a visit from some girl who works at the US Embassy. She had her speech all ready. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard all about you. I’ve always wanted to meet you.’ Then she took a good look at me and she said, ‘But Christ, you’re so fuckin’ old!’”

  He exploded into laughter.

  “You know,” he continued, “when I die, I think they’re going to stuff me and put me in the Vatican Museum. I can think of one or two editors who think that should have happened twenty years ago.”

  “Are you still writing?” Wyman asked.

  “Officially, I’m retired. I still do an occasional feature for one or two American magazines, but my heart isn’t in it any more.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing really,” Schofield sighed. “I guess I suddenly realized that I’m an old man. It’s taken a lot of getting used to. Like Edith’s death.”

  “I was very sorry to hear about that. She was a marvellous lady.”

  “She was a drunken old slut,” said Schofield. “But she had her good points.”

  They finally came to the Via della Scrofa and went into Alfredo’s restaurant. This is one of Rome’s more expensive eating spots, made famous by its excellent food and clientele of international celebrities, whose yellowing photographs adorn Alfredo’s walls. Wyman reflected that if a great deal of MI6 money was going to be spent, at least it wouldn’t be wasted.

  The two men began with an antipasto of melon and Parma ham. Next came a starter of fettucine in a delicate sauce of butter, ham and mushroom, helped on its way with a bottle of Colli Albani, a dry amber wine.

  After this, Wyman ploughed into a large plate of abbacchio, roasted baby lamb, served with a salad of tender greens with an anchovy dressing. Schofield ordered Pollo Alla Diavola and Carciofo Alla Romana (artichoke sautéed with garlic and mint).

  After coffee and a couple of shots of Sambuca, the conversation turned to the purpose of Wyman’s visit.

  “So Mike,” Schofield said, “tell me the big secret. Why are you in Rome?”

  Wyman lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “How much do you remember about the network coding system?”

  “A little,” said Schofield, smirking. “More than I should ever have learned in the first place.”

  “Do you remember what F-networks were all about?”

  “F-networks. Mmmm. Let me see…”

  He paused for reflection and said:

  “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

  “Recently, an F-network in the DDR was blown. Ordinarily, there’d be nothing to worry about. Such things happen all the time. But on this occasion there was cause for concern because several of the members were blown before the network leader was exposed.”

  “Jesus!” Schofield exclaimed. “That isn’t supposed to happen.”

  “Draw your own conclusions, Frank.”

  Schofield paused once more and looked at Wyman in consternation.

  “That’s very hot shit, Mike.”

  “Precisely. Only three people know about this: myself, the Minister and Owen, my boss.”

  “Owen. Little guy, military type? I met him once. Isn’t he a faggot?”

  Wyman smiled.

  “I’ve really no idea. Anyway, for obvious reasons, Owen wants it kept quiet until our inquiries have been completed. That’s why he had to put me onto the case. As you can imagine, it’s all very embarrassing for him, seeing that I’m to be made redundant. But he has no choice.”

  Schofield found the irony of this amusing

  “And you’re the one that’s getting fired? No offence, Mike, but doesn’t it occur to you that the Firm is run by a bunch of incompetent jerks?”

  “We do have an unorthodox way of dealing with things, it must be said.”

 
“So how do I fit into all this?”

  “I’m supposed to be making inquiries outside all the normal lines of communication. That doesn’t give much scope, but it occurred to me that you might be able to contact someone in the Company and make a few discreet inquiries on my behalf.”

  “What sort of inquiries?”

  “I want to know if they’ve heard about this story, and if they have, I’d like to see what they’ve managed to pick up. There’s no need to mention that virtually the entire network was blown or that it was an F-network. The network was based in Erfurt, and the leader’s name was Josef Grünbaum. Just say that Grünbaum was blown, and that you’d like to know how it happened.”

  Schofield frowned.

  “I’m not sure about this, Mike. Most of the Company people I know left Rome several years ago. I don’t know any of the new boys. Still, if you give me a couple of days, I might be able to find out something for you. Mind you, I’m not making any promises.”

  “I don’t expect any,” Wyman reassured him. “I was going to suggest that I get in touch with you again in about four days’ time. How does that suit you?”

  “Well, if I can’t get anything by then, you might as well give up on me. Okay, four days it is.”

  “Splendid,” Wyman beamed.

  “Furthermore,” Schofield said sternly, “if I actually find out who blew this Grünbaum fellow, I expect a free meal at the Savoy, courtesy of your friend Owen.”

  “I’ll put it to him,” Wyman said. “I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hotel Flora

  Via Veneto

  Rome

  May12

  My dear Margaret,

  I hope you are well. The weather here is infinitely more agreeable than in London, and I am having a splendid time. Although I am only here for a day or two, I have still found the opportunity to visit several old friends in the neighbourhood.

  Did I ever tell you about Neville Tanner? I once helped out with his monograph on Aristotle’s Prior Analytics, and we became firm friends. He’s doing something or other at the British School, and we met for a drink this morning. He was most upset to hear about my removal from the College, and he says he will send a formal letter of protest to the Master. I doubt if it will do any good, but I thanked him for the gesture.

  Rome is as relaxed and unhurried as ever. (I believe the modern term for it is “laid back”.) I find it difficult to reconcile this mood with the hurried nature of my trip. Had it been possible, I would have liked to stay here for another week, but I doubt that our mutual friend in Percy Street would have approved.

  I expect to be back in London by the evening of the 16th. Perhaps we could have dinner somewhere, if that would suit you. I know I have been somewhat diffident lately, but I think you can appreciate why. A great deal has happened very quickly, and I haven’t adjusted to my circumstances as swiftly as I thought I would. I think I must be getting old. Please bear with me, and forgive the eccentricities of a disorientated don.

  Love,

  Michael.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ANATOLI BULGAKOV SAT in his spacious office in Lowndes Street. Spread out across the desk before him were the documents that Mrs Hobbes had given him three days before.

  Earlier that day Bulgakov had been told by his KGB colleagues that Michael Wyman had left for Rome. Some months earlier, Bulgakov had placed Wyman’s flat under close observation, and the scrutiny now bore fruit. Wyman had been discreetly tailed as far as Heathrow Airport the previous morning.

  It was now obvious to Bulgakov that something important had happened in the Department. He knew enough about Wyman to realize that an impromptu flight to Rome was not part of Wyman’s routine work. He therefore had to make sense of the information given to him by Mrs Hobbes.

  Exhibit A was a photocopy of the item in the Thüringer Neueste Nachrichten relating the death of Grünbaum. Beside it was a photocopy of a page from Owen’s desk-pad. It contained a string of handwritten notes which Owen had taken down when Wyman related his findings. There was a series of dates and cryptic remarks: “Grünbaum 5/5, but Neumann 1/1, Reichenbach 18/12, Gödel 2l/l0—technically impossible”; “Fix emergency appt with Min.”; “W. to establish full circs of G.’s death”.

  Mrs Hobbes had also photocopied the extract from the Compendium of Anglo/US Intelligence Systems which Wyman had taken with him to the meeting. Presumably, Mrs Hobbes had decided that this was enough for Bulgakov to establish what was going on.

  Bulgakov lit a cigarette and reread the documents. He began to wonder if he should not report all this back to Moscow Centre. Most of his colleagues would have been expected automatically to pass this sort of information back to Dzerzhinsky Square, where their superiors would process it and decide what was to be done. It was only because Bulgakov was an especially trusted operative that he could even contemplate handling all this on his own.

  Indeed, the KGB is famous for allowing its employees almost no personal initiative in matters outside the USSR. It has frequently been described as a dinosaur. Although it is by far the world’s largest intelligence organization, its rigidity of structure and procedure invariably leads to bureaucratic clumsiness and delays which do not impede the agencies of lesser nations.

  The KGB hierarchy is vast and complex. At the top of the tree sit the Chairman and his deputies. Below these gentlemen are the four Chief Directorates, which in turn control a large number of subsidiary departments. The First Chief Directorate, Bulgakov’s employer, is responsible for all foreign operations. The others deal with internal security, political, religious and ethnic dissent, and the control of all the border guards in the Soviet Union.

  Below the Chief Directorates are nine ordinary Directorates. These handle the armed forces, surveillance, communications intelligence, political bodyguards, technical support for the rest of the KGB, research, administration, service and personnel.

  Finally, there are six Departments which deal with special investigations, collation of operational experience, state com munications, “physical security”, registry and archives, and finance.

  The headquarters of this colossal organization are in a seven-storey, ochre-coloured rococo building at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square in Moscow, which before 1917 housed the All-Russian Insurance Company. Behind it sits the infamous Lubyanka prison.

  A nine-storey extension was added to the building during the Second World War, but even that proved too small to meet the needs of the KGB. Further buildings went up elsewhere in Moscow to house the organization’s ever-growing staff. There is now an extra block on the Kutuzovsky Prospekt, as well as an enormous administration building on the Machovaya Ulitza, and an even bigger half-moon-shaped building just off the Moscow Ring Road.

  It was in these buildings that Bulgakov had received his basic training as a KGB officer, before he was sent out of Russia as a captain in the First Directorate. He disliked having dealings with Moscow Centre, since he resented any infringement of his personal autonomy. He knew that if he reported the present situation to Moscow, his superiors would infer his inability to handle it. Bulgakov’s record in Europe was spotless and he wished to keep it that way. He therefore resolved to tell Moscow nothing for the time being.

  He studied the extract from the Compendium. This document clearly implied that Grünbaum was in an F-network. The other names on Owen’s notepad must have belonged to other members of this network. So why had Owen added the words “Technically impossible” to this list of names?

  The number “5/5” after Grünbaum’s name gave the date of his death, since the newspaper item claimed that Grünbaum had died on May 5. Hence, Bulgakov reasoned, the other people must have died on the dates written by their names—Neumann on January 1, Reichenbach on December 18 and Gödel on October 21. But this did not explain Owen’s remark: why was all this “technically impossible”?

  Bulgakov reread the extract from the Compendium and the answer finally hit him. Given the defin
ition of F-networks, the only thing that was “technically impossible” was that the members of the network should be exposed before the network leader. The leader must have been Grünbaum, and therefore…

  “Shit!” he exclaimed. It was all clear to him now. He leaned back in his chair and thought very hard. The rest of Owen’s notes now made sense: “Fix emergency appt with Min.” meant that Owen was reporting his department’s discovery to the Minister in charge. “W. to establish full circs of G.’s death” indicated that Wyman had been sent out to discover precisely how Grunbaum’s network had been blown.

  It occurred to Bulgakov that he too must find out exactly what had happened in Erfurt. Unlike Wyman, however, he did not need to do so by covert means. He would merely have to interview the East Germans responsible for Grünbaum’s case. He would then be in a position to establish how far Wyman’s inquiries could possibly lead him.

  He wrote a memo for one of his secretaries, asking her to book a return ticket to East Germany on his behalf. His diary revealed that he would be needed in London for another five days, so he decided to fly to the DDR on the 20th.

  He added a postscript to the memo which ran as follows:

  “Please notify the Erfurt division of the SSD of my plans, and request that they make all the necessary preparations for my stay. I will be in Erfurt for no more than four days. In that time I intend to investigate the case of one Josef Grünbaum, and I will expect all the appropriate documentation to be available to me. Stress that this is a matter of the utmost urgency, requiring the strictest observation of security procedures. Only the minimum number of people should be notified of my visit.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  WYMAN FLEW TO GENEVA on the afternoon of May 14. After a pleasant thirty-six hours in Paris, the flight had no appeal for him. He regarded the Swiss as a nation of insipid nonentities who deprive you of your money in four different languages. Wyman’s visit therefore took no longer than the job required.