Disorderly Elements

by Bob Cook

  “Good show! Who is he?”

  “I have code-named him Plato, and for the time being his identity must remain hidden.”

  “Even from me?” Owen asked indignantly.

  “I’m afraid so. Plato insists upon anonymity. He is operating at a very high level in the SED, and his motives are purely mercenary. He believes that he can furnish the information we need, but at a very high price.”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “How much?”

  “Two million pounds sterling.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Owen snapped. “I presume you made that quite clear.”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Wyman said calmly. “Plato is risking a great deal by acting for us, and he regards the figure as wholly justified.”

  “What exactly did you tell this Plato?”

  “He knows that Dovetail’s network has been blown, and that we want to know how it was blown. He does not know that it was an F-network, and he knows nothing about our suspicions.”

  “Can’t he be persuaded to work for a more realistic figure?”

  “He would regard it as a less realistic figure.”

  Owen frowned unhappily.

  “Does Plato have any intention of defecting, now or later?”

  “No,” Wyman said. “As I explained, Plato is simply a mercenary. He is attracted to Western wealth, but not to the West itself. He is frequently involved in diplomatic work in Europe, so all we need to do is place the money in a special Swiss bank account which I have just opened.”

  “Out of the question,” Owen said. “The Minister would never countenance it. Have you no idea of the pressure upon the Firm to reduce expenditure?”

  “I have an extremely good idea,” Wyman said coldly. “After all, I am a victim of it.”

  “Yes,” Owen said in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

  “These are extraordinary circumstances, and they justify extraordinary expenditure.”

  “I doubt if the Minister would agree. Did you find out anything else in Europe?”

  “Not much,” Wyman said. “I tried to establish contact with Menger and Hahn. They’re the only members of Dovetail’s network who haven’t yet been arrested.”

  “What happened?”

  “No luck. Menger runs a shop somewhere, and Hahn works in a chemical plant. Short of entering the DDR, there is no way of establishing safe contact with them. Since they were only ever expected to deal with Dovetail, they know nothing about us.”

  “Perhaps if we sent someone in…” Owen speculated.

  Wyman shook his head.

  “Far too dangerous. Suicidal, in fact. It’s almost certain that the SSD know about them. My theory is that they are being held out as bait for precisely this contingency.”

  “Put out a useless operative, pull in a British agent. I suppose you’re right.” Owen disliked having to make concessions to Wyman. “So what are we going to do?”

  “Give Plato his money and see what happens. There is no alternative.”

  “No,” Owen said emphatically. “We can’t do that. There must be another way.”

  Wyman threw up his hands in frustration.

  “Then what do you propose?” he demanded. “It occurs to me that parsimony will be the death of this organization.”

  “What about this end?” Owen asked. “If there really is someone here selling off information, can’t we investigate at this end?”

  “We can,” Wyman said, “but it would be a mammoth task.”

  “I don’t see why. All we need to do is check on who has access to the F-network file at this end. That will at least give us a list of suspects.”

  Wyman drummed his fingers on Owen’s desk.

  “The idea had occurred to me,” he said patiently. “So I drew up such a list. There are thirty-five names on it. Each of these people has a secretary, and two or three juniors. Given the proximity of photocopiers to each office, anyone calling in on these people could have borrowed the file for long enough to duplicate the entries. Our short-list of suspects could therefore number some twelve hundred people. Where would you like to begin?”

  Owen sank gloomily back into his chair.

  “This is appalling,” he said. “It makes a mockery of our security.”

  “It highlights the trust placed in the Firm’s employees,” Wyman said. “It needs just one mercenary, one agnostic, and the whole thing falls apart.”

  “Yes,” Owen said weakly.

  “I suggest you present the Minister with an extremely convincing case for giving Plato his two million pounds.”

  “He’ll refuse,” Owen said. “He’s bound to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re in an economic recession, that’s why.”

  Chapter Twenty

  TEN DAYS AFTER MRS HOBBES had given him the information about Grünbaum, Bulgakov flew to East Germany by LOT, the Polish airline. At 11.45 A.M., his plane touched down at Erfurt airport.

  Thuringia lies in the southwestern corner of the DDR, and Erfurt is its main city. It is a region of hazy blue mountains, dense green forests and graceful old towns.

  Unlike many German cities, Erfurt has not been scarred by the twentieth century. For over seven hundred years its industrial community has thrived, and this prosperity is reflected in Erfurt’s architectural splendour. There are streets and bridges dating back to the time of Martin Luther, who studied and became a monk here. The thirteenth-century Augustine monastery where Luther was ordained still stands, as does the cathedral where he gave his inaugural theological lecture.

  Erfurt’s stature as a centre of humanist thought went hand in hand with its economic strength. At one time Erfurt contained Germany’s largest woad market, and one can still see the stately homes of those who grew rich from trading in that blue dye.

  Nowadays, the dye trade has given way to the large industrial manufacturers, such as VEB Kombinat Uniformtechnik and Kombinat Mikroelektronik. Fortunately, Erfurt’s history has not been defaced by the new industries, and it remains one of central Europe’s most elegant cities.

  As he got off his plane, Bulgakov was approached by a nervous young man with pimples and an abortive moustache.

  “Major Bulgakov? I am Hauptmann Fichte. I have been assigned to be your assistant.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Hauptmann.”

  Bulgakov studied the young captain with amused contempt.

  “We have a car waiting, Herr Major. The driver is collecting your luggage now.”

  Bulgakov was escorted to a black Wartburg near the airport terminal. They found the driver holding Bulgakov’s suitcase.

  “Shall I put it in the boot, Herr Major?” asked the driver. “Put it in the back seat,” Bulgakov said. “I don’t want to lose sight of it.”

  “Of course,” said the captain. “I assume it contains vital documents.”

  “No,” said Bulgakov. “It contains a set of monogrammed silk pyjamas I bought in Savile Row. It would cost a fortune to replace them.”

  The captain studied Bulgakov’s face to see if he was joking, but he couldn’t be sure. They got into the car and drove swiftly into the centre of Erfurt. On the way he tried clumsily to make conversation with Bulgakov.

  “May I compliment you on your German, Herr Major. My superiors were wondering if you would need an interpreter.”

  Bulgakov ignored the captain’s remark and continued to stare out of the window.

  “How long have you been with the SSD, Hauptmann?”

  “Eight months, Herr Major. May I ask…?”

  “I was wondering how much contact you’ve had with my organization.”

  “Not much, Herr Major,” Fichte said. He was puzzled and a little disconcerted by Bulgakov’s manner.

  “Clearly,” Bulgakov smiled.

  The captain flushed scarlet and abandoned his efforts to make conversation.

  Within minutes the car arrived at a small, sober, eighteenth-century building just off the Fu
tterstrasse. This was the Erfurt base of the SSD, East Germany’s security service. Since November 1957, the Staatssicherheitsdienst has been run by Erich Mielke, the Minister for State Security. It was an indication of both Mielke’s stature and that of his organization that he was given full membership of the DDR’s Politburo in May 1976.

  Western observers tend to underestimate the power and efficiency of the SSD, and it is widely regarded as little more than a handmaiden of the KGB. There is some justification for this view: the KGB have little regard for the Germans, and they refer contemptuously to the DDR as “the sixteenth republic of the USSR”.

  Within East Germany, however, the SSD wields enormous power, and it has scored some notable successes abroad.

  Intelligence networks outside the DDR are organized by an SSD department known as the Hauptverwal-tung Aufklärung, or HVA. It is run by Generalleutnant Markus Wolf, and was responsible for some of the most notorious spy scandals of the 1970s. Günther Guillaume, who became a personal aide of the West German Chancellor, Willy Brandt, was an employee of the HVA. So were Lothar-Erwin Lutze and his wife, whom Edgar Rawls had helped to expose. It was not until January 1979, when one of Wolf’s officers defected to the West, that the full extent of HVA infiltration throughout West Germany became known.

  But as far as Bulgakov was concerned, the SSD was a shower of amateurs, and he made little effort to conceal his feelings about Captain Fichte and his organization.

  An office had been prepared for Bulgakov, and Fichte showed him to it. The major gave it a cursory glance and nodded.

  “I trust this is all to the Major’s satisfaction,” Fichte said.

  “There are two desks,” Bulgakov observed. “Whose is the other one?”

  “Mine, Herr Major. I assumed you would want me to be at hand.”

  “You assumed wrongly, Hauptmann. Is this where you normally work?”

  “No, Herr Major. I have an office downstairs.”

  “Then you will stay there, I think.” Bulgakov smiled and lit a cigarette. “You may remove that desk and replace it with a bed. I shall be staying here.”

  “But—but we had a room ready for you in the hotel, Herr Major. It really would be more comfortable—”

  “You Germans have a taste for comfort, don’t you?” Bulgakov grinned.

  He noted with amusement that a small bead of perspiration was trickling down Fichte’s face.

  “I—I only meant—”

  “I’m quite aware of what you meant, and I appreciate your concern. I will be quite happy here, thank you.”

  “Very good, Herr Major. I shall work downstairs. If you wish, you may contact me using the internal phone.”

  Bulgakov nodded and sat down behind his desk. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into a wastepaper basket. The captain noticed this and gave a little cough.

  “I will have some ashtrays sent up immediately—”

  “Do you know why I am here?” Bulgakov interrupted.

  “All I know is that you wish to investigate the Grünbaum case, Herr Major.”

  “Is that all they’ve told you?”

  The captain nodded.

  “What do you know about Grünbaum? And for God’s sake, sit down.”

  The captain took a seat.

  “Very little, I’m afraid. I know he was a criminal, and it now appears that he was a spy as well.”

  “Spy!” Bulgakov spat the word out in disgust. “He was a shavki, Hauptmann. Just a petty informer. A nobody.”

  The captain frowned in confusion.

  “In that case, I don’t understand—”

  “Why I’m here? The reason is this: the British have heard about Grünbaum’s fate, and they are taking an unusual interest in it. Presumably they have drawn inferences from what happened. I want to know what those inferences are, and why they have drawn them. Do you understand?”

  “Not entirely, I confess. What sort of inferences do you mean?”

  Bulgakov smiled.

  “I can’t be more explicit, Hauptmann. There are some things even neighbours should not know.”

  “I understand, Herr Major.”

  “Splendid. You will now make a list of the things I require. Firstly, I want every scrap of available information concerning Grünbaum. I don’t just want the SSD dossier: I think you will find that the Volkspolizei have a nice fat file on him, and I want to see it. I want to know exactly what happened on the night he died. Hence, I will also want to interview the police officer who went to arrest him. I believe his name is Mach.”

  “Very good, Herr Major.”

  Bulgakov drew an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Fichte.

  “This contains a few other names. They are all detainees of one sort or another, and I would like to see their files.”

  He leaned over and put out his cigarette in the wastepaper basket. The stub burned a small hole in the wickerwork.

  “Will that be all, Herr Major?”

  “Yes, Hauptman. Bring me all that information as soon as you receive it. Oh, and Hauptmann…”

  “Yes, Herr Major?”

  “I know that customs vary from country to country, but where I come from it is deemed advisable to have one’s flies done up in the presence of a superior officer.”

  The captain stared down in horror.

  “Oh! I do beg the Major’s pardon, I—”

  “Not at all, Hauptmann. Thank you.”

  The door closed and Bulgakov burst into laughter.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  RAWLS’ AEROPLANE LANDED at Heathrow Airport at lunchtime on May 21. Unlike Bulgakov, Rawls had no car waiting for him. Having extricated his suitcase from Heathrow’s peculiar baggage retrieval system, he caught a Piccadilly Line underground train which took him into central London.

  At Green Park Station, Rawls alighted and hailed a taxi for Grosvenor Square. At the US Embassy, he introduced himself to the attaché responsible for intelligence liaison. He was told that a hotel room had been reserved for him in Beaufort Street, and that arrangements had been made for him to visit MI6 headquarters that afternoon. The attaché was unaware of the precise nature of Rawls’ visit, but he did know that the true reason was being kept secret from the British.

  Rawls left his suitcase with the attaché, and he was given a car to take him to MI6 headquarters. He was driven down Park Lane and Grosvenor Place, then through Victoria Street and into Parliament Square. After negotiating some heavy traffic, the driver took him over Westminster Bridge and stopped at County Hall, the headquarters of the Greater London Council.

  Britain’s intelligence-gathering organization has a variety of names. Publicly, it is known as MI6, or the SIS. Privately, it is known as the “Firm”, or simply “Six”. Its headquarters lie in the middle of a large roundabout connecting Lambeth Palace Road, York Road and Westminster Bridge Road. The building looks like a sawn-off step pyramid, and is known as the Ziggurat. It has been carefully elevated so that access from the roundabout is impossible. The only way in for visitors is by an enclosed walkway several floors up, linking the Ziggurat with the south block of County Hall.

  Rawls entered County Hall and waved some impressive docu ments at the receptionist. He was taken upstairs and over into the Ziggurat, where he was introduced to an arid official.

  “How do you do,” the man drawled. “My name’s Parfitt.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Rawls said.

  “I understand that you’d like to visit GCHQ.”

  “Among other things. I’m with Anglo-US Liaison, as you know. At the moment, I’m involved with the preparations for the arms limitation talks. I’ve been sent over here to take soundings on how the British want us to handle the talks, and to find out what’s been happening in the way of Warsaw Pact troop movements in Europe.”

  Rawls was referring to the next round of arms talks between the Americans and the Russians, to be held in Geneva the following July. The Russians were claiming that current US policy was aggressive and uncoope
rative, and that major concessions would be required if any sort of progress was to be made.

  The Americans were replying that the Russians were indulging in more than their fair share of aggression, and they backed their case with lengthy accounts of Warsaw Pact exercises, as well as the setting-up of a new batch of rocket installations in Eastern Europe. GCHQ in Cheltenham was monitoring many of these new developments, and Rawls ostensibly wished to see their findings at first hand.

  “I see,” Parfitt said. “Well, that should provide no difficulties. We’ll give you a permit to visit Cheltenham as from tomorrow. Is there anything else you would like?”

  “Yeah, there’s one more thing. We’re particularly interested in what’s happening in the DDR right now, especially in the southwest. I understand you’ve got a department here in London that specializes in DDR affairs, run by a guy called Owen.”

  “That’s right. In fact, the area you’re talking about is the speciality of a chap called Wyman, who works for Owen. If you like, I’ll ask Wyman to prepare a report on the area for you, and we’ll have it ready for you by the time you’ve returned from Cheltenham.”

  “No need, no need,” Rawls said affably. “If it’s okay, I’ll speak to Wyman myself. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Parfitt said. “They don’t often get house-calls, so it should make a pleasant change for them. I’ll fix up an appointment with Owen.”

  “Great,” Rawls said.

  They chatted amicably for another twenty minutes, and Parfitt prepared Rawls’ permit to visit Cheltenham. The American then left the Ziggurat and drove back to Grosvenor Square.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “LUDICROUS,” said the Minister, “quite ludicrous.”

  He sniffed the bouquet of his Armagnac appreciatively, and drew a long puff from his Havana cigar.

  “I know,” Owen said. “But Wyman insists it’s the only way.”

  “The man’s living in a fantasy world. He’s got to get a grip. Two million pounds—why doesn’t he ask for Threadneedle Street while he’s about it?”