by Adam Hall
Line 5 was our NATO Intelligence connection.
He put the phone down and made a note on a new sheet of his pad. 'Okay, you'll be on Flight 190. They'll-' the ballpoint ran dry and he threw it aside and picked up another one. 'Bloody things. They'll have your pass waiting for you at Gate 10. The rendezvous is for 09:00 in the lobby of the Hotel Sachsen, 8 Linden Platz, about thirty minutes from the airport — he obviously doesn't want to hang about. Have you seen him before?" 'Yes.'
'Okay. He'll be carrying a copy of Pravda upside-down. Use the code introduction for this week. There'll be an Avis car waiting for you at die airport. Any questions?'
'Have we got anyone else covering his arrival?'
'No. You're on your own.'
'That's all.'
'Okay.' He tore the sheet off the pad and gave it to me, getting up and coming round the desk. 'I'll get a police car to fall in behind you on the way to Heathrow in case you blow a tube or anything, so look out for it. We'll also tell them to watch for you at the security check and Gate 10.' He put his hand out. 'Happy landings.'
I picked up the prepacked overnight bag on die ground floor and gave them the final signature and went out through die small door at die back of die building, walking round die puddles to the car. The rain had eased off and a half moon was tugging a gap in die ragged clouds, and as I got in and started up and turned north along Whitehall the last of the queasiness along the nerves died away and left me with only die steady rhythmic sound, deep in my mind, of a man running.
5 TRAP
Reverse thrust, and the deceleration forces pushed us forward against the seat belts. A copy of Stem slid across the floor but the stewardess didn't leave her jump seat to pick it up.
'Bitte bleiben Sie angeschnalt bis das Flugzeug vollstandig stillsteht.'
A TWA jumbo loomed across the window, its dorsal light winking in the haze. Raindrops streaked the glass: plus (a change, so forth.
The stewardesses were standing up, and one came over to me.
'Do you need any assistance from the airline agent, Herr Gage?'
'No, thank you.'
We rolled to a stop against the walkway and they let me off first.
'I hope you'll travel again with Lufthansa, Herr Gage.'
'1 will indeed.'
They didn't know who I was, only that I was somebody unusual: there'd been a traffic jam at Heathrow and my police escort had needed twelve minutes to get me through it, and I would have missed the plane if the Bureau hadn't used its Line 5 connection to keep the flight waiting for me. I didn't like that: it had called attention.
It was 08:07 — we hadn't picked up the time the plane had been delayed — and if Brekhov had already landed, eight or nine minutes early, I could have missed him. That would be all right because the rdv was for the Hotel Sachsen and he wasn't expecting to meet me here, but I wanted to check him for any kind of routine surveillance he might pick up. Soviet nationals always come under inspection from the teams of KGB agents-in-place when they travel to the West, to make sure they meet the people they're meant to be meeting, and stay at the hotel where they're meant to be staying.
Brekhov would know that.
I went across to the Aeroflot desk and checked the screen. Flight 376 from Leningrad was due in at 08:15, on schedule. There were twenty or thirty people in the gate area and I took up my position against the far wall, sighting the exit from the walkway tunnel between two pillars for the sake of cover. It took me thirty seconds to identify all four of the KGB agents because they were spread well out, with only one of them close to the walkway. They hadn't noted me; they had seen me but not noted me. They wore felt hats and raincoats and stood with their hands by their sides, and they were good: a man in an astrakhan coat and fur hat came out of the walkway hurrying a little, and all four of them turned their heads to scan him; but when a totally stunning stewardess came through the crowd they simply went on watching the walkway. They hadn't looked.at each other once, so far; they would only do that when they saw someone who looked worth their attention. I didn't like them; I don't like these agents when they're efficient.
Brekhov wasn't among the first thirty passengers coming through, and I began thinking he'd changed his appearance during the last year, or changed it for this trip, to match a difficult photograph on his papers; with a rendezvous precise as to time and place, recognition wasn't critical. It wouldn't matter if he'd shaved off his heavy moustache; I was allowing for that, watching their eyes as they came from the exit, watching their walk.
Three girls came through in sable coats, their soft-booted feet splayed and half-floating across the maroon carpeting: ballet dancers, to be greeted with small cries of pleasure from a matronly woman and two men; they were gathered into affectionate arms and led away. The agents didn't watch them; I'd seen them note, already, the welcoming party, one of whom was himself KGB.
Forty people had now come through, perhaps fifty. The first twinge came to the nerves. I would have thought that you'd be interested in the fact that Chief of Control has decided to stay up through the early hours to do his utmost to persuade one of his elite shadow executives to take something on that has international dimensions.
Flashlight flickered suddenly as a woman with ice-blue eyes and a perfect mouth came through, not lifting a hand to spoil the pictures the press were taking, smiling instead, not a dancer this time, and not Russian. It was Helga Aspel, the actress. Why hadn't she been among the first off the plane? She wouldn't be smiling like this when she saw her travel agent.
A man in a dark suit with velour lapels came through, his head held down and his walk too quick, an amateur and they got him right away, two of them closing in and asking for his papers, keeping him well back against the wall and shielding him from view with their bodies. They must have been waiting for him. One of them escorted him away while the other went back to his post by the gate desk. I felt another twinge along the nerves. If Brekhov came through and they thought there was something wrong with him there'd be nothing I could do. Nothing.
Except of course to call London. It's no go. They got him.
But Brekhov was a professional. He'd talk to them easily enough and say the right things and have the right answers and convince them as he'd had to convince these people before; but if there were anything wrong with his papers, if the photograph was excessively blurred or the serial numbers didn't check or there was a shift in the franking as it crossed the edges of the picture, anything like that, any slightest thing, they'd move in on him again the instant he'd cleared customs and immigration, and take him along to the Aeroflot office or the Sovietbank or the embassy and put him through full interrogation. And I wouldn't see him again. If he tried running for it or yelled for the police it would be worse: they'd drop him with a needle and grab the product and run. They've done it before: they did it with Franz Horsch on the Champs Elysees and they did it with Polinszky on London Bridge and they did it with Emil Marceau on the boat deck of the San Cosenza as she'd steamed out of Naples last year. They would do it if it were important enough. With Brekhov it would be important. And all I could do would be to send a signal.
It's no go. They- But the nerves are always a little raw in the first few hours when you go out again. Brekhov was a professional. His papers would be perfect. They must be, or he wouldn't have got onto the plane.
Had he got onto the plane?
Fifty people through and I was sweating.
Sixty.
It was a full plane; I could see them still coming off as they passed the gap between the walkway and the cabin.
Six schoolboys, a thin sandy-coloured man in charge of them, his suede shoes worn and his tweed coat flapping open, 'Come on, Henderson, keep together.'
A woman leaning on the arm of the man with her, her eyes red and her dark hair over her face, the gleam of tears on her cheek, both Russians, who were they having to leave behind? The man looked at no one, at nothing, suffering in patience with her. The agents noted them but
let them past.
Three Japanese with their smartly-cut coats buttoned, their briefcases swinging.
A young girl, unescorted, laden with souvenirs.
Brekhov.
Without his moustache but with the same eyes and the same loping walk, the floor passing steadily under his feet as if the world itself had to keep time with him. One of the KGB men was watching him, turning his head slightly as Brekhov came through the crowd at his own pace as another noted him, his eyes moving with him until he had passed the desk and I began breathing again.
They went back to watching the walkway exit and I gave Brekhov time to reach the first corner before I moved, not in his direction but towards the men's lavatory on the far side of the passageway, until I could see all four agents one by one reflected in the glass of the Lufthansa picture of the Brandenburg Gate by night. They were still watching the walkway, and I turned and followed Brekhov and saw that he was alone among the crowd, alone in terms of surveillance.
A professional, with perfect papers. Now that the tension was off the nerves I was able to recognize that Croder wouldn't have arranged things otherwise.
The traffic was moving sluggishly through the rain, the last of the morning rush hour trailing off along the Kurfurstendamm, the smell of a bakery coming through the open window. London had ordered identical Mercedes SSL two-door saloons for us at the Avis desk, and Brekhov was four vehicles ahead of me, driving as steadily as he walked.
The rain was heavy now, coming straight down from a leaden sky, splashing in the puddles and drumming on the roof of the car. Umbrellas were everywhere along the pavements, and people were sheltering in doorways.
Brekhov didn't know I was behind him; we'd checked out at the Avis counter almost at the same time but I'd gone to the far end and turned away from him; he wasn't expecting me to be at the airport. There were two taxis between us and a black Porsche 944 in my driving mirror. When the chance came I overtook the first taxi: there was the risk of losing Brekhov at one of the cross-streets if the lights changed. That wouldn't be important, simply inconvenient; for the sake of good form I was trying for a perfect rendezvous, with the agent bringing the courier under protective surveillance from the time he arrived to the time he reached the meeting place.
Brekhov was also performing by the book, taking two left turns and a right before he came back to the Kurfurstendamm and shook off a dark blue BMW for practice. It was certain, then, that he didn't know I was behind him, otherwise he would have left things to me. There was nothing between us now, but he hadn't seen me before he'd gone through his diversion so I wasn't familiar. That was all right.
But the black Porsche 944 had come up again in the mirror and was still there when Brekhov turned into the Linden Platz and stopped near the entrance to the hotel. The Porsche had the same number plate: it was the one that had been behind me earlier and it hadn't driven straight here from the airport because it must have followed us through the loops Brekhov had made as an exercise. And when I got out of the car I saw the dark blue BMW slowing to a stop across the street and as I went into the hotel behind Brekhov I knew we were in a red sector.
'Hotel Sachsen, may we help you?'
'Please.' We spoke in German. 'I was to meet someone at your hotel this morning, but I've been delayed. Would you give him a message for me?'
'Certainly. Is the person staying here?'
'No. He'll be waiting for me in the lobby. He's medium height, medium build, dark hair, no hat, a light grey raincoat, and he's carrying a copy of Pravda.'
'One moment, sir.'
I waited.
'Yes, he's here. What is the message, please?'
'Do you speak Russian?'
'I'm afraid not.'
'Then I'll have to spell it to you.' Brekhov would possibly speak German, but this message couldn't be passed through anyone who could understand it. 'You have a pencil?'
'Yes, sir.'
I spoke in slow Russian, spelling the words out. 'God bless Queen Victoria… I am here… but you are under close KGB surveillance by four men… if you have the product on you, look at your watch now… I will follow whatever lead you make.'
It took five minutes and the clerk had to break off twice to answer a telephone. When we'd finished I stayed where I was, pressing the contact down but keeping the phone in my hand while I watched the clerk ring off and go across to Brekhov. As he read the message slip he looked at his watch.
1 put the phone down and went across to the magazine stand, moving round to the other side so that I could see the whole of the lobby. Two of the agents were stationed near the front and side doors; a third was by the lift, the fourth near the stairs. They were watching Brekhov in brief sweeping glances and in window reflection.
This wasn't very good because he was sealed in here with the product and if he tried to go anywhere they'd go with him and if he tried to get clean away they wouldn't let him. He was in a trap they weren't ready to spring yet; it could confine him to the lobby here or if he moved it could become city-wide. They could have taken him easily enough on the way here, creating a minor traffic accident to let one of them get into his car while it was stopped. They didn't want him yet. They wanted to know what he was doing here, why he'd come to Berlin. They wanted to know the people he was here to meet, and that was why I didn't approach him. He would understand that.
Correction. The Chief of Control hadn't been able to arrange this rendezvous in perfect safety. In frontier-crossing operations safety can never be guaranteed. But he'd made sure that someone with my experience and qualifications would meet Brekhov at the end of his run, in case something went wrong.
It had. The KGB had been slow in starting after Brekhov. They hadn't known about him, or known that he was on the move. But somewhere along the line they'd been alerted, and suddenly he'd become a fly seen against the vast web of their network, but not yet caught. He might not have realized this. It could have been luck. If he had realized it, he had found a gap, and got through. But they hadn't given up: the KGB network has no frontiers. They had signalled their agents in the West, here in Berlin, and the fly had touched the web, and the web had quivered. They knew about Brekhov now, in Moscow. They knew he was standing here in the lobby of the Hotel Sachsen with a copy of Pravda under his arm and the fear of God in his heart because he knew what I knew, that if he were under the surveillance of four KGB men he had no chance of escape. Until he made a move they'd do nothing but watch: they knew he was a courier, now, but they wanted to know more, much more: whether he was carrying any kind of product, and what it was, and who was to receive it. If he made a move to the stairs, to the street, to the lift, they'd move with him and limit his run and bring him down in the privacy of whatever room he managed to reach, whatever back street or vehicle or doorway.
If he tried to pass on the product they would see it and take it. If he brought the police here the agents would have time, ample time, a whole minute even, to use a needle or hustle him out of sight and leave him dead with his shirt torn open and the adhesive plaster ripped from his skin — because that was where the product was, not in his pockets but on his body.
He would know all this. He was a professional. He would know that the agents watching the gate at the airport had already been told he was coming through, and to let him. It had been the agents mounting surveillance in the main hall, watching the Avis counter, who had been ordered to trap him. They were here now, and they would never leave him.
Somewhere across the frontier, someone had exposed him, perhaps without meaning to. Someone had made a false move, or had talked, or been made to talk, or was missing with evidence left behind, or had gone to ground, or was still on the move. Or somewhere there was a man trying to reach Brekhov and warn him, or save him, if he could. Somewhere we had a friend.
If he were still alive.
Brekhov had seen me now, just my eyes, above the copy of the Berliner Zeitung I'd taken from the magazine rack. He knew where I was. He moved now, walk
ing to the main entrance and standing there, looking at his watch, this time to protect me, to let them believe I wasn't here yet, but late.
I went over the options, putting the Berliner Zeitung back on the rack and taking Vanity Fair, turning the pages. I could call the police and say there were four KGB agents mounting guard over a Soviet national in the lobby of the Hotel Sachsen, ready to kill him if he tried to get away. My name? My. address? My occupation? What gave me to believe such a thing? How could I prove that I wasn't crazy, or perpetrating a hoax?
Or I could telephone the British Embassy and ask for the chief of station, the highest-ranking MI6 officer in Berlin. He would answer very quietly, and with sympathy. That sounds nasty, yes. But there's not a great deal we can do, you know. I mean quite frankly, this is your problem. But good luck.
The Bureau is not popular with the legitimate secret services, because we've got privileges and prerogatives above and beyond their own franchise and they envy us. The Queen doesn't even know we exist, though the prime minister certainly does, but not officially. We are also rather dirty, and do things they are not permitted to do, even if they wanted to. They work in offices and glean their material in bars and restaurants and at diplomatic functions; we work in deep shadow, and are unknown, and leave no trace, except sometimes a crumpled figure with its hand flung out, half-seen in a back alley or in the bilge of a rotting hulk or on a frosted wasteground with weeds for a wreath: the earthly remains of one of them or sometimes one of us, depending how the day has gone.
Brekhov went slowly to the door again and looked out at the rain, then at his watch, miming, coming back and glancing around him in case the man he'd come to meet had come into the lobby another way; his glance drew blank.
There were in fact no options. The only thing he could do was make a move, because they would never do it; they would if necessary bring in relief agents and wait him out, however long it took. There was no move I could make; at some stage I would have to decide whether to abandon the courier and what he carried and make my own way out, or to follow whatever lead he took and try for a last-ditch attempt to save him and secure the product. There were no rules to guide us here, no protocol for survival. As the shadow executive of the bureau running this operation I was technically in command, but a courier has one sacrosanct function: to reach the agent and deliver the goods.
