by John Gardner
The Garden of Weapons
A Herbie Kruger Novel
John Gardner
For
Eric Major
Who has been around in many guises From Ludgate Circus to Bedford Square
Contents
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Part Two
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Part Three
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
19
10
11
12
13
14
15
Acknowledgments
Preview: Quiet Dogs
I am not going to the green clover!
The garden of weapons
Full of halberds
Is where I am posted!
When you are in the field, God help you!
Everything depends
On God’s blessing!
For anyone who believes it!
Anyone who believes it is far away.
He is a king!
He is an Emperor!
He is making the war!
Halt! Who goes there? Speak up!
Clear off!
Serenade of the Sentry from Des Knaben Wunderhom by Arnim-Brentano. Set to music by Gustav Mahler between 1892 and 1895
FULLY CLASSIFIED TO REMAIN SECURE AND LOCKED RED TAG
DATE AS STAMP
AUTHORITY: Head of Service
Head of C & C
Director Special Sources: East Germany
The following cryptonyms have been assigned to the undermentioned now operating under general cipher QUARTET as directed by Special Sources: East Germany. Link with TELEGRAPH BOYS.
Girren, Walter ANNAMARIE
Schnabeln, Christoph SPENDTHRIFT
Mohr, Anton TEACHER
Blatte, Anna MAURICE
DECIPHERED TRANSCRIPT
DATE AS HEADED
TIME CIPHERED (Cheltenham): 10.02
FOR: DIRECTOR GENERAL SIS.
FROM: SECRETARY I/C GENERAL MOVEMENTS. CONSULATE GENERAL. BERLIN WEST.
FLASH SECURE
HAVE WALK-IN CLAIMING TO BE CAPTAIN KGB EAST BERLIN WILL ONLY IDENTIFY AS PIOTR AND SAYS WILL ONLY TALK TO YOUR OFFICER NAMED AS BIG HERBIE STOP REQUEST INSTRUCTIONS STOP CONSUL GENERAL FEELS HE SHOULD BE RETURNED UNOPENED. FLASH FLASH FLASH
CLASSIFIED HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL
RED TAG
FROM: Director
TO: Director Special Sources: East Germany
DATE: As stamped
Dear Herbie,
This is a letter officially informing you that the Charlton house has been opened for your use today.
I am required by standing orders to notify you of this in writing and this letter will be placed on file with a copy to the Minister and Treasury.
It is understood that you will occupy the Charlton house only for as long as it takes to interrogate the recent defector TAPEWORM, and that you will have only the normal and minimal staff required to ensure correct security and normal care.
I would be greatly obliged if you would vacate the Charlton house as soon as possible, once you have ensured your interrogation is complete.
Sincerely,
Director SIS
CLASSIFIED A+ PINK TAG
SIS REGISTRY: A4296/5
TO: Head of Service
FROM: Head of Registry
DATE: 10 August 1980
Following your requisition order dated as above—CS/567—I have today placed the following files into the custody of Mr. E. L. Kruger, Director Special Sources: East Germany.
SZ/24 Muller, Gertrude (dec)
SZ/25 Blenden, Willy (dec)
SZ/26 Birkemann, Andreas (on pension)
SZ/27 Birkemann, Beatrix (on pension)
SZ/28 Gabell, Luzia (unknown: pres dec)
SZ/29 Habicht, Emil (dec)
SZ/30 Becher, Franz (dec)
SZ/31 Zeich, Moritz (on pension)
SZ/32 Reissven, Peter (dec)
SZ/33 Zudrang, Julie (believed dec)
SZ/34 Kutte, Kurt (dec)
You will note that these files make up the major dossier of the network run in East Berlin by Mr. Kruger under cipher SCHNITZER GROUP c. 1955-1965
Ambrose Hill
Head of Registry
CLASSIFIED AA. FOR THE DIRECTOR AND G STAFF ONLY RED TAG
SIS REGISTRY: A4296/6
TO: Director SIS
FROM: Head of Registry
DATE: 10 August 1980
Following your requisitioning order as above date—AA/666—I have today passed the following files into the custody of Mr. E. L. Kruger, Director Special Sources: East Germany, after making the necessary enquiries concerning the safe keeping of this Most Highly Classified Material.
TB/1 General File. Telegraph Boys
TB/22 Gemini
TB/23 Horus
TB/24 Hecuba
TB/25 Nestor
TB/26 Priam
TB/27 Electra
PART ONE Tapeworm
1
IT WAS AUGUST. IT had always been one of his favourite months, because they usually got out of Berlin for a few weeks. Sometimes back to Moscow. The Old Man had often turned a blind eye to the girls he took back with them.
Now he was left with only two certainties. First, there was death, the only sure thing in the lives of all human beings. Second, there was the indisputable fact that very soon his own people would be coming to arrest him. There would be no girls in Moscow this August, only a small room, or maybe a hospital ward. And endless questions.
So, at five o’clock in the morning, he viewed the situation with the exact logic learned patiently through the years from the Old Man.
He had not slept. The reality of his present condition would not allow that luxury. Instead he had gone through each step, examining every eventuality and permutation.
They would probably leave him for another forty-eight hours. That would be good psychology, and they seemed to be playing the whole business in a most classic manner.
After it had happened, a major had been flown in from Moscow to take charge. The short interrogation was friendly, even sympathetic. Some of it almost casual, as though they were really considering his feelings as a brother officer.
But then they could afford that. Time was on their side. They also had his personal luggage. “Don’t bother about your things,” they had said. “We’ll send them on. Just take what’s necessary for a few days.”
That was during the previous afternoon, when the major’s assistant, a very young lieutenant with acne, brought in his posting. He was to report to the barracks at Karlshorst. The major came in later. “Just wait at Karlshorst for instructions,” he had said. “There’s plenty of work for a man of your experience and qualifications. Comrade Captain.”
He knew then for certain what they were doing; and, almost without thinking, took what small action he could, arranging to arrive at the Karlshorst barracks as late as possible. The duty officer did not even seem to be expecting him; which could be a good sign. It was suggested that he report to the adjutant some time after nine in the morning. They found him a room in the officers’ quarters, an
d offered him a meal.
He had played at being in shock, trying to convey indecisiveness. The major and his team would be busy enough; so, having packed him off to Karlshorst, they probably argued that he was safe for a day or so.
Maybe forty-eight hours. If he had been handling the affair that was what he would have done. Possibly he would leave it a little longer. The Old Man, however, would have put a watch on him, whatever his state of mind.
He was careful: dragging his heels on the way to the barracks. With his small case, and the briefcase, he had stopped many times; called in at a couple of bars; seen one of the girls; gone for a meal; used both railway and bus. All the time he checked, from the middle of the previous afternoon until almost midnight: they had nobody watching.
Today almost certainly there would be some kind of surveillance. Leave him to sweat at Karlshorst, and watch from a distance. Probably they hoped he would try to make a run for it: thereby proving complicity. They would not expect him to go quickly, though. Normally they would presume the full impact was unlikely to hit him for a day or two.
Then, if he tried to run, it would give them the ascendency, making their job that much easier. Already they must be certain that the Old Man had confided in him. You do not spend over twenty years as aide to such an officer without knowing at least some of the truth—or enough of it for the experts in Dzerzhinsky Square, at the Centre—to complete a jig-saw. Maybe, a puzzle of their own devising.
There was only one way to go, one man to approach. He hated the idea, but running was better than what would take place in Moscow. Whatever happened there, his career was finished.
Reluctant though he might be, his will to survive was strong. He had to run, and quickly. Whatever the dangers. The Old Man’s legacy also included the means to get out. The means that the Old Man had, in the end, refused to use for himself.
The night had been stifling. Now, at five o’clock, it was light outside, and he could see that rain was on the way. Thunder also. The boiling, humid weather of the last few days appeared ready to break. It was as if the elements were matching his own mood and decision.
If his nerve held he could just do it; even though the reluctance was like iron in his mind. He did not suppose the British would use drugs on him, and he knew enough about interrogation to hold back, just giving them enough. In that way his conscience would be clear. He would know that, at least, he had not completely betrayed his country. There were also the Old Man’s instructions—for whatever reason. The couple of falsehoods, and one piece of misdirection which he had to use.
He could take nothing. His case contained only shirts, socks and underwear. His best uniform hung in the small cupboard. Apart from these things, and his toilet gear, there was the uniform he wore, and the briefcase.
The basic needs were in the pockets of the civilian raincoat, folded neatly inside the briefcase. The other matters remained engraved in his mind. Unless they made him open the briefcase at the main gate nobody would be any the wiser if the guard had orders to turn him back.
The guard would be changed at five-thirty, according to normal routine; so he would have to leave soon. He must go when the duty man was at his lowest ebb, thinking of his time off during the coming day.
Slowly he put on the uniform jacket: straightening it, pulling it at the back so it settled neatly on his shoulders. Checking his appearance in the mirror, he experienced the same old feeling of irrevocable loss. This time it was coupled with the strange knowledge that the whole of his life was being left behind. Whatever happened now, this was the great crossroads. For the last time he hesitated, a sudden flurry of indecision; then rationalised that this was exactly what they would expect of him.
He put on his uniform cap, and it came to him that this may well be the final time he would perform such an ordinary, everyday function. Then he picked up the briefcase, went to the door and stepped outside.
Even at this time in the morning, the humidity hit him like a fine steaming mist. The clouds were low, smudged with ink blots; battening down over the city like a lid on a cauldron.
The guard at the main gate made no attempt to stop him. Nobody appeared to take any interest.
“You’ll get wet, Comrade Captain,” the guard shouted. “It’s going to rain. A storm.”
“I’ll only be ten minutes,” he called back, tapping the briefcase as though it had some special significance. Within ten minutes the guard would have completed his duty.
He had already decided which route to take. He would go by rail, from the Friedrichstrasse station. As long as they did not pick him up there he would be home. Not dry, though. Already thunder was rumbling in from the west. He wondered if it were an omen.
It was almost six-thirty when he arrived at the Friedrichstrasse station; but looking a different man.
Near the Unter den Linden he had used a public toilet, stuffing his uniform jacket and cap into the cistern, scuffing the well-polished brown shoes, taking the raincoat from his briefcase and emptying the pockets.
He parted his hair on the other side, adjusted the rimless spectacles, buttoned up the raincoat, leaving his real identity papers in his hip pocket, and put the passport and permit into the briefcase, together with the samples in their little boxes. The Old Man had thought of everything. If they get me, they’ll come after you. However badly you feel, save yourself. Either destroy the stuff or use it. Then do as I’ve told you. Guile. Remember the guile.
Now, as he approached the station, he was transformed into a German—Hans-Martin Busch, Chief Sales Representative of a lens manufacturing firm. His business in the West was a meeting with a British manufacturer. The British firm was interested in the bulk purchase of cheap lenses for their equally cheap range of binoculars, to be sold in chain stores. It was all there—authorisation to travel; time and place of meeting; purpose—all arranged over three weeks ago. He had, in fact, filled in the relative details at four that morning, in the officers’ quarters at Karlshorst—subconsciously committing himself that early. He had used his left hand to disguise the writing.
Still nobody queried anything. Only a pompous woman control officer reminded him that he had to return, through the same checkpoint, before nine that night. He assured her, in fluent German, that he would be back long before then.
By the time he reached West Berlin the rain had started; huge thunder drops hissing and exploding on to buildings, drenching the roads. He took the U-Bahn through to the Uhlandstrasse, and then ran—from the rain and from himself. He wanted to turn back. Running was the only way to get over the barricade in his conscience. By the time he reached number twelve he was soaked, his hair and face streaming with water.
Number Twelve Uhlandstrasse was the office of the Consulate General of Great Britain.
2
HERBIE KRUGER WAS RELIEVED. There was always a sense of freedom as he left Germany—even though his bulk, and the length of his legs, made for discomfort on board a British Airways Trident. It seemed to him that the seats on that particular aircraft had been designed for transient parties of midgets.
The stewardess at the Bonn check-in gave Herbie a seat towards the front of the aircraft, allowing a fraction more leg room. Herbie Kruger, however, hardly noticed this kindness. As the Trident thrust itself from the runway, setting its course for London, he breathed a sigh, and looked around for the in-flight stewardess to see how quickly he could get his large hand around a plastic beaker of vodka.
Herbie Kruger’s relief stemmed from the fact that he was leaving the country of his birth. Bonn was not his favourite city—though he would, if pressed, admit preferring it to Berlin. “Like Isherwood,” he would say, “I was a very young camera in Berlin—but at a later and even more unpleasant time.”
He was always glad to get out of either city: particularly since leaving proper field work to operate from London. In the past few months Herbie had discovered these most necessary trips into the Federal Republic, or West Berlin, were more and more irksome.
Once a fortnight it was either Bonn or Berlin. Everything else could be handled efficiently enough from the Annexe off Whitehall, just far enough away from the tall, steel, concrete and glass building that housed most of his colleagues.
As for the bulk of these colleagues who lived in the partitioned world of intelligence, they took the bait offered by Department Heads: regarding Herbie with respect, and that deferential sympathy due to someone who has been a first-class field officer, but who was now blown; over the hill; facing a desk job to jog him along until pension time—which, in Herbie Kruger’s case, was almost fifteen years away. The fact produced added sympathy. “He’s like a great orator who’s lost the power of speech,” one of them said.
Big Herbie Kruger—as his natural nickname suggested—possessed none of the physical secret attributes. By virtue of his build it seemed impossible for him to move unseen, or adopt a nondescript disguise. He was the permanently visible man.
In his favour lay his deceptively slow and gentle, lumbering manner. Unless you knew the man deeply—and few did—this same quiet ungainliness appeared to have transferred itself to his mind. The eyes—set brightly into a face which appeared to have been fashioned from lumpy porridge—contained a look of almost permanent bewilderment. While other people talked, Herbie always gave the impression that he was experiencing grave difficulty in following the sentences. It was the same with his smile—slow, foolish and open. The smile, like the man himself, had been the undoing of many people. Only those who were in full confidence of his track record knew exactly how good he had been; indeed, still was.
To the innocent junior members of the Service, Big Herbie was a cuddly, hard-drinking teddy bear, inclined towards outbursts of great emotion. High-ranking personnel allowed this inaccurate and deceptive legend—including the marked tendency towards drink and sentiment—to be perpetuated. It suited them for people to imagine that Herbie was a bit of a clown; oafish or tearful when drunk. They preferred for it to be put about that Herbie Kruger was a burned-out case. These things get back.
