The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

Officially, Herbie spent much of his time on routine Eastern Bloc paperwork; a bit of vetting when necessary, and some hurried activity when trade delegations from the Soviet countries needed checking. To the very few initiates, however, Herbie Kruger was possibly one of the most important officers in the Service. Nor did he give up easily.

  Having run a superb network in the DDR, mainly in East Berlin, throughout the fifties and early sixties (known within the secret files as ‘the Schnitzer Group’), Herbie had finally been forced to close down all but a few of his long-term assets, and get out by his fingernails.

  They had used him in Bonn for a while after that. But then there were complaints from the Federal security services that he was operating in their territory without clearance; so Herbie trekked back to London, muttering dire warnings.

  “They’ve been penetrated. The government offices. NATO itself. Crawling with them,” he grumbled to the confessors who had debriefed him at Warminster.

  Later he talked at length to the Director, and some Heads of Department; and his prophecies came true. In late 1977 the first of the many Bonn secretary scandals broke. In the following two years, young men and women, compromised in the West, broke and ran for the East.

  Herbie shook his head sadly. “They’re still at it. The Russians are teaching us a lesson. It’s bodies on the ground that count. Black box intelligence is all very well, but you need personnel.” He was talking about the constant argument between electronic intelligence-gathering versus the old agent-in-place style. The black box was in favour. Yet Herbie forced the issue. “I still have six people doing one of the most important jobs in East Berlin, and they’re not even being serviced properly. There are no regular handling facilities.” He was told that the Service was in the midst of a job-shrinkage crisis, and money was tight. The six people in East Berlin about whom Herbie had spoken were known to a guarded few as ‘The Telegraph Boys’.

  In the end he won the day. The Minister—touchy about money—was finally convinced, and Herbie Kruger’s office work in the Whitehall Annexe became a recruiting drive.

  Now he ran servicing agents. There were four of them—infiltrated by Herbie with great success into the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, his own old stamping ground before he had been forced to get out, and return to what the Service wits called ‘a grace and favour apartment’ in St. John’s Wood.

  The fortnightly trips to West Germany or Berlin (“He’s in Brighton for a few days,” young Worboys usually informed any enquiring uninitiate) were debriefing sorties. Meetings with one or another of his officers who had easy access to the West.

  Once every fortnight Herbie was forced to live for a matter of forty-eight hours in some small safe house, watched over by local officers in Bonn, or West Berlin, while he went through a painstaking question-and-answer debriefing. He then carried the results back home, breaking them down into a raw report before passing the details on to the evaluators and assessors. To the latter Herbie’s operation was known as ‘Source Six’, the phrase simply referring to any information gleaned by the Telegraph Boys, then passed back to London via the Quartet. For both groups their main concern was the early warning of troop and missile movements in East Berlin and its environs within the DDR. The reports usually included highly accurate political and military policy statements.

  On the Trident out of Bonn, Herbie Kruger had just left one of these debriefings. For the past two days he had been closeted with a man known as Walter Girren: a small, thin ghost of a person, with a constantly sour expression, who was especially well-placed for making regular excursions into the West. Originally Girren’s parents hailed from Westphalia (he thought of himself as a Westphalian) but, in the chaos of split and displaced families at the end of World War Two, the Girrens found themselves living within the Soviet sector of Berlin. Young Walter was born there.

  Girren now worked for the Berliner Ensemble as an audio technician. Naturally his education had been undertaken in the DDR, but he had been recruited and trained for the British Service while working on an exchange visit with the National Theatre in London. Almost thirty years of age, Girren had been a member of the Communist Party since his teens. Disenchantment arrived before his twenty-second birthday; so, as far as Herbie was concerned, he was in possession of impeccable bona fides.

  The safe house had been a second storey apartment in a narrow street not far from the Provincial Museum: three rooms, kitchen and bathroom. Also two telephones, only one of which worked. It was a normal routine. The ’phone that worked had no number on its dial, but Herbie feared that the official tenants of all the Bonn safe houses were, in reality, whores, and therefore highly suspect. There were traces of powder on the dressing tables; some women’s bits and pieces in the bedrooms; and what Herbie called, “the scent of fallen underwear and fallen women”. His first action in a Bonn safe house was always to open all the windows: no matter what the weather.

  They had spent a day and a half going through the minutiae of Girren’s special responsibilities. It was only over lunch, almost by accident, that the other matter came up at all.

  As the Trident’s engines changed pitch on reaching their cruising altitude, Herbie finally got his two miniature vodkas. He then settled back to concentrate on the small and puzzling piece of information which had been nagging at him ever since Girren mentioned it.

  It had its beginnings years ago; and, what seemed to be its end, only a couple of days before Herbie had left to meet Girren. In the daily digest, read by all senior officers, Herbie had spotted a Tass obituary. Brief, and without details of career, it announced that a Colonel-General Jacob Vascovsky, attached to the forces of the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, had died in East Berlin. Suddenly, of a coronary thrombosis.

  The digest added what Herbie knew well enough: that Jacob Vascovsky was a senior officer of the KGB. Second-in-command of the Third Chief Directorate in East Berlin.

  Herbie Kruger was oddly moved by the news of this officer’s passing. He respected the man—his professionalism, dedication and the astute practice of his trade. He had dealt with Jacob Vascovsky many times.

  During the years when Herbie ran his famous network, and set up the important, long-standing contacts within the DDR—with no assistance from the politicians, and only plain cover as an engineer—Vascovsky had been to him what Napoleon must have been to Wellington; Rommel to Montgomery.

  In the darkness of the Cold War, Vascovsky had, time and again, set entrapments for Kruger and his people. They had fenced with one another, and in the end Vascovsky almost won. Many of Kruger’s people actually went down to the Russian until, finally, the network was rolled up and Herbie got out.

  When Herbie first became aware of this notable opponent Vascovsky had been a senior major. It was Vascovsky as a full colonel who had at long last caused Kruger to dismantle and jump clear—leaving some special assets in limbo.

  Herbie, who in private was not intellectually modest about his own effectiveness in the field, could only acknowledge the high capabilities of Jacob Vascovsky. He had kept an eye on the man’s rising fortunes ever since.

  The demise of Jacob Vascovsky left an important assignment to be filled. For the Third Chief Directorate of the KGB in East Germany has responsibility for the security of Soviet forces in Germany; and counter-espionage, with special consideration for the American, British and other NATO agencies. Its second-in-command has almost total control over this latter role.

  When the important business with Girren had been disposed of, Kruger placed a casual question concerning a rumour about the appointment of a new second-in-command to the Third Chief Directorate. It was meant as a feeler, a seed to plant in Girren’s mind, a nudge that might bring in an answer during their next session a couple of months hence—or sent back sooner, via one of the other officers, or by the electronic fast-sender.

  Girren looked as though he had been stung, loudly voicing an obscenity against himself. Then he assumed the demeanour of a schoolboy caught cheating
. Cursing himself, he apologised. He should have mentioned it to Herbie before this. Only a tiny oddity, but puzzling and worth passing on. Then—

  “Have you ever heard of a person dying from a coronary, and being found without a head?”

  Herbie remained cool, shaking his own head slowly, as though checking it was still in place.

  “Tell me.” The big man was now fully alert, aware that it was from tiny remnants of information like this that something larger, more urgent, could emerge.

  Apart from Girren’s agent-handling duties, his brief was to turn as many stones as possible; to look for new talent; to catch straws in the wind. In that particular line it is often relatively easy to milk simple information, over a considerable period of time, without the informant even knowing that he, or she, is being tapped. Girren was adept at this exercise, being a good mixer, a witty talker—in spite of his sour expression—and a drinker of no mean capability.

  He was already a recognised regular in a number of bars and cafes in East Berlin, choosing with care those places most frequented by government employees, troops, or workers close to military establishments.

  In a bar on the Karl-Marx-Allee he often drunk with off-duty members of the East German Nationale Volksarmee—in particular a garrulous sergeant of the medical corps. The man was an idiot, a very heavy drinker; but Girren hoarded him against the day; reasoning that he could prove useful.

  On the night before making his duty trip into the West, to attend the briefing with Herbie, Girren found the sergeant in fine form. It turned out that he had only recently been moved to the Volkspolizei Hospital, to be put in charge of the mortuary—a fact that led Girren to think they had finally rumbled the man’s inefficiency.

  Well in his cups, the sergeant mentioned, with some pride, that for one night he had been in sole charge of the corpse of a high ranking Russian officer. Bragging, he even gave Vascovsky’s name; and later indicated that all was not as it seemed.

  Girren bought him a couple of drinks, to tip him over the brink of discretion. It was then that the man disclosed that the officer was supposed to have died of a coronary thrombosis; but, to use the medical sergeant’s own words: “Never have I seen a coronary case with an exploded head. Mind you, I wasn’t supposed to see. Nothing left except the neck and chin. The doctors came in and put wadding and gauze where the head should have been before they flew him home to his Mother Russia and a great military funeral.”

  Kruger’s huge hands lifted and fell, palms flat, on to his knees. He looked at Walter Girren. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

  “It’s water in the mouth that does it,” Kruger eventually said, almost to himself.

  “Eh?”

  “Water in the mouth,” Herbie repeated, this time for Girren’s benefit. “Blows the head right off. Effective.” He had read about it somewhere. If a man is determined to shoot himself but remains afraid that the bullet will not kill—leaving him only with serious brain damage—he fills his mouth with water, inserts the muzzle of the pistol through pursed lips, and pulls the trigger. The pressure of the water does the trick. The head is blown to shards.

  Now, 29,000 feet above Europe, Herbie Kruger still pondered over the incident. If the mortuary sergeant was telling the truth Colonel-General Jacob Vascovsky had committed suicide. Some breach—punishable by a silent, private death—would have been dealt with in Moscow itself. You cannot make a man fill his mouth with water, then hold him down and push a pistol between his lips.

  He could be wrong, of course; but it had all the marks of a hush-up job; and the Colonel-General was a professional. Herbie had taken the trouble to keep an eye on his file. Nothing showed. Then he recalled something else. About six months before, he had been asked his opinion about an attempted recruitment of someone around that rank bracket. The request came to him via the Director, who had been asked by the Americans. Were there any pressure points? Not one, Herbie replied, making it clear that this man was unapproachable. He recalled using the jargon—Vascovsky’s sterile.

  Suicide seemed strange. The circumstances even more strange. Without being in any way morbid, Herbie Kruger wished he had been given the chance to see the body. He then signalled to the stewardess for another couple of vodkas. He wanted to drink to the memory of Jacob Vascovsky.

  At Heathrow young Worboys was waiting with a car. He looked serious, but said nothing until they were inside the airport tunnel. There was a soundproof panel between them and the driver.

  “There’s a flap,” he began. “They’ve had a walk-in at the Consulate General’s office in West Berlin.”

  “Who?” Herbie turned his head towards Worboys.

  “He asked for you.” The younger man sounded nervous. “They’re all doing handstands.”

  “So? They always do handstands. Who is it?”

  “Name of Mistochenkov. Captain in the KGB. Says to tell you: ‘Piotr’.”

  Herbie’s face only changed a fraction. Calmly he told Worboys to get the driver to stop at the Post House Hotel. Then Worboys was to use a public telephone. “Take care—use an open-line bit of double-talk. Get Tubby Fincher. I must see the Director as soon as we get to Whitehall. We’ll need the Minister as well. There has to be a decision to bring the walk-in back here fast. You’d better stand by to fly out.”

  Worboys looked as though he had been hit with a rotten fish.

  “To Berlin?”

  “Of course to Berlin.”

  In his head Kruger was weighing facts. Piotr had been his own network’s cryptonym for Mistochenkov. When he first knew him—though they had never met—the Russian had been a sergeant. Like Colonel-General Vascovsky, Mistochenkov had risen in rank, though his duties had not changed over the years.

  Captain Mistochenkov had been the Colonel-General’s ADC.

  3

  OUTWARDLY, BIG HERBIE’S TWO passions, apart from his work, were drinking and the music of Gustav Mahler. Those who knew him slightly better were often surprised at his other abiding interest—English history.

  Possibly a psychiatrist would explain this by pointing out that, as Britain was Kruger’s adopted country, the man’s subconscious drew him naturally towards a study of his surrogate land’s development. Whatever the reason, Herbie read English history with the dedication of a student committed to obtaining an outstanding honours degree.

  It was understandable, then, that every time Herbie faced the Director of his Service he thought of the Historia Anglorum’s description of King Henry I. William of Malmesbury, that vital monastic historian, wrote of Henry: a man of middle stature; his hair was black, but scanty near the forehead; his eyes mildly bright; his chest brawny; his body fleshy; he was facetious in proper season, nor did multiplicity of business cause him to be less pleasant when he mixed in society.

  To Herbie, it was a living picture of the Director, whom he now faced over the desk, high in the main building which housed their particular corner of the secret world.

  Occupying a third chair was Tubby Fincher—so known because of his almost skeletal stature. He looked glum. The Director, whose experience in secret affairs went back to the middle of World War Two, seemed subdued. It was not the proper season for facetiousness.

  They had trekked back to the building after a visit to the Minister, from which Herbie had been barred: he sat alone in an anteroom, tapping his large feet and riddling with his hands; his whole bulk exuding frustration.

  The Minister had been edgy, the Director told him. He was worried in case of political repercussions—diplomatic incidents. “He’s also concerned about the cost.”

  “And I’m concerned about the cost to my people,” Herbie replied. “Not to mention the benefits to this country.” Ministers, in Herbie’s experience, were all too ready to sacrifice important operatives because of funding. He asked how matters finally stood, stressing the point that young Worboys was at that moment waiting at Heathrow for instructions.

  “I carry the can.” For a second the Director’s eyes
became more than mildly bright.

  “Then you can authorise?” Herbie responded.

  The Director nodded, then sighed, giving Tubby Fincher a sideways glance; which meant he was asking for help. It was apparent to Herbie that they really wanted the KGB captain returned to the East. He was an embarrassment. Notes would be passed between ambassadors and consuls; words would be exchanged between foreign ministers; there would be political unpleasantness.

  Tubby shifted in his chair. “What’s he offering? Nothing. There’s nothing concrete.”

  Herbie fought to remain calm, asking what the hell Tubby thought the captain from East Berlin was offering. “He asked for me, using the crypto we designated to him years ago—when he was only a sergeant; when I was in the field. He knew that, or remembered it; which means he has something to say about my people out there. The new people, and the Telegraph Boys.” He went on to point out, for the third or fourth time, that he had already established something fishy concerning Vascovsky’s death. The smell, he told them, had become more putrid since Captain Mistochenkov walked into the Berlin Consulate General’s office.

  “More to the point,” said the Director, looking Herbie in the eyes, “what is he asking?”

  “Asylum.” The first syllable came out as ‘Ess …’

  “And you?” There was a note of caution in the Director’s tone. The KGB man had used an old cryptonym—culled from Lord knew where—designed to bring Herbie running. “A message to you, saying that he’s Piotr? Could be a lure.”

  Herbie shrugged, as if the Director was stating the obvious. He then said it was because of this very possibility that he was sending Worboys.

  “He wants you. He might not come back with Worboys.”

  “Then we shall know. I am much more concerned with the possibility of the man having something for us. Something concerning Source Six: the Quartet and the Telegraph Boys. Something vital.”

  “Such as?” Tubby Fincher looked at the carpet, as though he already knew Herbie’s answer, and wished to avoid seeing the big German’s face as he put it into words.