by John Gardner
“Such as a potential blow-out.”
The Director picked up a metal letter opener, holding it like a dagger. “Your argument, Herbie, is that Source Six could be in jeopardy—whichever way it goes.” Clearly, and with few words, he spread out the logic of the situation.
The aide to the deceased Colonel-General had come over, walked-in, and passed a message which Herbie would recognise; using a cryptonym he could only know through contact with one of Kruger’s old associates. This was either a means to lure Herbie to Berlin, where they could perform a knockdown-drag-out op, taking Kruger into the East; or to pass on information indicating that the Soviets knew more than was good for any of them.
Herbie agreed. The man was there. Time was being wasted. “You know what walk-ins are like? You have to treat them as temporary mental patients.”
“Quite.” The Director gave him a prim look.
Subtlety stirred in the large German’s mind. The walk-in had not, as yet, put any strings on his presumed defection.
“Which means we can toss him back.” Tubby Fincher had a cold streak which Herbie often found exploitable.
“Exactly.” Herbie gave one of his daft smiles, which did not fool either of the other two men. “Let me have him. Just for a while, eh?”
The Director coughed, a rumbling triple note, like a Morse Code S. “Berlin is worried,” he began; but Herbie cut him short. Of course Berlin was worried. Hadn’t he just been talking about the odd psychological state of walk-ins? Nobody was happy with a walk-in defector: particularly people in an embassy or consulate.
“All the more reason to get him back fast.” Herbie’s hands made what was meant to be an innocent, trusting gesture. The movement came out as one of extreme belligerence.
The silence became almost tangible. Then the Director nodded. “Can young Worboys manage it alone?”
“I’ll tear his neck off if he doesn’t.” Herbie grinned again. “Yes, it’ll be the first big chance to prove himself since you foisted him on to me. ‘Foisted’ is the right word, yes? A good word?”
Tubby Fincher gave a small nod, and Herbie addressed himself to the Director’s right-hand man. “You get some back-up for him, Tubby? Berlin station people? Vehicles? Army? Air Force? Helicopter out of West Berlin; then a fast ride home in an RAF jet? Okay?”
Fincher caught the Director’s reluctant inclination of the head, got to his feet, said okay, he would see to it, and made for the door.
Before he had reached it, Herbie Kruger turned to him again, speaking with a soft clarity that underlined his sense of urgency. “Call Worboys first, at Heathrow, Tubby, eh? Have him paged. He’s Mr. Robinson, meeting a Mr. Armstrong off an Amsterdam flight.”
Tubby said he would be back to report as soon as Worboys was confirmed away, and the Consulate had been flashed. It was better, now, for Herbie to spend a short time alone with the Director.
The Director did not like any of it—torn between his knowledge and the subtle pressures of the Whitehall Mafia: particularly the Minister. Yet he appeared almost relieved that the decision had been taken. He said something about not bothering to speak with the Minister until they had their man neatly tucked up at the Warminster house. “I presume you want him at Warminster?”
Herbie said he felt Warminster was too obvious. “We’re on sensitive ground. Somewhere less obtrusive would be better. Say that nice little house near Oxford.”
The Director sighed. “The place at Charlton?”
Herbie smiled. “Charlton, yes; like the footballer. Nice. I could take him for walks on the Downs, if the weather’s fine.”
“Money.” The Director looked up at the ceiling. “It all costs money, Herbie. Warminster has an allocation. Whenever I open up one of the other places it shows on the internal budget.”
Herbie raised his eyebrows. “What are secret funds for?”
“They seem to be for the Treasury hounds to scrutinise and query, Herbie. When I tell them five thousand has been spent on opening up one of the houses for a special interrogation they will want to know what the profit came out at. If I give you the Charlton house, this joker had better be worth it.”
“In gold to the value of his weight.” Herbie did not smile this time. There was an odd glint in the usually vacant eyes. The Director looked away, then suggested that he should get Habland, of Personnel, to arrange for a pair of lion-tamers—in the constantly changing service jargon ‘lion-tamers’ was the current argot for minders, bodyguards, watchers and general thugs. “And the odd confessor, of course,” he concluded.
“I’ll do it myself,” Herbie countered with a curt snap.
“All of it?”
“Unless you give me a specific order.”
The Director said he insisted on the lion tamers, but would leave the question of confessors to Herbie.
“Confessors,” Herbie gave another of his shrugs, the yoke-like shoulders moving in a manner which suggested a great deal of strength under the jacket of his cheap suit. “I’m an old Cold Warrior, Chief. I’ve had my troops stranded in the battlefield, on and off, for twenty years. They’re stranded no longer. I don’t want to see them cut off again.
“Your black boxes and electronics, or the American intelligence satellites, can’t do it all. Twice in the past two months my Telegraph Boys have come in with Soviet movements, days, weeks, before the satellites. Now there’s a man sitting, jittery in the Berlin Consulate, who knows names. I need him; to be certain my people are safe; and stay safe.”
He leaned forward. “Does our precious Minister realise the complete operational value of Source Six?”
“He knows what he needs to know.”
“That we have happy clients?”
“Yes.”
“Then he should be told—maybe by the happy clients—that there will be weeping and wailing if Source Six is dried.”
“He knows, Herbie.”
“It should be kept that way.”
The Director hesitated for a second before saying that one of the first rules of successful intelligence was to remain emotionally uninvolved with one’s field staff. As he said it, he realised the error.
Herbie rose, lifting a clenched fist, bringing it softly down on the Director’s desk. “Emotionally uninvolved? With respect, Chief, you weren’t there. I don’t want to know who else does or does not run Telegraph Boys in the Soviet Bloc. I simply know that I set up the very first six. Personally, while the Berlin crisis was boiling, and all Europe stood and watched them build that bloody Wall. I was going over every day: briefing, settling six people, six valued friends, into places where they could detect troop and missile moves long before bugs and satellites.
“Those people out there are my responsibility, and have been since 1961. I’ve watched them being neglected; trying to pass stuff over; having their letterboxes filched, their controls withdrawn, their lines of communication cut away, because the Treasury did not want them maintained. They’re still there. All six. Still at their posts; still working. I’ve opened them up to full operational strength again. The Army, Navy and Air Force are more than delighted at what they’re giving us—not to mention the political advisers, and the Americans. In spite of their eyes in the sky, they’ve been buying, haven’t they?”
The Director acknowledged that the Americans had been purchasing information on troop and missile dispersal, even though their electronic surveillance provided them with proof—much later.
Herbie hardly paused in his monologue; saying that while all those with access to Source Six thought in terms of cryptonyms chosen at random from mythology—Gemini, Hecuba, Horus, Nestor, Priam, Electra—he knew them as people. He did not say that he had once loved Electra.
As he spoke, the faces and voices of these six people passed before his eyes. Then the faces of Walter Girren, Christoph Schnabeln, Anton Mohr and Anna Blatte overlapped those of the Telegraph Boys: the old, faithful watchers, running in a mental montage with their new handlers. For all he or the Director kn
ew, all these people were now at risk …
It was at this point that Tubby Fincher reappeared, to say that Worboys was on his way, and Berlin was relieved. “Our friend’s a handful, apparently.”
“They’re always a handful,” muttered the Director.
“If he’ll come out with Worboys, Comrade Mistochenkov’ll be delivered tomorrow afternoon.”
Herbie nodded. “Then they’d better bring him straight down to Charlton. You open it up for me first thing tomorrow, Chief?”
The Director made a motion of assent.
“Then I’ll leave the lion-tamers and nuts and bolts to Tubby. I go pack. You have someone to keep house down there?”
Again the Director said yes, there would be someone.
“Good. You give our friend a crypto, Tubby?”
“We thought it better to jettison ‘Piotr’.” Fincher’s emaciated hand made a twirling gesture. “He’s now known as ‘Tapeworm’.”
Herbie grunted, his mind already leaping ahead to his needs for what might be a lengthy stay in Oxfordshire. “You got full sound in the Charlton house?”
They said yes.
“And a stereo? I can’t live without music.”
The two men smiled. Tubby Fincher said, “He shall have Mahler wherever he goes.”
“You are right,” smiled Herbie. “Mensch, how you are right.” With that he went out, his bellowing laugh echoing down the corridor.
4
THE HOUSEKEEPER AT CHARLTON was not happy to see Herbie Kruger. Her name was Miss Adelle Sturgis, and the job was some kind of sinecure, because she was about ten years off pensionable age.
Miss Sturgis had been PA to the retiring Deputy Director, Maitland-Wood. They felt she was fully sterile, but some gabby mouth happened to tell her that he doubted if the Charlton house would ever be used. She had therefore bent the rules, and regarded the place very much as a home; even inviting friends and relatives; not just keeping to her own quarters.
Herbie was not happy but, on checking, discovered that basic security had been preserved. He took a lion-tamer called Max down with him, and they called the Service telephone people in within an hour of arrival.
Miss Sturgis was banished to her bedsitter, read a list of duties by Herbie, and instructed to tell all possible callers—both local and distant—that she could not be disturbed for the next few days. Boring relatives, and difficult old family business, was the coverall excuse. The main telephone was connected to her quarters, and a couple of new, secure lines put in downstairs. While this was being done, Herbie and Max did the rounds—checking the sound system and security locks.
The place stood well back from the road, screened by trees and a wall that had electronic eyes placed along it at intervals. There were automatic locks; the freezer was replenished: Miss Sturgis got on to the milkman and altered her daily order, also ensuring that local busybodies had wind of the imminent arrival of Sturgis relations. She even hinted there would be a solicitor present. The locals would respect a solicitor and stay clear. Likely out-of-village callers were warned off by ’phone, while Herbie sat and listened.
He then tested the stereo unit by playing the Mahler First while Max used the music to check out a pair of dodgy bugs in one of the bedrooms.
The house was modest from the outside—red brick, built around the mid-thirties, with some well-established Virginia creeper crawling up its façade. The Service had made some structural changes, so that there were four bedrooms (not counting Miss Sturgis’s quarters); two bathrooms; a pair of good-sized rooms downstairs; a large kitchen; and windows which gave clear views through the trees.
They were deep enough into the country for safety, yet Oxford was easily accessible should Tapeworm prove able to take in a movie, if Herbie thought he deserved a treat. Twenty minutes in the car would see them on to the Berkshire Downs. Herbie knew the value of exercise when you were into deep confessions. He wondered how Worboys was faring. Worboys should have Max’s friend Charles with him when they brought Tapeworm in. If they brought Tapeworm in.
In spite of his confident show in front of the Director and Tubby Fincher, Herbie was well aware of the vicissitudes of walk-in defectors. They usually took the step either from desperation or from sudden decision. Sometimes they regretted the move almost as soon as they had made it. After all, a quick defection, like a quick marriage, can often end in misery. The walk-in, Herbie considered, always had to be handled with stern and fast action; before they fully realised all former ties had been severed—life, family, country. That they had committed a kind of emotional suicide.
He hoped Worboys was up to the job; praying that the local boys were on their toes.
They were.
Worboys and party arrived just before five-thirty. Herbie stayed upstairs in his bedroom with a bottle of vodka, sending Max down to help Charles get the ‘patient’ into the house.
On Max’s instructions, Worboys came to Herbie’s room as soon as they got in. He looked tired and shaken.
“Problems?” Herbie asked. “Have a drink. You got him here?”
Worboys said yes, he would have the drink; and yes, he had got Tapeworm from Berlin. But only just. “The man’s a loony. Wanted you and nobody else. Threatened to stay; then to kick up a fuss; to go out and scream the British had abducted him. Bugger wouldn’t believe I was taking him to you. Had to get him pissed stupid before we could budge him. There’s going to be some traffic from the Berlin Consulate. The Consul General was furious. Talked of a Courts Martial. The lot.”
“Take no notice. Tapeworm still pissed?”
Worboys nodded, gulping down his vodka. “Out cold. We almost fed him this stuff intravenously on the way back. Had to carry him in. Max—that the name of the other lion-tamer?—he’s staying with him.”
“Let him sleep it off.” Herbie laughed aloud. “Get Max to feed him black coffee and a clean-out pill when he begins to come round. He’ll last the night. I don’t want him until tomorrow.”
“And me?” Worboys seemed anxious.
“You stay here. I’ll call our great hope in Whitehall and tell him everything is well. But you stay here.”
Worboys looked crestfallen. It would do him good, Herbie thought. The young man had been too much of a know-all when he had come into the Service from the school. Herbie had been tough with him from the word go. He also knew that Tony Worboys was having a liaison dangereuse with a young woman called Noel in Registry.
“Mind if I make a call out?” Worboys asked: too casual.
“I mind, yes,” Herbie guffawed. “But you’ll do it just the same. Keep it to the bare essentials. None of the crudities of passion. You’ll be on tape.”
Worboys made a grimace and went downstairs to telephone. Herbie gave him ten minutes, then followed, to call Tubby Fincher and say things were moving.
“You started?”
“You want miracles? No. Tomorrow we start. If you want the tapes you’ll have to send someone for them; and they probably won’t be complete. I’ll be doing a lot in the open. Repercussions?”
“Plenty, but the Director’s purring at everyone.” Then, in a voice edged with desperation, Tubby added: “For Christ’s sake nail something, Herbie, or we’ll all be in hock for the next twenty years.”
Herbie merely laughed, replaced the telephone, sent Worboys off to get food, and then settled down with another vodka and the Mahler Fifth.
It was not a random choice. Though Herbie would never express himself with the same concentrated emotional indulgence as the composer had done concerning the Fifth.
It is the sum of all the suffering I have been compelled to endure at the hands of life, Gustav Mahler wrote of that symphony, a watershed in his life and music—twelve years before World War One. Deplored by the critics as ‘angry herds of instruments stamping down fragments of melody’, it had yet set a new path for composers of the twentieth century.
For Herbie to listen to this great piece was, in many ways, to reflect on the sum of
his life—from the strident trumpet opening, and the funereal brass; through the grief, passion, despair and storm; to the happier Alpine dances of the Scherzo; and the sombre marches again, before the counterpoint of the grand chorale conclusion.
All this sound had special meaning for Herbie Kruger. His own true life had not really begun until the sharp blare of the funeral march for his own father.
Before that the memory was distorted, fragmentary; throwing up glimpses of nothing but love and happiness. The early recall, which coloured all that followed, was one of vague excitement: the tall, handsome father and the young mother, with her long blonde hair, appeared to have lavished gaiety, happiness and love on the boy; against what seemed to be permanent blue skies, and the comfortable little house in the Pankow district of Berlin.
From those earliest years Herbie remembered nothing but love and tenderness. There were vivid mental pictures (sometimes still coming to him in dreams) of treats and outings: picnics and boating trips at Wannsee. His mother always seemed to be laughing, ready with a joke; while the father, huge to the child, was a god in uniform, one who never stormed or ranted but showed only kindness, understanding and, above all, affection. Perhaps, Herbie wondered, this was because his duties kept him away from home for such long periods.
It was during the first ten years or so that Herbie was also taught to aim his personal affection and devotion towards the Führer and the Fatherland. Like his father and mother, these two mystical figures were, to the child, the twin staffs of life. He thrilled to the pageantry of the city of his birth—the banners, the marches, the martial music. He longed to be old enough to follow his father into the air; to wear the uniform.
In fact the only uniform he did wear was that of the Hitler Youth; but by that time he had become puzzled. School-friends disappeared. Their families were taken in the night. There were whispers, and an abstract sense that all was not blue skies.
At the beginning, membership of the Hitler Youth was fun—rather like the things he had heard of the International Boy Scout movement. He began, like the rest, as a Pimpf, as the junior members were called during the stage of apprenticeship—having fun with athletics, week-end camps, lessons on Nazi history. He had already become a little bewildered when he passed the tests, graduating to the Jungvolk—Young Folk—and taking the oath:
