by John Gardner
In the presence of this blood banner, which represents our Führer, I swear to devote all my energies and my strength to the saviour of our country, Adolf Hitler. I am ready and willing to give up my life for him, so help me God.
Then the war, and with it the excitement turned to fear; and also grief. The beloved father was gone for ever, somewhere over the English Channel in 1940. Oddly, young Eberhard did not blame the British. Maybe it was the wording of the telegram, or the letter which followed, and their effect upon his mother who lost her sparkle and even some of her affection almost overnight.
His father had died For Führer and Fatherland. The twin staffs had deprived him of his father. Now other things came into relief. Scenes, only half taken in, of brutality—an old man lying bleeding in the gutter; screams of people being dragged off the streets by men in uniform. Young Kruger’s mind became an insecure world of distorted images.
The bombing started. A child matured quickly in those days. He was a man—thin, tall, but strong—by the time he reached fourteen. It was during his fifteenth year that he stood in the rubble of the street in Pankow, knowing that his sad, prematurely-grey mother lay dead beneath the bricks. Kruger, at that moment, made a conscious rejection of his country, and all things totalitarian.
The Führer and Fatherland had disposed of his father and mother. Later, he understood that it was a Russian shell that laid the houses into untidy heaps in Pankow. Then, almost automatically, he ran; hid, avoided the SS squads, which searched the streets of dying Berlin for deserters—whom they hanged from trees and lamp-posts—or for young men ready to serve in the last-ditch defence of the city.
In April 1945 he was picked up by the Americans. Within three months, as the war in Europe ended, at less than sixteen years of age, young Kruger was re-educated and used by the United States’ OSS to infiltrate DP Camps; to listen, watch and weed out ranking Nazis posing as innocents.
In this Big Herbie (he had already earned the nickname, filling out with good food between assignments) proved an expert. He had a natural aptitude for the work; he also learned quickly, and soon became aware that Fascism and Communism were extreme views wearing similar hats. He knew now where he stood; and worked, learning all the time, for the Americans, until the OSS was disbanded in the late autumn of 1945.
In those few months of trusted work Big Herbie had become a teenage rebel with a cause. The disbandment of the OSS was a lingering death. In fact, the boy stayed on with the Americans, was paid by them, continued in unofficial training, working undercover, until after his seventeenth birthday.
In July 1947 the American President—Truman—set up the Central Intelligence Agency, and one of the men handling the lad tried hard to get American naturalisation for him, with the idea of recruitment into the brand new service. But the area was sensitive; the applications became blocked again and again, so, unofficially, young Kruger was turned over to the British.
The officer who first interviewed Herbie was the man later to become Deputy Director of the Service—Willis Maitland-Wood. His decision was almost immediate. The British Service retrained Herbie, and completed his education.
Herbie worked on the fringes until 1951, when, with a more senior German control, he returned to Pankow—now part of the Russian Zone of Berlin—as a repatriated DP.
This infiltration proved completely successful, and, for many years, Herbie stayed undercover within the Deutsche Demokratische Republik (which, at one point, actually trained him in simple engineering jobs).
From a lone, controlled agent, gathering raw intelligence, Herbie Kruger became one of his Service’s most important props in East Germany—cunning and wily; expert in his choice of targets; efficient in carrying out special assignments and, later, in the more accurate work of recruiting agents.
Towards the end of the nineteen-fifties, with political tensions growing hot and cold between East and West—particularly over the question of Berlin—there was much public talk about the nature of a possible World War Three. Pundits and military Press experts confidently predicted, with their usual macabre delight, that, should the nuclear deterrent cease to live up to its name, and become the final cause of mankind’s destruction, the West would have only four minutes in which to prepare for the holocaust. The Four-Minute Warning became almost a comedian’s black catch-phrase.
In fact, as far as the politicians and military strategists were concerned, the warning would be a good deal longer than four minutes. Already, electronics had progressed far enough to give considerable advance information. But an even earlier indication of forthcoming events was possible, by the covert surveillance of key military and political personalities in the Soviet Bloc; and even within Russia itself.
As East Berlin was a centre of great strategic importance, there were at least six key figures normally resident within its boundaries. Kruger’s network was providing admirable information on troop movements, and, in late 1959, Herbie—who made regular trips into the West—was given a long and detailed private briefing.
First, his masters acquainted him with the six appointments (four military and two political) whose movements were of special interest. Next he was briefed in depth concerning sudden changes in their living conditions and work loads. They gave him further tips which would indicate alterations in tactics and attitudes within these six appointments. Finally he was sent back to recruit six men and women, of his own choice, to be, in turn, briefed and handled by his network.
The surveillance agents chosen by him had to be beyond suspicion; completely loyal, and trained on the spot. Their job would be to make regular reports on the movements of the six figures they would be watching. It was also necessary for them to be able to send flash warnings should all, or any one of the targets suddenly behave in different, unrecognisable patterns. The reports from this team would constitute a true early warning of the imminence of nuclear attack—long before the fast-growing electronic devices could give closer indications.
The military and political posts would almost certainly remain constant; though their occupants would change—as individuals were promoted, demoted, died or were pensioned off. But the surveillance team had to remain regular for a good many years: their cover deep and undetectable.
These six watchers were cryptonymed the ‘Telegraph Boys’.
The final moves in placing the watchers were carried out during the tensions of August 1961, and the sealing of the East-West Berlin border with the obscene Wall: the reinforced concrete blocks and bricks; wire; steel tank traps; observation towers and mines; even the strengthened façades of buildings that, in all, went to make up a compelling and chillingly active monument to repression.
Herbie managed the job; continuing to run his network for almost another four years. When it all collapsed, and they ordered him back to the West, he was shattered by the lack of consideration the Ministry of Defence, the Foreign Office and, to some extent, his own Service, gave to his faithful Telegraph Boys.
Only the constant, dripping-water technique on his superiors brought about the move allowing him to set up a new network: the Quartet—Girren, Schnabeln, Mohr and Blatte—whose main objective was to service the Telegraph Boys again; handling their weekly and daily reports, maintaining contact …
As the Mahler Fifth came to its moving and dramatic conclusion, Herbie thought, almost in wonderment, how the Telegraph Boys had remained constant and loyal for over fifteen years.
If anyone could have ferreted out the Telegraph Boys, Vascovsky should have done so. Herbie was plagued by the demons which so often beset intelligence operatives of great experience. The devils of intuition. He had known fear often; and it was there now, deep in his conscious thoughts, reflected by the beauties of the music—and, possibly, coloured by the alcohol he had consumed.
There was movement in the house. Worboys came in to introduce Charles, who could have been Max’s twin. Herbie showed no surprise; to him most lion-tamers looked alike—big, tough, menacing young men who w
ere also usually blessed with quick intelligence, as well as the necessary attributes of brawn.
They reported that Tapeworm had come round, been violently sick, complained of a gigantic hangover, panicked mildly, and been put to sleep, with soothing medication, by Max.
“He’ll wake up as hungry as a hunter,” Charles said.
Worboys, a shade cocky, assured Herbie that this would not happen until morning. Herbie pointed out, with quiet charm, that he had been dealing with matters like this since before Worboys was a gleam in his father’s eye. Worboys did not argue.
Miss Sturgis provided food—an evening meal of an elaborate nature—as if trying to make up for previous lapses. Herbie gave instructions on how he expected things to be run during their stay; sending Charles off to relieve Max, so that he could be briefed separately. The question of duty rosters for the lion-tamers he left for the two men to settle among themselves.
Worboys was to keep an eye on the tapes, when Herbie worked in the house: that, and any odd job, or set-up, which might be needed during what promised to be a lengthy stay.
“I don’t think he’s going to give me the lot in one go.” Herbie appeared amused by the thought. “They seldom do.” Worboys had learned it all from the lectures, and Herbie suggested, with some force, that he should listen in as much as possible. “You might learn what it’s really all about.”
“You use the bedroom, I suppose?” Worboys tried to be casual in his ignorance.
Herbie’s smile did not look so stupid this time. “No. We use this room, the dining room, the garden, the car—when he’s ready—and the good fresh open air.” He continued to give a short lecture, pointing out to Worboys that it might be best to forget all he had learned about formal interrogations at the school.
“You think this room’s too comfortable?”
“Well …”
“You want him in a bare room? Sitting on a chair where he cannot touch you? All the old tricks? Listen, my friend, just watch your Uncle Herbie. This kind of thing is different. He has reasons for being here, but I doubt he wants to tell me those reasons. We’ll get—how do you say it?—a cargo of old rabbits …”
“Load of old bunny.”
“Yes. We’ll get that first.” The grin broadened. “Then Herbie will pounce, eh? Listen, mark and digest, young Tony. Oh, and don’t telephone Noel too often. I cannot promise immunity from the wrath to come, should the tapes get into the wrong hands.”
Later that night, in bed, with the closing beauty of the Mahler Fifth repeating itself like a looped tape in his head, Herbie thought about the work he would start with Mistochenkov in the morning. He kept thinking about what an old and valued interrogator had once advised him: it seemed most applicable in this case. The confessor had said, “Listen to the rhythms, but forget about the melody.”
5
HERBIE HAD ORDERED BREAKFAST in bed. Tapeworm was to be taken downstairs and given breakfast in the dining room, then placed with Worboys in the other room. Max or Charles was to tip off Herbie when all was set.
Max brought the breakfast on a tray—four sausages, bacon, egg, toast, marmalade. Herbie immediately asked about Tapeworm.
“Doing nicely,” Max said, like a medical orderly. He added that, even so, Tapeworm was jumpy. “Said they promised he would see you. ‘Anxious’ is the word I’d use.”
“Good,” said Herbie, taking in a mouthful of bacon and sausage, and motioning for Max to leave. He wondered if the man were gay: he had specially asked to work with his partner, Charles. Herbie liked gay lion-tamers. They were unusually good if the going got rough.
By the time Max came in again to say that young Worboys had Tapeworm in what he called ‘the library’ Herbie had breakfasted, washed, shaved and dressed. He liked the bit about the library; there were at least twenty books in the room.
He had prepared a bulky file, containing old and nonconfidential reports. Only the top two pages had his typewritten notes on Mistochenkov and his former boss, Colonel-General Vascovsky. As he went downstairs, Herbie found himself humming.
Worboys had carried out instructions to the letter. Tapeworm faced the door so that he would see Herbie the moment the German came in. The fear in his eyes was there for only a second, as Herbie entered—which he did with speed and some drama, framing himself in the opening and giving his broad, stupid smile.
Mistochenkov had hardly changed. A few more lines perhaps; the hair starting to thin. He would be about forty now, but had kept his figure, looking slim and muscular; his long, sensitive face a shade pale. The eyes gave out fear. Apart from that, the man looked relaxed, leaning back in an armchair, an English cigarette held between long fingers.
“Well, Piotr. You searched for me a long time. Now you’ve come to me. I am flattered.”
Herbie had spoken in German, and the Russian replied in the same language. “I thought they would not bring you. Now I’m glad. It’s good to meet you at last.”
Herbie extended a hand. He restrained himself from using his crushing grasp. Better to leave the handclasp weak, limpid; to let Tapeworm imagine he was dealing with an invertebrate. Retired field men often go soft. He waved Mistochenkov back into his chair, and gave Worboys the nod. Worboys took his coffee with him. There would probably be telephonic whisperings with Registry, Herbie thought.
“We often wondered why you called me Piotr.” Mistochenkov seemed fascinated to be in Herbie’s presence at last, and could not take his eyes off the large man.
“We knew only your initials. P. V. Mistochenkov. We thought the P probably stood for Piotr.”
The Russian smiled. “Wrong, Big Herbie.”
Herbie laughed aloud. “So you knew my nickname? Ah, it hasn’t changed.” Then, smartly, opening the folder and uncapping his pen, “Your full name then, please?”
There was a minute hesitation; a look of quick surprise before the Russian spoke, “Pavel Viktor Mistochenkov. Captain. KGB.”
Herbie made the next few minutes equally efficient—“This is the official side of things, you understand”—and went on to demand age and other details, like some border control guard.
“How long do you expect to be staying in our country?” he asked at last. The Russian’s fingers trembled; fear returning to his eyes.
“I … I thought they understood. I wish to stay …”
“On a permanent basis?”
“Of course. Isn’t that why you took me out of Berlin?”
Herbie allowed his features to soften. “You were brought out of Berlin because you asked to see me. I happened to be in England, and did not wish to make the trip. You can be taken back again.”
“But I thought … I asked for asylum.”
Herbie pretended to refer to his notes. “So you did, Pavel. Yes, you did. May I ask: were you informed officially that we had granted asylum?”
“Well … No. I assumed … naturally, when they said …” Mistochenkov looked deeply disturbed.
Herbie said he had known Pavel for a long time (“Not personally, of course. This is our first real meeting”), and always imagined that he was a fully trained officer of the KGB. “You were only a sergeant when I first knew of you. Now a captain. You are a trained officer?”
Yes, the Russian said. Of course he was a trained officer.
Then he should know the usual drill with defectors. Asylum was only granted when the nature of the goods was well authenticated. “It really depends on your reasons for coming to us: if you have anything to sell.”
“But I have.”
“Then it’ll be okay; no worries. But I have to warn you that what you think is a valuable asset may mean little to us. It would be the same if I had walked in on you. If the goods are sub-standard …”
“You’d send me back?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not yet. We could hold you as stock. A KGB captain might be a good bargain.” He allowed the smile to spread. “But I’m certain that will not be the case with you. Just tell me, first, why you came.”
> Mistochenkov gave a small shrug, and said why did any of them ever come? Disenchantment with the Party; the way things were going. In particular, dissatisfaction with the job he had to do.
“Yes.” Herbie did not look up. “I was sorry to hear about Vascovsky’s death. You’d been with him a long time.”
“Almost the whole of my career. It was a great blow.”
“And they’ve given you a new appointment?”
“Yes.”
“Not to your liking?”
Mistochenkov repeated that the new appointment was not to his liking. He seemed about to reveal the assignment when Herbie cut in, asking about the exact circumstances of Colonel-General Vascovsky’s death. Mistochenkov had drilled himself well. Not a flicker: the story straight, and repeated with exact detail.
They had been working all day and were just leaving the Colonel-General’s office. He, Mistochenkov, had dismissed the driver, and was going to take his boss home. He often did. There was a bar they would sometimes visit for a drink, quietly, before going to the official apartment block where the boss lived. Vascovsky, he said, complained of indigestion. (“We’d only had time for a snack lunch that day—sandwiches and beer, eaten quickly.”) Then, just as they got to the car, he doubled up and collapsed over the bonnet. “I rendered what first aid I could, but it was obvious he was a very sick man. He could hardly breathe.” According to Mistochenkov, he had dashed back into the building. An ambulance arrived quickly. “I rode with him to the hospital. He was dead before we got there. They used oxygen—everything. He just died in the ambulance.”
Herbie asked which hospital. The old Charité, on Invalidenstrasse, the Russian told him.
