The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Schnabeln’s advent to the tourist trade began when he received an invitation from the Ministry asking for his assistance in their “expanding industry of interchange with other nations”. As always, Schnabeln knew the invitation was really a command. He spoke several languages, and was good with people. Eventually, he feared, either the SSD or the Russian KGB would make an approach. Strangely they left him alone (though he had faithfully carried packages under orders: facts which he immediately shared with his British masters, to their mutual advantage).

  In all, his overt career had been good. Three years in Prague; fleeting visits to Moscow and New York; another three years in East Berlin, followed by a two-year posting to Bucharest. Then another year in Berlin preceded eighteen months in London, where, despite the occasional random and snap surveillance, he had completed his Service training, and worked closely with Herbie Kruger, preparing to be a member of the Berlin Quartet.

  Schnabeln even had the notion that it was part of Herbie’s strange magic which had caused his present appointment: East Berlin liaison officer for a respected West Berlin coach tour firm that provided twice-daily tours of the Eastern Zone.

  The morning tour was a straight sightseeing trip. In the evening the coachloads of tourists came to visit plays at the Berliner Ensemble, or sample what passed for East Berlin’s nightlife.

  The Party representatives never ceased to remind Schnabeln that his was an important and responsible post. He knew why it was important. Everybody knew why. Foreign tourists, even on a few hours’ coach trip, brought in and spent their currency. Tourists were always welcome, as long as they paid in dollars, deutschmarks from the West, even sterling or, particularly, Swiss francs.

  The job accounted for his living conditions, and a free-of-charge run of the Metropol Hotel, plus a brand new Wartburg car, and the special permits to visit the Western Zone.

  The permits were, of course, only granted when it was essential for him to attend meetings with the West Berlin company; but Schnabeln’s duties included travelling, at least three times a week, with the coach tours. He was also responsible for arranging schedules concerning the nightlife. This latter duty made him a popular figure at the few available nightspots and restaurants, who looked to him for inclusion on the list of places visited by the tourists.

  In this respect he was given a good deal of freedom by the Party Committee member who was his immediate boss—a plump and genial fellow within whom a thin, mean autocrat was desperately trying to get out. As long as Schnabeln did his job, was in the hotel when needed by visitors (who used his services to get advice and bookings), and at his post during the visits of the coach parties, Hoffer, his boss, did not complain.

  This left Schnabeln plenty of time to carry out his more clandestine work. It also meant that the pattern of his life could not easily be charted. Always alert to potential surveillance, Schnabeln was well aware of his priorities. The Quartet was interrelated, each knowing—within a rough spectrum—the duties of the others. Schnabeln was too old a hand to be completely taken in by Herbie’s blandness regarding the handling duties assigned to the Quartet.

  Though Herbie always spent a large portion of the regular debriefing sessions, in West Berlin, dealing with the intelligence-gathering and recruiting nature of their jobs, they always ended up with a hard, concentrated session on the handling of their special contacts.

  Spendthrift had known this was the real priority within his first couple of months back in East Berlin. His two contacts—Priam and Hecuba—were about the most professional operators Schnabeln had ever encountered. Priam lived out of the city, therefore most of his information came through by letterbox, dead-drops; though they had seen one another on several occasions. Hecuba delivered most of her stuff by direct passes.

  The letterboxes, and the passes, were always varied and were imaginative to the point of being blinding in their ingenuity. Not for these people the old chestnuts behind radiators in public buildings or in wall cracks. They made Schnabeln really work—the purchase of some cheap ornament; or the tape left in an empty cigarette packet in a litter bin. This last caused Schnabeln nightmares, lest the bin be emptied before he reached it.

  On one occasion Hecuba had sat next to him, chatting about art, in a bar for a full hour before leaving, then dropping a particularly difficult package straight into his lap, without bartender or customers being aware of it. That was the trouble with such professionals, Schnabeln considered; they were so good that it was sometimes difficult to keep up with them.

  Girren, with whom he spoke from time to time in one of the safe houses, drew the analogy of a young and inexperienced actor playing a difficult scene with a really accomplished performer. The expert would give a great deal, but the tyro had to learn fast in order to remain in character. Girren knew about such things, working backstage at the theatre as he did.

  Schnabeln was also aware that Girren, and himself, were the two most important members of the Quartet. They had to retrieve material dropped, or passed, to Anna Blatte and Anton Mohr. Girren and Schnabeln were the only two with access to the West. They were also the only two equipped with the most important, and dangerous, tool of their trade—the fast-sending screech boxes. To be caught with one was something upon which Schnabeln did not dwell.

  The screech-boxes looked like small, innocent radio sets. They were in fact transistorised transmitters. Even the most casual examination would yield the truth very quickly.

  Their operation was simple enough. You did not have to worry about tuning to some prearranged frequency. The boxes tuned automatically to frequencies which changed daily. One merely had to insert the mini-tapes, switch the box to the ‘on’ position, and depress a play key. The tape would whip through in sometimes less than a couple of seconds.

  Berlin Station would record the minor squeal, or seeming interference, and send it directly through to London, where the wizards would slow it down and decipher the message. The problem was sticking to a schedule of sending times, which rarely allowed more than five minutes’ delay; and the necessity of actually sending from a different place for each transmission.

  Schnabeln usually did his sending from the Wartburg, always in a different area of the city. He had even done it while accompanying coach parties on their night tours. It never ceased to scare him, though, for he was well-primed about the lengths to which KGB and SSD Direction Finders would go.

  Now, sitting on his bed in the Metropol Hotel, Christoph Schnabeln was not worried about using the fast-sending machine. His anxiety sprang from the telephone call he had just received from his boss, Hoffer. It seemed that the coach firm in West Berlin required to discuss new schedules with him on Friday of this week. There was to have been a regular meeting next week. That had all been arranged. Herbie would be there, with the usual cover story for him to take back to Hoffer. This call to a special meeting was something different. It worried him. Hoffer said the coach firm had spoken of it as an emergency. Permits were being granted for him to leave on Friday and stay overnight. “You can return with the evening tour coach on Saturday,” Hoffer told him. It was to do with the revision of timetables.

  “You will do everything in your power to ensure there is no drop in the number of tours,” Hoffer said with a nasty edge. “In fact I shall be extremely disappointed if you do not bring back news of an increase.”

  Schnabeln tried to point out that this was unlikely in view of the continuing rise in fuel costs, and the Western inflationary spiral.

  “If there is a drop in the number of tours I shall make a special report to the Ministry of Tourism,” Hoffer threatened. “Then we shall see what happens. I hold you personally responsible.”

  That did not worry Schnabeln one bit. His well-spring of anxiety was the sudden change of plans. The word emergency, dropped so innocently into Hoffer’s ear by the coach firm, indicated something more sinister.

  He would have to leave the usual messages, to let Priam and Hecuba know he would not be available on F
riday or Saturday. That was simple enough. They still used Indian signs—the chalk marks on walls, the particular angle of a scratch on a park bench. Personal contact, on the other hand, had to be made with Girren. He smiled, thinking of Girren as Annamarie, his crypto. He always smiled when he thought of Girren as Annamarie. Teacher—Anton Mohr—was easy. They already had a meeting planned for later in the day. But what of Maurice? Maurice was convinced she had a ripe potential on her line: she also had a pile of photographs. Schnabeln did not like carrying photographs into the West.

  A call on Maurice was always a pleasure, though. Anna Blatte—Maurice—was in her late thirties, and on constant heat. Herbie had been advised of this possible pressure point, but had assured Schnabeln that the busty Anna was quite capable of controlling herself. She rarely did so when Christoph Schnabeln was around; he was glad to say. A trip over to Anna Blatte’s place would be truly pleasant. She would be in this morning; Tuesday was her free day. He could kill two birds with one stone. It might cheer him up, quell the anxiety.

  Schnabeln shaved and dressed, then made his way into the hotel lobby. He was half way to the main doors before he spotted the long legs and ash hair of Hecuba. She had not seen him, as she sat, deep in conversation, drinking coffee with a man whose face appeared to be vaguely familiar to Schnabeln.

  Their heads were bent together. Probably one of her contacts. Pumping him quietly over coffee in the lobby of the Metropol. Hecuba was a cool one, sure enough.

  It was only when he was in his little Wartburg, driving out towards Treptow Park and Anna Blatte, that Christoph Schnabeln remembered where he had previously seen the face of the man, now in close conversation with Hecuba.

  The face had been on a photograph, and the photograph was one they had all studied with Herbie Kruger in London. He could even put a name to the face. The anxiety deepened. What would Hecuba be doing, sipping coffee, cosy and chummy at the Metropol, with a KGB major usually only to be found at the Moscow Centre?

  3

  “TUBBY FINCHER TOLD ME I SHOULD WATCH YOU.” Worboys was driving them to Warminster.

  “You tell him anything?” Herbie did not even look at Tony Worboys. He watched the road.

  Worboys said of course he said nothing, but what did it mean?

  “It means that I have a reputation of sometimes cutting red tape into little ribbons and scattering it all over Whitehall.”

  “You’re doing that now?”

  “You must wait and see. Just watch, and learn from me.” Herbie placed a large hand on Worboys’ knee, pressing hard. “But never stop me, young Worboys. Loyalty to the Service is one thing. I am your immediate superior in the Service. We are together on a most sensitive matter, so sensitive that you don’t even tell yourself about it. Just be a good boy and do as you’re told—which means you do what I tell you.”

  Worboys had already pledged himself to Big Herbie. He did not like the way Tubby Fincher had taken him to one side after the whole requisitioning order for Trepan was completed.

  “There’s some highly emotive connection for Herbie in this one.” Fincher’s voice contained a warning note. “You’ll have to watch him; make sure he doesn’t do anything silly—go off at half-cock. Got me? I’m warning Max as well.”

  “He’s warning Max as well,” Worboys said, taking a corner a shade wide.

  Herbie flinched. “Max doesn’t worry me. Don’t you get concerned, either. I’m a professional, remember? Berlin’s my patch.” At least, he thought to himself, they would not be able to warn Schnabeln.

  For no apparent reason, Herbie’s mind slid back to his thoughts concerning the enclosed life of the Service and sex. His brow creased: then he realised the trigger had been Worboys. Worboys and the girl Miriam Grubb. A look, a spark between them? Was it Miriam eyeing Worboys, or the other way around?

  “Your girl, the one in Registry …” he began.

  Tony Worboys grunted.

  “Noel, is it?”

  “Yes.” Defensive.

  “Everything okay?” Gently, thought Herbie.

  “Fine. Why?”

  “Like to see my people happy. You going to miss her?”

  Worboys supposed he would miss Noel Richards, but it was only for a few days. He had not thought about it.

  “Give you a tip,” Herbie grinned. “A few days under field conditions can seem like years. There’s another woman in the team. Happens, you know, particularly when you are young.”

  “What happens?” Worboys kept his eyes on the road, but had a sudden desire to turn and show anger. In a way he was bewildered, for Herbie had touched some raw nerve he did not realise existed.

  “Casual screwing. Can lead to problems.”

  Worboys exploded, raising his voice, twin patches of red on his cheeks. “You know all about that, do you, Herbie? You a big one for sex? I heard you kept away from women. Nobody’s ever suggested that you’re the other way, but it’s Service gossip. Big Herbie’s not a man for the ladies. You’re giving me sex instruction, are you?”

  Herbie mumbled an apology. The little outburst hurt. He could not know that Worboys could have bitten his tongue off.

  The Warminster house was large; guarded by military police, dogs and electronic body-sniffers. This was also a property which held a particular mystique for everybody in the Service. The Warminster house upset some people; others shuddered at its mention. Some smiled, knowing the legend to be more colourful than the facts.

  Pavel Mistochenkov looked in startlingly good health. “It’s the vitamin shots they’re giving me,” he told Herbie; and Herbie’s suspicious mind gave a silent chuckle.

  He wanted to ask one or two more questions of Pavel. First, Lotte Krug. How often had Vascovsky seen her? Once a week? Twice? More?

  “How should I know?” Mistochenkov gave a slight shrug. “I didn’t sleep with him.”

  Herbie asked how long the affair lasted. Years, Pavel replied. “From ’56 or so; and still going strong when he …” The pause again. Herbie had noted, when Pavel was at the Charlton house, the Russian could not bear to say that Vascovsky was dead; or that he had committed suicide.

  “Describe her,” Herbie snapped.

  Pavel laughed. What did he mean, describe her? He had seen the photograph. That was her; only younger than when he last saw her.

  “Then describe Lotte Krug as she was when you last saw her.”

  “Looking tired,” Mistochenkov replied.

  Herbie forced the pace. Finally the Russian said she was a small woman. “Nice figure, though. Face like a sprite; but lost her looks quickly.”

  “You saw a lot of her?”

  “Only when I had to call at the apartment and she happened to be there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She was good at making people laugh. At least I think so. She made the Colonel-General laugh a great deal.”

  “You told me she did not live in Vascovsky’s private apartment.”

  Pavel made a grimace. No, she did not—except possibly over week-ends when the work-load was light. “She stayed there for nights. I took no notice. Many of our senior officers had girl-friends. There was no problem.”

  “Where did she live?”

  Pavel did not know. He thought Vascovsky arranged things. Fixed an apartment for her.

  “Think, Pavel. Think hard. This was a long affair. When it first started, where did the girl live?”

  Light dawned on Mistochenkov’s face. That was easy, he smiled. “I drove her a lot in the early days. Used to pick her up and take her home. She lived out in the Weibensee district. Had a funny old aunt. Used to give me a drink. The Old Man was jumpy about her in those days. I always did the pick-ups and returns in different cars—we had a big car pool then—and always in plain clothes. It was like handling an agent.”

  A cloud crossed Herbie Kruger’s mind, blotting out any lingering hopes. Why, he worried, did I not know? Why did we not pick up some scent? There were occasions, during that time, when Vascovsky was wat
ched—for days on the trot. No hints; no reports. That Luzia Gabell and Lotte Krug were one and the same was not in doubt. Far away, as though coming faintly from the past, Herbie could hear Luzia, in bitter anger, talking of her hatred for the Ivans: her father killed by them; her mother raped (though she never mentioned her own childhood experience at their hands).

  Herbie changed the subject, turning to the question of the one Telegraph Boy who was Vascovsky’s agent. He wanted to make absolutely certain of the way in which Vascovsky had arranged for new handling.

  It was not proper handling in the first place, Pavel answered. “You knew that: we went through it. The Old Man knew it all; he received reports from your Telegraph Boy. But we sent nothing on. It remained our secret.”

  “Your secret? You saw some of the material, Pavel?”

  “I saw nothing, and I’ve told you everything. It all came through the Old Man. I didn’t even know who your Telegraph Boy was. Nor do I know if anything was written down on paper.”

  “At the end …?”

  “At the end the Colonel-General told me he had taken measures. We’ve been through this already.”

  Herbie raised his voice a fraction. That they had been through it once or twice did not mean they would not keep up the questions. As far as he was concerned, it did not matter if they went over the same ground a thousand times. “Vascovsky told you he had instructed this person: this Telegraph Boy?”

  Okay, Pavel said, he would lead Herbie over it once more. He was concerned, because he felt, once he and Vascovsky jumped over the Wall, the Telegraph Boy would go running to the first new contact he could find. “I still think he will. I think he’s spilling his guts out now. Maybe in Moscow.”

  “He? He? You’re certain about that? You did not say it was definitely a man before.”

  “He or she, then.” Pavel’s good humour disintegrated quickly. “Yes, I got the impression it was a man. The way the Old Man talked. It could have been a woman, though. I just don’t know.”