by John Gardner
“How come?”
“Networks—field agents—they’re a dying breed. Maybe another few years: I don’t know. But there’ll be cuts and retirements. One field man for each country; that’s all we’ll need. One man, or woman, trained in the technology.”
“Like you?”
She nodded, silently, stirring the soup. Then—“They get you at university?”
Worboys told her, yes, but no more. She gave him a quick, appreciative look. “Me to. Enough said.”
Worboys asked if her whole life was given over to the magic boxes. She shrugged. “I like books, poetry, progressive jazz, the songs of Jacques Brel, and old movie scores. That’s what it says on my file.”
“Men?” Worboys still did not know if she had been serious with him before.
This time, the corners of her mouth turned up, showing the smile on her lips as well as in her eyes. “I always choose, Mr. Worboys; and I never make commitments. Life’s too short. I’m known for being a bitch of a lady. What else’re we eating?”
They had the soup, and plates of tinned salmon, with tomatoes from the refrigerator. Charles opened a Bocksbeutel of Riesling, and the four of them sat on the floor to eat, avoiding the cables that now trailed like exposed roots over the plastic tiles. The bafflers emitted a distant hum, not enough to drown the city noises coming from outside and below.
Tiptoes had already set up the scanner on the table. The scanner was a large, powerful, complex and more sophisticated military version of the commercial A-7 Panoramic Surveillance Receiver which had been adapted from its large brother by Communications Control Systems—suppliers of electronic hardware. It looked like a medium-screen TV set, mounted above a metal panel of controls, switches and VUs. Worboys also identified the fast-sender receiver, complete with its own tape machine. Another machine was yet to be uncrated—the one they would use for slowing the screech-tape, and deciphering its message—known in the profession as a portable unraveller.
Worboys hoped, almost with prayer, that he would not be called upon to operate that machine, as Herbie Kruger had suggested—Just to be on the safe side. In case I’m called away, or if anything happens. Worboys rehearsed the daily ciphers in his head, as Herbie had given them to him; so he would be able to set the decipher key if necessary.
In case I’m called away, or if anything happens. Big Herbie had said it so casually. In case I’m called away. The words began to take on a new, sinister meaning. He remembered Tubby Fincher warning him to watch Herbie, because of the emotional involvement—whatever that meant. Now, Tony Worboys wondered if he should have tipped Fincher; whether he should still tip him? In the event he tried to dismiss it from his mind and join in the general conversation.
They talked about their flights into Berlin; about the latest scandal in the life of a much-married pop star; about such mundane matters as the price of food in England; but not about the operation. Tiptoes and Miriam Grubb exchanged a few technicalities concerning the equipment.
By the time they finished eating, the darkness appeared to have closed in around their tower block. Miriam took Charles off to do the washing up, while Tiptoes conscripted Worboys to help with “putting up the soup plates and rods”, by which he meant the small bowl antennae—four of them—and the main reception antenna, disguised as a TV aerial.
The dish antennae had to be sighted properly on the roof, so that they would pick up the signals, relayed by the communications’ satellite, from Spendthrift’s homing device, once he was in the East. These signals would pass into the scanning machine, pinpointing Spendthrift’s exact position in the Eastern Zone. The main antenna was there wholly to receive the fast-sender transmissions.
It puzzled Worboys: all this wizardry was one-way traffic. They would discover Spendthrift’s exact location, and get the identity of the maggot within the Telegraph Boys. After that the elaborate electronics were of little use to anybody. The intelligence would be received, with an exact pinpoint on the man who was relaying it; but intelligence is of little use unless you can act upon it. The equipment in this penthouse suite did not include a transmitter. He could only presume that a large segment of Herbie’s plan, to gouge out the pustule within the Telegraph Boys, had been hidden from all except the Director and, possibly, Tubby Fincher. Once more Tubby Fincher’s warning dug into Worboys’ mental ribs. He shrugged it off out of loyalty to Kruger. Big Herbie was too wise a bird, too old a hand, to neglect the end-product of the Trepan operation.
Tiptoes led him out on to the balcony, strewn with the antennae components, plugs, cables, and a rope ladder fitted with steel grapples. Tiptoes carefully folded the ladder, took hold of the grappled end, leant back and, heaved it with one arm, so that it uncoiled, tracing a dark upward curve on to the roof ledge some thirty feet above them. Tiptoes made it look as easy as throwing a paper streamer. The grapples took hold, and the little man tugged, swinging on the ladder to test its safety.
Worboys glanced out over Berlin. The lights in the Western Zone reflected a dull red glow against the low cloud crawling in from the East. There was a sticky smell of rain in the air, and from the balcony corner Worboys could see the zigzagged snake of security lights stretching like a jagged and spiked chain, marking the boundary of the Wall.
There was no time to take in the sights. Tiptoes called, snappy, anxious to get on with the work. “I want me bed, mate, and I’m the one doin’ the circus act up the ladder and on the roof. All you have to do is make sure I get the stuff up in the right order.”
The little technician had forsaken his smart suit. He wore black cord jeans and a sweater; thin black leather gloves, and a belt with a leather hold-all. Around his waist there was a thin nylon rope, with clips and hooks at each end. He went through the routine once, talking slowly, ending each sentence with “Got it?”, making Worboys repeat the instructions.
Only when Tiptoes was satisfied Worboys would do the job without having to ask, or hesitate, did he go towards the ladder. Worboys glanced down from the balcony, thinking “rather Tiptoes than me.” A slip on the rope ladder would almost certainly send the little man over the side of the balcony rails, down the building’s cliff face into the street below. Twelve storeys. The danger unaccountably seemed to arouse Worboys. He held on to the bottom of the ladder, putting his weight on the lowest rung to create tension, as Tiptoes swung onto the rope.
The little man went up at speed. Worboys felt the weight on his own arms and legs as he held the ladder, fascinated at the quick, spider-like ascent. Tiptoes was on the roof in less than fifteen seconds. Ten seconds later the strong nylon rope curled down from the parapet.
It took under twenty minutes for the rope to go back and forth, with the various attachments: the tubular sections of the main antenna, the small dishes, with their detachable bases; and the cables, rolled neatly and held together with plastic clips.
Half way through, Miriam came out to watch for a few seconds. Worboys was sweating slightly, as the rope seemed to come down again almost as soon as he watched one item disappear over the wall.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.” She gave a throaty laugh, then disappeared into the suite again.
After an hour, with hardly a noise coming from the roof—Tiptoes moving silently, setting up the antennae—the technician began to let down the cables, each one marked with a colour-coded tab; then all of them gathered together at a point just above the main balcony door, tied and secured on the roof’s edge.
“Right,” Tiptoes came down the ladder, faster than he had ascended it. “’Nuff for one night, squire. We’ll plug ’em in tomorrow and hope to Christ they work.” His right hand gave a flick on the rope ladder which dislodged, waterfalling on to the balcony, Tiptoes catching the grappled end before it could hit the stone and make any noise. The little technician gave Worboys a friendly nod of thanks, and went into the main room.
Worboys followed him, silently wondering at these strange skills, which were the simple legerdemain of people like T
iptoes Corn and Scoffer Grubb.
Miriam Grubb was playing cards with Charles, both squatting on the floor and laughing a great deal. She had changed from the elegant suit, and the make-up was now scrubbed from her face. In trim jeans and shirt she looked younger, her hair slightly tousled, falling over her face so that she continually pushed it back with her right hand. An automatic gesture—“Like a woman putting a record on the gramophone,” Worboys thought, remembering distant strains of T. S. Eliot.
“Out,” said Tiptoes, not unpleasantly, “I need me beauty sleep.”
Miriam made the obvious riposte, drawing her legs under her: rising in one athletic movement. Charles yawned. “Early beddy-byes. Won’t do any harm, I suppose. Oh, I do hate being alone. Always hated sleeping on my own since I was a child.” He paused at the door. “How I loathe the dark,” he said. Then—“In the last words of the Master, ‘Goodnight, my darlings.’”
Tiptoes was in the bathroom. Miriam said Worboys could use it next; she wanted a word with Tiptoes, leaning over the cables which came in from the roof; sorting through them, separating them, like a weaver unravelling strands of different coloured wool. “The bedrolls’re in the hall; and the pillows. Take a set in for me, would you?” She did not even look at him.
Worboys stripped, washed, put on his old towelling robe, then humped two sets of bedding into the one spare room. He could hear Miriam Grubb and Corn talking in low voices.
He laid out the two sets of bedding on the floor: well apart from one another; lit a cigarette, and opened the paperback he had tried to read on the flight over: even though he could neither read nor sleep in airplanes.
Miriam Grubb came in half an hour later; just as he was getting drowsy.
She looked at him, and closed the door without watching what she was doing. The lock made no sound, and Worboys realised what she and Tiptoes had in common—they were both silent movers: everything they did, from walking between rooms to putting down a cup, made little noise. It was as though they had been trained to work without being detected.
“Don’t you look sweet, all tucked up and cosy.” She smiled and began to undress without any sign of embarrassment. The texture of her skin seemed to have a depth to it, as though the pink smoothness went on for several layers. Naked she was very different from Noel: the body proportioned to the long slender legs, the skin stretched taut, without blemish or wrinkle; breasts high and firm. She paid no attention to Worboys’ blatant gaze as she walked to her bedroll, slipping between the blankets.
“You said you liked jazz and poetry.” He felt he had to contribute something.
“You’ve put us a long way apart.” She was propped on one elbow, looking at him. “Is that a warning? Hands off?”
Worboys shrugged. This was something for which he had not bargained. “Poetry,” he repeated. “Modern poetry?”
“Not necessarily. It’s not a passion, just an interest. I have catholic tastes.”
“Such as?”
She paused, giving a grunt of frustration. “Oh—okay. Frost. Do you go for Robert Frost?
‘Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.’
“Do you favour fire, Tony Worboys?”
“I’m not quite …”
“Well, get up, go and switch the light off, then show me.”
“Yes, you’re being seduced; and I’m very wicked. Either do it or go to sleep.”
About an hour later, Tony Worboys felt he had undergone his final initiation ceremony. His noviciate was over. She asked him, as they lay together in the afterglow, why he was laughing.
He had remembered a line from an old Bob Hope movie, he told her. Paleface. When Hope, imagining that he was a hero—those around him thinking the same thing—was carried shoulder-high into the saloon, Hope curled his lip and said, “I wonder what the cowards are doing?”
5
AT THE MOMENT TONY Worboys was discovering the unexpected delights of Miriam Grubb’s body, Herbie Kruger was dialling Tubby Fincher’s private number, on his own CC600—the most sophisticated telephone security system, which remained locked in a metal shelf below his normal telephone. The CC600 was standard issue in the homes of all senior officers.
He had listened to the tape of Des Knaben Wunderhom several times, and gone over his notes again.
“Tapeworm,” he said when Tubby greeted him.
“Yes?”
“They boxed him yet?” He meant, had they put Mistochenkov through a lie detector test? ‘Boxing’ was arcane CIA jargon, now outdated in favour of ‘fluttering’, but in vogue with Herbie’s Service which tended to be conservative in its argot.
The Americans gave all their employees a lie detector test once a year. It would be standard procedure, almost straight away, with any defector. The British Service had resisted the practice, as not really being their style. Only recently had they done limited tests, and then not with the old polygraph system.
In any case, all services were changing from the polygraph nowadays. It was accurate, but being superseded by new developments, including the PSE—the Psychological Stress Evaluator: an instrument which did not require electrodes, or any wires linking with the body of the person being tested.
Tubby said he thought they had done the standard questions that afternoon.
“I would like them to run another batch first thing tomorrow,” Herbie lowered his voice. “Just the ordinary things, but I want a couple of mine slipped in. I need the results before I leave.”
Anything, Tubby told him. Anything that would help.
Herbie put the questions simply. They were to do with times and information. When exactly Pavel Mistochenkov had been told of the Telegraph Boys’ cryptonyms? Herbie still found it hard to believe that Vascovsky and Pavel had known those details as early as 1965. There were also a couple of test questions about his relationship with Vascovsky, and the germination of a plan to defect to the West. “Should have been done before this,” Herbie added.
“The graphs aren’t one hundred per cent accurate,” Tubby reminded him. “Particularly inaccurate, as we know to our cost, with highly-strung people who’ve only just spun themselves.”
Herbie replied that he knew all about that. The Americans had been caught on the hop with it as well, but enough time had passed. Tapeworm should be receptive; and he had to know.
“Have it for you before lunch.”
Herbie replaced the receiver, nodding to himself. He went straight to bed. He dreamed, and remembered the dreams on waking, sweating, in the middle of the night. He dreamed of a set of ruby drinking glasses, perfect with facet-cut stems, standing in a cabinet, together with a Meissen figurine of some eighteenth-century dancers: though, in his dream, they were not the real thing. He also dreamed of a Durer woodcut, small but alive with detail—an avenging angel, the horse rearing up over strewn bodies, heavy cloud in the background, the angel’s face set purposefully, carrying out the orders of a ruthless and unforgiving god.
These things, Herbie remembered in his drenched wakening; and, in remembering, knew what they were, and why he dreamed them. He thought of Berlin, trying to quell the reasons for the dream; the anxieties that had begun to explode inside him.
He thought of the Trepan team and wondered how they were, high in the penthouse above the Mehring Platz. Particularly he thought of young Worboys. Was he missing his little blonde from Registry? Possibly not, Herbie thought. He had taken the trouble to read through Miriam Grubb’s personal file. He had been right, she was born to the trade and Grubb was not her real name: the daughter of an officer only recently retired, with an unblemished record. Miriam Grubb, however, was—so her personal file claimed—‘an unashamed sexual scalp-hunter: but always within the Service, therefore considered safe’. Well, good luck to them both.
But these thoughts failed to reduce the anxiety racing through him. It was as though there was a special brand of t
angible nervous expectancy mixed with his blood. He could feel it pumping along his veins and arteries. At four in the morning Herbie got up. This time tomorrow he would be back in Berlin, in his home town, preparing for Schnabeln’s arrival. Schnabeln would be at the safe house, in the West, by eight-thirty.
He prowled the living room, all sleep banished, the anxiety remaining, throbbing and as consistent as his steady heartbeat. To calm himself he switched on the tape deck, turned off the speakers, sitting down with a cup of black coffee, headphones over his massive skull, to listen to the Mahler Fourth—the most easily digestible of the composer’s works, harking back to Haydn and Mozart. Mahler’s longing for simplicity was Herbie Kruger’s longing also. In the back of his mind, as he listened, Herbie vaguely recalled some Viennese critic writing, after the first performance—‘Unless you become children you will not enter God’s realm.’ Mahler’s G Major Symphony is a work for children and those who will become children.
As the music ended, so Herbie found a fragment of peace again, and sank into a half doze.
In Berlin, Worboys woke at about five o’clock, his arm numb, alarmed for a moment, not realising where he was, or whose shoulders the numb arm encircled. His body throbbed as Miriam Grubb moved a thigh against him, her hand, like a small animal, scuttling in half-sleep towards him. Worboys swallowed, partly with amazement, but mainly the same bewildered surprise of the previous night.
Now, first her; then Worboys. They were both fully awake when it was over, and she snuggled up to him. “You’re a nice man, Tony,” she whispered. “A darling man. Would we could know each other better.”
“Can’t we?” He felt in thrall to this dark-eyed witch; as though Miriam Grubb had practised the magic arts of the electronics, in which she was so well versed, upon him: that she had, somehow, hooked him to one of her black boxes, and taken his senses into her as she had taken his body.
