by John Gardner
Her eyes were clouded; little crusts hung in the corners, from sleep, as though tears had dried and hardened there during the night. “I told you. I’m a bitch of a lady. I take when I need. Then I let go. That’s how it is with me; and there’s no changing it now.”
“But why?”
She put a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “I’m sexually very potent …”
“I’d noticed. Miriam, I …”
“And I’m careful. I’m not the tart you might think. There’s been nobody for two months. Treat me as an experience, Tony. You were here; I needed you. Be a love. Enjoy me, and I’ll enjoy you. No strings.”
He tried to probe once more, but saw a hint of anger flicker in her eyes, so kissed her, gently disentangling himself. “We touched on poetry last night. What about the other interests? The progressive jazz?” He reached for the cigarettes.
“I’m into a guy called Keith Jarrett at the moment.” She was curt, and didn’t want to talk, turning away from him. Worboys smoothed her shoulder, innocently: a soothing gesture. He felt the shoulder shake under his arm, and knew she was weeping. His scant experience with women made him feel emotionally impotent.
Eventually she turned to him, holding on tightly, saying she was sorry; how could he understand? He reminded her of someone, that was all. Someone who had understood, and knew her; loved her, and was the only thing that mattered.
“And he’s gone now?”
“Of course he’s fucking gone,” she spat. “What do you think I’d be doing here if he hadn’t gone? Oh, sod it, Tony Worboys, isn’t it enough that we’ve …?”
“Possibly for you. Maybe not for me.” He saw Noel’s face in his mind, and thought how little he knew: about himself or others. He had imagined himself in love with Noel. What the hell was that all about now?
Miriam wiped her eyes, and slipped from beside him, gathering up her clothes. “Come on, I’ll make you something special for breakfast,” she beckoned. Even that movement took on sexual connotations. Worboys, in his robe, padded after her into the kitchen. She said the others wouldn’t be awake yet. They’d have a feast of their own. “Honeymoon Potatoes,” she said, selecting four or five potatoes from among the vegetables, going to the sink and starting to peel them; giving Worboys orders, telling him to find an onion, and some bacon and oil.
“Honeymoon Potatoes?” he asked.
She had a friend. A girl of her age who had married, young—“In love, like no two people ever before; or ever will be. There’s sentiment for you.” The girl had expected they would be honeymooning in some smart hotel—on the Riviera, or the Costa Brava, or the Riviera dei Fiori. It was her husband’s style, and he kept the secret of where they were to honeymoon. It turned out to be a cottage in the English Lake District. “Miles from anywhere. It was a lovely idea. He thought she would find the change and solitude—just alone with him—beneficial.”
The one problem was that, on their first day, the girl had to admit she could not cook. In her father’s house there had always been servants; they had moved about a lot, mostly in the Mid- and Far-East. Nobody had ever questioned if she should be taught to cook.
“So”—Miriam’s eyes were slightly clouded, Worboys noticed—“So, on that first morning, he gave her a cooking lesson—there were a lot more later, and she became a good cook. This is the breakfast they had, and they called it Honeymoon Potatoes.”
She cut the peeled potatoes into small square chunks; heated oil in a pan; chopped onion and bacon; then tipped the whole lot in, seasoning them well, then stirring all the time as they cooked.
Worboys knew she had been talking about herself, but said nothing. They sat across the table from each other and ate the platefuls of food. Worboys told her, truthfully, that it was delicious. Miriam Grubb just nodded, her hair falling over her face again. Then they heard Tiptoes Corn stumbling around in the main room.
In London, Herbie Kruger set out for the main building at ten o’clock. He would look into the Annexe later. His case was left on the bed at the St. John’s Wood flat, only half packed. The documents collected from Camden Town were in a secret place where nobody but a determined expert could find them. Already he had done a little preparatory paperwork—things which had to be set up before he saw Schnabeln.
In the Director’s office Tubby Fincher told him he had just received the results from Mistochenkov’s ‘boxing’ at Warminster. “It’s all positive,” he said. “The machine tells us that Pavel Mistochenkov and Jacob Vascovsky had a longterm understanding to attempt a crossing of the Wall. It also says that he’s been telling you the truth—that Vascovsky knew the cryptos of the Telegraph Boys in March 1965.”
Aloud, Herbie said it did not make sense. “I began to think they were pulling an enticement on me. Recent intelligence, with Pavel nudging me in by saying they had known for a long time.”
The Director coughed, looking concerned. “There is marginal evidence, from a couple of extra questions we put to him under the PSE.”
“So? Marginal evidence? What the hell does that mean?”
“It is possible, from what Tapeworm says, that Vascovsky knew the cryptos of the Telegraph Boys at an earlier date. Almost when you set them up.”
Herbie swore. It was a ghostly impression he had also received while confessing Mistochenkov.
The Director went through the Trepan operation in detail; just to be certain they understood one another. “As soon as you get Spendthrift’s analysis of the situation, you uncover and flash me from Berlin Station.”
Herbie’s great head moved in a slow nod. The Director spoke firmly—the admiral on the bridge, as old men-of-war moved to action stations, “I make the decisions. You will give me an hour. You’ll have time to get back to the Trepan group, and check Spendthrift’s exact location—make sure he’s reached the place we agreed.”
Again Herbie nodded. He said nothing aloud.
“The Trepan group close up shop, and you will get my instructions via Berlin Station. Head of Station will know once he’s confirmed with me. If there’s cloak and dagger needed, Berlin’ll do it, Herbie. If there’s a rescue operation, Berlin’ll do it. You, I want out: quickly. Berlin’ll give you priority.”
Herbie merely looked gloomy.
“Hell, Herbie,” Tubby Fincher came over to him. “At least you’ll know the worst, or the best, by then. Leave the bother to others. You agreed it was the safest way.”
“Yes. Yes, I agreed. Okay.” Herbie got to his feet. He said there were one or two things he needed to do at the Annexe. He would be back to pick up the homing devices sometime early in the afternoon.
Outside, in Whitehall, the mandarins and their minions were heading to lunch appointments in clubs and bars throughout the city. Herbie went on foot, walking down to Trafalgar Square, doing a few turnoffs. He was clean. Anyway, who would worry about a shopping expedition. He hailed a cab, and headed for Oxford Street.
In a chain store which catered for the passing American trade he bought some checked slacks, and a sports coat of many colours which appeared to be masquerading as the tartan of the Black Watch. In another store he purchased shoes; in a third, some expensive spectacles with heavy horn rims, and lenses which looked normal but, according to the makers, adjusted in various lights to avoid glare.
These things Herbie carried out to St. John’s Wood, before making the return trip in to the Annexe. He checked the IN tray, dealt with a couple of minor administrative matters, then went over to the main building where he was to pick up the homing devices. The requisition chit was signed by Tubby Fincher, and the technical expert on duty at Stores passed the equipment over without a query. “You know how they work?” was all he asked. Herbie assured him that he knew all about these matters.
The homers were transistorised: embedded in digital watches. They operated by pulling up, and then depressing, one of the two buttons usually used for adjustment. To switch off, you performed the same function with the other screw.
“The
y’re only armed when the battery’s in place,” the technician reminded him. “I’ve kept the batteries separate.” The equipment was packaged in three small boxes, and the watches looked slightly different. One emitted a series of long bleeps, the other a dot-dash tone. They had both been pre-set to the correct frequency.
Herbie had many contacts within the world he had inhabited for so long. Some were known to his superiors, others, while known, had long been buried in the files. One of these had a job with security at Heathrow Airport. On his way back to St. John’s Wood, Herbie Kruger stopped at a public call box and dialled Heathrow, giving a particular extension number. His contact was on duty that day, and expecting the call. Herbie had briefed him almost as soon as he made up his mind on what course of action to take.
The conversation was brief, but it calmed Herbie. What he had asked to be done had been seen to; all was arranged.
With things in order, Herbie returned to St. John’s Wood to complete packing. The batteries for the homing devices were in his shaving kit, loose inside an electric razor. He wore one of the watches. The other went into his briefcase, in a small compartment that even the alert security people were unlikely to unearth.
Last of all he folded the newly-purchased clothes, after carefully removing all the labels. The car arrived at six. His flight was due out at seven forty-five. As they drove away Herbie did not need to look back; he knew Max would be in a chase car, well behind. He also knew that Max had a special permit and would not go through the usual security screening. He would also be armed. Herbie, on the other hand, was under strict discipline: the Director was edgy because of his personal involvement.
Herbie checked in at Heathrow, and, unusually, his flight was called on time. At the security tables they took special care with him. Max was nowhere in evidence. At the check-in desk Herbie asked for a particular seat number, and found it was already reserved for him.
In the cramped space of the aircraft Herbie’s bulk appeared to have been taken into consideration. The seat next to his was vacant. He saw Max nowhere.
Putting his briefcase on the cabin floor, Herbie deftly undid the catches, slipping a large hand up under the seat. Below the lifebelt pack a flat polythene-wrapped parcel had been lodged between the retaining straps. Herbie slipped it into the briefcase which he snapped shut in one movement. Stewardesses and passengers were too busy settling people into their seats to notice.
Herbie smiled to himself. The parcel had been arranged by his old secret contact at Heathrow, who regarded it as a correct security matter: for Herbie Kruger’s bona fides were impeccable. Now a flat, deadly, .9 mil Browning automatic, with three spare magazines, lay snug in the briefcase.
6
IN THE PENTHOUSE SUITE, high above the Mehring Platz, the Trepan team spent the day wiring up the equipment, talking, playing cards. The scanner, and receiver for the fast-sender, could only be hooked up to their respective antennae, plugged in, then the circuits checked. No proper tests could be done until late on the Saturday afternoon, when Herbie was to run a screech tape, and bleep the homers, before seeing Spendthrift back into the East.
They uncrated the portable unraveller, setting it on the table to the right of the scanner, in front of the receiver, and its large open-reel tape deck. This piece of magic would deal with the screech tape, slow it and—if one correctly keyed the right daily cipher—translate the whole thing into a legible message. It looked like a miniature typewriter with a cassette tape machine attached. Above the tape deck was a small, oblong screen; behind that, a print-out roller. The screech tapes were never convertible to normal commercial speeds—each set of fast-senders, their receivers, and the unravellers, being pre-set to different speeds on each day: just to confuse any long-eared sound-stealer.
Worboys looked at the unraveller with concern. He had operated one before—under ideal conditions, during the communications course, as a novice at the school. Once more he hoped, most fervently, that things would go to plan. He did not relish the prospect of Herbie not being there to direct operations and, at least, offer guidance with the unraveller. He pictured himself with the unraveller, in a confusion of unlockable ciphers.
During the afternoon, Tiptoes and Charles put their feet up and dozed. Miriam Grubb gave Worboys a long look. There was no mistaking her meaning. He nodded, and they went silently to their room. Miriam locked the door. “I won’t cry again,” she promised. “Do you lack respect for me, Tony? In the old days, men were supposed to feel that a girl was no more than a useful piece of furniture when something happened—like last night.”
Worboys told her not to be silly. It wasn’t like that any more. “I understand,” he added, not meaning it; wondering if he would ever comprehend women. All day he had found difficulty in keeping his eyes off her. He scarcely allowed Noel to enter his mind: there was no room there for both women, and his consciousness buzzed with the need to know what had happened, in the past, to this poised, intelligent, self-contained girl. He wanted to delve into her background, talk with her; discover her mind, and the environment in which she moved, just as he had discovered her body. The frustration burst again, now, as they stood alone. He asked her straight out, looking steadily into the dark eyes.
She pursed her lips, closing them tightly, as though wrestling with the words within, shaking her head like a child. Anger burned, almost red, in her eyes. “You have Big Herbie’s ear, Tony. Get him to let you squint at my PF. It’s all there for anyone who has the eyes to see.” She made a movement towards the door.
Worboys caught her, clasping her in his arms, half-expecting the fury to turn physical—perhaps a knee to his groin. She stood, stiff and tense, in his embrace; but it passed, and they moved towards the bedrolls, which she had now placed close together on the floor.
At ten-thirty that night—when they had eaten the evening meal—the one telephone in the main room rang three times: stopped for a minute, then rang again.
Charles answered. “Yes.” He spoke with his usual, disinterested, languid diffidence. “Good, yes. Yes, the plumbing is in. Tomorrow night as arranged. Okay.” Cradling the receiver, he turned to the others. “We’re on. The Surgeon’s here. Calling on us tomorrow evening; as per schedule.”
Herbie Kruger—or ‘Surgeon’, as they had jokingly cryptonymed him for Trepan—was back in Berlin. He had arrived about half an hour before the telephone call, at the house they normally used for meetings in West Berlin—a comfortable four-roomed apartment on the second floor of a building on the Dahlmannstrasse, off the Ku-damm—at the end furthest away from the Uhlandstrasse: for the Consulate General’s office preferred Service premises to be kept as far as possible from their own place of work.
The building which housed the apartment was squeezed between a bar and a branch of Kutzler’s Foto Kino. Four bar-hostesses, who worked shifts at the Eden Saloon, occupied the first-storey flat. The ground floor was owned by the Service: usually manned by the listeners during meetings. Berlin Station used the house all the time.
Herbie had his own key, letting himself in with the stealth of ages. Leaving his cases in the middle of the room, he went straight to the places where the microphones were usually secreted. The wires had been cut and sealed, but he made a careful run around the place, examining the heavy gold and red wallpaper, looking for any tell-tale marks, in case the Director and Tubby had instructed a new set of voice-activated bugs to be installed.
Unscrewing the telephone mouth and earpieces, Herbie checked for anything like an infinity bug, knowing he would find nothing. If the Service were determined to listen, it would find some other way. Max would have a sniffer with him; but they would know that in London. If they were really determined there was nothing he could do about it. Well, almost nothing.
It was unlikely that anyone would be manning tapes on the ground floor, but it would be out of character for Herbie not to check. They did not know he possessed a key to the ground floor apartment.
He went to his usual bedroom
, opened the briefcase and unwrapped the Browning and clips of ammunition: stowing the gun away in a metal waste bin, crumpling copies of the newspapers, bought at Heathrow, around it.
Herbie let himself out of the apartment, going down to the ground floor, fiddling with his key-chain. The apartment at the bottom of the house was empty, but the tape machines were there—unplugged, with the leads to the apartment above severed and sealed off. Everything bore the hallmark of the Director taking Herbie seriously.
Max arrived ten minutes after Herbie returned to the second-storey apartment. In that ten minutes the big man had hung his clothes in the bedroom closet and locked it, with the briefcase inside.
Max greeted him jovially: all set to be chatty. Herbie knew the psychology of dealing with men like Max. “Okay, Max.” Herbie appeared to have withdrawn from the kindly iron hand in a velvet glove. Now only the iron hand showed through. He stood erect, the face grave, eyes stone hard. “You pick up the ’phone, Max, and call the number I’m going to give you. Let it ring three times, close the line and call again. Right? Your friend, Charles, should answer. You tell him the Surgeon has arrived, and will see them tomorrow. You ask if the plumbing is in. Okay?”
Max nodded, looking wary, noting the change in Big Herbie. This was not even the Herbie he had known during the heavy part of the interrogation of Tapeworm. He did as he was told: passed the message back and asked what was needed next. Herbie told him that he had personally gone over the place for taps—“They told you we weren’t to have any sound? Yes?”
Max said that was what he had been told.
“Reassure me, then, Max. You got a sweeper?”
The minder nodded, unzipping his bag. He went over the place inch by inch. Herbie would not let him go into the closet in his bedroom—“I got personal things in there. Important for the man we’re meeting”—so Max swept it with great care, from the outside. After an hour Max pronounced the whole apartment disinfected: “Hygienic as a bottle of Harpic, love. Nothing here to worry us.”
