by John Gardner
Electra, Hecuba, Nestor and Horus reported a rise in meetings of strategic planning between their targets. Otto Luntmann—Horus—had flashed a last minute brief to say that the Military and Air Attache at the Soviet Embassy was scheduled to attend a General Staff conference in Moscow.
Electra reported the Minister of the Interior spending more and more of his time at Political Headquarters; and Hecuba echoed this, adding the attendance of Soviet military at the meetings.
The picture was one of a large-scale refurbishing of Soviet units in the East: possibly ready for a hardening of the political line.
Nestor, the grey, silent filing clerk—Herbie’s last recruitment to the Telegraph Boys, before he was forced to include Ursula—added a flash only three days before. He was at the National People’s Army Headquarters, though, his flash—on a screech tape—concerned the military-air situation. DDR Air Force fighter units were being retrained. He had sight of the instructions. Some pilots were already on their way to Russia, converting to the Foxbat—Mig 25s—until now used almost predominantly by the Soviet Air Force.
There was a great deal of bustle. An air of new brooms and girding of loins.
Max reported everything clean—the street showed no signs of watchers; all possible hides were covered; no tapes running.
Herbie gave him a short smile of dismissal and settled back.
“What news on the Rialto, friend Spendthrift?”
Schnabeln opened his briefcase, passing over a small sheaf of flimsies. They were all in the form of typewritten letters to the Coach Tour Company, with one or two addressed to theatrical audio firms. Each would have a microdot embedded somewhere.
“Telegraph?” Herbie raised his eyebrows, already knowing.
Schnabeln nodded. The latest; all picked up last night. Herbie would see they got to Berlin Station quickly. “And your own work?” he asked, as though this was more important.
Schnabeln began a recitation. He handed over Anna Blatte’s photographs, which detailed meetings between a high-ranking KGB man and two faces that Herbie easily identified as visiting firemen from the West German Federal Intelligence Agency. “Who’s setting up who?” he asked of nobody.
Walter Girren had a request to tap into the National People’s Army’s field intelligence offices. He claimed to have had some overtures.
“You tell him not yet. I got to get clearance for that kind of thing.”
Schnabeln nodded again. He was like a man waiting for sentence. Not much hard stuff to report. Troop movements—some exercises to the East of Berlin. Nothing spectacular. “Why the change, Herbie?” he asked twice; and twice Herbie fobbed him off. “Plenty of time. It’s easy.” The large hands unmoving, still on his knees.
They did a long question-and-answer session during the morning. Requirements mainly—film, money; the usual things. Then Schnabeln mentioned having seen one of his assets with a KGB major.
Herbie went silent, then asked for details. Schnabeln, who did not know Martha Adler by name—only as Hecuba—recounted the sighting in the foyer of the Metropol. “Probably a contact, but he’s usually at the Centre. Rarely comes out. He’s on your list, Herbie. You briefed us on Major Kashov. In London, you had his photograph.”
Herbie asked if it was definitely Kashov with Hecuba. No doubt in his mind at all, Schnabeln replied; so Herbie played his first ace. Did Schnabeln recall the situation over Colonel-General Vascovsky’s heart attack? Well, things were in flux. Something was going on; Herbie knew it, because Major Kashov had come to Berlin with particular instructions following Vascovsky’s death. London knew he was there. Did Hecuba still get about?
“You mean men?” Schnabeln allowed himself a smile.
“Yes. She still put herself about?”
Schnabeln said he was not her keeper, but … well, yes. He got the impression she did it for friends, and had few enemies. Russian officers a speciality; officers of the political branches, and NVA, as hors d’oeuvres and dessert. Schnabeln presumed that was her job.
After lunch Herbie asked Schnabeln what he thought his job really was. The text book reply came back—recruitment, military, political, economic intelligence; and the servicing of deep penetration assets.
Herbie, armed now with a post-prandial vodka, asked which of these jobs Schnabeln considered the most important. “Come on, you’re not a fool. Tell me straight. What do you think?”
“I think we’re really in for one thing.” Schnabeln gained confidence: relaxed. “We’re handlers. The Quartet is there to service your special assets—two for me; two for Girren; one each for Mohr and Blatte. I spend most of my time picking up, dropping, and farting around risking my liberty with screech tapes—all from the special assets.”
Herbie gave a big, wise nod. Did the others think the same?
Girren almost certainly—because he had the transmission jobs with Schnabeln. He doubted if either Anton Mohr or Anna Blatte had wind of it. Schnabeln used only the work names.
“You’re right, of course.” Herbie slowly started to reveal the nature of the work done by the special assets. He went into no true details, but said they had been there for a long time—for a lengthy period without proper handling facilities. “The Quartet was designed to fill that breach. It seemed that all six of our long-term assets were sound. There’s no need to give you the small print, but one of them is unhealthy.”
“Jesus. We’re blown?”
“Not necessarily.”
“We know which one?”
“Not yet.”
“But it’s certain?”
“There is no doubt.” Herbie leaned forward, hands clasped together around his glass. “This is why I called you over early. I would trust you with my life, Christoph. You will go and rout out the cancer.”
“But …?”
Herbie was well ahead of him. He knew it may mean a complete dismantling of the apparatus—the long-term assets, and the Quartet. “We shall see. There is a way—a sure way—to smoke the double. The smoking is to be your job. London directs it. I am to give you all six names—real as well as the cryptos.” He went on to explain London’s plan. Herbie said he would give Christoph Schnabeln everything he knew about each of the assets. He would direct him. They even had equipment that would track him into East Berlin: follow every move. He told Schnabeln about the sophisticated fast-sender, and how it was to be used. In due course he would also tell him how the entrapment would work: the words he would use and the response. “You’ll have to be alert. I shall give you a place, a map reference, from which to send the screech tape. We shall act upon what you tell us.”
Schnabeln asked if he would have to finish off the double. He did not like the idea of violence.
“It will be done for us, Christoph. London will analyse the information. They will make the decision. London does not like violence any more. They may just decide to decamp everybody except our man …”
“Or our woman.” Schnabeln spoke again of seeing Hecuba with Major Kashov. Kashov was always thought of as the director of operations concerning assassination.
Herbie nodded. He was not thinking of Kashov. Herbie Kruger had more violence in his soul at this moment than ever before. He had seen men killed; and killed them himself; he had directed ‘wet operations’, as they used to be called, and sent men into situations knowing the circumstances would bring about their ultimate deaths. There had been times when he had locked himself up for days on end after such things: when he had got drunk to forget. But now his conscience would not be troubled. He wanted the person who had betrayed the Telegraph Boys; also Luzia Gabell who had made rubbish of his own life.
“You must do exactly as I tell you, Christoph. You must not deviate a fraction. I shall know, because we have machines that will be watching you …”
Max tapped at the door. Earlier they had telephoned for a courier from Berlin Station. Now he had arrived to pick up the latest Telegraph Boys’ reports and the other material brought over by Spendthrift. Herbie tol
d Max to go ahead, give him the stuff, and get rid of him. The bunch of papers, Anna Blatte’s photographs—together with a short memo written by Herbie—were all sealed in a heavy brown envelope. Max took them without a word, giving Schnabeln a curious look as he left.
Max was both minding and listening—a living bug in the safe house. All right. Herbie was playing the whole thing as they would expect: going by the book. Word perfect. Normal and obedient to his London masters. In the few seconds while Max was seeing the courier to the door Herbie’s hand dived to his pocket; a small piece of paper passed between him and Schnabeln. The look in his eye told his colleague it should be read later. It contained instructions: things Schnabeln would have to do in secret, while Herbie was away with Max, seeing the Trepan team, and later—tomorrow—when the going would get tough. Herbie prayed he had not misjudged Schnabeln: that his man, Spendthrift, really was his man.
Now he sat back, and began to play the Svengali with Christoph Schnabeln; taking each of the Telegraph Boys in turn; moving back and forth over their personal histories, as he knew them. He annotated their likes and dislikes; their strengths and weaknesses. Whoever was to act as beater for the guns on this shoot had to be on the most intimate of terms with every scrap of information: to be inside Herbie’s boots; while Herbie Kruger had to walk inside him.
For the moment he did not give Schnabeln any hint of the Gorky phrase; or the reactions he might expect. Herbie concentrated on filling the man with knowledge: of the people involved, and their pressure points.
Towards six o’clock, when they had covered a great deal of ground, Herbie said it was time to break. As he spoke his eyes lingered on the pocket in which Schnabeln had placed the clandestine paper. Schnabeln nodded. “I have to go out for a while,” Herbie told him; then called for Max. “You will be left alone. An hour or so. Open up to nobody, Christoph. Just do as I say.”
Schnabeln gave the ghost of a nod, and Herbie asked Max to arm Schnabeln. That had been part of the arrangement. Max produced a weapon—a little Italian gun. Herbie reckoned it would not have Service handwriting all over it. People like Max had private sources: just like Herbie.
Now, Max would not leave Big Herbie’s side for an instant. They would visit the Trepan team in the eyrie above the Mehring Platz. Max told Spendthrift he should stay away from the windows. “Nasty draughty places, windows. Catch your death.”
They went out into the evening, Herbie praying that the Service had cut at least one corner on this job, and not left another minder to lurk outside of the building.
Max had a car ready; spirited from nowhere. “Max the Magnificent,” Herbie chuckled.
“No, old love, Max the client of Avis rent-a-barouche. Think I’d better drive. You watch, eh?”
Herbie settled into the front of the rented Merc and, ostentatiously, fastened his safety belt.
“Like that, is it?” Max pouted.
“I remember the time, sonny,” Herbie’s voice cut like steel. “I remember the time when you couldn’t go a hundred metres in this city without the Russian hoods trying to bang you up against a wall.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” Max pulled away from the kerb. Herbie was doing a fast recce on possible watchers. It looked okay: then he reminded himself never to be deceived by looks, and silently prayed that Schnabeln would use his common sense.
8
FOR THE TREPAN TEAM, that Friday was one of dull waiting. “Doodling time,” Charles called it.
For Worboys the day started badly. As the hours passed, so his anger mounted: he was annoyed, both with himself and Miriam Grubb. The fury directed against himself had a lot to do with the discovery of personal vulnerability—the knowledge that he was hopelessly obsessed with Miriam.
He watched her all the time, hanging around as a pupil will manoeuvre himself to be near a worshipped teacher. She was there, in the penthouse, all the time. Mentally, she did not leave Worboys’ mind for a minute; and the very fact throbbed in him, like a boil drawn by a hot medical fomentation. Worboys knew he should be able to treat the business with Miriam like some shipboard romance. But his growing bewitchment would not allow that.
With Miriam the problem lay not in the undeniable sexual pleasure but in her attitude—the stubborn refusal to open either heart or mind to him. She was like a wall. If only he could smash down this barrier, Worboys considered, Miriam might reveal her true self. Once that happened there was the possibility of choice. He could make up his mind; analyse true feelings; separate the obsession from reality, make a frontal attack on the future—either forcing a continuation or an end to the whole thing, once and for all.
In some ways it had already ended. Only the gnawing obsession lingered on, nibbling his mind and peace. There had been a row early that morning—inevitable, for they had gone to bed on the previous evening, with Worboys smarting and surly. Outside the bedroom Miriam Grubb treated him as if he was not there: hardly speaking to him; rarely acknowledging his presence. Miriam, he thought, was using him, just as so many men use women—something Worboys had, in truth, never done.
She woke him, in the early hours, kissing him to consciousness, pressing her body close to his. After an initial response, Worboys had suddenly felt his mind flood with the stored resentments.
She asked what was wrong—wet and close to him, her naked breasts against his chest as he drew away. The operation would be starting tomorrow; Big Herbie was visiting tonight. Once they began there would be no time for “fun and high jinks”.
Worboys said he was not really certain if that was what he wanted—“fun and high jinks”.
“I hadn’t noticed. You’ve not complained before.” Her voice was throaty, her skin hot, even feverish—the temperature of arousal. Though the voice and mouth smiled at him, Worboys saw the invisible steel shutters coming down behind her eyes. He had noticed it before: the eyes dissolving into cold points with nothing showing behind them. He had seen the same look in a silent killer who now lectured at the probationers’ school. She spoke again. “We’ve enjoyed ourselves, haven’t we? That’s the name of the game, I thought.”
Worboys, glancing towards the window, with grey light showing that it was well past dawn, said he did not think it was the name of his game.
“When you’ve got it, you don’t want it,” her laugh was forced: unpleasant.
“Oh, I think I want it, Miriam. But not on your terms.”
“They’re the only terms you’ll get.” Her hands came up to fondle his neck, and he caught hold of her wrists. He wanted her to hear him out. She nodded, as if to say that she would listen, but much good would it do him.
For about ten minutes Worboys talked quietly; telling her about his upbringing, the very few women in his past, his feelings, likes, dislikes; and the strange metamorphosis that appeared to have taken place—his obsession with her.
She sighed, breaking the grip of his wrists. He was like all the others, she said. “You take them, and they either despise you for it or think they’re in love with you.”
Worboys told her he had not said he was in love with her. Obsessed was the word he used. He simply could not relate to this kind of situation; it was outside his experience. If she would only talk, open up to him, then he might cope.
“It’s not on, Tony. I’ve told you. You’re a darling man …”
“You wouldn’t think so from the way you treat me out there,” a thumb jabbed towards the door.
“You’re a darling man, but I’ve got personal rules. I don’t intend to break them, not for you, not for anybody.”
He asked her to tell him about the rules—“Two can’t play unless they both know the rules”—but she said that would mean going over everything. She did not intend to air her personal problems, even with him. He had been so kind to her: gentle; considerate. “For me you’re a natural lover. Know that?”
Worboys had not experienced enough of women to know it. He was aware it had never been as good for him. “That’s not the point, though
, is it? Yes, it began as a sexual lark.” For him that was not enough. Or maybe it was too much. He wanted to know her in ways other than Biblical. Miriam was running with a devil at her heels, he felt. If she went on behaving like this, keeping herself bottled from talk, only giving her body, the devil would catch up, and engulf her. He realised this was the kind of language Big Herbie might have used. They say dogs grow like their masters.
“You could be right, at that,” her eyes briefly flashing, like sun striking ice. “If I’m engulfed, so be it. Let it happen. Who cares?”
“I might. But, if that’s how you feel, there’s an end to it,” Worboys shrugged. “You and me, Miriam: we’ve paddled in the surf. Maybe I want to go out and play with the big boys and girls, in the deep end. It’s obvious you’ve already done that. What happened? You get cramp and nearly drown? Or did someone push you under?”
“You …” she began, stopping, running a hand through her tousled hair. Worboys thought he saw a slight movement in her eyes: as though he had conjured some horror: raised a ghost she had put to rest a long time ago. She gave a short nod. “No, I don’t like playing in the deep end. I do my job. That’s living enough—life enough—for me.”
“So I’m your chosen summer playmate. The little boy you splash with in the surf, and ignore on the promenade. Well, that’s an end to it, Miriam. You either show some trust, take my hand, swim out into the deep, or I go alone. The chances are that we’d both want to swim straight back to the shore, and go different ways in any case. Tell me. Talk to me.”
