by John Gardner
Slowly she shook her head. He was a terrible romantic. It almost sounded like a sneer, as though romantics were lepers.
“That’s an end to it, then. Tonight I’ll sleep in the kitchen.” He picked up his clothes and stumped out, leaving Miriam looking pensive, and a little puzzled.
All day, even though he stayed near her, his mind reeling, Worboys did not exchange a word with Miriam, except on a professional level. Once or twice he caught her looking at him, with an expression of indecision. When she saw him Miriam looked quickly away.
If Charles and Tiptoes noticed the atmosphere they did not show it. All four of the Trepan group were drinking coffee when Herbie arrived with Max. It was just after six-thirty.
When they left the Dahlmannstrasse, Herbie had not been in the car above two minutes before he knew Max had lied. The vehicle was not rented; it had ‘Service’ written all over it—from the bonded bullet-proof glass to the hairline cracks below the dashboard, indicating a stowaway panel for communications gear. There were also locked pockets on the door interiors, for hand weapons.
All this signalled that the Director and Tubby Fincher were breathing down Herbie’s neck. Max would be in constant touch with London, and could call up Berlin Station at speed, if London so ordered. It meant Herbie’s fears were well-founded. Max, the minder and listener, would not be alone. The Dahlmannstrasse house would be on a round-the-clock survey. Once more, Herbie prayed quietly that Schnabeln could accomplish everything without leaving the building.
There was no tail on them during the drive to the Mehring Platz. Herbie stayed alert, though nobody would have known it, to see him, slumped in the passenger seat. He looked more like a tired, stranded whale. In his mind he went through all the possible permutations of the Director’s thinking.
The last time there was defector trouble—from within the Service itself—Herbie had been deeply involved. He had also made one small error, and the target was missing for a few days. Herbie had failed to be his brother’s keeper, and double-check on a telephone tap that was not there for twenty-four hours.
Now, with the new information about the Schnitzer Group, and the cancer within the Telegraph Boys, his credibility was shot. His superiors would, naturally, be cautious. Maybe, they would think, Herbie really was over the hill. The legend had been crippled by Mistochenkov’s revelations.
He pondered on Pavel Mistochenkov. There were still many things that failed to add up, from the information given—particularly the dates when the Russians claimed to have known the Telegraph Boys’ cryptonyms. It did not make sense. The Director would—if Herbie knew the man at all—be doing his own cross-referring even now. It stank, the whole thing; and it stank at a time when the Telegraph Boys were starting to prove their real worth: the prior early-warning system, possibly the most important intelligence assets possessed by the West. Blown. Penetrated. Herbie Kruger’s big bloomer; Herbie’s blunder; Herbie’s Schnitzer.
Max parked the car a block from the Mehring Platz building. Almost as soon as they arrived Herbie shrugged off the queries that dotted his mind. It was a happy, boisterous reunion. Max got into a huddle with Charles, whispering close together in a corner, while Tiptoes went through the electronics with Herbie. It all seemed most satisfactory; though Herbie became quickly aware of the coolness between Miriam Grubb and young Worboys. Lovers’ tiff? He grinned inwardly. Perhaps they had not hit it off at all. Alas, poor Worboys.
Herbie tried his chair for size, nodded contentedly at the Sony Stowaway with the headset, and looked through the tapes. “Ach, that is not so good a recording of the Mahler Third.” He discarded a cassette with the look of a man sniffing sour milk.
Finally he gathered the team around him: sitting in his chair while they squatted at his feet. A Service guru giving spiritual advice to the converted. He told them there had been most fruitful conversations during the day with their friend from the East. He was uncertain as yet what time the man would leave on his return journey, but suggested the team should stand by from about four o’clock onwards, tomorrow.
“Early as that?” Max looked surprised.
Herbie turned off the charm, looking at Max with the uncertain, swift gaze of a Gila Monster. “Yes, Max, as early as that. Do you mind? You wish to run this, or will you leave it to those who know?”
Max said he thought the departure would be later. “Sorry I spoke.” Piqued.
And you, thought Herbie.
Herbie would give them a wrong number telephone call, about ten minutes before he was ready to test the equipment. “We shall do the homers first.” The second digits on the watches indicated if the devices were working correctly, giving a pulse to show the strength of the signal. Herbie gave them the signals—a series of long bleeps for one of the devices; a dot-dash tone for the other. They would test both. If they were operating normally they would then give a fifteen-second burst with the one Spendthrift would use back in the East. “So you will see both come up, one after the other Then one. This last will be Spendthrift’s signal.”
After the homers Herbie would run a screech tape. “I shall prepare some nonsense tonight, using tomorrow’s key word. A good test for you, Worboys. Convert and decipher the message, and I shall mark you for accuracy when I arrive.” He had in reality already prepared the tape. But who’s counting? he thought.
He asked for any questions. There were none. They all knew what was to be done. “You’re clear, are you, Worboys, in case Max drives me into a lorry on the way here? You could handle it?”
Quite buoyantly, Worboys said it would not be beyond his capabilities. He’d show bloody Miriam.
“At this point, before going into battle, the commander usually gives a pep-talk. It is a good English tradition—‘This day is called the Feast of Crispin’, ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more’; all that kind of thing, do not you know?”
Miriam laughed aloud.
Herbie wagged a finger, beaming around the group: a disarming look. “You aren’t going to escape the pep-talk. I think, in this case, it’s very important. I was flippant when we last spoke in London. Made a joke out of it all. It is not a joke. Understand that. This operation is vital. I cannot stress this more highly. Absolutely vital; because it concerns the defence of the West.” In the old days, he told them, the business in which they were engaged was known as The Great Game.
“That is, to me, a most unfortunate term; for this is no game. Games are physical trials or tests of intellect. True, our job concerns both such elements. But games are for fun. We play for keeps. If any one of you regards this as a nice cosy game—baddies versus goodies—forget it. Go home now. I have already suffered enough at the hands of totalitarian administrations.
“We are engaged in something that goes beyond personalities,” he told them. The people they had in the East were part of an important link. Now, through duplicity, they were at risk. In the field people accepted being at risk. It was part of their job—being expendable. “We are all expendable, because freedom must not be thrown away lightly.” Herbie said he was not using the word ‘freedom’ in any sentimental sense, nor in the jingoistic terms pumped at them from bad movies and TV programmes. “I speak of truth, even though the word has lost currency. To me, freedom is a question of choice—even if it is sometimes a limited choice, these days in the West. Even limited, you still have a choice—to decide, to write what you wish, to speak without too much fear. The basic ideology held by the Soviet Bloc is excellent in theory: crippling in practice. Have no doubt that they wish it on us also. In dealing with the Soviet Bloc I believe we are dealing with a plague. Anything that restricts basic freedom is a plague.
“This operation—as with all our work—is surgery and disinfection.” Worboys had heard the speech before. It was from one of Herbie’s lectures at the school. “Remember,” Herbie said. “Our masters sometimes talk of soft-pedalling; of detente; of peaceful co-existence. That is all very well; but at those times one must be on guard. Remembe
r, there is always peril.”
Before leaving Herbie managed a quick word with Worboys, who had spent a lot of the time hovering, as though wishing to talk.
“Okay?” Herbie asked.
Worboys said that things appeared to be going smoothly. “Sorry about the blow-up,” he added.
Herbie looked blank, asking ingenuously, what blow-up?
“On the way to Warminster.” Worboys, plainly embarrassed.
“Ach. Women. Yes.” Herbie allowed one of his fast, daft smiles before asking if Worboys had encountered some unexpected difficulties.
“It’s complicated.” The young man shifted his feet. “Bit of an emotional problem.”
“I can help?”
Worboys shook his head. “Time I grew up in that department.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Thought I had. Just wanted to say you were right about women in the field. Need—emotions—that kind of thing.”
“You’ll cope—that the word? Cope?”
Worboys said yes, that was the word; and yes he would cope. Herbie was pleased. He would make something of Tony Worboys yet. Time and experience were the only real teachers.
Back in the Dahlmannstrasse house Christoph Schnabeln read through the paper Herbie had clandestinely passed to him. At first he was shaken; he had to read the entire sheet twice before taking in the full extent of Herbie’s propositions.
The writing was small, but neat and legible. First, a warning that Max was probably listening; there might be watchers on the house: all Service people. Then the propositions, listed under separate headings, as a series of instructions.
After the instructions came the reasons for this unethical action, together with possible suggestions of how the venture could be managed. If Schnabeln thought he could organise on the hoof, ad lib, he would obviously need extra time. When Herbie returned there were phrases, and bits of body talk, Schnabeln could use to denote it could be done, and what extra time would be needed. If this meant leaving the Dahlmannstrasse house early then Herbie would have to know. But they must cut it as fine as possible.
If it was really necessary for Schnabeln to use a telephone to make arrangements now—while Herbie was out with Max—he should not use the instrument in the house. There was a booth on the corner—but only if it was really essential. Remember we are probably being watched. For all that we believe in, my friend, I beg you to take no chances, Herbie wrote. The message ended with advice to burn the paper. If Schnabeln would co-operate, he was to place the large glass ashtray at a particular point on the table.
Christoph Schnabeln thought for a while. He considered the true desperation that would make a man like Herbie Kruger resort to actions such as these. He understood, so began to work out times. If they left the Dahlmannstrasse at four forty-five tomorrow, Saturday afternoon, it could just be managed. He would not have to use a telephone. Not yet.
Christoph Schnabeln picked up the heavy ashtray, placing it firmly on the appointed spot. He then read through the document again—just for insurance—took it into the bathroom, and destroyed it, tearing the paper and burning each piece, before flushing the charred bits, singly, down the lavatory.
9
AS SOON AS THEY got back into the Dahlmannstrasse house Herbie noticed, with a lifting heart, that Schnabeln had given the ashtray signal. The relief was quickly followed by a sense of great tension. Herbie had tipped his hand: committed himself. The rest would be a matter of luck and professional expertise.
Max went off to prepare a meal, and Herbie said he and Spendthrift should talk again. In the first few minutes of the conversation Spendthrift gave him the signals. In order to get to the Coach Tour Company offices in time to arrange things he would need to leave at four forty-five.
When the messages had passed, Herbie returned to the briefing, keeping strictly to the limits and instructions London had given him. First he ran a question-and-answer routine: a rehash of the day’s work with Spendthrift—the real names and personalities of the Telegraph Boys; their individual characters; the way he would expect each to act, or react, in certain given circumstances.
Even in the kitchen, preparing a meal, Max would have some device working: Herbie was certain of that. When the food was ready he banished Max from the table—“Time’s going fast, and we’ve still got a lot to cover.”
No skin off Max’s nose, he said.
They ate simple fare, as one usually did under these circumstances—tinned soup, some cold cuts with salad, and a rich cake Max had stopped to get on their way back. Herbie, becoming infected by field paranoia, was convinced Max had really made a drop for London while getting the cake.
Herbie went through the communications equipment. Spendthrift would take the fast-sender over in a book—they would go into that tomorrow, as it was a different make of machine: more sophisticated. Fifteen minutes’ instruction should be ample. There were two homers; one for insurance. Herbie explained the test signalling, saying—as he had done at the Mehring Platz—that he would make up a test tape tonight. He then gave Spendthrift the key words, for the days over which the operation would run—Saturday and Sunday. They had provided keys for Monday and Tuesday; also for insurance. He then sat back and asked how Spendthrift would contact each of the assets, meaning the Telegraph Boys.
There were two safe houses still used in East Berlin—one in the Behrenstrasse; the other, not so good, up in Weibensee. Schnabeln could make immediate contact with the other three members of the Quartet.
“You can do that on Saturday night, once you’re back in the East?”
“Within the hour. We’ve got a good alarm system. And the whole Quartet can get in touch with their individual assets—you know there’s a crash signal: a method.”
“So you’ll do it straight away?”
Spendthrift said, naturally. He would set up individual meetings, at one or the other—or even both—safe houses for the Sunday.
“For God’s sake leave plenty of time between each meeting,” Herbie was talking almost for real now. Schnabeln knew how it was going to work out. “You don’t want them bumping into one another on the stairs.” Herbie smiled, remembering how the story had spread through headquarters like wildfire. London ran a whore—several if the truth was known—with a good clientele from the embassies. One afternoon, her case officer was leaving after a debriefing, in the trade sense, when he bumped into a senior Treasury official on the way up. The Director passed a hush-hush list of the Service whores around the main Whitehall ministry buildings after that—initials required, the list shown to people by hand, then taken back to Service headquarters for filing.
Schnabeln asked about the unmasking routine, but Herbie was not giving him any of that until the last minute. He did not want to tell him the Gorky phrase at all; but with Max listening it was essential.
It was after eleven when Herbie sent Spendthrift off to bed. They would start at eight in the morning. He wanted Spendthrift oiled and running like an automaton before he left. Spendthrift grinned. Herbie grinned back, then went into his bedroom, extracted the fast-sender and a tape and concocted a nonsense screech for Max’s benefit. He had no doubt that Max would have some way of letting London hear the test before it was even supposed to be played out to the Mehring Platz.
He used the Saturday code, and did Hey-Diddle-Diddle, with the Twelve Days of Christmas as an encore. Then Herbie stashed the tape in his briefcase, inserting the one already made up in London into the machine.
Once that tape went out, and Worboys got his head around it, all hell would break loose. Herbie felt more relaxed: himself again. He was working, and it did him good. He slept soundly, waking without any memory of dreams.
In the meantime, in the Trepan suite, Worboys was having an uncomfortable night. The kitchen was draughty, the floor less yielding than that of the room he had shared with Miriam.
Sleepless and chilly, at about one in the morning he put on the light and got out the cigarettes in a small flurry of anger. Damn Miriam, he thought.
Or damn himself. Was he normal? A normal man would take what was offered—enjoy himself. No tears, no fuss, hooray for us, and thanks for the memories.
Like all the Trepan team, Worboys had been armed by Charles after their arrival. The pistol was under his pillow—into his hand as soon as he detected someone in the passage. Perhaps Tiptoes, or Charles, was going to the bathroom; but Herbie had taught him to take no chances.
The pistol pointed steadily at the door as it opened, silently. Miriam stood there. She wore a tiny pair of briefs and no bra. Worboys saw her nipples were erect; but that could be the chill air. Then he looked at her face. Miriam Grubb had been crying.
“Yes?” he queried, as dispassionately as possible.
“Come back,” she said. A husky note. “Please come back. I’ll tell you. Tell you everything.”
She wanted him to make love to her first, but Worboys, through the passage of his anger, had found strength to resist. “I’ll respect your privacy, Miriam. It’s cost you a lot to come to me. I know that. You’ve been playing at personal freedom: making your own rules. For Christ’s sake share them with me now. We make love—you’ll put it off again. Back to square one.”
She took a deep breath. The tears had gone from her eyes now, and they lay side by side in their old room. “It’s just that I don’t like talking about it. Simple as that. I’ve been thinking all day, and you’re right. I have to tell someone, though there’s nothing spectacular to tell. Not when you boil it down against all the anguish in the world.”
She began, hardly looking at him, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her father was Service. “Only recently retired. Good Street man in his day. Got past it, though, so they brought him back to London; agent running: Scandinavia. You know how it is? His name would mean something to you.” She told him. Worboys knew immediately. Her father had lectured at the school—“I sat at his feet”—Grubb was her married name.
