The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Moritz Winter, the joker, was already well on the way to being drunk. As chief civilian storeman at the Soviet Army HQ, Karlshorst, his duties finished at noon on Saturdays. He had nothing particularly new to translate into cipher, or put on a tape; so today Moritz had gone home, bathed, put on his best bib and tucker, then set out for a crawl along the bars.

  At this moment he was drinking in the Wolffbar on the Karl-Marx-Allee, with its ugly Soviet architecture, the workers’ flats and shops and the wide pavements. Winter had known the Karl-Marx Allee from before it was even the ‘Stalinallee’. It would be a good week-end, he thought. Plenty to drink, then, perhaps … well, who knew? He leaned over the bar to tell the barman a story he had heard at Karlshorst; about a Russian General, a farmer and the farmer’s daughter.

  Out of Berlin, within the perimeter of the headquarters of General Soviet forces East Germany, Priam—Peter Sensel—was in bed with his Russian lover. The Russian was assistant adjutant to the Commander-in-Chief: a lad really, ten years younger than Sensel.

  Both were aware that discovery almost certainly meant the end for them. What they were doing was still considered to be a weakness and perversion within the Soviet army. But the young officer was, in his way, deeply in love with the chubby, scruffy German maintenance man. They kissed affectionately and clasped each other.

  Sensel wished beyond measure that he had been born a woman. There were nights when he could weep at the manner in which his body and mind could never be reconciled. Since his teens Sensel had dreamed of the wonders of sexual fulfilment by having a man implanting his seed to grow within his body. He longed for the organs which should, by right, at birth have been his—breasts, and the female parts with which he had not been blessed.

  He took his young Russian in his arms, and began to make love to him for the third time. In the back of his mind he knew the officer would soon have to return to duty, while he would make his usual week-end journey into Berlin.

  Almost since taking up the job at Zossen-Wunsdorf Peter Sensel had managed to find Russian lovers. That part of him which was Priam made certain the lovers were all close to the Commander-in-Chief—or at least within his office. The Russian officers seemed to like German civilians as lovers, and there were only a few months, out of all the time he had gone about his clandestine duties, when access to the C-in-C could not be had through a man who shared his bed.

  Priam, Horus, Nestor, Electra, Hecuba, Gemini; Herbie thought, waiting in the coach. Moritz Winter; Otto Luntmann; Ursula Zunder; Nikolas Monch; Peter Sensel and Martha Adler. They were all out there, somewhere in front of him: going about their overt, and covert, lives—and one of them was a tiny plague-bacillus he had to destroy.

  The guides, and the officer, had almost completed the formalities, the officer chatting genially with Schnabeln’s colleague.

  Herbie thought, not for the first time, that the small, apple-cheeked Christoph Schnabeln reminded him of someone he could not quite place. Now, as the coach moved forward, and the barriers were raised, he made the connection. The study of English history again. Henry II, and Sir Richard Baker’s Chronicle of the Kings of England: He was somewhat red of face, and broad-breasted; short of body, and therewithal fat, which made him use much exercise and little meat. Herbie smiled. Christoph Schnabeln as King Henry II of England. He chuckled again. Henry Shortmantle.

  East Berlin rose around them on either side, as the coach proceeded down the eastern end of the Friedrichstrasse. Herbie glanced to his right; eyes searching ahead. Yes, it was still there, the little cafe—looking more dilapidated now, peeling paint and wood, but open all the same. The place where he had taken Ursula Zunder on that evening of their first meeting—the coffee that turned into a full meal.

  Herbie’s great body gave a shudder: the muscles relaxing and tightening. For a moment, darkness covered his thoughts; only to be replaced by excitement. He looked up and saw Schnabeln raise his wrist to note the time, scowling at the adjusting screw; then depressing it.

  The bleep would, now, be plotting the coach’s position on the screen, in the Mehring Platz control room. He wondered if young Worboys had deciphered his screech; and if so what kind of panic was going on.

  With the mischievous sense of a schoolboy Herbie lowered his eyes, touched the button on his wrist-watch, and gave the Mehring Platz a fifteen-second burst of his own Dip-Dah signal.

  Worboys had been flirting with Miriam Grubb instead of getting on with the work. Enjoying the attention, and looking almost radiantly happy, Miriam kept one eye on the scanning screen, while Worboys whispered—sometimes lasciviously—into her ear. At last, with a giggle, she winked and reluctantly told him he should really unzip the screech, or there would be hell to pay when Big Herbie arrived.

  He had the screech on a cassette, fully slowed to the speed of the day. He had even listened to it—Big Herbie’s voice, vibrating in the cans, reading off the groups in over-precise English. Transfer. Slow. Now he keyed-in the day’s word, which happened to be ‘Plate’ and pressed the run-through. Magic. The groups coming up in red on the screen: the printout clicking away like a mini telex.

  The unraveller gave a little squawk to show that part of the job was complete.

  Worboys tore off the print-out, placing it beside the machine, switching to manual decipher. He took his time, making certain that he tapped out each group correctly on the keyboard, occasionally glancing at the little oblong screen, where the groups showed red, then flashed into words—electric blue, the print-out clicking away again.

  After eight words his mouth started to dry. As the message progressed, he managed to get out a soft, “Sweet Jesus.”

  Tiptoes looked across sharply, worried, asking what was wrong; and, at that moment, Miriam called out, “There he is. Spendthrift’s through. He’s through Charlie.”

  The bleeping of Spendthrift’s homer came out clear, and the pin of light pulsed on the screen, the map shifting with a whirr on to the Friedrichstrasse section. The pulsing moved forward, just as the coach travelled up the East Berlin section of the Friedrichstrasse.

  Then—“Christ,” shouted Tiptoes. “What the hell’s this?”

  Everyone’s eyes went to the screen. For fifteen seconds, Spendthrift’s homing signal was joined by the other signal, the dot-dash: both sounds clashing in the speakers.

  Worboys had the completed screech now, ripping the printout from the machine. “That’s what it is. Oh my God. Herbie’s gone over. He’s over the Wall with Spendthrift.”

  Miriam Grubb snatched the print-out from Worboys, reading aloud. As she read, in a fast jumble, running the words together, so the homer signals cut out. They were expecting Spendthrift signals at about half-hour intervals from now.

  “Sorry” Miriam read from the print-out. “I have to do the job myself with Spendthrift’s help. Max in car. Undamaged. Will use spare homer. Back Sunday night. Apologise for inconvenience. Surgeon.”

  “Jesus,” Worboys kept saying.

  At that moment the telephone began to ring, and Charles, looking as if someone had hit him, dived at it. A second later he had his hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ve told him Herbie’s not here. He wants to speak to you.” He looked at Worboys, who asked who wanted to speak with him. “The Director. ’Phoning on an open-line.” Charles held out the instrument as though it was some kind of explosive.

  Worboys heard the Director out—if Kruger had not yet arrived he had to take charge. Trepan was to be aborted. Soviet agent Trapeze—no knowledge—was about to pull the watchers. Tell Kruger to signal, immediate from Berlin Station.

  As calmly as possible Worboys broke the news. There was silence for a few moments, then the Director said Worboys was to keep track of the situation. Berlin Station would be informed from London. Somebody would come out. Then the Director asked him to read Herbie’s screech. Unheard of—clear on an open-line.

  “My God,” was all the Director managed, before closing the connection.

  The coach’s first st
op was at ‘a typical tourist shop’, where the visitors could buy souvenirs. The shop was kept open especially for the coach party, and they would have twenty minutes to do their shopping. Only foreign currency would be accepted. After this they would be going to the Budapest Bar.

  “Guess I’ll meet you all at the Budapest Bar,” Elmer L. Krust told the old lady from Des Moines. “Can’t stand tourist shops.”

  “You think that’s allowed?” she asked. “They have regulations.”

  “It’ll be okay. I’ll have a word with the guide. I got me a street plan before we left. Budapest’s not far from here.” Herbie did not want any alerts from other passengers—particularly if they might affect Schnabeln, who was smilingly seeing the passengers off the coach. The other guide was already with them, in the shop. The driver had climbed down to stretch his legs.

  “You go on ahead,” Herbie told the old lady, who said he was kind and considerate.

  Herbie was the last to leave the coach. He paused, nodding to Schnabeln. Okay? Schnabeln gave him a nod, and Herbie, as he lowered his head to leave the coach, groped under the front seat, grabbing the handles on a small canvas Adidas holdall. Schnabeln’s brief had been to get the bag, shaving gear and a large raincoat. The holdall would be enough to prove Herbie had luggage when he arrived at the Metropol, where Schnabeln had arranged a room—’phoning from the coach firm’s offices which had a line through to the hotel. In place of the Adidas bag Herbie left the Krust passport. They would at least see it at the checkpoint. Schnabeln, swiftly picking it up, knew that the headcounts were never very efficient on the return night coach trips.

  Without another word Herbie swung down the steps. Schnabeln went after him, going around the coach and into the shop, where the tourists bought cheap souvenirs, including a number of traditional Russian gifts—the hollow dolls that fitted inside one another; medallions; tins of caviar. He would place the Krust passport with the others.

  Herbie, shielded from their view by the coach, now walked upright and with speed, knowing exactly where he was going, sniffing the air, completely orientated, back in his old environment. It held no fears for him now, this part of the city: memories by the score, but no fears. Even his rolling, shambling gait disappeared. He had used that disorganised walk for the whole time he worked in East Berlin, and still affected it daily in London. But now, as an American tourist, the bearing was almost military. At speed it would take him about ten minutes to reach the Metropol. People did not even stare at the big figure in the loud clothes; he was so obviously an American visitor. The second US passport, cobbled together in Camden Town, had a visa stamp for that morning—hours before—and was in the name of Herbert Kagen.

  Halfway to his destination two youths stopped him to ask if he had any dollars they could buy—offering fifty per cent above the official rate. Herbie pretended not to understand. He wanted the comparative safety of the hotel, and a place to stash the Browning.

  Every vista seemed dominated by the Russian-built television mast, ugly and functional, with a bulbous restaurant in the tower. A lot of building had taken place since Herbie’s last visit, but he could still find his way—like a blind man working through extra sense and feel. Banners proclaimed the old cliches, using the same words he remembered, but sometimes in a different key—“Forward With Good Deeds and Higher Productivity”. The ugly white barrack blocks of apartments sickened him; yet they were very familiar, even in their newness.

  They were expecting Herr Kagen at the Metropol. Herbie had organised that well in advance. One might be in the West here: the lavishness and order. The staff jumped when you spoke; they showed courtesy, even if they despised you with their eyes. The room was large, well-furnished and pleasant. He could not have wished for better. Schnabeln would come to see him around midnight. In the meantime, Big Herbie Kruger would take a trip down memory lane.

  PART THREE

  Trapeze

  1

  IN LONDON THE DIRECTOR put down the telephone, staring at Tubby Fincher for almost a full minute before speaking. He looked, thought Fincher, like a man who had just witnessed an appalling accident. Bewildered and angry.

  Eventually he said that Big Herbie was on the loose. He spoke flatly, as though it was a personal affront. “Gave Max the slip.”

  Tubby Fincher pursed his thin lips, emitting a little hissing noise. It was always on the cards, he mumbled. “Really thought we had him tied up, though.”

  “Gone over,” the Director repeated several times in a sort of chant. “In East Berlin now. At this very moment. Christ.”

  Tubby Fincher, lifting his skeletal body from the chair, opened his mouth to ask what kind of action the Director had taken. The answers were supplied before the question was even out. Worboys was holding the fort; the Director had promised somebody would be over, et cetera, et cetera.

  Deep within his silent logic the Director knew exactly what he should do. This was a serious situation; one to be played by the book. In terms of the book there was only one way: a complete shutdown. Pull the Trepan team out; leave Herbie to stew. By the book, they would have to deny Herbie Kruger; for he had denied them.

  So far the whole operation had been limited to a circle which encompassed only the Director, Tubby Fincher, Herbie and the Trepan team. All the thinking had been one of containment. Herbie’s chances of getting Schnabeln to sniff out the person the Director called “the rotting plant in the East Wing’s cellarage,” would have been reduced if Berlin Station had access—spoiled by allowing their street men the opportunity to offer a helping hand. A friend in need, someone once said, is a pest.

  The major error was now very clear. There should have been some strictly controlled two-way radio traffic. Gloomily the Director realised that Herbie had outmanoeuvred him by not suggesting it. Sins of omission were often the most deadly.

  They had cut out two-way traffic because of the decision regarding containment: relying on Herbie and the Trepan team to track Schnabeln with the electronic wizardry. Berlin Station assumed the Kruger-Schnabeln meeting was routine. They would only be brought into play for the end game, when the entrapment was complete.

  The whole thing was planned and double-checked in this very office. Herbie had agreed: all professional and smooth. Schnabeln’s homer would guide them. His screech would give the name and details of the traitor among the Telegraph Boys. Once Herbie was satisfied with the screech—which included him being certain it came from Schnabeln, fast-sending from a designated point—he would personally go to lay the news on the Head of Berlin Station. In turn, Head of Station would verify with the Director.

  They had allowed a four-hour lapse between reception of Schnabeln’s screech and the end game. Four hours, with half-hour fallbacks. Schnabeln’s job was to identify, and then snare the guilty Telegraph Boy, leading him to a predetermined spot—near Treptow Park. The rest would be up to Berlin’s trained street men operating in the East.

  As for the details, the Director had been confident they could be left safely in the hands of Herbie and Head of Berlin Station. Once Herbie had the full facts the decision would not be too difficult—though the options were limited. With Schnabeln as a lure the target would either be eliminated there and then or lifted: snatched, hidden up and smuggled out. After that, the ultimate decision—whether to pull out the remaining Telegraph Boys and, possibly, the Quartet—would be the Director’s alone. The heavy work would be done by Berlin street men. Simple. No mess. Containment until the last possible moment. As for the final instructions, it had been the Director’s intention from the beginning to whisk Herbie out of Berlin the moment the target had been neutralised, one way or another. After that, the order regarding both the Telegraph Boys and the Quartet would go from London: with Herbie safe, and not able to baulk at the possibility of seeing the last remnants of his East Berlin teams being hauled out.

  That was academic now. The advent of the unknown, cryptonymed Trapeze, together with Herbie going rogue on them, altered the situatio
n. Any former plans might just as well go into the shredder.

  The Director’s hand hovered over the telephone. By rights he should flash Berlin Station now. Put them in the picture, remove the Trepan team, and close the shutters—send Herbie to the isolation ward; which meant almost certainly sending the faithful Telegraph Boys and the Quartet with him. “I told Worboys that someone would be out,” the Director looked at Fincher as though appealing for help.

  From where? Tubby Fincher asked. From here or Berlin Station?

  The Director shrugged, not answering, but taking his hand away from the telephone. “We can’t even warn the idiot,” he spoke to the window. “Could haul him back with the help of Berlin, I suppose. But I think, if we have to deny—when they get Herbie—it would be best if Berlin knew nothing at this stage. You know about muddied water, Tub. Young Worboys is there—capable—just needs a parental hand on his shoulder. Someone who can organise a quick dismantle if it does fall apart.”

  “You looking at me?” Fincher raised a hand, the fingers like a claw, all bone and no flesh. Then he continued, pointing out that his chief had just contradicted himself. When they get Herbie, the Director had said. If it does fall apart, the Director had said.

  Both men were aware of the reasons for the apparent double-think. They knew Herbie’s limitations. They were also well versed in his tremendous experience and will to survive. The Director pointed out that Kruger knew the ground and the personalities better than anyone in the Service. It was as though the senior man was trying to lift the ghastly situation a couple of notches into optimism.

  “It’s the emotional thing,” the Director grunted, muttering like an old man trying to make a decision, eking out his pension in a supermarket. “Emotional business. Worrying. Worried me from the start.”