The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  He took his time, finishing the Schnapps and chatting with the girl. Anything with a most urgent tag had to be treated like a bomb, or, as Curry would have put it, like porcupines screwing.

  Once out on the Ku-damm he did not seem to hurry, though this was deceptive, as Curry’s normal pace was a fairly fast, leg-stretching stride—the old tweed jacket open and billowing behind him like a gown.

  He did not head straight up the Ku-damm, towards the Dahlmannstrasse, but in the opposite direction. Blind ’em with science, he thought. Move around, check out the ground and watch for blowpipes in the bushes. He took a wide route, dog-legging the side streets until he was sure there were no look-outs or recce patrols about.

  With this sort of care it took Curry Shepherd around forty-five minutes to reach the Dahlmannstrasse house. He was there for an hour, talking and listening—mainly listening—to the terse, specific orders given personally by Head of Berlin Station. Cover was well provided, and Curry took a straight route back to the two-room apartment he rented near the Zoo. He packed an overnight bag with the bare essentials; flicked through his passport, piled documents and contracts, bits of manuscript and notes, into a plastic zip-up folder, and was on his way.

  Curry Shepherd, publisher’s representative, was heading into East Berlin to do the rounds of the DDR publishing houses. Apparently there had been a mild panic earlier that evening when his secretary telephoned the Metropol to say he would be late arriving. They had no record of the booking. She had blasted them to blazes, claiming the room was reserved a month before. They ended up by apologising.

  Before doing the rounds of the publishing houses on Monday he would drop off for a word with some fellow he had never seen. One Christoph Schnabeln. With luck he would get that done tonight.

  4

  IT WAS AS THOUGH Herbie had never been away from the little apartment: as though the separation had not existed.

  Herbie was home, alive again: though discreet enough to excuse himself, within minutes of arrival, so that he could cache the pistol in the bathroom. At that moment with his guard down, the professional within him whispered he should trust nobody. Not yet: Ursula—like the others—would have to be put to the question: the Gorky phrase.

  To begin with she cried a lot, and clung to him, pulling away to look at him, running her hands over his face, as if to reassure herself that it really was Herbie Kruger. Inevitably Herbie shed tears with her. The memories, the sense of time and place were so strong. The apartment felt the same as it had always done. It even smelled as it had at moments of brooding recall, far away in London. The aromas were of Ursula, and a hundred things identified with her: the soap she always used (and was obviously still able to obtain); the particular favourites of her kitchen, the spices and flavourings she hoarded; the mingled fresh scent of her laundry. Somewhere in the apartment there had always been a hint of nutmeg in the atmosphere. It was there still. This blend of odours was, to Herbie, as thrilling and sensually arousing as a million dreams, a thousand love poems.

  Neither had her body changed. Herbie felt a twinge of guilt for allowing himself to deteriorate—even though he had kept to the bare minimum requirements of the Service. With Ursula even the texture of her skin was unaltered to his touch and sight: the firmness of her breasts unslackened by the passage of time. Later, her readiness for him—and his for her—dispersed the years like an incredible feat of magic.

  She told him she always knew he would return; that she loved him, and had kept the faith, waited for him. Of course he already half knew it, if only because he had glimpsed the Telegraph Boys’ reports, and taken special notice of the standard of raw information coming from the one called Electra.

  When the shock of reunion was over they stood together in the cosy living room, the curtains now drawn as a precaution. Immediately on arrival, before Ursula had a chance to react, he told her to draw the curtains while he inspected all four rooms. Just to be certain—though he also used it to get rid of the weapon.

  It was typical of Ursula to ask if he was hungry—if he wanted food—just as they plunged into a kiss of such heat and violence that the blood pumped, for the first time in years, into Herbie’s loins. Food was the last thing either of them really needed.

  Herbie gently held her shoulders, his massive hands curled around the thin material of her shirt, arms stretched to their full limit. “You haven’t changed,” grinning his mouthy, silly smile: shaking the great head. “Still you love me, eh?”

  “Love? Could I love anybody but you, Herbie?” Her eyes lowered for a fraction. “My first love, and last. Is it so foolish to talk like a young girl? Like the young girls talk in cheap paper-books? Romances?”

  “There’s nothing foolish about love of any kind, Ursula: between two people, or countries, or for ideals. It is that we have to respect. Belief in love is happiness and grief. People kill for the love of ideals thought wrong or bad by others. Yet that is love. So, we love.” A long pause. Then he said something about the time, the years apart having been hard to bear, and she looked up at him, biting a lip. Shy. Then, the little smile—

  “All right, shall I give you my heart? Will you always remember me?

  Take it, dear little boy, take it …”

  pausing, a slight sob of pleasure in her voice as she completed the dialogue from Wasted Effort—their personal love-play game from Des Knaben Wunderhorn—

  “ … take it, please!”

  Nobody, in the past few years, could have seen Herbie’s smile break so radiantly over his face. Playfully, he pushed her away, walking slowly to the bedroom door—

  “Crazy little wench, I certainly don’t want it.” Hand to the doorknob, stumping inside as she came quickly behind him, her old loping walk, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding him and pressing her body against his back, as he pretended to pull away.

  Then he turned, and they were fastened in a limpet kiss. Their fingers moved—an instrumental piece for four hands—over each other’s bodies. Clothes fell away, the kiss broken, momentarily, only at instants when the removal of garments determined.

  On this Saturday evening in East Berlin, Ursula Zunder and Eberhard Lukas Kruger once more became a single flesh: indivisible, conjoined in a fury and physical pleasure in the wide bed they had so often occupied—fifteen, twenty years before.

  There was one point when Herbie seemed quite detached, for a second, and thought, for no reason, that the old movie makers had been right in using the sea, and breaking waves, as a pictorial analogy for passionate sex. The loving between Ursula and himself was like the sea—waves which crashed in splendour, followed by the slow, sifting runback of tide. The sea constant only in its changing moods, from storm to placidity.

  Eventually a tranquil, satisfied peace settled upon them, and they lay naked side by side. As he rolled away Herbie glimpsed his watch and could not believe that almost two hours had passed.

  They were silent, probably sharing similar thoughts: very close to one another in mind. Herbie was wrapped in so many memories of this room. The first time had been here; so much laughter was shared by them, under the white ceiling with its one hanging light bulb, and the same imitation vellum shade Herbie had brought there in the early sixties.

  He recalled other things in their silence. As well as the happiness, comfort and laughter there had been anxiety—the day in 1961 when he knew, at last, that he had only one possible choice, the one he had tried to resist for months: that he would have to recruit Ursula as the sixth Telegraph Boy. He had tried, God knew, to be tender then, broaching the subject after they had made love, just like this.

  He remembered that Sunday with an awful vividness—as one so often retains moments as if in sharp technicolor: even the timbre of voices staying quite clear, as though recorded on magnetic tape within the ear of memory.

  He was supposed to be away for the entire week-end; on business—there was a week-end pattern by then, through force of circumstances—in the West; going through methods
, technicalities, plans and the difficult problem of making a final decision regarding the last, sixth, Telegraph Boy.

  The duty officer had wakened him in the middle of the night—early on the Sunday morning in reality. Sunday, 13 August 1961. My God, he had been staying at the Dahlmannstrasse house: the one they used for the meeting with Schnabeln.

  “They’ve closed the border,” the duty officer told him.

  At first he did not really believe it. The hordes had been running from the East into the West for months. The DDR authorities had stepped up security. People were being questioned, even pulled off trains. There had been the usual talk, yet nobody really believed that Ulbricht and his government would take the step of stopping free access between East and West.

  The rumours persisted, but still nobody in the West believed such action would come. For one thing, there was extreme political fuzziness over the issue, and a definite uncertainty about assistance, or even agreement from Moscow. In the French Sector the commandant and his deputy had both left for their summer holidays. The Head of Berlin Station had told Herbie on the Saturday afternoon that he would be taking his family to the Costa Brava in a few days’ time—on 22 August.

  Amidst the Moscow sabre-rattling, together with their uncertainty about backing East Germany, Ulbricht’s establishment in East Berlin had for some months been putting on the pressure. Herbie had felt the thumbscrews himself several months before, while he was still using the cover of one who lived in the East and worked in the West—a Border Crosser; a Grenzgänger

  Herbie’s first intimation of trouble occurred one evening when returning from his ‘job’ in the West. He came up on to the platform of his usual S-Bahn station in the East to be confronted by a large, sinister hoarding—DIESE GRENZGÄNGER SIND KRIEGSTREIBER: These Border Crossers Are Warmongers. It was shortly afterwards that three Central Committee Communist Party members paid him a visit, issuing a stern warning that he must take work in the East or there would be serious trouble. One of them had been particularly vicious, calling Herbie and all like him Schmarotzen and Speckjäger—spongers and bacon chasers.

  Herbie naturally took instructions from his masters in the West, but there was never any doubt. To keep the Schnitzer Group intact, and form the half-dozen Telegraph Boys, discretion had to be the better part of valour. From then onwards—until 13 August 1961—he took a job in the East, which restricted operations for both the Schnitzer and Telegraph Boys. However, there was still easy access to West Berlin, so—much to Ursula’s disgust—Herbie spent many whole weekends in the West. For security, as well as his association with Ursula, Herbie varied the routine, sometimes going over for two consecutive week-ends, sometimes alternate week-ends. Occasionally there was a quick trip for one evening, when he would often take Ursula, and park her in a cinema until his business was completed. She remained compliant, asking no questions. Then came the early hours of Sunday 13 August. The sudden swoop upon the demarcation lines of the border, the troops and tanks, the barbed wire and the mesh (bought, ironically, from the British)—the harbingers of war: the blocks and bricks, steel traps and watch towers. All the paraphernalia of the Wall.

  “They’ve closed the border,” the duty officer had shaken him awake. “Looks very serious. Half the bloody senior people’re away, and I’m having trouble raising London for instructions. But I’ve got your orders.” They were letting people back into the East—mainly night revellers who found themselves stuck and parted from their families. Herbie was to return and for the time being use only the covert links and contacts. He had to work at establishing safer lines of communication. “They also said it’s most urgent, now, for you to recruit your sixth man—if that means anything to you?” It meant more than Herbie could have told the duty officer, for he had fought all the way, trying to avoid the recruitment of Ursula Zunder, the woman upon whom he depended and lavished his emotions. But he dressed and tramped his way to the Brandenburg Gate, where things looked ugly, with barbed wire and machine guns set up, pointing into the West.

  He remembered raising his hands, his identity papers in the left, and approaching a Vopo, who sent for an officer to interrogate him about what he had been up to in the West. “I usually go over on a Saturday night. It got out of hand.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “A woman. You know how it is.”

  The officer let him through with some lewd remark about having no more fun with the girls of the West, who all had the morals of whores anyway. Herbie went straight to Ursula—who had already heard the news, and had a radio on, listening to the bulletins. She asked if there was going to be war again. Herbie comforted her, telling her, no, there would not be war. She wanted to make a run for it into the West. “Herbie, let’s get out now. While there’s time.” So often they had shared each other’s feelings about the situation in the East and their hatred of the Communist régime: the Party itself. Herbie had gone as far as telling her he was a Party member in name only; to avoid trouble. Ursula seemed particularly frightened about the Soviet influence.

  It was during the middle of that Sunday morning, in August 1961, that Herbie had brought her into this very room. They made love, quietly, gently, with great tenderness, as though to comfort one another. It went on until late afternoon, while out in the city individuals, whole families, were making last dangerous dashes to the West, leaving homes and belongings behind, risking death as they cut through wire or jumped from windows.

  It was here, during the early evening, that Herbie laid the news on her: telling her the truth about himself, past and present, what he really did. She was not surprised; indeed, had suspected it, scented it for some time. Herbie recruited her that same night. Within a matter of weeks she was Electra.

  Now she kissed his cheek, as though hauling him from his private thoughts. “It’s unbelievable to have you back, Herbie. Tell me it’s not a dream. You really are here, and you’re staying tonight? Yes?”

  He saw the wince of pain in her eyes as he broke it to her. There was work he must do. But he would be back. Herbie had always been soft about hurting her. When he finally left, in 1965: when there was no alternative but to take off—obey the orders, and leave her, working, in the East—he had adhered to the discipline of the Service. The cost, as he saw in Ursula’s eyes, had been exorbitant. Even then he was too soft, though he knew it now. With the passage of time Herbie had become more prone to the ruthless ways of the secret world.

  Again, in this room, he had told her—yet not told her—of his impending departure. Back among the familiar surroundings Herbie felt sickened by his own methods, hearing his voice all those years ago. “Listen to me carefully”—above her, looking down on the oval face, seeing the troubled, anxious look come into her eyes. “I may have to disappear for a time. Others will contact you. It will not be for long.” He really had believed that: thought there would be a way back. Misinforming himself, when all reason told him that, if he wanted to live and carry on the work, he would have to be off within the next twenty-four hours. “Wait, Ursula, my darling.” The nerve of him, asking her to wait. “I shall come back for you.” It made the guilt send shivers down his spine to think of that moment. The last time he had been in this bed; in the spring of 1965. Fifteen years since he held her, and had her, like this.

  Now the pain showed in her eyes like an image he had seen before: the fear that he was using her; leaving again. With a steady voice she asked if she would be an old woman when he came back next time. That made him smile, and he gave it to her in one rush of words. No. Last time they were already on his heels—the KGB, SSD, whoever. This time he had returned to do certain things. There would be trouble when they got back to the West; because what he was doing had not been authorised. This time it would be different. He had passports, and methods. Even a passport for her. He had it in his hotel: an American passport with all the correct stamps. A genius in cobbling documents had done the passports; the man had used Herbie’s old photograph of her, adding fifteen years to the face, “Though you
look older on the passport than in real life. That’s not flattery. Just the truth.”

  Tomorrow, he told her, they would both go to the West. Tomorrow, when he had completed the jobs. Ursula wept again, and he held her close, trying to comfort her and, at the same time, be gentle in letting her know he had to get going now.

  He dressed first, and watched as she put on her clothes—as she had always done in the distant past. She kept crying, repeating she always knew he would eventually return, as if to reassure herself.

  “I am the White Knight, come especially for you, to carry you off on my charger,” he said. Then, with a stab of conscience, but knowing that, professionally, the test had to be done, he said: “A man can teach another man to do good—believe me!”

  She was doing up her stocking—she still wore suspenders, he was pleased to see: and the lacy underwear. Ursula was always careful about keeping it neat and clean. Herbie had smuggled a lot of that kind of thing into her before the crash of 1965, and she was still wearing it. He even recognised the bra and pants she wore now—the dark blue, one of his favourite sets, as though she had known he was coming. As they had made love, Ursula said she had experienced this strange feeling, all day, that he was close at hand—but she often had days like that.

  Now Ursula gave a little tutting curse. Something was wrong with the suspender fastening. “Sorry,” she looked at him, puzzled. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  Herbie repeated the phrase.

  She laughed. “I’m sure you’re right, but what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Herbie said it was just a quotation from Gorky. Came into his mind.

  “I suppose one man can teach another man to do good, when you come to think of it, darling, yes,” as though humouring him.

  Never mind, Herbie said—relieved beyond all measure, for she was talking again, questioning: he wouldn’t let her down? He would come back? It would be tomorrow? What should she pack? What time would he come? It was all so sudden. Thank God he had chosen a week-end, and oh, she loved him so much, and had waited so long.