The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  As he reluctantly prepared to leave (“There’s so much we have to talk about. I want weeks with you. But that’ll come. After tomorrow.”) Herbie gave her the instructions. Her handler would be in touch—maybe very soon now. She would be called to a special meeting; in a safe place. She must show no surprise, but the meeting would be with him. There would be another man along, but Herbie would get rid of him. There were official questions which had to be put to her. He would ask the questions, and give her the time she should expect him at the apartment.

  “We go from here,” he held her close; telling her to put her prettiest and most expensive things in her case. “Only the best.” She glanced at the Durer drawing, and he shook his head. No. No personal household things. Just her prettiest clothes, and only those in case there was trouble at customs. She must look as though she had been spending the week-end in the East. Remember, she was an American.

  “Just have your bag ready. I shall arrange transport. Probably a colleague, so that we can return to the hotel, then take a taxi to the checkpoint. I’ll give you all the details at the meeting.”

  She was weeping when he left.

  Once in the streets, Herbie had to make a great mental effort to wrap his professional cloak around him. He felt a little drunk, but knew all the risks were worth while. He would settle the double Telegraph Boy, and Luzia Gabell—both. He would resign once they were safely back in the West. Maybe they would take strict disciplinary action, but he doubted there would be any court proceedings. That would not be the Director’s style, nor in the interests of the Service. They might just keep him at Warminster for a few years: that was possible.

  Herbie pulled himself together: alert to the dangers, taking on the persona of the big American again, smiling to himself as he thought of his one small deceit with Ursula (he would tell her when they were out)—how he had excused himself, and gone to the bathroom to get rid of the gun; returning there, once dressed, to retrieve it; making up the tie harness again so that the weapon slapped against his thigh as he walked.

  It was late, so Herbie took even greater care. His watch showed eleven forty-five. Schnabeln was meeting him in his room at midnight. Gathering his thoughts, Herbie wondered how successful Schnabeln had been in making the contacts. He hoped there had been some success in tracing the Gabell woman. If so, there might well be more work, and of an unpleasant nature, to be done before the night was out.

  There was about a ten-minute walk still to go before reaching the hotel. Just in case the dogs were out Herbie bleeped the Trepan team. That’ll confuse them, he thought.

  “Herbie,” Miriam Grubb called out as the dip-dah came up, the map swinging, trembling for a second on the screen. Spendthrift’s signals had come up regularly, every half-hour since the late bleep, near the Metropol. They had all been carefully logged. Spendthrift had moved about a lot. “A busy little bee,” Miriam said.

  Now here was Herbie on the loose and in an unfamiliar part of town.

  “Where?” muttered Worboys.

  “Could be headin’ back to the hostelry,” Tiptoes proffered; and, at that moment, there was a ring at the main door.

  Charles had a pistol in his hand, even though Worboys said it was probably Mr. Fincher at long last. Max was lying down: resting and licking his wounds—both the physical and the damaged pride.

  The rake-like figure of Tubby Fincher stood in the doorway, then pushed past Charles.

  “Where are they?”

  They told him, and he went straight over to look at the log, checking the positions and times of the bleeps, which had also been pencilled in on a smaller map of Berlin.

  Tubby Fincher took it in quickly. Worboys was relieved to see that he had assumed command without even stating it, almost before he was in the room.

  “Spendthrift’s running to form,” Tubby muttered, checking off names and places in his head. “If it’s any consolation to you, friend Spendthrift is doing just what he oughta.” He looked carefully at the last tracked position of Herbie’s bleep, moving his twig finger in a series of small circles outwards. Straightening up, he nodded to himself, and said aloud that he thought he knew where brother Kruger had been. In his head he knew damn well where Herbie had been.

  “Where?” Worboys asked without thinking.

  Fincher gave a thin smile. “In the hope of not hurting anyone’s sensibilities, it is my due consideration that Herr Kruger, our expert in East Berlin, has been getting himself well and truly laid. Now, can I have some coffee, please? My body’s still in London. Ever travelled by Harrier, young Worboys? It’s an experience I would not recommend.”

  Fincher, the keeper of so much secret knowledge, inwardly winced as the thought of Herbie Kruger slid painfully through his mind. The facts spoke for themselves: the driving urge to redeem his losses—the Schnitzer Group, the Telegraph Boys and the Quartet—had propelled Kruger into the East. But what of the other things? Fincher thought.

  How, in God’s name, would Herbie feel at this moment, out there chasing one victim, and clutching at his past? Tubby knew enough about Kruger and the woman they called Electra. What agonies would the huge, clumsy man be facing now?

  A bleakness descended on Tubby Fincher, shrugged off only by his natural powers as a leader. Yet, from that moment until the end, his thoughts were never far from the crucifixion which had to be taking place in Herbie Kruger’s head.

  5

  CHRISTOPH SCHNABELN HAD, AS Miriam Grubb suggested, been a busy little bee. First, the drive out to Kopenick to contact Anton Mohr—Teacher—who, thankfully, was at home, reading by a dim light in one of the two shabby rooms he rented in the dank villa. One wall was completely covered with green mould, and there were patches of rising damp near the two windows, which looked out on to a strangely neat garden—gloomy in the street lighting now, but fresh to the nostrils, and obviously cared for. Schnabeln noticed this last fact as he walked up the flagged path to the front door. The garden was very much at odds with the crumbling relic of a house.

  The furniture in Mohr’s rooms was sparse, the floors uncarpeted, the picture adding up to one of general clutter, and extreme poverty—if not actual despair.

  Mohr greeted Schnabeln with care, a shifty uncertainty in his eyes, head cocking constantly, as though listening for noises: though the only sound came from the old man coughing in the room directly above them. He was bedridden now, Mohr said; and the wife, who was the elder of the couple, appeared to be on her last legs. “So much for the medical care in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State.”

  Schnabeln commented on the garden. “The newly-weds,” Mohr turned down the corners of his mouth. The newly-weds had the major part of this decaying building, but were good Party members. They spent most of their time smartening things up. The husband boasted that they were to get a grant to modernise their apartment. In the meantime the couple worked away at renovations during most evenings: and in the garden at week-ends. Would Christoph care for a Schnapps?

  “Let’s take a stroll. It’s a nice evening,” raising his voice in case the newly-weds were hiding among the mould on the wall. “You must have a good bar somewhere around here.”

  Mohr agreed there was a bar, only ten minutes away. Ten minutes gave them enough time. Just to be on the safe side, Schnabeln thought, they should play it for real. He could brief Mohr as they walked to the bar and on the way back. Ten minutes at the place for a quick Schnapps. That would cut the time to half an hour. As they left the old villa, with its smell of damp, the cracks, mould and dirty facade, he bleeped the Trepan team.

  Once clear Schnabeln began—“Your subject: the one you handle.”

  Mohr nodded, and Schnabeln told him what was required. Mohr said it would be difficult to make a crash meeting tonight. His man—Horus, Otto Luntmann—was on night duty. But he could bump him tomorrow morning, when he came off duty at six.

  Schnabeln went over the exact details. It was up to Mohr to hand his subject over to Schnabeln. The time was fixed; and th
e place. Schnabeln had already decided it would be more prudent to use the safe house in the Weibensee district for the morning meetings. It was the worst of the two houses; but if they could get three meetings—at eleven, noon, and one o’clock—done there the other three could be fitted nicely into the Behrenstrasse house during the afternoon. With luck, and good, well-timed contacts, they could have all six done by five in the afternoon. Of course, the whole thing might be over much sooner, if one of the early meetings proved fruitful.

  They arranged the pick-up for Horus so he could be first in at Weibensee: pick-up in time for the eleven o’clock date.

  They drank their Schnapps, talking inconsequentialities, and Schnabeln reinforced the fine details during the return walk. His car was parked around the corner from Mohr’s hovel, so they parted nearby—with a lot of loud laughter, and promises to meet the following week.

  From the Kopenick district Schnabeln drove to the outskirts of Treptow Park, and Anna Blatte’s apartment. She was preparing for an early bed; dressed in night clothes, and wrapped in a lurid robe. Anna was delighted to see him and could not wait to get him inside the apartment: her eyes glittering with anticipation. If Schnabeln knew anything about Anna she could not wait to get him into the bedroom either.

  Christoph was fast, serious and commanding. “Work to be done.” He used no names. “Get dressed. We’re going for a short ride. Maybe you’ll have to go on and do something else after that.”

  Herbie had been right about Anna. When the chips were down and things looked serious she could turn off the heat in her pants and get down to real work like a true professional. Anna Blatte nodded swiftly and disappeared into the bedroom; emerging within five minutes in street clothes. An admirable speed for any woman, let alone Anna, Schnabeln considered.

  Herbie had given special instructions concerning Maurice’s subject. Schnabeln smiled, as he always did, at the woman’s crypto. It was probably one of Herbie Kruger’s little jokes. Anna Blatte was no Maurice. This subject—Electra—was to be last on the list. As they drove around the perimeter of the park, Schnabeln gave the details. They arranged timings and the pick-up point. Blatte said there was no problem. A crash meeting with her target was simple and well-organised. She could do it from a public telephone booth in the morning: or tonight, in order to be certain.

  For professional reasons they drove for almost twenty minutes after the matter had been settled, parking near Blatte’s apartment, where, to her delight, they partook of a long fumble in the front of the car. For a few minutes professionalism disappeared, and she pleaded with Christoph to come up for what she called “a quickie”. Much as he might have been tempted, there was a lot more work to be done.

  His own people had to have the news laid on them. But first Schnabeln found a bar with a telephone to call his Vopo contact concerning Luzia Gabell.

  “Old flame, indeed,” the Vopo laughed.

  Christoph asked what he meant, and the Vopo told him she was suspect as a common whore, still using the name Luzia Gabell. “We do nothing about it, but she certainly has a lot of friends. Lives in a small apartment above an Apotheke near the Alexanderplatz. All nice prosperous-looking friends; but a lot of them, Christoph. Stay away, I should. We had four girls carved up in apartments just like that only last week.” He added that it happened all the time. “At least two a week. Sometimes as many as six. Don’t let them tell you there’s no crime or violence in this city. It’s always with us. Stay away.”

  Schnabeln said he certainly would. There was no address, but Herbie would have to make do with that information.

  He then moved on to another bar. The two subjects he handled personally had to be set up, and he was wary about crash meetings with either of them. Particularly on a Saturday night. From the bar he dialled Hecuba’s number, but there was no reply. That was worrying. She could easily have gone away for the entire week-end. He would try later.

  The other call was further afield; right into the heart of the Soviets, for Priam worked and lived within the GSFG HQ at Zossen-Wunsdorf. Schnabeln had a drink in the bar and left, to find a less public booth which would be more secure.

  A crash meeting call meant a security breach—whatever. That was particularly true of Priam. The Quartet knew the people they serviced, by sight and crypto, but not by name. Arrangements for a crash meeting with both Hecuba and Priam necessitated telephone calls. With Hecuba, Schnabeln would almost certainly get the woman herself on the line. There was a wrong number deal to fix times and fallbacks. The meeting place was permanently arranged for a crash. He presumed all the subjects had similar arrangements—crash meeting places that were never altered and only used in great emergency.

  Arrangements for Priam were more involved. The civilian forces’ maintenance staff out at the Soviet base in Zossen-Wunsdorf had their own quarters, but only one telephone, and this was used by the entire block. It was a direct line, so they had no added worries of going through a main Soviet military exchange. But, if Schnabeln wanted a crash meeting and telephoned, he was likely to get anyone on the line. He could not ask for Priam by name, as he did not know it. This was a handling flaw he had discussed in the past with Herbie. Promises had been made to look into it; in case of a rainy day. Now the rainy day was here.

  There were two options when telephoning Priam. Happily, the man was blessed with a title—Foreman in Charge of Number Seven Section. He could ask for Priam by that title; or leave a prearranged message. There was always the possibility that someone without the patience or time to look for Priam would come on the line.

  Schnabeln drove to a spot near the Lenin Allee, parking in a non-restricted zone, then walking for five minutes before selecting a small bar with a reasonably private telephone. From there he put in the call to Zossen-Wunsdorf, which was answered by a gruff, slightly petulant voice.

  Schnabeln went through the routine. “I have to speak to the Foreman In Charge of Number Seven Section. Urgent.” He used a clipped voice, underplaying a mild Soviet accent.

  “Who wants him?”

  Schnabeln said it was General Military Maintenance, Soviet Command, Berlin. That appeared to do the trick.

  “He’ll not be here on a Saturday night. Will anyone else do?”

  Oh Christ. Should he leave a message? Nobody else would do, he told the gruff voice. Did anyone know where the Foreman could be found?

  “I know he’s in Berlin tonight. Saw him go,” said the man at Zossen-Wunsdorf. He sounded distinctly unhappy.

  “You know where he’ll be found? I cannot stress the urgency sufficiently.”

  Reluctantly, the voice told him that Peter could usually be contacted at Der Hengst. Schnabeln asked, or rather commanded, to know what Der Hengst was. The fellow sounded shamefaced. Der Hengst—The Stallion—was a bar. He gave the address, just off the Lenin Allee—not ten minutes from where Schnabeln stood. Keeping in character, Schnabeln asked the man’s name, thanking him for his help.

  Schnabeln thought, ‘Well, Priam’s name is Peter some-thing-or-other, and I’m not supposed to know that.’ At least he would recognise Peter if he was at Der Hengst.

  He returned to the car and drove near to the street off the Lenin Allee, given as the address of the bar. He found the place quickly enough: a cellar bar, with a dim light over a small door at the bottom of steps, leading straight off the street: the basement of an old building, just on the fringes of all the modern, square, unlovely stuff which had transformed the Lenin Allee.

  There was piano music coming from inside, vaguely American and jazzy from a long way back. The lighting made it almost impossible to see very far, until the eyes adjusted, and the place was filled with smoke and the low mutter of conversation. Nobody paid much attention to Schnabeln when he went up to the bar. It had an old-fashioned zinc top which did not go with the rest of the place. Like the music, Der Hengst seemed to have been decked out in a 1930s style: the kind of decadence frowned upon by the authorities. It struck Schnabeln as an odd place for the chu
bby and scruffy-looking man he knew as Priam.

  The bartender was a young, good-looking boy, who contrived to touch Schnabeln’s hand as he gave him change. A man already seated at the bar turned to look at Schnabeln, raising his eyebrows. Schnabeln ordered Schnapps, paid and retreated to a table near the door. He kept his back to the wall and, at least, could observe people entering or leaving. It would not take long for his sight to adjust. If Priam was there he would soon spot him.

  After sipping the Schnapps for a couple of minutes, Christoph was suddenly shaken by his own naivety. As he began to see more clearly, he realised that there were no women in the place. He also took note of the kind of men gathered around the bar and at the tables. The Stallion was a homosexual haunt.

  Almost as he realised it he spotted Priam, still looking scruffy and chubby, even though he wore a well-made suit. Priam leaned against the far end of the bar, talking to a tall man who kept reaching out to fondle Priam’s shoulder.

  Time was running out. He still had to contact Hecuba and make a meeting with Girren, when the latter left the theatre. Schnabeln threw back his Schnapps, got up and walked, as daintily as possible, towards his subject. All depended on Priam being quick enough to recognise his handler. If the man was drunk or if he did not pick up the signals God knew what might happen.

  Schnabeln twisted his way down the room. The pianist, at the far end, was playing something he recognised as being by Noel Coward. A young boy reached out and grasped his arm, “Haven’t seen you in here before. You want a drink?”

  Schnabeln said he already had a friend, pushing forward, passing Priam, so that he could make his approach behind the man to whom his subject was talking, and, therefore, show his face.

  “Hello, Peter,” he said, trying to adopt a slight lisp. This camp business did not suit Schnabeln one bit.