The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Mitzi—who turned out to be a tall busty woman of uncertain age, but definitely over forty—tried to persuade him to follow in Moritz’ footsteps. He told her that was an odd way of putting it, and there was much merriment. “He was just like his friend, Moritz. Moritz was always full of jokes.” He had talked about going on to this unauthorised bar which, according to Mitzi, was not good. The police often visited it, and none of the girls would go near.

  Gemini had led Walter Girren a fair old dance, and when he finally caught up with him the prankster was too drunk to realise that Girren was his handler.

  Schnabeln had given cause for Girren to assume—correctly—that the scheduled meetings were of vital importance, so he now broke every rule in the book: escorting the drunken Gemini into the street, holding on to him while he was very sick, getting him into a taxi—a very lucky chance at that time of night—and taking him back to his own apartment: a flagrant breach of field technique.

  Black coffee—a great deal of black coffee—and a lot of walking the man around the small apartment, until at last a glimmer of hope. Moritz Winter took a long time to become sober enough to realise who Girren was: even longer to understand that there was work to be done.

  Girren worked on him through the night, ending up with a sober, but very depressed and ill Gemini. He could sleep here, Girren told him. Here in his apartment. But he was not to answer telephones or the door. He was to remain silent as a tomb. Sleep if he could, but no going out, and no letting on that he was there.

  Girren only left—to do his bump into Nestor, as this subject went for his Sunday morning milk—when he was quite satisfied that Gemini had grasped all the orders and the essential point of necessary complete security.

  He did not even think—because there was no way of knowing the full extent of the situation—that there was any danger in leaving Gemini in his apartment, near a live telephone.

  Big Herbie, with Schnabeln and Curry Shepherd, returned to the Metropol without incident, reversing the process of going back to their rooms by different and devious routes. Herbie wanted them all in his room exactly twenty-two minutes after Curry—the first one out—left the car.

  They reported on the dot, and Herbie held a last briefing, leaving Schnabeln, who knew the exact footwork, to give Curry all the details and times. Once the arrangements were clear the party broke up—though Schnabeln still appeared tortured and shocked by what he had seen in Luzia Gabell’s apartment. Herbie tried to reassure him as he left; but Herbie was himself in no truly tranquil state of mind.

  Schnabeln had assured him that the driver of the taxi he had arranged was safe—“Because he is an innocent, and thinks he’s dealing with a smuggling racket when he works for me. Besides, he gets well paid”—and would drop him on time at the appointed place in Weibensee.

  Herbie was—as Service custom demanded—to be dropped short: five minutes’ walk from the safe house. He constantly repeated to Schnabeln that it was essential he arrived by ten minutes to eleven, and that the first subject—Horus—did not see him.

  Curry would watch Herbie to the house—and after. The itinerary was tight.

  Nikolas Monch—Nestor—was prepared for a normal brush pass. He knew exactly where it would take place: about half way between his apartment block and the shop. He had over two dozen places for drops such as this, and had not used the present one for three months. It was the easiest, though he did not like passing intelligence so near to his home.

  The wraith-like figure of his handler appeared on time, walking towards him. Monch only took a quick look, but he thought his handler appeared strained, ill almost. Certainly he looked very tired.

  Monch transferred the small package of cigarettes in which his report was hidden into his right palm, so that he could pass his handler on the inside, thus shielding the passage of the cigarettes from prying eyes.

  As he got to within a few paces of his handler Monch glanced back, making certain there was nobody close enough to observe the exchange. Then he pulled up short. His handler was slowing, looking at him, taking a cigarette from a packet of his own, and tapping his pockets.

  As they drew abreast, Monch’s handler actually approached him. “A light, comrade?” A hand on Monch’s left bicep.

  Monch, confused, looked around a little wildly. “Calm,” muttered his handler. “This is very important. Listen to me; and for God’s sake give me a light. There are orders. A special meeting with someone from the West. A crash meeting.”

  Monch’s hand trembled as he lit the man’s cigarette. He had always dreaded some moment like this. Through all the years he had carried on he knew the time would eventually come. Common sense told him that. Now it was here. The sudden order. The crash meeting. His first instinct made him wonder if anyone else was watching them.

  Herbie Kruger dozed, woke, dozed again and then was fully awake, his mind turning constantly, following almost the same pattern as that of Tubby Fincher, over in the West, across the Wall.

  Herbie did not doubt he would find the person who had blown the Telegraph Boys. The way he was going to make his pitch to each in turn would work. Maybe, if Curry Shepherd had not arrived with the warning that he was up against a trained Moscow asset, Herbie would have ruined the job. As it was, he was certain the whole thing had blown anyway. A straight play with the Gorky contact phrase was no good now. This had to be more devious.

  If their target was from the Centre the warnings would already be out, the markers posted. Herbie, in those dismal small hours, faced the distinct possibility that this would be his last night of freedom; maybe his last night on earth.

  He doubted that they would swoop on him before all six Telegraph Boys had been interviewed. That was common security. They would get him later—probably when he left the house on the Behrenstrasse, or when he got to Ursula. Maybe even just after that. He tried to work out ways around a final capture. Change the meeting with Ursula, for instance. No, he would just have to try a little nimble footwork. A mazurka.

  If they got him—and they probably would—Herbie was determined they would have their money’s worth. There could be no hanging about. Once the Soviet asset was fingered, Herbie would deal with him on the spot. Better leave him dead. They might know in the West, doing it that way.

  When it came to the detection process Herbie was as logical as the next man. If you did it with the facts—as given by Pavel Mistochenkov, and through the files—there was only one conclusion any sane evaluator could make. The equation worked out to one answer alone—that he, Eberhard Lukas Kruger, was a double. That he was responsible for the treachery. Someone, he considered, shivering at the thought of Luzia’s body with the head all but severed, had been very clever.

  In a few hours he might have all the answers, and he did not want to leave any questions behind.

  9

  AT SIX O’CLOCK ON that bright September morning, with the sky clear and the first slight hint of autumn in the air, Horus—Otto Luntmann—came off night duty at the Soviet Embassy. He felt happy. One or two tasty morsels had been retrieved from wastepaper baskets, where secretaries had dumped them instead of into the shredder. He had also managed to catch up on his reading of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall.

  In truth, Horus felt virtuous as he paced steadily up the Unter den Linden towards the Friedrichstrasse intersection. Even this early, some of the cafés were opening to catch passing trade: people on their way to or from work. Horus was tempted to stop and take a cup of coffee.

  From a distance, on the other side of the road, his handler, Teacher—Anton Mohr—watched Horus leave, then started to walk quickly after him. Mohr overtook his subject before they reached the Friedrichstrasse. He crossed the road diagonally, putting himself slightly in front of his quarry, then slowed down to let Horus overtake him.

  The virtuous feeling dwindled, like sand in an egg-timer, as Horus spotted his handler appear, as if by some trick, in front of him. He had learned much about the tricks of the trade, and knew this
was no accident. His handler was slowing. Horus would have to overtake him, and, presumably, there would be some message passed or muttered. He would have to keep pace for just long enough to receive the message.

  Anton Mohr heard his subject coming up on the inside. He prepared to quicken his step if necessary; but Horus slowed.

  Looking straight ahead, Mohr spoke quietly. “Just say yes if you understand. There is a most important crash meeting today. You will be at your appointed crash pick-up point at precisely ten-thirty. Be there. It is vital.”

  “Yes,” breathed Otto Luntmann, lengthening his stride to draw ahead. To any casual watcher the two men had simply passed in the street, one overtaking the other.

  Luntmann’s guts turned. It was almost a quarter past six. His crash pick-up point was near his place of work. They always tried to plan it that way. At ten-thirty, in a little over four hours, he was required to be at the bus stop in the Franzosstrasse, not far from where he now walked. He did not know what was in store for him, but—after all this time—Horus had a fair idea. There was a lot to be done before ten-thirty: letters, telephone calls, possibly one other meeting. He increased his pace, trying not to run.

  Gemini, the trickster Moritz Winter, felt sick, lying on his handler’s bed. He had expected something like this, but not quite yet. It was long overdue. He cursed himself for having gone out drinking; but at least he would not have to make the journey alone to his selected crash pick-up point.

  His handler had given strict instructions. That was only to be expected. These people worked to schedules: old schedules, naturally, but schedules none the less. He must not open the door or use the telephone. Well, that was too bad, because he had to use the telephone. It was his only way.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. After the telephone call he would take advantage of his handler’s other offer—a bath and a shave.

  Carefully Moritz Winter, face curving into the bright smile that broke the ice at parties, picked up Walter Girren’s telephone and dialled the number at his place of work—the Soviet Military Headquarters at Karlshorst.

  Peter Sensel had gone home with the man to whom he had been talking when his handler, Spendthrift, had pulled him out of The Stallion.

  The man’s name was Hans, or at least that is what he had told Sensel. Hans turned out to be no stallion. In all, the night proved very disappointing.

  Priam, as Peter Sensel thought of himself, had a lot of time to kill before being picked up outside the State Library on the Unter den Linden: his crash meeting point. Hans was in the kitchen, making coffee. Maybe, Sensel considered, he should stay here, spin it out until the last moment. After all, the collection was not until half-past two.

  He took a deep breath. This was it. The warning had come only a few weeks ago. He had been told everything, even to expect it at any moment. Perhaps the waiting was now over, and the crash meeting would take him on to bigger things. Yes, he would make the most of Hans; stay put; hole up until it was time. After all, the entire course of his life might well be altered after the meeting.

  Ursula Zunder—Electra—had not slept since Herbie had left her the previous night. It was all too nervy, strained and desperate. She had known in her head and body that he would return. Of late that certainty was strengthened by a kind of inner knowledge.

  At a little after eight, on Sunday morning, she received the call from her handler—just as Herbie predicted. The woman’s voice on the telephone did the wrong number routine. She wanted 91 15 30.

  So, Ursula thought, that’s it. Fifteen-thirty. Half-past three, at her crash meeting-place: a bench on the West side of Treptow Park. She gave the right answers, put the telephone back on its rests, lit a cigarette, picked up the ’phone again and dialled a number, just as they had taught her.

  Martha Adler did manage to sleep once Kashov left. It was easy. She groped her way back to the bed, which still smelled of his cologne; checked the alarm; switched off the light and closed her eyes.

  The alarm went off just before ten-thirty. She did not feel in the least rested. Her body was tired, her eyes hurt, and her head had the entire tribe of Nibelungen hammering away inside. The only good thing was the trace of physical satisfaction remaining from Kashov’s ministrations.

  Too bad she would not see Major Kashov again. At one-thirty she had to be at her appointed place outside the cake shop. However she felt in the morning, Martha clearly remembered the order. Particularly this order.

  Martha Adler had been hoping for weeks for the call to such an interview. Now she could only feel elation, mixed with a slight sense of fear, at its imminence.

  She dragged herself to the kitchen and put on the coffee, much as she had done in the small hours for Kashov; then went back to retrieve the lacy wisps of underwear from the floor, where they had been thrown during last night’s sexual cavort.

  Sensible clothes today, Martha, she told herself. Sensible from the skin out. And the large handbag, to carry the most unauthorised of her possessions: the small pistol, just in case anything went wrong.

  10

  IT WAS FOR TECHNICAL reasons that the Quartet’s safe house, in the western area of the Weibensee district, was deemed the worst of the two available.

  Schnabeln had acquired the place at a time when an extra house was badly needed. In his cover job with the East German Tourist Office he was able to make many contacts with the criminal classes in the classless Workers’ and Peasants’ State. Among certain people Schnabeln allowed it to be rumoured that he had a handly little smuggling operation going for him. Indeed, he was able to produce small fruits of these ventures. It was a cover within his cover, providing people like the tame taxi driver and the girl to whom he leased the Weibensee safe house—on the understanding that she would lose herself for certain periods of time. To be on the safe side Schnabeln insisted that she make herself scarce for the whole Sunday.

  The reasons which contributed to the safe house being unpopular were numerous. It was a basement flat with three rooms, accessible only from the small set of stone steps that led directly down from the pavement. The windows at the front looked out upon the stone wall and on the steps themselves, giving no chance to watch the street. There were no windows in the rear; and, possibly worst of all, no rear exit. There was also no telephone. It was not essential, but was certainly an inconvenience.

  The place was in a good neighbourhood: which was about all it had to commend itself. Apart from this, the Weibensee house was a model of what a safe house in the field should not be. A great shame, because the park-like terrain, with its greenery running down to the lakeside, made Weibensee particularly attractive.

  Herbie knew about the drawbacks of the house, and did not like the idea of being cooped up, a sitting duck for three hours, while he talked to three of the Telegraph Boys. Any one of them could be a Moscow heavy, trained to pitch by a service that had gone from strength to strength in the years since it bungled, and was blooded, in the most active days of the Cold War.

  The taxi dropped Herbie at the exact point Schnabeln had indicated. Herbie paid the man, adding a generous tip, even though he knew Schnabeln was seeing the driver right. If anything did go wrong at least the fellow would probably keep quiet for a few hours.

  By ten forty-five the nip had gone from the air. The sun shone on the lime trees, like the ones planted in the Unter den Linden in an attempt to return it to some of its past glory. The air was mild.

  People were already out and about, some of them even giving Herbie odd glances—recognising his clothing, the camera and briefcase as the natural accoutrements of an American. This area was not deep into the Weibensee district, but it was impossible for Herbie to cast thoughts of Luzia Gabell from his mind. She had lived not far from here, in a section that had suffered much during the war. It was uncanny to see how little of this particular part had changed since the nineteen-thirties. That was Berlin, though—vast tracts laid waste, with islands of the old buildings left intact. It wa
s exactly the same in the West.

  The key was where he expected it; Herbie let himself into the basement flat with caution. If there was trouble he would rely on his hands and body skills, for the pistol was again secured by the harness, the end of his old necktie peeping out from the waistband of his trousers.

  As a precaution he travelled light. Since the dispersal orders arrived with Curry Shepherd, Herbie had decided the Metropol could do without his custom. After the final meeting—with Ursula—Schnabeln would drive them back to her apartment and collect her case. They would go straight on to the checkpoint from there—and pray. The few things Herbie had brought with him were still at the hotel. In the briefcase he had only the bare essentials—the documents and a spare passport for Ursula, who was to become Mrs. Herbert Kagen at the checkpoint.

  The basement flat smelled musty: damp mixed with some oddly unpleasant frying smells from the tiny kitchen. Herbie opened the windows then went out to place a small pebble, he had carried in his pocket, on the bottom step outside the door—the signal that it was safe to enter. He had seen no sign of Curry Shepherd, but he would be around: the knowledge made Herbie feel a good deal safer.

  He went back inside, closed the windows of the small front room and arranged the furniture—the table centre, a chair at each end. There was to be no informality. These interviews would be professional and without feeling. Every Telegraph Boy had to sense Kruger’s anxiety—for one of them it should be the signal, the gradual talk-in before Herbie played the Vascovsky code phrase.

  He opened the briefcase. Most obvious among its contents was the book containing the special fast-sender that Schnabeln would operate—from the prescribed place—the moment it was all done: just before the final flight back, should they get that far.

  At dawn Herbie Kruger had encoded the message, and made the recording. All that was left to be done was the addition of the name—Gemini? Horus? Electra? Priam? Nestor? Or Hecuba?