by John Gardner
“What message?” Winter looked at him, blankly, then started to sweat again. Finally he became angry.
Within five minutes it was plain to Herbie that Moritz Winter was clean. He sat down quietly, facing his old recruit across the table, and told him he was blown. That Gemini had to get out fast.
The details took less than seven minutes. The farewells, thirty seconds. “See you in London,” Herbie said, the darkness inking over his mind with the knowledge that his own chances of getting back were far from high. Who in God’s name was Trapeze? Curry’s information had been basic. Was Trapeze and the Soviet asset, among the Telegraph Boys, one and the same person? Herbie longed for peace, quiet and some of Ambrose Hill’s files. He needed a good think with, probably, the Mahler Seventh running in the background.
As he left the basement, Moritz Winter thanked God he had used his handler’s telephone that morning. His escape documents were stashed at the house of a friend, who held on to a locked steel box for him, and he could be trusted not to tamper. Those he could get easily. The telephone call, from Girren’s rooms, had been to his co-worker—another civilian storeman at Karlshorst. They had planned to meet that afternoon, as they did on many Sundays. Moritz told him a tale about being shacked up with this tart from Eberswalde: calling off the meeting. His co-worker was a good Party member, uncertain about Winter. The word that Winter was missing would have been out before evening if he had not telephoned.
Girren spotted Schnabeln’s need-to-speak message and pulled the Merc over, parking only four cars away from the Wartburg. He told Nestor—Nikolas Monch—to stay where he was. If he called or waved Nestor was to come fast to the Wartburg, which he had pointed out as they drove past—just before he saw Schnabeln leaning against the bonnet, scratching his ear.
“Blown?” Girren scowled, a sullen kind of fury.
“Stay with it until you’ve seen me leave with Electra and the Big Man. Wait until then. I shall have to make one trip out before then—during the last meeting. But wait until I take them both away.” Schnabeln said it might not be so bad. They may not have to wait that long, but everyone had to be told. “Watch out for yourself, Walter.”
Girren was not a fool. Something was really up, and he had known it since the crash meetings were ordered: yet somehow he had not thought it to be as serious as this.
They made things look as natural as possible, with Schnabeln walking calmly over to Girren’s car, chatting for a moment through the window to the grey, taciturn filing clerk who worked at the Nationale Volksarmee Headquarters: Nestor.
Finally Schnabeln opened the door and Nikolas Monch climbed out. There were handshakes, with both Girren and Schnabeln telling Nestor to behave naturally. “Smile a lot and walk slowly.”
Girren, feeling a new hollow nausea deep in his stomach, kept his normal distance as they drove for the final trip out to the Weibensee house. Now that he knew, Girren tried to induce calm into his nervous system. His watch was sharper, his head more clear.
Once he saw Schnabeln and the subject make the drop, he accelerated away. He had half an hour. Schnabeln was managing incredibly, making the various pick-ups in less than fifteen minutes from the Weibensee house. Thank God the rest were nearer home, in the Behrenstrasse.
Girren had to be ready to follow Schnabeln from the pick-up point outside a cake shop at the junction of Invaliden-Brunnenstrasse. A blonde, Schnabeln said. Well, it would be a change of scenery. Now he had best make plans for himself. If he hurried, Girren reckoned he would just make his apartment, get his escape documents, and reach the cake shop in time for the collection.
His actor friend was unlikely to see his car again for a while. Girren’s escape route was out through East Germany, crossing into the West from a point high up near the Baltic. His emergency documents would not tally with those he had cobbled for use with the car; but at least the old Mercedes would get him some of the way.
He parked about three minutes’ walk from his apartment block, almost running to make up the time. The set of papers lay where he always kept them, under a loose floorboard—for Girren lived in one of the old, undamaged houses.
He made it back to the car in less than three minutes, leaped in, and was about to start the engine when the door was suddenly yanked open.
There were four of them, two in civilian clothes, and two Vopos, each with a machine pistol—one at the front, and one at the rear of the car. The smallish man, who had pulled the door open, spoke with a distinct Russian accent. “Major Kashov. KGB,” he said. “We would like to see your documents, please. A routine matter.”
Possibly, if they had been better equipped and able to keep strict surveillance, one on another, Herbie might have quickened the pace with Nestor. But, with Nikolas Monch, you did not work fast at the best of times. One of the factors in his original recruitment had been his taciturn nature.
Even now, on seeing Herbie for the first time in years, Nestor showed little surprise. The hint of a smile, a friendly nod, that was all.
Herbie remained impassive, as before; motioning Nestor to sit down and starting the question-and-answer routine almost before the man had his backside on the chair.
As always Nestor took his time answering questions. This worried Herbie. The man had been like that from the beginning: now the habit could be construed as cover—always giving himself time to think, avoid traps, swerve from the truth.
Yet he did answer each query: clearly and, in some cases, with a lot of detail. Eventually Schnabeln left, and Herbie went through his little act—getting up, relaxing, saying it was good to see Nestor after so long.
Over to the window, chatting almost casually. Then—
“A man can teach another man to do good—believe me.” Turning as he said it: watching the hands, fingers and feet. Then the face.
Nikolas Monch’s brow creased. “I should know that from somewhere,” he said slowly. Herbie’s stomach turned over.
“It’s from a play. I’m sure. Russian. Chekhov?”
“No,” Herbie snapped, moving close. “Come on, Nikolas. Where did you hear it? Who told you? How recently?”
Nestor shrugged. He did not know. From childhood, maybe. Certainly not recently. No, he could not even place it. Anyway, what was it all about?
For about five minutes Herbie pressed, hinted, probed, until it became obvious that Nikolas Monch did not have the connection. He was clean.
Returning to the table, Herbie sat down, leaning on his elbows, and calmly began to go through Nestor’s escape procedure.
11
CURRY SHEPHERD SAW THE grey, silent man who was Herbie’s one o’clock appointment scurry up the steps and set off down the street as though all hell was after him.
A few moments later Herbie came out, carefully locking the door behind him. He did not hurry, but walked quietly in the opposite direction from the last subject. From where he sat Curry thought Herbie looked concerned, his shoulders stooping slightly as he strode slowly out of sight.
Get your skates on, Curry, old cocker, he thought. Big Herbie’s got transport laid on. You’ve got to hoof it, or find a jolly bus.
Assuming his Berlin accent, Shepherd told the house superintendent that his period of surveillance was now complete. This operation must not be discussed, except with other officers who might call at the house in a day or so.
The superintendent did a Uriah Heep act in the hallway, and Curry finally made his exit with a dismissive nod. He was wary and concerned. During his period of watching there had been hints—only unconfirmed clues—that a surveillance team, using four cars and two men, were on the prowl.
Curry Shepherd had been right about Herbie, who now sat in the back of the taxi. The driver, more than delighted with the tip—and the money he knew had yet to come from Schnabeln—was already waiting. Herbie, however, was becoming increasingly anxious. Nikolas Monch had been absolutely one hundred per cent clean. He would swear his life to that. Ursula had been proven clear the previous evening. This
left only two real possibles, neither of whom Herbie had thought capable of deception—though Peter Sensel’s homosexual tendencies had worried others, particularly Tubby Fincher, who regarded him as a grave risk.
If Herbie had been a betting man he would have put his money on either Luntmann or Moritz Winter. The thought that it was now certainly either the sexy Martha Adler or Peter Sensel depressed him.
The crowds were out in force now, the pavements and cafés filling up. That Sunday turned out to be one of the warmest for weeks, and the citizens of East Berlin were heading to their favourite pleasure haunts, or strolling amiably along the broad thoroughfares of the city.
The safe house on the Behrenstrasse was a different matter compared with the hole in which Herbie had been incarcerated during the morning. The Behrenstrasse house was small but modern, in reality a worker’s apartment, suitable for a family of three. Once again Schnabeln had procured it through his semi-criminal contacts. It was lived-in: Herbie cursed as he tripped over a child’s tricycle in the small hallway. Like the Weibensee girl, the family would not return until everything was over.
A ground floor apartment: there were good forward-facing views from the main room, off which a narrow corridor led to a pair of bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen. The kitchen had a rear-facing window, looking out on to a small yard—the drop to the yard being only a matter of a few feet. A low wall at the end of the yard was easily surmountable, and the place had a feeling of space about it. At the Weibensee basement Herbie had been overpowered by an almost claustrophobic depression. Here, in the centre of the city, he was more at home.
He secured the door to the passage, and began to move the furniture around so that once more he had a table in the centre of the room, with a chair at either side. The free-entry signal was the front window—slightly opened. Closed signified keep out.
Herbie opened the window to the prescribed amount, then sat back and waited, realising with a sense of some horror that he had moved the furniture and locked the exit to the other rooms because he wanted the subjects enclosed. Resting his hand on the pistol, still hanging at his thigh, Herbie shivered. It was quite likely he would kill either Martha Adler or Peter Sensel in this place.
Curry Shepherd sighed with relief. He had ambled along the Behrenstrasse until he spotted the apartment block and the window. It was open, which meant the two o’clock appointment had not yet arrived. His watch showed a couple of minutes to go.
There were three cafés to choose from. Curry took a spare chair at the middle, most crowded place, giving him a good view of the premises. As he ordered coffee he spotted Schnabeln, arm in arm with a tall, attractive ash blonde woman whom he wouldn’t mind, thank you very much, at two in the afternoon. If they really did manage to dismantle this lot he would almost certainly be required to appear before a board in London. Maybe he would meet the blonde there. Curry Shepherd grinned to himself, thinking, ‘Curry, you sly old dog.’
Inside the apartment Herbie gave the Trepan team a treat. A good thirty-second burst with the homer.
Schnabeln, opening the main door for Hecuba, did the same thing. He was a very worried man, and wanted to tell Herbie. Girren had not been at his back: not at the cake shop, or anywhere along the route. He could not believe Walter would cut and run at this point—though it was not impossible. More likely the Trapeze act had begun. Curry Shepherd was on station, though, sitting at the cafe over the road. It was the first time he had spotted Curry all day,
Herbie did not even get up from the table. His eyes stayed dull, almost accusing, as Martha Adler was ushered in.
Her mouth dropped open. “Herbie? Herbie, darling. What a surprise; God, you’re the last person—”
“Sit down, would you,” said Herbie sharply, hardly looking at her.
Schnabeln crossed the room, whispering his fears concerning Girren into Herbie’s ear. The big man remained impassive.
Back in West Berlin Max had joined the others in the Operations Room. He seemed much recovered, and Tubby Fincher twice had to tell him and Charles to stop chattering. Worboys was at his machines, while both Tiptoes and Miriam manned theirs. Fincher had pulled the chair, originally prepared for Herbie, to a point directly behind the technicians.
Nobody showed any surprise when Herbie’s long bleep showed up in the Behrenstrasse. “Make sense?” Miriam asked, turning slightly towards Fincher.
He said it made a lot of sense: remaining silent about his real thoughts. Herbie had moved to the second safe house. It would only be a matter of hours now, if that. Then they would know. A voice seemed to whisper in his head, asking, “Then you’ll know what? Where Herbie stands? Who’s the dodgy Telegraph Boy? If they’re all done for?”
“And Spendthrift,” Tiptoes said quietly, as the long bleeps came up from almost the same point where Herbie’s signal had appeared a minute or two before.
“Still make sense?” Miriam smiled. For a disquieting moment Tubby Fincher seemed to recognise the smile: it had an enigmatic quality. Mona Lisa? Fincher knew Miriam Grubb’s father; he was also quite conversant with the story of the girl’s personal tragedy—in fact, even more than Miriam herself, because he knew the full details: the facts they did not dare tell her about her husband’s death. Her smile, now, was oddly unnerving.
“Mr. Fincher, how long’s this going to go on for?” Tiptoes asked. He sounded tired, fed up with the whole business.
As long as it takes, Tubby told him; and as long as he, Tubby Fincher, decreed.
Tiptoes snorted. Bloody Kruger and Spendthrift were darting all over the place. “It’s like a soddin’ flea circus. What’s it in aid of now? Big Herbie gone over, has he?”
Fincher said that time would tell.
“Important?” as though Tiptoes Corn had detected a note of stress in Fincher’s voice.
Silence. The whole team had shifted to look at him. “Probably more important than any of you will ever realise.” Tubby’s voice did show stress. He could hear it himself.
“For all your black boxes, your sound and sight stealing, the satellites and mechanical garners of intelligence, it boils down to human beings in the end.” He spoke distinctly, slowly, knowing it sounded like a lecture.
“No matter how advanced the technology, it is human beings who have to make final assessments; human beings who can give us access to the minds and forward planning of the opposition.” He said that might sound old-fashioned to some of them, but it was true. Black box intelligence still needed what Herbie Kruger always called ‘bodies on the ground’—street men, field men, handlers, runners, watchers. Those they were tracking now dealt with covert assets, living cheek by jowl with discovery and death every day of their lives. The operation was vital, and they should know it.
“It’s also altered drastically since Herbie Kruger briefed you.” He paused, wondering if he should really give it to them, warts and all. “What you’re watching is two-fold: and it’s a tragedy—for those concerned and for our Service. You’re watching the disclosure of a traitor—for want of a better word. You’re also witnesses to a retreat: a small catastrophe, the ripples of which will cause not just inconvenience but genuine danger to ourselves and our allies. You’re watching a secret dam being breached; people being drowned. In the end, someone else will have to go in there to repair the damage and bury the dead.” This was not just a chauvinist matter—not a question of Service pride—but the almost certain removal of a very important section of the West’s defensive strategy. “It’s like having one of your eyes plucked out.” He ended. “Put that into personal terms, and you’ll come somewhere near to the true ramifications.”
“Herbie, darling, what’s the matter with you? Where’s the smiling boy we all used to know and love?”
“Gone on vacation. Just sit down, Martha.” He used her real name. Puzzled, Martha Adler started towards the chair opposite Herbie. He suddenly seemed to change his mind, holding up a hand, palm towards her, like a traffic policeman. On second thoughts would she min
d a search? He was sorry there was not a woman to do it. She had a choice—himself, or the agent who had brought her in—Spendthrift, her handler.
She smiled, nervously, and made some joke about having always fancied Spendthrift. “Search away,” she said, putting her handbag near the chair, turning towards Schnabeln and raising her hands.
Herbie nodded and, without embarrassment, Christoph Schnabeln began a complete body search.
Soundless, almost cat-like, Herbie reached under the table, drawing the handbag towards him, unclipping it, slowly pulling out the contents. It contained only the normal paraphernalia of a woman’s bag, except for the small, Austrian .25 OWA automatic pistol.
Martha giggled as Schnabeln patted the inside of her thighs. “I’d have worn silk if I’d known.”
“And where would you get silk from, Martha, these days? Your Russian friends?” Herbie asked.
She still had her back to him. Of course, she said. All part of the service. The Russians she pumped (“and I used that word in all its possible meanings”) seemed to be able to bring anything in from the West. “Silk’s no problem, Herbie. Never was, or have you forgotten your youth and dreams?”
“She’s clean,” Schnabeln pronounced, stepping back.
Not quite, Herbie growled, with a menace that frightened even himself, holding the pistol as Hecuba turned to face him. “What you want to carry this toy for, Martha?”
Her mouth formed an Oh, eyes flicking between the handbag and Herbie.
“It’s against everything you’ve ever been taught by us. For your own protection we do not allow you to carry arms.”
“And for my protection I carry that; under certain circumstances.”
Herbie gestured her into the chair, unloading the little pistol as she sat down.
“Look, Herbie.” No fear emanated from her, but you would not smell fear from a woman like Hecuba. Her voice remained calm, even persuasive. “Something’s up. Crash meetings. Now you; back here after deserting us for so long …”
