by John Gardner
The way Vascovsky told it he had recognised the faults in Pavel’s character from the first day the man was assigned to him. “I almost asked for him to be transferred immediately.” He had thought better of that, though; seeing in Pavel Mistochenkov two traits which might just be put to some use. First, he had a leaning towards reliance. “There always had to be someone, or something, upon which he could rely. A prop. Without his prop little Pavel was lost: not a good feature in a man of our profession, Herbie. Pavel—when he came to me—was not self-reliant. He was therefore most pliable.”
Jacob Vascovsky decided to keep the man. Maybe, in time, he would find a use for him. Meanwhile, he would shrewdly mould the weak Pavel into his personal zombie. “It’s a wonder he was ever allowed in our service at all. But there you are.”
There was no particular plan in Vascovsky’s mind; nothing for which he could groom his aide. “So I began to play games with him. Test his strength. To see how his political convictions would hold up.”
Caustically, Herbie said that Mistochenkov had no true political convictions. Vascovsky agreed. “That was my strength. I could direct him: feed him half-truths. He soon became very reliant upon me.”
Yes, Herbie realised that; just as he now understood how Vascovsky had played on Mistochenkov’s fears by implanting dissatisfaction. That had been a dangerous game, Vascovsky admitted. Originally he had a vague plan to cast Mistochenkov in the role of a defector; send him over, and see if Herbie’s Service played him back. “I could have run a nice double that way. But Pavel would not have stood up to it.”
In any case Vascovsky’s signals to Pavel Mistochenkov were working well. “I let him know I was seriously thinking about going over: sang all the old capitalist tunes. It took time, but he swallowed it. The hook, the line and the rod.” All this happened, however, at the moment when the Schnitzer Group were becoming a nuisance. He congratulated Herbie on the way that Group was run. “We knew—of course we knew—there was a definite organisation, a network, in operation. Before your Schnitzer Group it had all been Lone Ranger stuff. But here was a real organisation. Admirable.”
Herbie thanked him for the praise, adding it was not all that admirable. Vascovsky had got under their guard: penetrated the Group, “That was the clever part, Jacob. I just didn’t spot Luzia Gabell as your lady friend, Lotte Krug.”
A smile flickered on Vascovsky’s face. He shook his head, with the hint of a frown. No, Herbie would not have spotted Luzia Gabell. “She wasn’t Lotte, my friend. She was yours. Nothing to do with us. I’m sorry; that is why Kashov’s people had to silence her before you got near. Did you like the photographs we planted in her flat, by the way?” He did not wait for an answer. “No, our man within the Schnitzer Group was Emil Habicht. We got to him quite early on. Mistochenkov did not know, of course. He knew Habicht was having a fling with one of our secretaries out at Karlshorst, but nothing more.”
Herbie asked why? his mind screening a film he had not witnessed: the death of Emil Habicht in the Alexanderplatz, shot from a car.
“His heart went out of it. I think he wanted to warn you—and confess. The Last Rites. You know.”
It made sense, and Herbie could hardly conceal the shock. He felt the familiar churning of his stomach, and the hint of facing that reality he had not fully faced on reading Ursula’s letter. “But Luzia?” He knew he was showing confusion, thinking of Pavel Mistochenkov fingering Luzia Gabell’s photograph in the Charlton house.
The Colonel-General seemed not to have heard. “You must not be too hard on yourself for not spotting Habicht.” He leaned forward, resting a hand on Herbie’s shoulder for a moment. “He tried to remain very loyal. It took us a long, long time to marry you up with Schnitzer. You were simply Big Herbie. A courier—almost small fry—for many years.”
“But he gave you the lot in the end?”
Vascovsky lit another cigarette, the smile returning, then going quickly. “In the end we all give the lot, Herbie. You know that.”
The first true hints forming the answer to the puzzle began to take shape in Herbie’s mind. He had tried not to dwell on the matter of Ursula—waiting, to see, in hope, that it was only a ploy. Now he was near to the truth, which began to form with horrific clarity. It was physically as though a huge crystal bowl had been shattered—the fragments, sharp, left to cut and fester within his emotions. He shook his head, repeating the original question. “Luzia?” he asked. “Mistochenkov gave me Luzia Gabell on a plate. Lotte Krug, he said. Lotte Krug, your mistress. If it was Habicht, and not the Gabell woman, was there a Lotte Krug?”
Oh yes, Vascovsky looked away. Yes, there was a Lotte Krug. That was one of the vital pieces of deception implanted within Pavel Mistochenkov. “I drilled him like a sergeant. Whatever happened. If we both went over, or only one of us—there was never any question of both, you understand—this one act of misdirection had to be performed. He obviously did well. I’m proud of him. Little Pavel had to identify Luzia Gabell as my lady friend. It was the one positive thing Pavel knew was not true. I ran film for him; showed him photographs. Pavel was a good name for him—Pavlovian. He learned his lesson like one of Pavlov’s dogs.”
“Lotte Krug, then?” As he asked Herbie dreaded the answer. He supposed that even then he already knew the truth; but when Vascovsky spoke, the splinters of crystal cut deeper than he expected.
“Lotte Krug was your Ursula, Herbie. But if it gives you any comfort I knew that she loved you far more than she could ever care for me. My association with her was professional only. Her feelings for you actually put her under grave suspicion for a while. But Lotte Krug was Ursula Zunder.”
Much later Herbie had time to reflect on Jacob Vascovsky’s actions at that moment. If the roles had been reversed, he concluded, he would have gone for the kill then—carried on, pressing home the psychological advantage. Instead, Vascovsky rose and said that was enough for one night. They would talk again in the morning. By the following evening he hoped to have Herbie out of these surroundings and in more comfortable quarters.
They took him back to the cell, where Herbie lay on the pallet with a single blanket for warmth, the light burning throughout the night.
At one point he took out Ursula’s letter and carefully read it over again. Twice.
After the second reading the big man crumpled the thin paper between his huge fists and wept as he had never done, even as a child: for he wept with the whole range of his senses, each sob and tear being a kind of prayer for mankind, and the barriers men put up against truth, love and peace. In a way, Herbie’s tears were a Mass for traitors: wherever and whoever they may be.
14
DURING THAT MISERABLE SUNDAY night Miriam Grubb was taken from the building in the Mehring Platz and flown back to England. Worboys imagined they would get her to Warminster quite quickly.
“What’ll happen to her?” he asked Tubby Fincher as they waited for the news that did not come from the other side of the Wall.
Probably nothing, Fincher told him. “Might send her to them; or keep her—rehabilitation. Who knows?”
“Will she admit …?”
Fincher put his hand to his thin lips. She did not need to admit anything. Miriam Grubb probably knew little enough anyway. By now Fincher was certain Herbie had been deviously enticed into the East, and. Miriam instructed to pull the plugs at the right moment. She had probably also supplied a lot of background material concerning the electronic hardware to whoever was controlling the operation across the Berlin Wall.
What remained of the Trepan team stayed on for another couple of days. By the time they decamped. Fincher knew Herbie was in Russian hands and that, in due course, the Minister would make representations through the proper channels.
Curry Shepherd and Anton Mohr were the only two who escaped the net, and came home—to Warminster and massive debriefing. Worboys eventually went back to his office and waited. In the Annexe he missed the bulk and presence of Big Herbie Kruger. It was some
time before Worboys learned of the horror of that particular Sunday night for Herbie; or of the worse hell that was to come on the Monday morning, at his next session with Vascovsky.
They took Herbie from the cell early in the morning. He was allowed a comfortable bath and his own clothes were returned. Then, in the room where Vascovsky had broken the news that Ursula Zunder and Lotte Krug were the same person, Herbie ate a hearty breakfast—or at least picked at it, for he was still in no mood for anything hearty. Vascovsky came in eventually, and the two sullen Vopo guards who had stayed with Herbie since taking him from the cell were dismissed.
“This afternoon we really start,” announced Vascovsky, almost jovially.
Herbie did not even have to ask what they were to start. He had other questions which, at that moment, appeared more pressing to him. The wounds inside were still suppurating, and he wondered if they would ever heal. He asked, quietly, if he might continue where the Colonel-General had left off on the previous night.
Vascovsky sat down, helping himself to coffee, nodding an affirmative.
“If Pavel Mistochenkov was briefed by you to play this one piece of misdirection to me, he really must have believed you were dead,” Herbie stated.
Of course. Vascovsky looked at him with surprise. That was a set-up. “Did he tell you straight away, or invent some story? Kashov told him that nobody was to know. It was a heart attack, not suicide. It was to be the official line. How did he hold up?”
Herbie asked if it was necessary for Pavel to hold up. “We all read the official reports.”
The smile again. “Come on, Herbie. We planted the suicide story directly through your man, Girren. You knew before Pavel came over that I had committed suicide. You would not let that go for long.”
They had used the body of a man roughly the same build as Vascovsky. “He died of natural causes, of course.”
“Of course,” said Herbie, not knowing what to believe any more. He sat back on his bed, crossing his arms.
Poor little Pavel, he swallowed that. They told him the story must not get out; that suicide was never to be mentioned on any account. “How did he hold up?”
“Not for long.” Herbie was not going to give satisfaction. “So your Lotte Krug was my Ursula?” His voice surprisingly steady.
Before the incident with the magazines Ursula had been putting out signals for weeks. “She is Russian by birth. German educated. Trained by Centre. Yet she could not get you. She tried three times before the magazine business did the job.”
Herbie was silent, and Vascovsky said he understood how this must feel.
“You have no idea at all.” Herbie snapped. “You cannot have any idea how it feels.”
Vascovsky apologised. It was their good fortune that Herbie had recruited her as one of his Telegraph Boys. They would have had no suspicions, but for Ursula—Electra.
“And I suppose she organised the back-watching, so that you could track the lot?”
For the second time Vascovsky showed surprise. “You still don’t understand?”
What was there to understand? “You knew the Telegraph Boys long before I left in a hurry. In ’65.”
“We knew their cryptonyms,” Vascovsky appeared almost shocked. “Why did you think we enticed you back? Used Pavel? We needed to finger each of the Telegraph Boys. The order came from Centre. We were to detect, identify and expose all Western surveillance teams. Particularly your Telegraph Boys in East Berlin.”
“You …?”
“Why else would we want you? You can give us little things, possibly. One or two things. You must know that I shall be your confessor—is that what you still say? You may prove useful; but the real objects of our affections were your Telegraph Boys. There are some other surveillance teams within our territories. We have a few leads. But we needed you, Herbie, to take us into the heart of your people. We were aware that six at least did the job here. Naturally we had some anxiety—a lot of water under the bridge, Herbie: you could have had eight or ten little Peeping Toms at work.”
Herbie smiled, as though he still held a dark secret.
“So we used innocent Pavel. Set him as the catalyst, and, of course, dangled the emotional bait—Pavel was most carefully prepared. Really he did not know what kind of pressures he would be putting on you, personally.”
“The Telegraph Boys?” Herbie spoke almost to himself, musing, brow lined like a patch of ploughed earth. “You knew the cryptonyms, though, Jacob,” turning to face the Russian. “You knew them years ago. And Sensel? What about Peter Sensel?”
Blood on his hands. The gore-streaked rag doll beaten to death. Herbie looked at his knuckles. Christ, he had beaten an innocent man: beaten him to death, broken his face, probably ruptured the spleen, crushed his ribs, smashed the windpipe.
“Only the cryptos, Herbie. For a long time we only had the cryptos. You should be proud of your people; they were very, very good. Too good for us—even though we had one of them. We tried everything—watching the drops and letterboxes used by Ursula. Leeching on to the handlers. Every time, they lost our men: even when we worked full street teams: cars, walkers, quick-change actors. Every time, they slipped away. They led charmed lives. Lost them every time,” he repeated, “just like we lost you, Herbie, when your Schnitzer Group broke and ran. How did you do that, by the way?”
Herbie opened his mouth, closing it rapidly. Years back, in his head, he saw a particular stretch of the ground between the barricades and the Wall—a section which had been the façade of a street, shored up with extra timber and stone. An opening of bricks, loose and removed at a precise moment; bribed Vopos and Grepos. He must beware. In his head Herbie carried the names of seven Grepos still available for sweetening. He smiled at Vascovsky, moving his head in a negative gesture. “Can I ask how you got those six cryptos—five, I suppose, because you already had Electra?”
The smile vanished; replaced by a mask, as he heard Vascovsky say lightly: “But you, Herbie. You gave us the cryptonyms of your Telegraph Boys.”
Had all reality gone? He was adrift, the sea stormy and not even a straw to which he could cling. Herbie had to put the brakes on to his whirling mind, for Vascovsky was asking something else—did Herbie ever remember being ill? Was he ever taken ill at Ursula’s apartment?
He struggled to collate the memories. Time was a tunnel, dark, lit by small, well-remembered lights, and huge moments of either happiness or fear, etched there for ever. Ursula Zunder’s apartment? There had been a bout of ’flu. In the winter of ’63, he thought. Nothing else. Oh, except for a couple of very bad hangovers: they had put it down to some cheap brand of vodka Ursula had picked up. Those hangovers? Yes, he had been terribly ill: never experienced anything like it. “There must have been anti-freeze in that stuff,” he said to Ursula.
Then the pinpoint of truth grew into a floodlight, filling his brain. “Hangovers?” It was half a question, whispered.
“You have it now? You’ve got it?” Vascovsky looked pleased with himself, one hand held out elegantly; smoke running upwards from his cigarette, clouding at the top of the rising stream. You might expect a Genie to appear from the smoke; or perhaps one had already leaped through the star-trap of the past.
“What did you use on me?” Herbie sounded cowed, the awful truth gradually filling him with the greatest horror of all.
“Sodium thiopental,” Vascovsky shrugged. “It was the best we had in those days; and you are not a good subject.”
“But I’d have known—felt the bruising: the injection.”
“That’s why we had to do it twice. You nearly died. If it’s any comfort your Ursula pleaded with me not to try again. No injections, Herbie. We gave it to you orally. Ursula put it in your last drink.”
“But that’s …”
“Not easy: no. Risky also. The dosage is tricky at the best of times. It’s pure murder trying to hit on the correct amount when you have to swallow it—particularly as you had been drinking. But then that was neces
sary to cover the taste. We’ve come a long way since those days, eh, Herbie?”
At first he did not reply. The tangled skein of deception changed to a vast hall of mirrors, an endless series of Chinese boxes. Ursula? Ursula, who had written the letter saying she still loved him, pouring grief into his body; showing it was burned into her own emotions for all time. Ursula had given him sodium thio—pentathol—in the cheap vodka.
Soap—as the Service called it—would sometimes produce spectacular results: the so-called first truth drug. In pentathol veritas. It also occasionally did nothing but put the subject to sleep; or, more than often, produced a particular stubbornness—especially if the subject was trained. Many doctors claimed a trained man would refuse to reveal that which he knew should not be spoken aloud. But many doctors have been proved wrong.
“What happened?” Herbie asked, trying to strengthen his trembling voice.
On the first occasion he had passed out cold. They could not get to him at all: not even as he was coming out of it. “That was risky anyway, because we needed you to remain innocent.” There had been an experienced doctor there all night. “As I told you, Ursula did not want to do it again.”
“But she did,” Herbie shouted, raising himself from the pillows, fury raping his mind. “The bitch did it again.”
Vascovsky spread his hands, as though trying to make him see it was an inevitable course of action. “There was no other way. In any case, you are a difficult subject. We could only get the cryptonyms, and, of course, there was no way of knowing if we had them all. Priam; Hecuba; Nestor; Horus; Gemini, and Electra.”
Herbie venomously said it was very tough they could only get the cryptonyms. He was so sorry about that. But what of Priam? Peter Sensel? The man he had killed with his bare hands?
Vascovsky had to admit luck. “You knew he was schwül?” He used the slang German for gay. “He chose a boyfriend who put in a report. The boyfriend found some evidence-one-time emergency stuff.” Vascovsky laughed. “The lover thought he was having another man—you know how jealous they can get? That’s why he searched the room. We watched Sensel pass information.” Another chuckle. “As usual the handler got away. But we had Sensel; and he did not know. So we used Electra. Mind you, we spent much time trying to plot Sensel’s contacts. How do you train those people to be so good, Herbie?” Once more the laugh. “We had your Sensel, and we did not even know his cryptonym. Ursula played him right off the cuff. Bumped him and passed a message for a meet. A special message directly from you. His regular handler was not to be told. She even used the name ‘Schnitzer’.”
