by John Gardner
They had filtered delicate words, sensitive instructions, to poor Peter Sensel. He was chosen for a special job. A new job. A prime piece of work. Silence was absolutely golden: more than ever before. Schnitzer had a new asset in East Berlin. Right in the heart. His crypto was Auguste. (“You know what an ‘Auguste’ is, Herbie? A red-nosed clown who wears baggy, ragged clothes.”)
After Vascovsky’s faked suicide Electra had let Sensel know that Auguste had been Vascovsky. Because of what had happened there were even more important things to be done. She told him that she was Herbie’s agent, Trapeze: even showing herself. Sensel fell for the whole yarn. He was to wait. Say nothing to his regular handler. Someone new would be coming in. She gave him the sentence from Gorky.
“Mistochenkov already had that password. I gave it to him without pushing the matter: just told him that our man within the Telegraph Boys was expecting the Gorky sentence. I did not labour the point, and he obviously gave it to you along with everything else. It’s a good rule, Herbie—implant and then let the seed grow: that’s the secret of making it look natural.”
That was exactly what Colonel-General Vascovsky was doing now, to Big Herbie Kruger. Vascovsky, in giving details of his operation to lure Herbie, had planted seeds: performed the first part of what, he knew, would be a long haul of delving—panning for the small facts that Herbie might give him. The implanted seed was the fact that Herbie Kruger was his own traitor: the betrayer of his own trust.
“I killed him. In rage I killed him,” Herbie said quietly.
There was no feeling. Just a numb agony. Like no pain or sensation Herbie had ever experienced. The worst thing, he supposed later, was the fall of pride. They had hooked and dangled him as neatly as clever anglers—caught him between the twin poles of duty and love. Then they brought him down with a bludgeon, filling him with the sense that he was the cancer: the one who had betrayed.
His own people had forbidden him to go into the garden of weapons, to play with the deadly flowers. But Herbie had already, unknowingly, touched their poisonous pollen, filling him with the need to avenge his own reputation: see his duty through to the end.
He looked, blank-eyed at Jacob Vascovsky, hearing close within his head the last words of the Song of the Night Sentry: wishing that he had listened to them properly; wishing he had understood them—
Anyone who believes it is far away.
He is a king!
He is an Emperor!
He is making the war!
Halt! Who goes there? Speak up!
Clear off.
15
HERBIE HAD BEEN RIGHT in his assumption that he was in the old Magdalenenstrasse jail. He was housed in a refurbished wing, and it was there that Vascovsky carried out his initial interrogation.
Being a senior executive of the British Service, Herbie was a rare prize. Any man like Herbie Kruger, who had dwelt in the world of secrets since the age of fourteen, had to have grains of information within his mind which might eventually be turned into vast pastures of usable intelligence.
But the labourers who toil in the secret places of the world learn quickly how to tie their knowledge in screened parcels, which they drop deep within their memories: allowing these facts to lie dormant until they wish to retrieve them.
Vascovsky’s job was to search for the parcels in Herbie Kruger’s memory. The Colonel-General was aware—as indeed Herbie was aware—that, no matter what techniques were known and used, the professional is always at greater risk, if only because he already knows the techniques. Police officers subjected to interrogation are apt to give away more, because they are watching for the pitfalls inherent in the techniques. So it is with those trained in the arcane life.
The preliminary part of Herbie Kruger’s interrogation was, from Vascovsky’s viewpoint, the most important. From the moment he placed Kruger in the loser’s corner, by giving him the facts, he knew the big man would be most likely to provide him with small clues very quickly: possibly without even knowing it.
On one point he was quite open with Herbie. “We shall stay here in Berlin for a week or two only,” he told him. “After that we go to Russia: to a pleasant dacha we keep near the Black Sea. There we have everything—doctors, the proper conditions …”
There was no need for him to continue. Herbie knew the course his questioning would take. First a long series of face-to-face sessions—the establishing of the relationship, and the early signs. ‘Panning for gold’, they called it at Warminster. Sometimes this process was enough. Herbie had imagined it had been enough for him when interrogating Pavel Mistochenkov. Now he was determined to let Vascovsky think it was enough for him also. The hatred which welled from Herbie, with the truth in the open, seemed to give him strength. This he would need, because the next phase, at the dacha near the Black Sea, would slowly strip him bare. The technology of interrogation had advanced a long way, and—though the road may twist and turn; lead off at tangents; double back on itself—the end would be a total drying out. The injections, the black boxes, the freak sessions. All would be used against such a man as Big Herbie.
So, for almost four weeks, he played the game with Vascovsky—attempting to reverse the roles, even ingratiating himself with the Colonel-General; for it was important that the relationship should appear friendly.
Within himself, quite coldly, Herbie Kruger knew they must not get him as far as Russia, and the specialists. Either he had to make one last throw at an escape (and he saw no way from this secure place), or he must, in some manner, do away with himself.
He worked hard to make Vascovsky believe he would be pliant; that he was not a grudge-bearer. “In England criminals have a phrase,” he smiled his daft smile at Vascovsky. “Some, when arrested, say, ‘It’s a fair cop,’ meaning the police have won, and they accept their situation. To you I say, ‘It’s a fair cop.’”
Vascovsky nodded, smiling. Inside himself, for a second, Herbie felt the smouldering ruins of his life flare into flame again.
So the first sessions of questioning continued each day, with Herbie storing every question and answer into his memory. Eventually he would need to be able to repeat these sessions verbatim. If he lived that long.
He tried to see the traps as they were set, long before Jacob Vascovsky attempted to spring them, and was aware that, on two occasions, he nearly fell headlong into his confessor’s hidden snares. Some of the Colonel-General’s questions led back to sources of years ago—other lives, other times.
“Man is never the same man two years running,” Herbie said often. “Jacob, are you the same man now that you were three, four, five years ago?”
It was a counter ploy to Vascovsky. An attempt by Herbie to get the man looking back into his own past, so that he, for a second or two, became the victim of interrogation. A couple of times it almost worked.
Herbie knew a few days before the departure for Russia was imminent. They did not tell him anything, but provided him with a new suit. The food got slightly better. There was an air about Vascovsky that said they would soon be leaving—indefinable, yet almost tangible. In the end the Colonel-General told him on the night before departure.
They usually had an early evening session, starting around six o’clock, going on sometimes until after dinner. On this night Jacob Vascovsky told him they would not be eating together. “I have to go to my office at Karlshorst. Clear up a few papers. Then check out some things in my apartment.” He ran a hand lightly over the iron hair. “Tomorrow, my dear Herbie, we take a plane to Moscow. Very quietly, just the two of us, and a reception committee at the other end.”
Herbie allowed himself to react with some pleasure. “It will be good. I have been looking forward to seeing Russia.” He spread his hands wide, the huge palms upwards. “There are things I can speak of more freely there. Things I don’t wish to talk of while I am here—so near to the West.”
Jacob Vascovsky raised his eyebrows. “So?”
Herbie steeled himself. “You
read Ursula’s letter?”
Vascovsky nodded.
“You know how much she means to me—meant to me? There is, perhaps, some kind of deal we can do. In my heart of hearts I am aware that, in the end, the final struggle will come; Maybe I just want to be on the winning side; maybe my contact against your system has made me respect it.”
“You’re making me an offer?” Vascovsky leaned forward. “A genuine offer?”
“Maybe. Can we talk about it in Russia?”
Vascovsky laughed. “Oh, we can talk. I’ve no doubt what your kind of deal would be, Herbie. Go back and work for us in the West, yes?”
Herbie shook his head. “I very much doubt that. Personally I think I could be of more use to you in Moscow. In the West, Herbie Kruger is a discredited man—you’ve seen to that.”
Vascovsky nodded slowly. “But, if we did some kind of a deal, as you call it, we might want you to go back. Stranger things have been arranged.”
“In Moscow,” Herbie made motions with his ham hands, indicating that he really did not want to talk here.
That night he wondered for a long time if Vascovsky would seriously rise to the bait. If so he might lower his guard a little before they got to the airport. Already Herbie had decided not even to try and take his own life until every avenue had been explored. He would only do it if they were on the brink of really deep interrogation with drugs.
The next morning they told him he would be leaving during the early afternoon. He was always aware of the guards, though did not see them often. He ate lunch alone. Vascovsky came down at two o’clock.
“Well, my friend. We have plenty of time, but I have to drop off at my apartment to pick up a case. A nice quiet drive to the airport, eh?”
“A scheduled flight?” Herbie looked at him, face bland.
Vascovsky’s mouth flickered in a smile. “Scheduled for us. A small military transport. I can trust you to behave, I think,” he opened his civilian jacket to show the holstered little Makarov automatic under his left shoulder.
Herbie laughed aloud. “You are joking, Jacob. Remember what I said—it’s a fair cop? I go even further once we get to Russia. I’m not an idiot.”
“No.” Vascovsky’s hand hovered over the large German’s shoulder. “No. We go then? Right?”
Herbie nodded, and they left his room for the last time.
It seemed too good to be true, thought Herbie. Far too good. First, they were using an elderly black, unmarked Mercedes; second, apart from the driver, only Vascovsky and Kruger were travelling in the vehicle; third, the driver was a uniformed man, almost as large as Herbie himself. He carried a pistol on his belt.
Three of them. There had to be a trail car, either in front or behind. Yet nothing showed. He was careful not to call attention by looking around often; but the odd glance was enough. There was no trail car. Vascovsky’s vanity had taken over, thought Herbie. The Russian did not want to call attention to this part of the operation. After all, he was bringing in Eberhard Lukas Kruger, an executive of the British Security Services. He had panned a little gold from the man, and there was no question, in his mind, that his prisoner was undergoing that strange phenomenon, known well to analysts as ‘transference’. So Vascovsky reasoned. He would arrive in Moscow with a pliable captive—a potential recruit. His superiors there must see this to be the case.
Herbie’s mind was also racing. They were heading towards the Soviet Embassy—Pavel Mistochenkov had spoken of the apartment Vascovsky kept near there. No chance of a run for it, he argued. Near the Brandenburg Gate; but that was a hot area. It crossed Herbie’s mind that all the Wall areas were hot now. Even the couple he knew about could be unsafe. He was out of touch, and would have no time to make new contacts. Going over the Wall was not possible.
His mind flicked back to the old days—the experienced men and women who used to go over; who had their own places. Then the desperate ones—the people who just took chances. Vividly he recalled the reports and photographs. Christmas 1963. A white Christmas, and there were special Christmas passes: permits allowing West Berliners to visit relatives in the East, valid for twenty-four hours. People had been stunned, a month before, by the events in Dallas—Kennedy’s assassination.
Yet that Christmas there seemed to be a spirit of compromise abroad. On Boxing Day there was still a sense of Christmas in the cold air. People were still making their visits, taking presents to the East. The bells of St. Thomas’ church, right on the Wall, pealed a message of good will, even at nightfall when the two figures climbed the wall of the church, heading West.
Both got to the top of the wall and were just climbing the barbed-wire barrier, silhouetted against the sky, when the bells were drowned by the crackle of machine-gun fire. One of the boys—for they were only boys—jumped to safety, the other threw up his hands and fell, with bullets ripping his chest and back. A glove hung from the wire, and the boy’s blood dripped scarlet into the snow under the arc lights. He was only eighteen years old—Peter Schultz from Neu Brandenburg. Herbie remembered that the deputy mayor of West Berlin claimed the death had undone a lot of the good will forged by the Christmas permits. Willy Brandt declared, “The bullets which hit Peter Schultz have hit us all.”
Why could Herbie remember all this so vividly, when he had been much occupied at the time? Certain pictures, words and phrases stick more constantly in the memory, he thought. But it did not alter the fact that going over the Wall was not possible. If he were to make an escape, Herbie would have to go through, not over. Hang around until evening, then mug some poor devil for his documents, perhaps? No, that would not work. Within minutes of making, a successful run, the border checks would be doubled. Unless …? The idea scared him, but the risk might just be acceptable. He noticed a street clock: nearly three in the afternoon.
“What time do we leave?” Casually as he could muster.
“Four-thirty; five. The aircraft will be ready at four-thirty.” Vascovsky was looking out of the window; but the driver, Herbie noticed, appeared to be very alert: eyes everywhere.
They turned off near the Embassy, into a side street, pulling up in front of the entrance to a modern apartment block. The place, Herbie thought, where Pavel Mistochenkov had been supposed to find the Colonel-General’s body; the place where Vascovsky entertained his mistress, Lotte Krug—Ursula. He had ceased to be clear about Ursula, uncertain of the real truth. Had Vascovsky lied to him? Was she really mistress to the two men at the same time? Or, as Vascovsky claimed, only lover to Herbie? There were even moments—which the large man dismissed, usually quite quickly, as sentimental delusion on his part—when he wondered about the reality of Ursula’s last letter. Was that true? Or had she been forced to write it under Vascovsky’s duress?
The Colonel-General was speaking to him now. “I think it best if we stay together.” He flashed his smile. “Not that I don’t trust you, Herbie. I just want to have my eye on you all the time. I’m sure you understand.”
Herbie merely laughed. The driver, silent, his hand never far from the holster on his belt, moved from behind the wheel to open the door. Vascovsky alighted first, waiting on the pavement so that, as Herbie emerged, he was between his captors. They went into the building in file—Vascovsky, Herbie, then the driver.
Into the lift. “I shall miss this little place. So convenient,” Vascovsky said, adding that he would be returning when they had sorted out matters in Russia. “Who knows, you may even be with me, Herbie?”
Then the apartment. It was pleasant enough, if a shade gaudy for Herbie’s taste. He did not care for the decor at all—chintzy; like a pouf, he thought in English slang. A fairy castle. Maybe it was for the benefit of the ladies?
The place was of standard design—one main room and three doors off. Bathroom, kitchen and bedroom, Herbie decided. A small, ornate desk stood below the window. It had been cleared of papers, but a telephone remained. Vascovsky said he would not be a moment, walking quickly to the bedroom.
Herb
ie turned to face the driver, whose hand still hovered over his holster. Silent and very fast, Herbie’s brain told him: very fast indeed.
There is an empty-hand, silent-kill technique which is a more severe variant of the neck-chop to the carotid artery—a movement which if firmly applied will render a person unconscious for a short period. The silent-kill technique is one in which you catch the victim with a faster, more accurate blow. The recipient feels nothing. His carotid artery is ruptured and the neck broken, all with one correctly-placed blow, using the right amount of force.
Herbie had been first taught methods of silent killing years ago. Even now he did the annual refresher course. Technically he knew how to perform this particular action, but had never used it.
Herbie grinned at the driver, and the driver grinned back. He did not even see Herbie’s arm move. Herbie rationalised that the driver was dead before his brain even gave out danger signals. For the smallest fraction of a second Herbie registered surprise that it really worked, the way they always said it did. The driver was dead on his feet from the one terrible blow—standing there, head lolling and eyes glazed.
There seemed to be all the time in the world for Herbie to step quietly behind him, to catch the weight under the body’s arms, lower him gently and remove the pistol from the holster. He even had time to check that the large Stechkin APS was cocked. He made no noise in sliding the safety from on to off.
