The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  When Vascovsky came back, carrying a small suitcase in one hand, a smart briefcase in the other—less than thirty seconds after he had gone into the bedroom—he found himself facing the ugly eye of the automatic, gripped, almost to the point of invisibility, in Herbie Kruger’s paw.

  The Russian stopped, eyes shifting. “Herbie …?” he began.

  “Very gently, Jacob. The case on the floor, please. Then the pistol out. Finger and thumb on the butt. You know the drill, and don’t forget: it doesn’t worry me to kill you.”

  Vascovsky did not hesitate.

  “Now kick it over here.” Herbie caught the weapon between his feet. He did not make the mistake of picking it up.

  “You can’t get away. There’s no way out for you, Herbie. Don’t be foolish.”

  “You want to die?” Herbie heard the seriousness in his own voice, knowing that he would prefer to take the man with him, or kill him first.

  “You would not get further than the elevator. Certainly never out of Berlin. Never to the West.”

  Herbie said he thought it could be managed—with Vascovsky’s help.

  “If I help you I’m probably dead myself anyway. You might as well shoot me and get it over with.”

  Herbie laughed. The Colonel-General was flattering him. “You can talk your way out of anything, Jacob—even a prisoner getting the drop on you. Certainly I’ll kill you now if that’s what you want. But I leave you here, trussed like a chicken, after you have helped. You’ll talk your way out of that. A small demotion, maybe …”

  Vascovsky thought about it for a minute, then asked Herbie what he wanted.

  Herbie told him—a written, official order, under the name of the now dead driver (“In a minute, I want you to remove his papers for me to look at”), giving instructions to cross into the West, to collect one of Vascovsky’s officers, ostensibly visiting Spandau. “Come on, Jacob. We all know your people go in and out on that excuse all the time.”

  “It wouldn’t work. A Control Point has to be informed personally.”

  Herbie smiled. “Yes, I know. You will do that also. You will cover me by telephoning the adjutant at Karlshorst as well, just in case there’s a smart duty officer at the checkpoint. I’ll use Charlie, like your people normally do. Maybe your driver’s photograph won’t quite match my ugly face, but it may just work. I shall tell you what to say. Don’t forget, I speak Russian as well as German. This is something you just remembered driving out to the airport—what you say on the ’phone.”

  Herbie kicked Vascovsky’s gun away again and told him to approach the body of the driver, unbutton his pockets, and take out his identification. The Colonel-General looked resigned, but one could never be sure. He was very slow and careful in his movements, keeping his hands well away from his body. Herbie stood back. If he could perform a silent kill that quickly, heaven knew what Vascovsky would manage in a corner as tight as this.

  With a sudden horror Herbie realised that he was overwhelmed with the desire to kill the man. He remembered the old saying, Er hatte Blut geleckt—he who tastes blood gets to like it.

  He made Vascovsky move over to the desk and place the driver’s ID flat in front of him—pleased to notice that, as long as there was no really close scrutiny, he might just get away with it. Or was he fooling himself?

  Next he ordered the Russian to open the desk drawers one at a time—starting at the bottom. He knew what he was looking for; and there it was, in the second drawer up on the right: printed and headed official stationery, complete with Vascovsky’s rank and non-existent cover unit number at Karlshorst.

  The driver’s name was Oleg Tavorin. He was a sergeant. Herbie made Vascovsky write the order twice—once in Russian, then in German.

  “But they’ll …” Vascovsky began. He was going to say they would query it at the Western post, then realised Herbie would clear himself if he ever reached the West alive.

  “Just do it, Jacob.”

  Vascovsky signed the document, and Herbie laid it to one side. He still stayed out of the Russian’s reach. “Now the telephone book.”

  Jacob Vascovsky smiled, asking what telephone book? Crisply, Herbie suggested his private book. “The one I would carry in my briefcase.”

  “I carry numbers in my head.”

  Herbie told him to open the briefcase anyhow.

  “Why not trust me for a change, Herbie? It can’t work. They’ll spot you whatever I say.”

  “Open the briefcase, Jacob.”

  Herbie moved back a step further. Better be safe, they always taught this one—tell a man to open something, and always presume he has a weapon concealed. As Vascovsky clicked the locks Herbie found himself automatically taking up the first pressure on the trigger.

  But there was no weapon in the case. Merely papers, and, on top, two small black notebooks.

  “Riffle those books through for me, Jacob.” The voice commanding; all the cheerful, stupid co-operation gone. Herbie was his working self again.

  Vascovsky glanced up, his face showing hatred, the eyes shifting, signalling that the brain was desperately trying to formulate some plan.

  The second of the books was crammed with telephone numbers—mainly Berlin, confidential. Herbie told him to turn the page to the Karlshorst numbers and extensions. “Hold it up so I can see,” he snapped.

  The Karlshorst list covered two entire pages. “Roskov?” Herbie read. “He seems to be your adjutant. Extension 497. You will get through to him and say exactly what I tell you. Any changes and I kill you now. This minute. Understand?”

  Vascovsky did not reply, so Herbie went on, slowly going through the form he wished Vascovsky to use.

  He watched carefully as the Colonel-General dialled, then asked for the extension. Some underling obviously came on the line. “Major Roskov,” Vascovsky said. Then, in answer to a question, “Colonel Vascovsky.”

  There was a click, then a voice, quite audible. Herbie had instructed Vascovsky to keep the earpiece slightly away from his head.

  “Sasha,” Vascovsky spoke flatly into the telephone. “I am running late, heading for the airport now. I forgot to tell you. This morning I issued an authorisation for Tavorin to take the car into the West. It’s cleared on the other side. Tavorin is picking up one of my people at Spandau.”

  The voice at the other end asked a question. “Not on the telephone, Sasha. He’ll report to you personally after Tavorin gets him back. I thought you should know in case the Control Point get on the line. Just clear it, will you? I must go, otherwise we’ll not get back to Moscow tonight.” The man at the other end tried to say something else, but Vascovsky put down the handset. “Are you satisfied now?” he said, looking up with loathing.

  Herbie hoped he was satisfied. It seemed to have gone as he wished, but one could never tell. The voice at the other end of the line appeared to have stayed unruffled. The only extra word had been the man’s christian name—Sasha. For all Herbie knew that could have been a warning.

  He stepped behind Jacob Vascovsky, who had begun to say he supposed Herbie now wanted a call to the duty officer at Checkpoint Charlie. Herbie hit him once—the hard heel of his hand right on the back of the Russian’s neck, high up. Just enough force to put him out for the best part of an hour or so, and cause possible concussion once he regained consciousness.

  Using a belt and service tie, Herbie trussed Vascovsky, emptying his pockets as he went, throwing the contents on to the desk—ID, official passes, everything.

  In the bedroom he found more ties, with which he made a long rope. Vascovsky’s feet were secure, and the hands tied high up behind his back. He passed the knotted ties around the man’s wrists, turning the body over so that the Russian lay face down. The ties were now looped around the captive’s neck, and passed back to the wrists, tightly; then, down to the feet which Herbie bent upwards, finally securing them with the tie. If Vascovsky struggled a lot he might even choke himself.

  The number for Checkpoint Charlie (duty off
icer) was easy enough to find in the black book. Herbie dialled and a voice answered, naturally enough, in German.

  Herbie could do a fair Russian-accented version of his own natural language. He used it now to ask for the duty officer, introducing himself as Colonel-General Vascovsky, Special Section, 4th Motorised Infantry, Karlshorst. “You have heard from my office?” he asked. The duty officer had heard nothing. “As I thought. Inefficient. I am leaving Berlin shortly. It is good that I checked. Has one of my people been through yet? Driving a Mercedes? Licence number 234 7658? The driver is in uniform. A sergeant. Name of Tavorin, and travelling on a special order issued by myself.”

  The duty officer said he would check. He was away for almost two minutes. No. No driver of that name had been through on the Colonel-General’s orders. Herbie cursed in Russian. “He is running very late. It is most important he is passed through with speed. He should be with you any minute. He will be in the West for about one hour, returning with a passenger. Speed is essential. I have to go now, but if you have any query, just call my adjutant—Major Roskov at extension 497, Karlshorst. Good?”

  The Colonel-General was assured they would delay his driver for as short a time as possible.

  Vascovsky was still out cold when Herbie left the apartment, even though it had taken him almost twenty minutes to prepare himself. Most of that time was spent in getting the uniform jacket with the high neck off Tavorin’s corpse. The jacket fitted: just. It would be impossible to get the trousers off—in any case, they were probably soiled. Tavorin’s gun was back in the holster. His ID and the newly-written Vascovsky pass were in the top right-hand pocket so that Herbie could use his left to get them out—leaving the right hand clear and near the holster.

  All Vascovsky’s documents were tucked into other pockets. The briefcase—which contained a number of highly-interesting files—was locked with the other automatic inside.

  Taking the car keys in his right hand, with the briefcase, Herbie hefted the suitcase into his left hand, and walked from the apartment, most conscious that the uniform cap was at least one size too small for his massive head. He had stretched it as far as possible—even the sweatband had split and torn under his ministrations.

  The suitcase he stowed in the rear of the car. The briefcase was at his feet. He would pass, as long as they did not order him out of the car.

  The Mercedes reached the main street by the time Herbie thought of Vascovsky’s telephone. He had made mistakes with telephones before. Now he realised that it would have been wiser to tear the wires from the junction box. He shrugged, crouching over the wheel. It would probably be safe enough; after all, Vascovsky would take a long time to recover consciousness, and even longer to get himself near the telephone—even trying to roll towards the desk would cause extreme discomfort and the symptoms of strangulation from the loop of ties around his neck.

  Herbie concentrated on the late afternoon traffic, driving carefully towards the control point which had, during the height of the old Cold War, been almost a symbol—Checkpoint Charlie.

  There were two cars ahead of him, both civilian; pulled up at the long buildings where you could sometimes queue for hours. The place was swarming with Grepos—the East German border police. Two Grepos were going through the first car—looking under it with the wheeled mirror, examining everything inside.

  Herbie’s stomach churned. Was there already an alert out? Or—as it was a quiet afternoon—were the Grepos merely passing time? Ahead of the control point was the first striped barrier, with its metal skirt to stop low sports cars from racing beneath it. Past this, the slalom of low walls, through which cars, lorries and buses had to negotiate with zig-zagging care; slowing down the passage towards the final barrier, and the stretch of road which was the no-man’s land leading towards the first barrier on the Western side.

  Herbie crouched again and looked upwards. As ever the two miradors—the searchlight and machine-gun towers—were well-manned: the nozzles of the machine-guns turned to face both East and West. They could pick off anyone in the no-man’s land; or at the Control Point itself.

  The Grepos continued to take their time, moving listlessly. They were in no hurry.

  Herbie took a deep breath. He had given so much. If he managed to cross now at least he would be able to take back something—the papers in Vascovsky’s briefcase, the little he had learned during interrogation, the facts about the whole operation. At least he could do that. If he got part way and died … Well, that would be an end to it all.

  Slowly, and with a great firmness, he put his huge hand on the car horn and pressed.

  The Grepos looked up, one of them motioning with his machine-pistol for Herbie to keep quiet. He took his hand off the horn and began to give strong, loud toots to attract attention. A Grepo sergeant, on the small covered walkway which ran the length of the control building, looked hard and walked slowly towards the Mercedes.

  Herbie lowered the window, keeping one hand over the holstered automatic, the other unbuttoning his jacket pocket for Vascovsky’s pass and Tavorin’s ID.

  “You shut up and wait your turn; otherwise we take longer,” the Grepo sergeant said sharply. He had a heavy Berlin accent. Herbie replied in halting German, Russian-accented. “I have papers. My Colonel’s orders—Colonel-General Vascovsky. I should have been in the West over an hour ago. It is most urgent official business. See …” He waved Vascovsky’s handwritten order under the sergeant's nose.

  The man took the paper and read it quickly. “Your identity papers,” he snapped. Then, as Herbie handed over Tavorin’s ID, “Pull the car forward, sergeant. In front of the one they are searching.”

  “I stay in the car.” Herbie phrased it flatly, not as a question.

  The Grepo sergeant said, “Yes,” as he moved off; and Herbie put the Mercedes into gear and pulled out from behind the waiting cars. He was conscious of the sergeant shouting something at the Grepos who were searching the first car, then pointing back towards him. One of the Grepos nodded and waved Herbie on into a place in front of the car he was examining.

  Herbie left the engine running, but another Grepo appeared and told him to turn the engine off. The Grepo stood in front of the Mercedes, his machine-pistol slung almost casually over his shoulder, but with the muzzle pointing forwards and down, roughly in Herbie’s direction.

  In the silence, once the engine was stopped, Herbie could hear his heart thumping and the blood pounding in his ears. He kept one hand near the ignition keys, the other resting on the butt of the gun in its open holster.

  Lines from the Serenade of the Sentry again crossed his mind; then recrossed, as though his whole life, with its errors and mistakes, its triumphs that had been poisoned, his successes which might still be saved, was distilled down to this one point in time: sitting, waiting for escape or death, at a control point on the Berlin Wall—

  Halt! Who goes there? Speak up!

  Clear off!

  Time appeared to stand still. Like a trick in the mind: a clock ticking on and on. He realised it was a childhood memory—a clock in his grandfather’s house; you could hear the tick-tock through the night, and, as a small boy, he had the impression that time was not passing at all. Herbie looked at the Grepo near the car. He was young—very young, eighteen, nineteen, perhaps, with grey eyes caught in the light. Then Herbie looked ahead again and tried to remember the names of those who had been caught at a checkpoint: gunned down, or hauled from cars. There was one who had tried to get out under a lorry and failed, but he could not remember the name.

  Odd, he had remembered Peter Schultz with great clarity. He could also recite other names, still kept alive in memory with little markers of wood and barbed wire, flowers, and boards on which their names were carved—Ida Siekmann, Rolf Urban, Olga Segler, Bernd Lünser. But they had all died crossing the Wall, not at a control point. Herbie’s memory could not dredge up a single name, out of the many, caught or killed at places like Checkpoint Charlie. Eberhard Lukas Kruger?
he wondered. Would he be remembered as one who died at this place, in the no-man’s land ahead?

  A door opened to his left, and the Grepo sergeant came out carrying the papers. An officer stood framed in the door, shouting something to Herbie. He had to lean over and wind down the other window to hear.

  “We had orders about you,” the officer was shouting. “Your Colonel wants you over as quickly as possible. You are due back in an hour.”

  Herbie waved a kind of salute and shouted back. “Less than an hour.”

  The Grepo sergeant was at the window, thrusting the papers at him. “You had better move,” he muttered. “My officer says your Colonel is furious you are so late.”

  “Traffic,” Herbie shrugged, and looked towards the officer again. He was a young man, blond, not wearing a cap. He had that sharp efficient manner—like the SS in the old days, Herbie thought, turning the key in the ignition. Already they had raised the first barrier for him. As he turned the key he heard a telephone ringing from behind the officer, who hesitated for a second, then wheeled around and went back into his office.

  Herbie drove slowly towards the slalom. Don’t rush it, he thought; but, by the time he reached the low walls, he was gaining speed. He took the car through the obstacles, gaining a little speed with each turn. Then through, and on to the other side. They were raising the barrier.

  He glanced into the mirror, and saw the officer running out on to the walkway, shouting, pointing towards the Mercedes. The barrier was fully up, and it flashed through Herbie’s mind that there may well be a metal safety barrier in the road, before the centre of the no-man’s strip—a big flange that could be raised in his path. He put his foot on the accelerator and took off towards the barrier. As it got closer he saw it waver and begin to descend.

  He changed into third and tried to put his foot through the floor, felt the car leap forward, and heard the metal scrape as the barrier apron hit the roof. Then the shots came.

  At first a couple of bursts of fire. He felt the bullets jar into the rear of the car, and the back come round as the tyres went.