by John Gardner
He was flat over the wheel now, his foot still down on the accelerator, and the Mercedes slewing and grinding. Another burst of fire—probably from above, from the miradors. The rear of the car seemed to buck, and he felt the roof behind him being torn away. Ahead, the paving was moving: a metal barrier, set flush with the road, now slowly rising on a series of hydraulic jacks.
Herbie pulled at the wheel as though he was in an aircraft, trying to lift the machine over the slowly rising metal, the bullets chewing the rear of the car to pieces.
The front wheels hit the rising barrier at an angle—it could not have been up more than six inches at that point—and the whole car juddered, then leaped forward.
Herbie felt the rear dragging; it was as though he was moving solely on the engine, front wheels and the driver’s seat. But he was moving, and fast. Far from straight; bucking, grinding, straining.
Ahead, the Western barrier had been raised, and he saw the West German troops taking cover, their weapons pointing towards the Eastern Control Point. Dimly, Herbie realised that the shooting had stopped, and he was moving more slowly—the Mercedes limping under the Western barrier.
He was home.
They took him out of the car at gunpoint, and would not let him carry either of the cases. He did not bother to look back at the damage, just allowed himself to be hustled into the Control building, through a passage and into an office. A major was standing in front of his desk, face like thunder. Then the thunder went and his jaw dropped open.
“Take that hat off,” the major ordered.
Herbie felt an odd chill. On the wall, behind the major, were a number of photographs. One was of himself.
The major was talking to him. “You are Eberhard Lukas Kruger?”
Herbie nodded, motioning towards a chair, asking if he could sit down.
“We do not like such incidents,” the major said, then quickly shouted for coffee to be brought. “I have special orders about you.”
They would have special orders, Herbie thought. Very special orders. Next time he looked up the major was speaking into the telephone.
“I shall need to take the cases,” Herbie said when the major had replaced the telephone.
“Naturally. Some of your people will be here soon.”
They brought the cases, and the coffee, which Herbie drank slowly. He had barely finished by the time two men arrived. He recognised neither of them, but they spoke gently. One of them even said it was all well done. They agreed he should be custodian of the cases.
Herbie did not even try to follow the route. The destination was a safe flat he did not recognise—very new, bright, and in a tall, modern building.
The two men were English, but did not speak much. They fed him and made him comfortable, but did not let him out of their sight for a moment.
That night young Worboys arrived with a couple of lion-tamers he did not know. So they had sent young Worboys, Herbie thought. Not a senior officer, not even Tubby Fincher. Tony Worboys and a pair of nameless heavies,
“You made it, Herbie. Thank God. You made it. Well done.” Worboys was like a puppy, delighted to see the big man, pumping his hand and grinning.
Herbie merely nodded, looking over Worboys’ shoulder at the two bodyguards.
“Herbie, they had you, and you got away. Did they get anything from you? Information? …” He seemed to be about to ask if there had been torture. Worboys still had a spark of the romantic in him; he needed a lot of training yet.
Herbie gave his daft smile. “Nothing,” shaking his head. “Nothing from me, I think. I got things from them.”
They took him downstairs; to the car that would carry them to the airport, and the plane that would take them to England. Big Herbie Kruger looked at Tony Worboys.
“They fed me a cargo of old rabbits,” he said, the bitterness on his tongue. “A cargo of old rabbits.” His eyes were stinging.
Young Worboys looked up at his old boss, smiling, “And I bet you fed them a bigger cargo in return,” he laughed, loudly. “At least you’ve come back a sort of hero.”
A sort of hero? Herbie grasped hold of the straw. “There are documents. Papers. I got some of Vascovsky’s papers …” he began. Then the old depression sluiced over him. They had taken him from the very start. Even Ursula had taken him … And now the confessors would be waiting. The questions would follow; the court of enquiry. The long days’ journeys into the past. And the even longer nights.
Acknowledgments
NO BOOK IS WRITTEN in a vacuum, and I have to thank a multitude of people for their time, patience and assistance. A few call for special mention. First, my editor, Richard Cohen—always tireless in pursuit, and who, in a different trade, would be my case officer: a role he assumes anyway on a love/hate basis. Dr. Vincent Pippet, of Wicklow town, who gave his time to explain certain small medical matters; Communication Control Systems, for details of commercial surveillance equipment; and, not least, my friend Charles McCarry who has allowed me to use the cryptonym, given to a walk-on character in two of his books, as the cryptonym for a major character in this one. I use this arcane name as a form of homage to McCarry, who is the most authoritative writer about the minds of secret men and women. To those, and countless others, my grateful thanks.
JOHN GARDNER, IRELAND, 1980
Turn the page to continue reading from the Herbie Kruger Novels
Part One
Trust
1
MICHAEL GOLD HAD SPORTED his oak, as the slang of centuries had it. In plain language Michael Gold had closed the outer door to his rooms in New Court, St. John’s College, Cambridge, as a sign that he was engaged.
The young woman’s name was Hilde, and Michael had met her casually the previous evening. Tonight, remembering the elderly undergraduate joke, ‘Never make love on an empty stomach—always give her dinner first,’ he had provided a meal at the Bath Hotel.
They would not be disturbed; for young Michael Gold, in his last post-graduate year, had a good understanding with his bedder, a Mrs. Florence, who knew all about the goings-on among undergraduates and graduates. She would turn a blind eye in the morning. But morning was a long way off. He leaned against the inner door, smiling at blonde and plump Hilde.
“So here we are.” He briefly reflected on the inanity of his own remark.
“Yes.” She had already indicated her willingness, over dinner, and came towards him—predatory, eager, arms encircling his neck, and lips closing on his as though she might devour him. An Amazon cannibal. A female spider hungry to consummate and then consume.
They reached first base on the old settee, and it crossed Michael Gold’s mind that this particular piece of furniture, which must have served several generations of undergraduates, probably could have recounted a multitude of tales—love granted and received; troths plighted; lies believed; deceptions carried through; lust slaked. Tonight, Michael and Hilde would satisfy each other’s lust. There could not be much about in Tunbridge Wells, he considered. Hilde was from Tunbridge Wells—an au pair.
He turned her slightly, lying almost across the settee, one hand reaching for a breast, the other falling, classically, into a casual caress of the right knee.
She moaned, and her tongue lashed at the inside of his mouth. Then came the pounding on the outer door, and the voice calling—“Mr. Gold? Mr. Gold, sir?”
Gold muttered a curse, motioning the girl into his small bedroom as the voice chanted its litany: “Mr. Gold, are you there, sir? It’s urgent. Very urgent, the party says.”
Still swearing softly, Michael Gold tucked his shirt into his trousers, smoothed his hair, opened the inner door, then unlocked the oak, to reveal one of the college porters.
“Very sorry to disturb you, sir.” The man was out of breath, his face crimson. “The telephone, Mr. Gold. Said she was your mother. On the line in the Porters’ Lodge. Unusual, sir, but the lady sounded, well…well, she has to speak with you, sir.”
Heaven save me from
possessive mothers, Gold thought, grabbing his jacket. Yes, he would come. He would be there in a minute.
The porter departed, giving Michael Gold time to slip into the bedroom. Hilde was lying, half naked, on the bed. “Sorry. Back in a minute.” He smiled, loath to tear his eyes from her: the body good as he expected. Better maybe.
Down the stone stairs, and out into the chilly damp March air; running, just to get it over with. Along the cloister of New Court—the Wedding Cake as they called it, this great Victorian Gothic addition to the college. Over the Bridge of Sighs, footsteps echoing. On through the Courts to the Porters’ Lodge at the main gate.
The Head Porter was on duty. “’Evening, Mr. Gold. That telephone there,” indicating the instrument with some distaste. It was not usual for members of college to receive calls at the Porters’ Lodge.
Michael shrugged his apologies and picked up the phone. “Mother? Yes?”
His mother’s voice was distinct in his ear. Michael Gold listened, incredulous. “What?”
The tone of his query made the Head Porter look up. He saw a look of stricken grief cross the young man’s face—grief and shock and disbelief, all rolled into one. The Head Porter, a man of great experience, had seen that look many times, and knew exactly what it meant.
“I really came to see your gaffer. To see Old Soap.”
“Soap?” Tony Worboys scowled his incomprehension. Superintendent Vernon-Smith, of the Branch, gave a small, superior, smirk. “Cloak and dagger name with us. Kruger’s cloak, and Kruger’s dagger. Soap. Joke we had. Jest with your DG actually. It was him who gave us the name—Soap. Comes from a bit of doggerel: Boer War, I understand:
Poor old Kruger’s dead;
He died last night in bed;
Cut his throat on a bar of soap;
Poor old Kruger’s dead.
Soap, you see. Good, what? Haven’t we met before?”
“Once.” Young Worboys’ mind ticked off the options. As far as he knew, the security blanket on Big Herbie’s Berlin debacle (or cover-up as the Press would undoubtedly call it), had worked amazingly well. Now he had a senior officer of Special Branch—their sister service, MI5’s, executive arm—asking questions. “Oh.” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Oh, Herbie Kruger. My gaffer. Yes.” Bland as unseasoned white sauce, allowing the light to dawn slowly on the youthful face, which was the main reason for everyone calling him young Worboys. “Gaffer. That’s what threw me a bit. Yes, I’m sorry. Fact is he’s been off sick for quite a time.”
“Sick?” Vernon-Smith looked peeved. “Soap sick? Never heard of such a thing. Nobody bothered to tell me …”
“Well, with respect, sir, you do work with Five most of the time.”
Vernon-Smith made a harrumphing noise. “Sure he’s off sick? Not on some murky jaunt? Or in disgrace? You people wouldn’t tell me though, would you? Wouldn’t tell each other, let alone me.”
“Ah, er. He’s fine again now. Back soon in fact.” Worboys sounded, and looked, brighter.
Vernon-Smith was staring at him, a V crease between the eyebrows. “Yes, we did meet, didn’t we? Few years ago. Some East German woman. Shooting, wasn’t it? Herbie’s crowd tried to get their noses in. Got ’em in as well. Quite a party at the end. Remember you now.”
“Yes.” Worboys was non-committal; even though he remembered it all with perfect clarity: the Nostradamus business. After all Worboys had been holding the fort since the night they had taken Big Herbie off to Warminster. The DG had dragged him over the coals. All things to be reported to those on high.
“Give Herbie a message if you like, sir. Unless it’s very urgent of course.”
“Well,” Vernon-Smith looked down his nose. “It’s a small matter.” From the tip of his nose he could see his wristwatch, and thought he might just as well have saved himself the trouble and gone straight home. “No I’m here. Only a small matter. Information might be useful to Herbie: need-to-know and all that.” Lord, it was past six-thirty already. He’d be lucky to make the seven-five from Waterloo. “Street accident this afternoon.” He spoke briskly, barking out the information as though giving orders. “One poor devil dead. Run down by a taxi. No Georgi Markov stuff. Nothing funny. Straightforward. Fellow’s own fault. Wasn’t looking, and stepped out right in front of the cab. Worked for the BBC’s Russian Department. Bush House. Know the firm? Live above the Inland Revenue Mafia, eh?”
Worboys knew all about BBC Overseas, and Bush House.
Vernon-Smith took out a neatly-typed five-by-three card, holding it halfway towards Worboys. “Victim, name of Gold,” he said. “Alexander Gold. Lived out Catford way. Address on this.” With a certain reluctance he parted with the card; like someone giving up his season rail ticket for the last time.
“And Big Herb…Mr. Kruger, should know?”
“Does already; or so it would seem. Not the death, of course, but the corpse. Fellow had Herbie Kruger’s name in his address book—open and clear for the whole world to see. Name. Address; and both telephone numbers.” He gave a small, petulant, sigh. “This number—here—is written backwards. A shade clumsy I thought. So…er…”
“Worboys, sir. Tony Worboys.”
“Yes. So, Worboys, we ran him through the magic machines for luck. That’s how we came up with the BBC’s Russian Department. Already had Bush House, and BBC Overseas, of course. Thought he might be one of old Herbie’s contacts. Seems he was lucky. Until today. Slipped the Yalta halter; got here with his young wife in ’47. We took him in. Reason not clear yet. Anglicised his name. Model British citizen. Alexei Zolotoy. Zolotoy’s Russian for Gold. Thought Herbie should know—his involvement does not show on the machines, by the way. Wife’s in a state, naturally. Thought Herbie might be a friend in need. We’ve got nothing on Gold, by the by. Clean and sanitised. Not a whisper on him, nor the wife and son for that matter. Wife’s name, Nataly; son called Michael—post-graduate work at Cambridge. Modern languages.”
Worboys slipped the card into his pocket, saying he would give it all to Mr. Kruger. “When he gets in.” The Special Branch man nodded; anxious to be away.
Alone, Tony Worboys sat, silent, for a moment. Then reached for the telephone. Ten minutes later he left the Annexe, walking fast towards Westminster Bridge. The Director General was expecting him; and other people besides.
2
THE CHAIRMAN OF THE KGB, the Committee for State Security, arrived in Dzerzhinsky Square, Moscow, at a little before eight o’clock in the morning. This is his usual practice.
The sleek black Zil limousine—custom-built, with darkened windows and luxury interior—avoided the crammed pedestrian entrances to the large greystone building, known as Number Two Dzerzhinsky Square, and quickly negotiated the main vehicle entrance. The uniformed guards took little time in checking the Chairman’s credentials, together with those of his driver and two bodyguards, before waving the Zil into the inner square and parking area.
The car was driven to the place reserved for the Chairman: close by the nearest entrance to his office. Then, flanked by the burly personal guards, the head of Russia’s Intelligence Service and secret police, walked briskly into the building: across uncarpeted parquet floors, along the main corridors—with their decor of unremitting light green—and so into the elevator, which quickly carried them to the third floor.
Outside, snow still lay on the roofs, in parks, gardens, and by roadsides, though the sun shone, for the first time this year, with a startling brilliance, but little warmth. Perhaps the winter was at last ending, a few weeks early. There was a definite taste of spring in the air—even in the building that houses the executive and secretarial staffs of the KGB’s Directorates.
There is some irony in the fact that the large structure of Number Two Dzerzhinsky Square was once the All-Russian Insurance Company’s head office. It has gone through a number of changes in the years since the Revolution; and, like all bureaucratic offices, has long since become too small for the growing staff, let alone the needs o
f the Russian Intelligence Service.
Towards the end of the Great Patriotic War, the place was extended and enlarged: by German prisoners-of-war. But even with this new building, Moscow Centre—as it is known, both popularly and officially, within Intelligence communities the world over—is now the Centre in name only.
The Chairman’s office, with its ante-room and secretariat, is situated in the bridge joining the original building to the extension: the suites of offices there being huge and well furnished.
Here, the parquet floor gives way to rich oriental carpeting, large armchairs and sofas. At one end of the Chairman’s spacious inner sanctum stands a huge desk (“Big enough,” he always joked with his children, “to land a Yak-36.” The Yakovlev 36 being the Russian VTOL jump-jet, similar to the Harrier).
On the wall, directly opposite the desk, hangs the only picture in the room—the grim photograph of Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky: his face set and hard; eyes narrowed; tufts of dark hair showing on the inner sides of his thin eyebrows, and an irregular crop of hair forming beard and moustache around almost invisible thin lips. ‘Iron Felix’, founder of the Cheka which was now, after many transformations, the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti—The Committee for State Security, known the world over as the KGB, though still spoken of by most Russians as the Cheka.
The Chairman, left alone by the bodyguards, crossed to his desk, scanned the day’s engagements, and the brief intelligence résumé. On his way to the Centre he had thought about the first appointment: the meeting with General Vascovsky; remembering also that the day was particularly important, being the last Wednesday of the month. The last Wednesday of each month was the day set aside for the meeting of the First Directorate’s Standing Committee for Forward Planning. Today the Standing Committee would have an extra member, and it was important that he—as head of the KGB—should give Vascovsky the final briefing.
