November Man

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘It’s taken fifteen years to install Burke in his present position,’ said Altmann, trying to quieten the rising panic. ‘He is about to be made an ambassador. There was sound reasoning for involving him in Berlin. But only there. Surely you wouldn’t risk throwing away such an enormous investment on this one exercise?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Melkovsky, revealing the degree of his own personal involvement. ‘This is important enough to risk anything.’

  The room was quiet while the four men considered Bauer’s suggestion. They’d already made up their minds, thought Altmann. Again the room wavered before him and he blinked to clear his vision.

  ‘How can he help?’ demanded Altmann.

  ‘Valentine Burke could introduce documentary evidence that Hollis had offered his services,’ said Bauer, eager to project his idea to the maximum.

  ‘But it would be phoney,’ refuted Altmann desperately.

  ‘But there would be no way any investigation could show it as such,’ defended Melkovsky. ‘The records implicating Hollis will be made to be genuine.’

  ‘Burke is in the wrong section,’ argued Altmann.

  He had to prevent Burke being activated, he knew. Because it would expose him. The realization engulfed him and he physically shuddered. He exaggerated the gesture to disguise its reason, glancing towards the radiators as if he were cold. He hurried on, trying to cover the gaffe.

  ‘If it goes wrong, it would mean the destruction of perhaps the most effective operative ever introduced into the British diplomatic service.’

  ‘Or bring about exactly the conclusion we want,’ balanced Turgonev.

  ‘I think the possibility of failure – and the sacrifice – is too great,’ said Altmann definitely. He was perspiring heavily and his stomach felt hollow.

  ‘It’s worth trying,’ said Bauer, anticipating the support of the meeting.

  The lead established, Turgonev nodded. ‘I think so, too,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t consider we’ve got a lot to lose,’ completed Melkovsky.

  ‘We’ve got everything to lose,’ resisted Altmann. They’d soon suspect his protests, he thought worriedly.

  ‘I think we should attempt it,’ decided Melkovsky. All objections were pointless, Altmann accepted. There was only one way he could avert this latest threat, he thought unhappily.

  ‘Let’s hope for all our sakes that nothing goes wrong,’ said Melkovsky, nodding towards the Austrian. ‘As Altmann says, if this thing fails, then we are all destroyed.’

  For Burke to succeed would mean his death, Altmann realized. If the diplomat managed to penetrate the European intelligence-control section to plant false evidence about Hollis, then he was bound to learn that Altmann was a double agent.

  He would have to expose the diplomat to Whitehall before the Russians could act. He sighed wearily. It would almost be easier, he thought, simply to give up and die.

  ‘I think it’s the right moment,’ agreed Bell. He sat in the bedroom of the Georgetown house, watching the make-up artist erase Murray’s beardline. Bell was due to appear after the Party’s candidate, guaranteeing the maximum impact. And, of course, his association with the announcement, which was important. Murray could not be allowed the complete credit, Bell had decided.

  ‘Dennison thinks it’s a mistake,’ muttered Murray, attempting to keep his face unmoving.

  Bell stood, sighing impatiently.

  ‘He’s too cautious,’ he dismissed.

  ‘Or too old,’ qualified Murray. ‘He doesn’t trust the Russians,’ he added.

  He screwed up his eyes as the lacquer was applied to his hair.

  ‘The announcement has to be made sometime,’ pointed out Bell. ‘Now is exactly right, according to the polls.’

  The make-up finished, Murray surveyed the effect in a hand-mirror, nodded approval and stood up, putting on his jacket.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, objectively, ‘it’s too late now to abandon it.’

  The personal assistant to the television director knocked lightly upon the door and smiled nervously.

  ‘Five minutes,’ she warned.

  Murray walked confidently down into the lounge, snaked with electrical cables and overhot from the lights that bleached the room. He sat in the chair that had been carefully measured from the camera and, under dictation from the sound engineer, recited a rhyme to ensure the voice level was right. He wedged his bottom where the back of the chair joined the seat, as instructed by his television coach, knowing it would reduce the tendency of his appearing with a double chin.

  ‘Do you want to run through the speech, sir?’ offered the director. Murray shook his head, feeling quite composed.

  This was the moment, he thought, as the television crew bustled round him. Fifteen minutes from now he would move from being a well-known American politician to become one of the most respected men in the world.

  The director nodded a warning, looking back to the stop-watch, and then began counting down from ten to zero. As the red light flashed on top of the camera, Murray smiled into it, quite sure of himself.

  ‘… I address you tonight’, he began, ‘from the lounge of my own home, here in Georgetown, Washington. The choice, rather than a television studio, is a deliberate one …’

  He felt the tenseness go from his stomach. The rehearsed words were coming with exactly the right amount of feeling.

  ‘… For it is really about homes that I’m speaking tonight to the American people. And to the world. The safety of your homes … everyone’s homes, be they occupied by black or white, American or Russian …’

  It was a good speech, he decided. He had written it with minimal help from the professional speech writers.

  ‘… Those of you who saw my nomination as Presidential candidate a few months ago will recall a promise I made then … a promise that has been ridiculed by the party in opposition to the present government …’

  That would be shown upon analysis to be a devastating election aside, he knew.

  ‘… I said then I would spend less time than any other candidate in electioneering because I was involved in negotiations aimed at bringing peace to this troubled world …’

  Was ‘troubled world’ right, he wondered. It had the slightest edge of pomposity about it. Too late now; anyway, the over-all effect would smother it.

  ‘… Tonight, to the American people and to the world, I am honouring that pledge. As a result of negotiations in which I have been engaged almost continuously for the past fifteen months, I can tonight tell you that from December 1st this year, the American troop-presence in Europe is being withdrawn. I have achieved a meaningful, lasting peace agreement with the Russians, who on the same date will begin, by a ratio of two to one, to reduce their strength in Europe. In exactly one year from tonight, for the first time for perhaps three decades, no American serviceman will be on European soil …’

  He paused. After this, he thought, letting the impact register, he would be absolutely unbeatable.

  ‘… That is not all,’ he continued, looking down in practised modesty. ‘In these days of brilliant technology, soldiers are almost an incidental part of war. Tomorrow’s wars would be fought by nuclear weapons of horrifying magnitude, delivered by intercontinental missiles moving faster than the mind can assimilate …’

  Another pause, preparing them.

  ‘… Earlier I said I had kept my promise. I meant it, completely. There will be no more wars tomorrow … or any other day after that. One month from the troop-withdrawals, America and the Soviet Union will begin dismantling their nuclear arsenals. In the spirit of cooperation and friendship that I have forged, from America to Russia and from the Soviet Union to the United States will come inspection teams, ensuring that degree of co-operation and guaranteeing that forever mankind will be free of the threat of a nuclear holocaust …’

  He hesitated over the last line. Why not, he decided. It was a dramatic moment, so why not drain it for effect?

  ‘To America an
d to the world, I bring peace …’, he intoned.

  For the first time in journalistic history, the speech was reported on the front page of every newspaper in both East and West. Only the Peking People’s Daily criticized the announcement, reflecting China’s apprehension at the merger of the two giants.

  From that moment, the final spurt of Murray’s election campaign began, but it adopted a new slogan: he concluded that speech to be known as ‘The Man of Peace’. The posters had already been printed in anticipation.

  In Buckinghamshire, Marion broke a three-day silence, speaking quietly across the tense dinner-table to her husband.

  ‘I feel so proud of him,’ she said, wistfully. ‘So completely and utterly proud.’

  For several minutes, Hollis hesitated.

  Then he made a desperate decision.

  (13)

  Hollis shut himself up alone in the penthouse office, even refusing contact with Ellidge. For the first time in twenty years, Hollis Industries could go through a day without his personal guidance. Because, for the first time for twenty years, he had a problem that neither money nor business guile could solve. It had to be his decision. There was no one to whom he could go for advice, no expert who could be paid an exorbitant fee to provide a satisfactory solution.

  It wouldn’t be spying, he reasoned. Altmann had made it quite clear; stupid, upon reflection, to have overreacted as he had. Not spying, he reiterated. To spy one had to snoop: to search out secrets. All the British government wanted him to do was to impart the knowledge that came to him in the normal pursuit of business. Definitely not spying; no country and no court could ever accuse him of espionage. It couldn’t interfere with business. Only what came his way in the normal course of business could be passed on. He would never create a situation to achieve information, he decided, edging towards a decision.

  The explanation came suddenly and he laughed aloud, in relief. It was so simple; so obvious, yet it had eluded him.

  Burke was the key, he decided. The perfect answer. The man had even been withdrawn to London. for God’s sake. What if he’d been moved on already? How long ago had it been in Berlin? Six or seven months? Seven, he calculated. Time enough for another posting. Please God, let him be there, he thought.

  Within seconds, Burke had assumed a position of absolute importance in Hollis’s mind.

  It was imperative he discuss it with Burke, he decided. The decision was built upon a quicksand of doubt and Hollis wanted what he was going to do to be officially recognized. He paused at the thought. It had to be officially recognized. And Burke had been the man, he remembered, who had confirmed in Berlin that businessmen had received honours for imparting information.

  She’d stay if he received a knighthood or a peerage, Hollis convinced himself, thinking back to the dinner-table announcement.

  The words echoed in his head: ‘… I feel so proud of him …’

  So now he would ensure that she felt proud of him, decided Hollis, properly recognized by his country. And he’d done so much already. It would have to be a peerage. Nothing less would do. He would be respected as a lord, he knew, particularly in America, with their snobbish delight in titles.

  The government was keen to recruit him, he calculated, recalling Altmann’s remark in Prague. So he’d make them indicate their keenness before he even began. He’d strike a deal, through Burke, before making the slightest commitment. He would demand a guarantee of recognition. That would be it, he decided. The perfect deal, like everything else he did. The assurance of a peerage for what he was told during normal East European negotiations. Nothing wrong in that; patriotic even.

  He’d impose another condition, he decided. He shivered as if encountering someone with a contagious disease. He would insist that he work only through the Foreign Office, preferably with Burke. The man knew the sort of respect to accord; whatever happened he wouldn’t deal with Altmann. Definitely not: snotty little spy. Important to keep away from spies.

  He obtained the Foreign Office telephone number from the directory in the private office, wrote it upon his memo pad and then sat, staring down at it.

  The moment of commitment, he thought. Once involved, it would be difficult to extricate himself; impossible maybe. Then immediately came the contradiction. Perhaps not. After he’d got the honour, it would be simple to ease off, passing on less and less. He always had to be the one to decide the importance of the information. And it would be very difficult for them to coerce him.

  There was a private line with an ex-directory listing on his desk. Quickly, positive now, he dialled the Whitehall number, holding the receiver slightly away from his head. When the operator replied, he realized he didn’t know the department in which Burke would be working.

  Stumbling, embarrassed at his hesitation, he named the Berlin diplomat, explained the man had worked until eight or nine months before in Germany and asked if he could be connected. There was a pause, then a man’s voice answered.

  ‘Mr Burke, please,’ requested the millionaire. ‘Mr Valentine Burke.’

  Why was his voice so gruff, wondered Hollis. He coughed, clearing his throat.

  ‘Who is this?’ inquired the man.

  Hollis hesitated, unsure, still reluctant to commit himself.

  ‘A friend,’ he avoided.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Burke isn’t here at the moment,’ apologized the man. ‘I’m expecting him this afternoon.’

  Hollis felt the determination seep from him. It was important that, once decided, the offer be quickly discussed and agreed.

  ‘What time?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Can I ask him to call you?’

  ‘… Ah, yes,’ agreed Hollis, still unsure.

  ‘What’s the number?’

  Quickly Hollis dictated the unlisted exchange.

  ‘And the name?’

  Still Hollis held back from identifying himself. The fewer people who knew, the better.

  ‘Tell him a friend he met in Berlin eight months ago,’ instructed the millionaire.

  He replaced the receiver, then sat staring at it. He was sweating heavily, he realized, drying his hands with a handkerchief. And there was a strange sensation in his stomach, as if he were hungry.

  It was quite safe, he thought, trying to convince himself. How could he ever be suspected of spying, when all he would do would be to continue as he had for the past eight to ten years, conducting perfectly legitimate business with communist countries. The only difference would be that, every so often, he would enjoy a lunch at White’s or perhaps one of the better London restaurants with a sophisticated diplomat with whom he would discuss the trips. No different, he reasoned, from those boring sessions with British ambassadors abroad who served inferior sherry and sought reflected glory from his business acumen.

  Reminded of alcohol, he went across to the liquor cabinet and poured whisky into a tumbler. His hands were shaking, he saw. Ridiculous reaction; no reason for apprehension. Have to watch the need for alcohol, he thought. Couldn’t afford to be drunk.

  He’d be lost without Marion, he accepted honestly, staring out over the city, the drink untouched in his hand. Completely and utterly lost; suicidal even. He pulled back. No, not suicidal. Only madmen committed suicide. Madmen and cowards. And he was neither.

  Marion was his anchor. No, he thought, correcting the metaphor. Not an anchor. A buoy, a vital and necessary support, far more important than she ever realized. Perhaps he should have told her. But that would have conceded a weakness. Outside the business environment, in which he was such an expert, he was gauche, he accepted, the self-examination continuing. Socially he always felt the need to impress, to perform in such a way as he imagined people would expect a person of his reputation to behave. And often it was wrong, he knew. He moved in Marion’s shadow; without her he would have no friends, no life. I can’t lose her, he determined positively. I’ll do anything to prevent it happening. Anything. He examined the word. Yes, he thought, anything. He
looked back at the desk. Why the hell didn’t Burke ring?

  He was so engrossed that although he heard the door open, he did not immediately respond, forgetting his instruction against interruption.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ rushed Ellidge immediately. He stared hard at Hollis, halted by the man’s demeanour. Hollis was unwell, decided Ellidge. Definitely unwell. The realization frightened him. The organization was Jocelyn Hollis: far too little provision had been made to compensate if anything happened to the man.

  ‘… It’s important, otherwise I wouldn’t have disobeyed your instructions and intruded …’ he added.

  ‘What?’ snapped Hollis. It didn’t matter that Burke’s call was still hours away. He wanted complete privacy. Since when had the man been given the right to disregard explicit orders?

  ‘There are two men,’ groped Ellidge inadequately.

  Hollis looked at him open-eyed, allowing the astonishment to register. He saw no one without written appointments on ordinary days. For Ellidge to propose that he see people who had arrived unannounced on a day when he had given specific instructions for privacy was quite ridiculous.

  ‘Get out,’ he yelled. It was too loud and his voice cracked, girlishly. He opened his mouth, to shout again, but stopped as two men entered the room behind his personal assistant.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded, speaking past Ellidge.

  ‘Mr Hollis?’ asked the first man, smiling. He was a fresh-faced man, with the odd, bouncing walk of a sportsman. He had a club badge on his blazer and a striped tie that matched. The smile broadened as he approached, hand outstretched.

  ‘Anderson,’ he announced. ‘Jimmy Anderson.’

  There was a practised pause. ‘Chief Superintendent,’ he added.

  The George affair, Hollis decided immediately. He felt very cold. Despite the ten thousand pounds for the lawyers, the bloody man must have confessed about the payments. Eric George always had been weak, easily bribed. They’d probably promised that his sentence would be cut. He ignored the proffered hand, which Anderson dropped, apparently unoffended. He jerked his head, indicating the second man.