November Man

by Brian Freemantle

  Melkovsky flicked his finger through the report of the Altmann observation-team, detailing the guarded telephone-call to the United States embassy that had been monitored by the listening-device installed upon the Austrian’s telephone, then the verbatim transcript of the conversation between Altmann and a known C.I.A. operative in Prater Park, every word of which had been picked up from twenty yards away by a ‘pistol’ microphone.

  ‘Needlessly,’ said Melkovsky, voicing the fear. ‘We’ve sacrificed Burke, one of the best operators we’d ever placed.’

  ‘That was your decision,’ defended Turgonev, quickly. He stopped short of saying Altmann had advised against it. The minister was frightened, he saw. Served him right, the bastard.

  It had been an extreme move, accepted Melkovsky. Unless he was very careful, he could be destroyed by this débâcle.

  ‘It’s a mess,’ offered Turgonev.

  Melkovsky nodded agreement.

  ‘And one you’d better clean up,’ he warned. ‘Bloody quickly.’

  (14)

  Hollis’s desk was chaotic, every report and minute affecting the East European negotiations strewn haphazardly overlapping each other, with pages ripped out to form a separate file.

  The millionaire sat hunched, the office in complete darkness except for the single-spot desk-light that pooled yellow on to the working area. Occasionally there was a faint but impatient sound from the adjoining office, where Ellidge had been instructed to wait.

  He had read every document twice, sometimes three times, seeking guidance, and yet again he embarked on the search, concentrating upon the disparate notes he had plucked from the other files. Considered together, he decided, there was sufficient to be incriminating.

  He shook his head reluctantly, refusing the decision.

  He was being too sensitive, he dismissed. Ridiculous almost. Certainly the details gained from Junkers and Kodes could have been presented, in certain circumstances, as evidence of intelligence-gathering. That letter from the Department of Trade and Industry glared up at him: ‘unusually informative’. That would look bad in court.

  But not in any legally constituted court, where a man could be represented by counsel and every page of evidence examined for illogicality. Files similar to those lying before him on the desk were held by every business-man trading behind the Iron Curtain. So the apprehension was groundless. Never appear in court, he repeated to himself. Any attempt to embarrass him would be destroyed within minutes by a barrister, he knew. Irrationally, the phrase ‘legally consituted court’ re-entered his mind, like a sticky sweet-wrapper that couldn’t be shaken from the hand.

  What if the accusation were made before a tribunal that wasn’t legally constituted? Or couldn’t be refuted with logical contempt? What if it were in the East, where nothing was properly legal if they chose for it to be otherwise?

  What court, he suddenly asked himself. Even having determined his unquestionable innocence, his mind was still stupidly engrossed with accusation and trial. There couldn’t be a public examination, he thought again. Immediately his mind set off on the switchback of uncertainty created by the papers set before him. He cupped his head in his hands, closing his eyes against the concentrated glare. It was too complicated, he decided, feeling the numbness seize his mind.

  He was trying to make decisions and anticipate situations without knowing the risks he faced. If only the two bloody detectives had given him the slightest clue, he would have known how to behave.

  He pulled a blank piece of paper towards him to list the arguments for and against involvement.

  If Burke and Altmann had been cultivating him, they would have kept records. Detailed records. If his name featured in any document recovered from Burke by the Special Branch, then it would incriminate him. Despite the innocence.

  He stared at the papers littering his desk. Enough innuendo could be extracted from what lay before him to create the necessary doubt, he accepted.

  And there was sufficient uncertainty, he thought, recalling the discussion with Junkers about the MIG 25. How easy it was now to put that apparently naïve conversation into its proper context! And Kodes’s over-willing frankness about his country’s economic difficulties: unquestionably intelligence material.

  A cleverly planned, well-executed trap, he decided, again. Had it closed behind him? Or was he still free?

  Doubt was really all that was needed, he decided. People would be all too prepared to accept the smear, he knew. He wasn’t liked. Despised by a lot of people, even, because of his incredible success. How they’d enjoy his embarrassment. They would wait like vultures, he knew, pecking at each fresh story, festering it into a scandal.

  And Marion would abandon him, he knew. Just walk out and leave him. He whimpered openly, looking nervously at the door in case Ellidge had detected the inadvertent sound. And if she left him, he realized, the rumours would increase, becoming uncontrollable. He stood up, supporting himself at the desk. He put on more lights, went to the cocktail cabinet and poured whisky, coughing as the liquid scalded his throat.

  He wouldn’t be able to exist without knowing, he decided, holding his hand before him as if it were not attached to his body, watching the nervous vibrations. Tension, he decided. He couldn’t stand the atmosphere with Marion and the uncertainty of not knowing whether those two ridiculous men were going to return to the office with more questions, rehearsed from accounts Burke had given, guaranteed to compromise him. He blinked, as if clearing his vision would give clarity to his mind. It was like trying to gaze into a fog, to discern shapes one knew should be there. But no shapes would form. He poured more whisky automatically, looking unseeing out over a darkened London. There had to be an escape. He tapped the glass edge against his teeth, not drinking, seeking a solution. His mind stayed heavy and dull, thoughts refusing to gel. There had to be a way out, he convinced himself. There always had been, in the past.

  He’d never collapse like his weak-minded father. Could never do that: the man had been mad. He wasn’t mad. He was clever, brilliant even. It just needed the proper consideration, that was all. And he could do it. Hadn’t he proved he was cleverer than them all by what he had achieved? Of course he had. Just the proper amount of thought, that’s all.

  When the idea did come, it seemed so easy he almost dismissed it. He stopped moving the glass against his mouth, starting to smile. Easy, he decided again. And absolutely without danger. A foolproof way of confirming the extent to which Burke and Altmann had been working to enmesh him in their squalid little operation.

  He yelled loudly, and immediately the linking door opened. Ellidge came into the room, his face blank and fixed, showing his annoyance by the very absence of any expression. He stared at the mess on the desk, then at his employer, a frown forming. What in the name of God did the bloody man think he was doing, he asked himself, recalling his earlier fears. He wondered if he should contact Mrs Hollis about his apprehension at her husband’s health. They’d probably sack him for impudence, he decided.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he asked, gesturing towards the desk and the wrecked files.

  Hollis waved impatiently. ‘Sort it out in the morning,’ he dismissed curtly. ‘Wanted to find something.’

  He poured more whisky, ignoring his assistant. The drinking was unnatural, thought Ellidge. Another indication of illness.

  So easy, exulted Hollis. So easy and so perfect. He’d done it again. No one would ever be able to better him.

  ‘What’s the stage of the cassette and oil negotiations?’ he demanded.

  Ellidge glanced at the mess on the desk. It was all there; if the man couldn’t discover it from what he’d read, then his ability to assimilate simple facts had gone.

  ‘Good,’ offered the assistant, guardedly. ‘We’re very near the contract stage.’

  Hollis turned away. His hands had started to shake again and he wanted to disguise it from the other man. It was excitement, he told himself. Definitely not nerves. Who’d ever hear
d of Jocelyn Hollis suffering from nerves?

  ‘Any visits fixed?’ he asked. The attempt to sound casual was destroyed by the intenseness with which he swivelled to reinforce the question. Appearing to realize the mistake, he looked away again before the answer.

  Ellidge stared at the man’s back, sadly shaking his head. He would have to do something, decided the assistant.

  ‘Fairly low-level,’ replied Ellidge. ‘The lawyers are making a two-day trip this week, agreeing the translation of the contracts. It’s important to avoid mistakes that could present any escape clauses.’

  Hollis turned, smiling. ‘I’ll go,’ he announced. ‘Both to East Berlin. And Prague.’

  ‘But …’ Ellidge started to protest. It was a messenger-boy trip, just dull, formal meetings between lawyers.

  ‘I’ll go,’ shouted Hollis. He snapped his mouth shut at the effect upon Ellidge. It had been wrong to yell; a bad over-reaction. But why did the damned man have to appear so supercilious all the time, treating him as if he were a child? Ellidge would have enjoyed the rumours. Always had, even when they had started together, years ago. He’d be the first to tittle-tattle throughout the organization, undermining any defence Hollis attempted. The man had always been envious, Hollis knew.

  Ellidge looked expressionlessly at the man who had always treated him more as an equal than an employee. Hollis’s attitude frightened him, he realized.

  ‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements,’ accepted Ellidge quietly.

  ‘Get messages to Junkers and Kodes. I want to meet them both.’

  The assistant nodded. There would be virtually nothing for them to discuss, thought Ellidge, so the meetings could only result in embarrassment. And the encounters would be dangerous. At the moment only he was aware of Hollis’s apparent ill health. For the sake of the companies he should do something to curtail the man’s contact with other people, to prevent any suspicion starting. He looked indecisively at his employer. Poor Jocelyn, he thought. A basically kind man, but an insecure one who had never possessed the intellectual ability to accept his success.

  Hollis had turned away, looking out into the night again. It would be his trap, determined the millionaire happily. Every time he had gone into Eastern Europe on the current negotiations, Altmann had appeared. Which meant any meeting with Junkers or Kodes was the trigger. So he would press it; if the man made an approach this time, then it would prove conclusively there was an attempt being made to involve him in something embarrassing.

  And if Altmann did contact him, then he could discover what the involvement was. And then overcome it. Because he had a limitless supply of what men became spies to obtain. Money. It had saved him before, with the gaoled minister, and it would save him again. There was nothing he couldn’t afford to pay, he reasoned. A million pounds, even. Yes, a million pounds in any currency the man wanted, transferred to anywhere in the world. More, if it meant survival. What was it he had told that over-impressed interviewer all those months ago? Something about security, he recalled. And money. Money made him secure; that was it. And it was true. It provided complete security. And it would guarantee his safety now, if he were in any danger.

  He turned back into the room, to where Ellidge was standing, curiously, over the desk, trying to rearrange nine months of work back in the folders.

  If Altmann failed to make contact, calculated the millionaire, watching his assistant, then it would indicate he was worrying unnecessarily and that he didn’t run the risk of being compromised.

  He smiled broadly at Ellidge, who answered the expression apprehensively.

  ‘It’ll be a good trip,’ he promised obscurely.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Ellidge. Whatever risk was entailed in his continued employment, he would have to take some action immediately they returned, he decided.

  ‘I had some doubts,’ admitted Murray, expansively.

  The two men sat in the basement room of the White House where Dennison had just dismissed the five-man National Security Council. There would be criticism if it were ever discovered that Murray had sat in upon such a session before his election, thought the Secretary of State. But it was such a foregone conclusion now. Let historians be the critics. Dennison realized Murray was anxious for remarks to be relayed outside the room, to be slotted into the cocktail circuit and enhance the personality cult that was being created with Madison Avenue expertise around him. The candidate was heady with the impending power, accepted the Secretary, examining the vibrant young man so assured of success. He wondered if the developing conceit would submerge his undoubted ability. It would be sad if it happened, he thought; the man had all the potential to be a brilliant President.

  ‘I still have doubts,’ said Dennison. No matter how hopeful everything appeared with the Russian negotiations, he couldn’t lose the suspicion.

  ‘Shit,’ rejected Murray angrily.

  The propensity to swear was new, thought Dennison. It might be necessary, he decided, to reconsider the judgment made all those months ago that Murray was devoid of fault.

  ‘How in the name of Christ can you still moan about caution?’ demanded Murray. ‘We’ve signed the agreements. They have been announced. And both sides are bound to comply. The inspection teams are even being selected. Don’t be bloody ridiculous, Blake.’

  It was time he moved from Washington, Dennison accepted realistically. It wasn’t a bad record, he reminisced. He’d achieved a great deal, helped stabilize what passed as peace and earned a place for himself in history.

  It would be proper to retire to a scholastic life and be a revered elder statesman.

  He shrugged at Murray’s protest.

  ‘The Russians aren’t black-and-white people,’ he argued, lighting the cigarette from the stump of the one that had preceded it. ‘These negotiations have gone like an elementary game of chess, from square to square. That’s not right.’

  Murray sighed impatiently. The following day he was lunching at the Sans Souci with the man he had selected to replace Dennison. The new man would never question him like this silly old sod.

  ‘Are you going to Moscow for the formal signing of the inspection agreement?’ queried Dennison. There would be a lot of publicity for the event, he knew.

  Murray hesitated, bending paperclips out of shape.

  ‘No,’ he rejected definitely, aware of the surprise. ‘There’s an election to think about. You can go to Moscow. I’ll do a country-wide campaign tour.’

  So he’s allowing me the final moment of glory before dumping me, thought Dennison. Or perhaps accepting the warning and taking precautions in case there was a last-minute problem everyone had failed to anticipate. No, reflected Dennison, there was no need to reassess Murray. Certainly the conceit had grown. But he was still a superb politician, better even than Marvin Bell.

  ‘Thanks for the opportunity,’ he said, heavily, wanting the other man to know he had defined the reason.

  Murray looked directly at him, holding his eyes in that politician’s gaze of honesty.

  ‘You deserve the credit, Blake,’ he said, sincerity oiling the words.

  And you, thought Dennison, deserve the Presidency.

  It wouldn’t be long now, thought Altmann. Hannah had slept throughout most of his visit, only the tightness of her grasp upon his fingers indicating the will power that kept her heart flickering. Döhner had been as kind as possible, Altmann supposed. Three months, the doctor had assessed. Maybe four. Certainly no more. Surely she wouldn’t hold him, not if she knew his life was at stake? Hadn’t she always protected him, putting herself between him and danger? If only the bloody Americans would react. So important it had to go to the highest level, the Vienna station-head had said. If it were that important, then the response should have come by now.

  Hannah’s eyes fluttered open blankly. Then she focused on her husband and smiled.

  ‘So tired,’ she apologized.

  ‘Sleep, my darling,’ he said, his voice blurred.

  ‘Always be
there,’ she pleaded, with strange urgency, struggling from the bed-support to emphasize her sudden need. ‘Promise me you’ll always be here when I wake up.’

  Altmann hesitated as her eyes searched his face for the reassurance.

  ‘I promise,’ said the man, in a whisper.

  She took her hand from his, brushing it across his cheek.

  ‘Don’t cry, Hugo,’ she said, evenly. ‘People should only cry when they’ve got something to regret. Our love isn’t something to regret, is it?’

  ‘No, Hannah,’ he said, ashamed of the reason for the tears. It’s nothing to be sad about.’

  ‘I won’t be coming to Vienna, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’d have liked to have come back,’ she said, wistfully. ‘It was so wonderful there, when I was young.’

  She stopped, breathlessly, then squeezed his hand.

  ‘Was I very cruel to you, Hugo, in those days?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You’re very kind, Hugo,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I was, flirting with all those other men, making you wait like a patient dog. That was cruel.’

  He bent over, kissing her cheek.

  ‘I did love you, when we were married,’ she insisted, very seriously. ‘It wasn’t because everyone else had stopped courting me, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘Will you ever forgive me, for the way I behaved?’

  ‘If you’ll forgive me,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Oh, I have,’ said the frail woman immediately. ‘I forgave you a long time ago, my darling. I love you too much.’

  ‘It’s very simple,’ a smiling Melkovsky said to Turgonev. ‘We just kill Hugo.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the colonel. ‘It would have exactly the right effect, wouldn’t it? When shall we do it?’

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Turgonev.

  As he rose to leave, the telephone rang. He saw the puzzlement on Melkovsky’s face and waited.

  The minister replaced the telephone, frowning.