‘Isn’t there a way we can get the news through to him?’ she asked. ‘It was something that mattered considerably to him. I’m sure it would do some good.’
Poor woman, wanting so much to help her husband, thought Ellidge.
The doctor shook his head. ‘It’s not the future that is important at the moment,’ he said. ‘It’s the past. If we had any idea what caused the trauma we could start to begin a recovery. It must have been a very sudden shock.’
‘I don’t think so,’ disagreed Ellidge. ‘I’d been aware of a change in his attitude for several weeks … months almost.’
It had been months, remembered Ellidge, recalling that inexplicable telephone conversation at the Am Zoo Hotel when Hollis had lied about the British embassy. Who had that caller been, he wondered. There would never be a way of knowing.
‘Yet you said nothing,’ accused the psychiatrist.
‘He was not a man who took advice easily,’ defended Ellidge, disconcerted at the criticism in front of the woman.
‘Have you been able to discover the reason for that episode at Prague airport?’ pressed the doctor.
‘No,’ said Ellidge. ‘By the time I managed to get off the plane, he’d disappeared. I have no idea where he went. And still haven’t. It was almost midnight when I got to London airport. I learned from the office that he had returned ahead of me. And you know all about how I discovered him when I got there, slumped over the desk.’
It had been terrifying, remembered Ellidge, those blank, insane eyes and the way the man kept flexing and closing his hands. But the laughter had been the worst thing, that obscene giggle, broken by the gibberish words.
‘That burned debris is important,’ insisted the psychiatrist.
Ellidge shrugged. ‘It was just a metal wastepaper basket full of blackened ash,’ he said. ‘It was impossible to discover what it had been. We only know it was none of the file material that had been in the office.’
The psychiatrist gestured helplessly, standing.
‘Then we can only continue the treatment. And hope,’ he said, seeking safety in platitudes.
Solicitously, Ellidge walked with the woman from the building.
‘His father went mad, you know,’ said Marion, as they sat in the car. ‘He killed himself.’
‘I didn’t know,’ said Ellidge.
‘Jocelyn was very ashamed of it,’ she said. ‘Thought it showed an inherent weakness …’ She paused. ‘And he was right, wasn’t he?’
Ellidge didn’t reply.
‘I’m going to need your help, Mr Ellidge,’ said Marion decisively, looking directly at him. If she had to stay, she might as well keep the empire going. She’d spite James yet, she decided positively.
‘You’ll have my complete support,’ promised Ellidge.
‘I’ll see the lawyers tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And get you confirmed as chief executive.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Ellidge gratefully. There was no point in telling her that Jocelyn had made that promise, he decided.
‘It’s ironical’, said Marion softly, ‘that he wanted so much to be recognized for what he had done for his country and he’s too ill to be told he’s been awarded a peerage in the Dissolution of Parliament Honours List. It was very important to him to be a Lord.’
‘He worked terribly hard for it,’ agreed Ellidge soothingly.
‘Lord Hollis, ‘she mused. ‘Madman.’
He looked at her curiously. Shock, he decided.
‘He doesn’t know your brother has been elected President, either,’ pointed out Ellidge.
Marion turned sharply to him, then relaxed, seeing the innocence of the remark.
‘No,’ she accepted. ‘He doesn’t know that, either.’
(19)
One vodka bottle already lay discarded in the wastepaper basket of Melkovsky’s office, and the boasting was elevating the episode into an unqualified success.
Melkovsky’s career was now guaranteed for years: to cultivate him would be to rise with him, Turgonev knew.
‘Brilliant,’ offered the K.G.B. colonel. Sycophancy would be necessary for a long time, he thought. The unnecessary sacrifice of Burke had been disguised as a master-stroke making everything else possible, and Melkovsky had emerged as one of the most powerful men in the Praesidium. General Secretary within three years, guessed Turgonev.
And throughout it all he’d been cheating everyone, the colonel now knew. Even me, he thought. Only that afternoon had Melkovsky disclosed Ornisher’s approach weeks before, offering all Altmann’s files.
Melkovsky hadn’t been taking any chances at all, merely playing puppet-master to everyone.
It meant the minister didn’t trust him, thought Turgonev worriedly. And before that afternoon was out, the man would have further cause for apprehension.
‘Actually, it was a pity about Burke,’ embarked Turgonev cautiously. It was the minister’s only mistake.
Melkovsky looked at him sharply, the glass held untasted before him. He’s presenting his terms, decided the minister, letting it be known that through his knowledge he expected a share of the honours and promotions that were to come. Melkovsky smiled, accepting the attitude. Why not, he thought. Turgonev had showed himself very able. And the bond could be mutually useful. There would almost certainly be the need for a scapegoat in the future.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, pushing forward the prepared explanation. ‘But it was the only way we could test Altmann’s loyalty when everything else had failed. Letting Altmann think we were activating Burke, when we had no such intention, meant he had to disclose the man’s identity to the British if he were the double agent I suspected him of being.’
Would anyone in the future wonder why Melkovsky had employed someone who was suspect, wondered Turgonev. Probably not.
Silence settled in the room. Time to emphasize that flaw in the story, decided the K.G.B. officer.
‘Just imagine,’ he reflected. ‘For all those years Hugo was working for the highest bidder.’
‘He had his own set of rules,’ pointed out Melkovsky, magnanimous in victory. ‘There is no indication from anything we’ve learned that once he embarked on a project he ever double-crossed whoever had commissioned him. This was the first time. And he didn’t really have a choice with Burke, did he?’
Turgonev nodded agreement.
‘I liked Hugo,’ he admitted. ‘He was a professional.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Melkovsky dismissively. ‘It’s a pity.’
‘He would have known all along what would happen if we ever discovered there were more than one set of incriminating records,’ said Turgonev sadly. ‘He must have laughed at us, trying so hard to trap Hollis, knowing it would have been so much easier to eliminate him.’
‘He got careless,’ asserted the Foreign Minister. ‘He made no effort to disguise those visits to his wife or the lunches with the lawyer. It must have been obvious that we would move against Ornisher one day, even though the man’s immediate co-operation couldn’t have been anticipated. It’s almost as if Hugo had a death wish.’
‘He was getting old,’ reasoned Turgonev. He paused. ‘Ornisher was very scared, wasn’t he?’
Melkovsky nodded, adding to his glass. It was a night to get very drunk, he decided.
‘What happened to him?’ he asked, casually. ‘Did you agree to the protection he wanted?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Turgonev. ‘We agreed to give it.’
‘Oh.’
‘But he was killed last night,’ completed the K.G.B. colonel. ‘Knocked down by a car. Died instantly. It was most unfortunate.’
Melkovsky raised his eyebrows, knowing there was more.
‘Bauer was driving the car,’ added Turgonev quickly. He stared directly at the minister, tense for the reaction.
The bastard, thought Melkovsky. He wondered when he could have given Turgonev the clue.
‘We will be able to get him back, of course,’ said Turgonev. ‘We will invoke diplomatic imm
unity.’
Melkovsky nodded. ‘But his worth as an agent will be destroyed, because of all the publicity?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Turgonev. There was no regret in his voice.
He would have to be extremely cautious of Turgonev, decided the minister.
The K.G.B. man moved quickly to get past the embarrassment.
‘Wasn’t it incredible that Hollis should intrude himself back into things, just when we had decided to abandon the attempt to trap him with phoney evidence and achieve what we wanted by killing Altmann ourselves?’
Melkovsky looked back at the man from beneath lowered eyebrows. Turgonev was very ambitious. Let him talk, he decided.
‘I’m still surprised at your decision to hold back and not immediately inform the Viennese authorities when our people saw Hollis come from Altmann’s apartment,’ continued Turgonev. Had I made that decision, he thought sadly, instead of consulting Melkovsky in Moscow, then I would have been the one receiving the eulogies today. But then he hadn’t known about Ornisher.
Melkovsky shrugged, knowing he was drunk and unwilling to give the other man too much advantage.
‘Will you ever move against Hollis, when he comes out of the psychiatric clinic?’ pressed Turgonev.
‘Oh yes,’ said Melkovsky immediately. ‘We’ll move when it suits us.’
‘What have we got?’
‘Everything we could possibly want,’ listed the minister, slurring slightly. ‘Presumably he found a file in Hugo’s apartment. But it was only the one he was keeping for his own Zurich safe-deposit. We’ve got tape-recordings … pictures … the lot …’
‘And Altmann’s death?’
‘There were fingerprints in at least four places. All we have to do is give the Austrian police the name and they will match them immediately We’ve got our pictures of him entering and leaving the apartment, and his presence in the city on the day of the death can be simply confirmed from the airline records. And don’t forget that before the Austrian police arrived at the apartment, we were able to retrieve the tape-recordings of their last encounter, an actual recording of a killing.’
‘Everything,’ accepted Turgonev honestly. ‘Did he murder Hugo, by the way?’
‘Not technically,’ said Melkovsky. ‘Although obviously he thinks he did. I’ve little doubt that is what triggered off his breakdown. Hugo had apparently been suffering from angina for years. Cause of death was heart failure. But it wouldn’t have happened at that moment if Hollis hadn’t attacked him. He was badly beaten, remember. The charge would be manslaughter.’
‘That wouldn’t make any difference to the scandal,’ assessed Turgonev.
‘None,’ agreed Melkovsky.
For a long while both men sat silently drinking their vodka, reflecting on the strength of their position. The minister would want to expand it, recognized Turgonev, waiting.
‘We’ve an uncontestable case against a man who is now a British peer, showing he was a spy,’ said the minister, enjoying the outcome. ‘More than that, we’ve positive evidence that he killed a man whose spying is now public knowledge throughout the world, and whose death has resulted in a return to the cold war as severe as that of the 1950s.’
‘And?’ prompted Turgonev, unnecessarily, greeting the role of sycophant. ‘The brother-in-law of the President of the United States. The connected and implied guilt in the spy ring is unavoidable.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Melkovsky, content. ‘So all we have to do is wait until the proper moment …’
He paused, snapping his fingers.
‘… And bring the whole thing tumbling down round their ears.’
‘We couldn’t bring the President down,’ reasoned Turgonev realistically.
‘I doubt it,’ admitted Melkovsky. ‘But it puts us in a position virtually to manipulate his re-election. And stay in complete control of American foreign policy: it’s a detonator we can push any time.’
‘I wonder’, reflected Turgonev, ‘what the man would do if he knew his Presidency was by courtesy of the Soviet Union.’
‘He’ll never know that,’ said Melkovsky. ‘Not until we choose to tell him, that is.’
He refilled both their glasses.
‘Congratulations,’ toasted Turgonev. ‘An overwhelming success.’
‘It will be,’ concurred Melkovsky. ‘When the time comes.’
‘And to Hugo,’ added Turgonev, quite drunk and maudlin now.
‘Yes,’ agreed Melkovsky. ‘To Hugo.’
There was no point in telling her, decided Professor Döhner, looking down sadly at the hollowed face. Poor woman, he thought. So much suffering; it was right she should be spared more.
‘He will come tomorrow, won’t he?’ demanded Hannah, urgently. ‘He’s missed two weeks already.’
‘Yes,’ assured Döhner, gently. ‘1 spoke to him only yesterday. He told me to tell you how upset he is at missing the visits …’
The urbane man looked at his watch, as if checking a fact.
‘… He’ll already be on his way,’ he promised.
She smiled, lying back against the pillows.
‘Dear Hugo,’ she said wistfully. ‘He doesn’t really believe I love him, you know. He thinks I only married him because everyone else avoided me as a result of what was happening in 1938.’
She would be lost in her reminiscences soon, Döhner knew. That was good.
‘I think I’ll tell him tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Try to convince him that I’ve always loved him.’
‘Yes,’ said Döhner, ‘Why not do that?’
‘And I do, you know,’ she insisted. ‘I really do.’
‘I know,’ placated Döhner, trying to prevent her becoming agitated. ‘I know you do.’
He looked at his watch, with reason this time. The nurses were due. He moved away from the bed, intercepting them at the door.
‘I’ll administer the treatment tonight,’ he said, taking the covered kidney-bowl and putting it down immediately on the table inside the door.
She was smiling when he returned to her bed, her eyes misted in memories.
‘… So lucky to have had him as my husband,’ she said, distantly, ‘… So very lucky …’
‘A different treatment tonight,’ he cautioned. ‘Just a pin prick.’
She didn’t hear him, lying there, wrapped in the past.
It was kinder this way, he thought, washing her arm with spirit. Much kinder.
A Biography of Brian Freemantle
Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.
Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the Daily Mail, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city’s orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.
Although he began writing espionage fiction in the late 1960s, he first won fame in 1977, with Charlie M. That book introduced the world to Charlie Muffin—a disheveled spy with a skill set more bureaucratic than Bond-like. The novel, which drew favorable comparisons to the work of John Le Carré, was a hit, and Freemantle began writing sequels. The sixth in the series, The Blind Run, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. To date, Freemantle has penned fourteen titles in the Charlie Muffin series, the most recent of which is Red Star Rising (2010), which brought back the popular spy after a nine-year absence.
In addition to the stories of Charlie Muffin, Freemantle has written more than two d
ozen standalone novels, many of them under pseudonyms including Jonathan Evans and Andrea Hart. Freemantle’s other series include two books about Sebastian Holmes, an illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the four Cowley and Danilov books, which were written in the years after the end of the Cold War and follow an odd pair of detectives—an FBI operative and the head of Russia’s organized crime bureau.
Freemantle lives and works in London, England.
A school photograph of Brian Freemantle at age twelve.
Brian Freemantle, at age fourteen, with his mother, Violet, at the country estate of a family acquaintance, Major Mears.
Freemantle’s parents, Harold and Violet Freemantle, at the country estate of Major Mears.
Brian Freemantle and his wife, Maureen, on their wedding day. They were married on December 8, 1956, in Southampton, where both were born and spent their childhoods. Although they attended the same schools, they did not meet until after they had both left Southampton.
Brian Freemantle (right) with photographer Bob Lowry in 1959. Freemantle and Lowry opened a branch office of the Bristol Evening World together in Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, England.
A bearded Freemantle with his wife, Maureen, circa 1971. He grew the beard for an undercover newspaper assignment in what was then known as Czechoslovakia.
Freemantle (left) with Lady and Sir David English, the editors of the Daily Mail, on Freemantle’s fiftieth birthday. Freemantle was foreign editor of the Daily Mail, and with the backing of Sir David and the newspaper, he organized the airlift rescue of nearly one hundred Vietnamese orphans from Saigon in 1975.
Freemantle working on a novel before beginning his daily newspaper assignments. His wife, Maureen, looks over his shoulder.
Brian Freemantle says good-bye to Fleet Street and the Daily Mail to take up a fulltime career as a writer in 1975. The editor’s office was turned into a replica of a railway carriage to represent the fact that Freemantle had written eight books while commuting—when he wasn’t abroad as a foreign correspondent.
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