by Adam Hall
And they'd said Komoroff and Bulgin, who weren't all that much of a catch anyway. We knew about that one — everybody did.
'Nice work,' I said.
''Thank you. It wasn't that difficult.'
'You've got some good friends in Moscow.'
''They're all right. They want watching.' Quick smile.
I made a mental note to ask Cone to hit the computers in London with a question: Who handled the Ericson swap? Pollock could be lying in his teeth. But from what he was telling me and the idiom he was using I knew at least that he was either in DI6 or liaising with them from some other official department.
'So what made you go off the rails?'
His hands stopped playing. 'I wouldn't quite put it like that, if you're talking about Trumpeter.'
'How would you put it?'
He didn't answer for a second or two and I knew why. I'd told him I was going to open up this operation of his and look at it very hard, and I'd told him that if he didn't cooperate I'd throw them all to the KGB to do it for me. The only thing he could do now was to appear to tell me everything and at the same time try to tell me nothing.
And the very best of luck.
'Trumpeter,' he said, 'is an operation that's going to change Europe, and — ' he gave a little apologetic smile '- I hope this doesn't sound too dramatic — and change the geopolitical world, overnight.' He must have remembered what I'd just told Cone over the phone, because he said, 'You can't judge the size of an operation by the furniture.'
'Touche.'
'There's only one thing wrong with Trumpeter.' His voice had gone terribly quiet, and I noticed his hands were unsteady.
'I've blown it,' I said.
'That's right.'
23: MORNING
A big man, big-bodied, not overweight, his head totally bald and pear-shaped, widening downwards to a heavy face, his eyes very alert indeed, especially now, his mouth fleshy and pink, his ears flattened against his balloon-smooth head, his neck thick, with a double chin, his flushed skin shining from the top of his head to his collar, washed, polished, giving him a baby's glow.
He came down the steps quickly.
Melnichenko.
And stopped. Wrinkles developed across his forehead as his eyes moved to take in the scene. To me, in German with a Russian accent, 'That was you, wasn't it, in the building?'
He got an A for that: he could only have caught a glimpse of me as I'd run for the elevator. I didn't answer.
'You were in my office?'
I didn't say anything. Pollock had got out of his chair and the pilot, Schwarz, was on his feet too.
'Aleksy,' Pollock said, 'this is Mr Ash.' To me: 'Commandant Melnichenko, GRU.'
I said good evening. He inclined his head, his pale blue eyes engaged. Then a glance to Pollock.
'I was in the middle of dinner.'
I didn't know whether he resented the interruption or was excusing himself for not getting here sooner.
Pollock ignored it, anyway. 'Mr Ash wants to ask us some questions.' He glanced at Schwarz. 'Jurgen, would you mind getting another chair down here?'
'Make it two,' I told him.
Then someone else came down the steps with a big pewter tray and Pollock told him to get a bottle of Smirnov too and a shot glass. It was very busy for a bit and I noticed Melnichenko trying to pick up whatever he could from Pollock's expression, which was strictly non-committal, the spook's language for extreme caution, his eyes deliberately not meeting the Russian's but just looking casually all over the room.
The two extra chairs and the bottle of vodka arrived and Pollock was nice enough to pour me a cup of tea and I held my hands round it because it was so bloody cold in here.
'Commandant,' I said, 'I'm in British intelligence and I'm out here to assist the KGB, at their request. I want to know everything about Trumpeter. If you won't answer me, you'll have to answer the KGB.'
Lovely hot tea.
'What is the exact position?' he asked Pollock in Russian.
Jesus Christ, that wasn't very clever.
'The exact position,' I said in Russian, 'is that you've got to do what I tell you, because I've blown Trumpeter and you might as well face up to it and co-operate.'
But I was only feeling my way. In this situation anything was possible: Pollock was running a rogue operation, but the GRU could be working with him unofficially but with direct orders from someone extremely high in the Kremlin.
'I feel it is a little too early.' He'd switched back to German.
'Too early to cooperate?'
'Well, yes. I would require official assurances, for instance, as to your bona fides.' His chubby smile was like Pollock's, an automatic reflex.
'You're not in a position to require things,' I told him. 'Your only hope is to assist me — and my government — to the point where you might save yourself from the high displeasure of the Kremlin.'
I waited. Pollock's hands were restless again; he couldn't keep them still, because when he stopped playing with them I could see they were shaking.
'Aleksy,' he said quietly, 'I can vouch for what Mr Ash has said. He is in fact an agent in British intelligence.'
'Then we can conduct discussions on an official level.'
I decided to give him five more minutes, because in those five minutes I might get him to fall with his pink polished face flat in the doo-doo, which would give me a real kick because these people had handled me as if I'd been a bloody amateur, guns in my guts and all that.
'If you were in a position to conduct discussions on an official level, Commandant, what are you doing in a freezing cellar underneath a club run mostly for the top brass in the black market?'
I suppose Pollock had thought I hadn't noticed, when we'd had lunch together; but he wasn't worried about that now. I'd got Melnichenko into a corner and he knew it and he was smart enough to try another gambit.
'The thing is, we don't see why you should be taking an interest in Trumpeter at all. It's basically a Soviet operation.'
'I'm taking an interest because it's patently clandestine and there's an Englishman "coordinating things" — as you put it — from this centre and that man Bader will shortly be up on a murder charge because I'm going to see that he is, and the objective of my own mission is the protection of General-Secretary Gorbachev and I haven't got the slightest assurance that Trumpeter is not in point of fact aimed at him. And if what you're doing is liable to change Europe and the geopolitical world then my department is going to inform the Prime Minister very quickly indeed.' I took another swig at the tea. 'And you know what she's going to do? She's going to get Mr Gorbachev on his private line and make absolutely certain he's informed.'
Melnichenko was very good; he could keep his eyes blanked off and he could keep his hands perfectly still but he hadn't got any control over his parasympathetic nervous system and the beads of sweat were gathering on his naked head and glistening under the light, and it was cold enough in here to emasculate a brass monkey.
But he made an attempt. 'I was called here at short notice, as you know. Perhaps if you'd give me a day or two before we meet again? I can then confer with my contacts in Moscow.'
Couldn't learn.
Pollock came in at me fast — 'Look, you've talked about getting the KGB in on this, but we're not at all sure you can do that. I mean frankly, both sides need assurances, don't you agree?'
They'd had their five minutes and I finished the tea in my cup and poured some more and got up and went across to the telephone.
Cone picked up on the first ring.
I asked him, 'Is Yasolev with you?'
'No. He's at the embassy.'
'His own?'
'Yes. What's the position?'
'They're being uncooperative, so I'm going to throw them to the dogs. I'll keep you well informed.'
I think he was going to ask something else but I rang off. 'Commandant Melnichenko, how long have you been here in East Berlin?'
'Almost th
ree years.' He was looking particularly bland, but his head was glistening.
'Then you see quite a bit of the Soviet ambassador.'
'I do, yes.'
'And you're familiar with his private telephone number.'
'Yes.'
He was sitting near enough to the phone to be able to see what I was dialling, and that was all I wanted.
'Chancery.'
'I'd like to speak to Ambassador Polyakov.'
'I'm sorry, but he is dining now. May I take a message?'
'Tell him Liaison is on the line.'
He asked me to repeat it and I did; he was confused because it wasn't a name.
Pollock got up and started mooching about. I was sorry for him: he'd had his mission blown from under him, but it was his own fault. He shouldn't have given these pilots such a free hand; they weren't in intelligence and didn't know how to operate.
'Polyakov.'
'Your excellency, let me apologise for disturbing you at dinner.'
'It doesn't matter, because in any case the duck was a disaster. I requested flambe, not incinere. What can I do for you?'
'Do you know a Commandant A. V. Melnichenko?'
'I do.'
'Is he here in an official capacity as a member of the GRU?'
'As far as I know. He's an adviser to the Airforce.'
'Thank you. Is Colonel Yasolev there this evening?'
'I'll call him to the phone.'
Pollock was still on the move, hands dug into his pockets, fists pushed out. I put a hand over the mouthpiece.
'Colonel Yasolev is KGB. He'll be your chief interrogator; it's his speciality.'
I'd spoken in German so that Melnichenko and Schwarz could pick it up.
Laughter broke out faintly from the rooms above, an odd sound, surrealistic in this context.
'Yasolev.'
'Good evening. Let me ask a question. Would you be ready to put two people under intensive interrogation immediately?'
'But of course.'
Pollock had stopped walking about, and was staring at the floor. Melnichenko was wiping his face. I was speaking in Russian, and Schwarz wasn't getting anything, but he was watching the other two, and that was good enough.
'As you know,' I told Yasolev, 'we haven't got much time left. You may have to be very persuasive.'
'These people are with you now?'
'Yes. But they're refusing to talk. I know you'll be more successful.'
'Is it a suitable place?'
'It's a cellar, but it's not really soundproof. You can do it at KGB headquarters, can't you?'
'Of course.'
'Then I'll have them available for you to pick up. I'd suggest four men and a van. I don't — '
I broke off because Pollock was looking at me.
'No KGB,' he said. 'Full disclosure. Deal?'
'If you don't change your mind.'
'It wouldn't make sense, would it?'
'Yasolev,' I said into the phone, 'go and finish your dinner and I'll call on you again when everything's ready.'
'But I insist on knowing what's happening. Are these two of Volper's people?'
'No. You can ask Cone about it: I've got my hands rather full.'
I told him I'd keep in close touch and rang off and dialled Extension 525 at the hotel.
Second ring.
'It's time you came down here,' I told Cone. 'Bring the tape recorder and five sixty-minute tapes, plus the mains charger.' I looked at Pollock. 'Where exactly is the door to this cellar?' I'd had the bag over my head when I'd been brought here.
'It's on the east side of the building at the end of the car park. Green door, next to some railings.'
I told Cone. 'And listen, this location is strictly covert. Strictly.'
I didn't want to mention Yasolev's name again and let Pollock know that I was keeping him uninformed. It was simply that it wasn't the time to let the KGB loose on Trumpeter; it sounded much too sensitive.
'Understood,' Cone said. 'Shall I tell Jones?'
'No. It's not his concern.'
He was just making sure I wasn't in fact a captive and phoning him under duress to bring him into a trap: I'd told him earlier that I was in the Trumpeter operations room. If I'd said yes — tell Jones — he would have had this place surrounded straight away and put under siege conditions.
'I won't be long,' he said.
'Can somebody open that door?'
Place was stinking of cigarette smoke, getting in the eyes. There'd been a bit of hope a couple of hours ago when Pollock had thrown his empty packet of Players' onto the table, but he'd called the barman upstairs to bring another one. I hadn't stopped him because I'd wanted his nerves kept sedated.
Schwarz went up the steps to open the door.
It was gone three o'clock and the place was littered with plastic plates and the remains of bread and blood-sausage and sauerkraut and hard-boiled eggs and everything looked in a real mess but we'd got Trumpeter nailed down, the whole thing.
And Pollock was perfectly right: if we let this one go forward to completion it could change Europe, and the world.
'I shall have to inform London,' Cone said at last.
He'd been edifying to watch, sitting there for hours in the seedy plush chair with his thin chilblained hands folded on his lap and his eyes squinting from one to the other as Pollock and Melnichenkov had answered the questions, listening with great care and sometimes asking for repetitions, sometimes trying to trap them into conceding they were holding something back, once or twice succeeding and leading them on again, bringing in a whole string of questions about Cat Baxter and her critical role in the operation, cornering Pollock once or twice and carefully bringing out the relationship between him and Melnichenko. Pollock answered most of the questions, using fluent German, but now the Russian got out of his chair and loomed over us, wiping his face the whole time.
'But why must you "inform London," as you put it? Who is "London"?'
'My department,' Cone said.
'Your department of what intelligence agency?'
Cone looked at me and said, 'I think we've got all we want here. Unless you've got any questions?'
He'd been hitting the pause button on the recorder a dozen times a minute for hours on end, editing out inconsequential material as he went along. His finger was on it now.
'It's out of my field,' I told him, 'at this stage.' I'd blown Trumpeter and it was for Cone to give a brief outline to Bureau One and let him take it from there. 'You might want to question Bader some time. He's the second pilot.'
'Where is he?'
'In hospital.'
'What's his problem?'
'He got injured.'
'Very well.' This was Melnichenko, having another go. 'Very well, it is for you to ask the questions. But I fail to understand why you should inform your government. This operation is strictly to do with the USSR and Germany, as you must surely realise.'
Cone said nothing, sat watching him.
'We've done our best,' Pollock told Cone. 'This has been a very thorough debriefing. I think you owe us consideration.'
'I'll give you five minutes,' Cone said, and looked at his watch. 'It might take a bit — '
'This is a Soviet enterprise.' Melnichenko was standing over Cone, his pink hands flat with the fingers spread, orchestrating what he was saying. 'The Soviets alone are responsible for the consequences.' Thumping his chest — 'I am responsible for the consequences, not Pollock, not you, not your government. The action will take place on East German soil, the soil of a country under Soviet protection. Our intention is to advance General-Secretary Gorbachev's efforts to bring the USSR into the open, into the world community; our intention is not to harm him, and we have made that plain enough. You say your mission is to protect him. So, indirectly, is ours.' Spreading his hands, holding the crescendo — 'Now, come, let each of us get on with our own business.'
Cone sat thinking. Pollock lit another cigarette. I finished the tea in the po
t; it was cold by now, and bitter, just what I wanted, an astringent for the tongue.
'If this is a Soviet operation,' Cone said at last, 'who's running it?'
The pink brow wrinkled in surprise. 'We are.'
'Look,' Cone said, 'if you want my help, don't give me any bullshit. It's late and I'm tired. I want the name of the man in Moscow who's holding the reins.'
Melnichenko glanced at Pollock.
'We've got to,' Pollock said.
'Very well. His name is Gregor Talyzin. He is a deputy chairman of the Politburo.'
'Well well,' Cone said, and looked at me. 'And a close friend of Gorbachev's.' He looked back to the Russian. 'Give me his phone number — his direct private line.'
Melnichenko brought out a card and Cone took his finger off the pause button and noted the number and shut the machine off and got up and gave the card back and went over to the telephone and dialled, waiting.
'If your operation,' he told Pollock, 'weren't such a whizz-bang, I'd probably leave you to it. But there's going to be an awful lot of fallout, and I don't want to be in it.' Into the phone: 'Viktor, you can take these people now. Yes. Did he? Yes, a van would do nicely.' He told Yasolev how to get here and put the phone down.
Melnichenko said without much conviction, 'But you have no authority.'
'I know. You'll be the guests of the KGB.'
Cone stood in the car park watching the van turning onto the street, arms folded across his chest against the cold.
'If they can do it,' he said, 'it's going to shake a lot of things up.'
'If the KGB lets them.'
'It won't be up to them. Ask me, Thatcher's going to get on the phone to Gorbachev just as soon as Mr Shepley's told her the score. It'll be decided at that level.'
'You think they'll let Trumpeter go ahead?'
'God, how do I know? I'm just half-hoping they will and half-hoping they won't.' He got the keys of the car. 'It scares me to think how close we are to making history. I prefer a good game of darts, actually, down at the Whistle.'
We got in and he fished in the glove pocket and gave me a hotel envelope and I opened it.
'Just in from London. The one marked B is the latest, taken three months ago.'
