Inside the immigration hall, he had looked around for a sign of someone waiting to take him through, but there had been no one visible. He had carefully filled in his visa form and currency declaration, and changed his regulation twenty-five West German marks into twenty-five Eastern ones, an exchange designed specifically to benefit the economy of the communist half of Germany.
His passport had been taken from him by a border guard who displayed an overt loathing of Westerners. Anderson suspected it was his primary qualification for the job. The document had been slipped through a flap in the wall, and examined by unseen officials. A few moments later a small hatch had opened up and two pairs of eyes studied him carefully. Then the passport had been returned to him and he was through.
East Berlin. As he had looked back at the concrete wall, trying to imagine the desperation of those who had died trying to escape it, a man in a smart raincoat had tapped him on the arm. A car had been waiting to take him to the headquarters of the HVA, the East German Intelligence Service.
The Skydancer blueprints had been taken from him as soon as they arrived at the slab-sided grey building, and since then he had been alone in this bare room with nothing to look at but last year’s calendar.
Why on earth had they bothered to put it there? It seemed a pointless decoration. Unless there was something behind it . . .
His heart began to pound and a shiver ran through him. He realised with horror that for the past two hours every bead of sweat, every flicker of his eyelids had been minutely studied from another room.
In Moscow, General Novikov had just returned to his GRU headquarters from a gruelling meeting with his KGB counterpart at the half-moon-shaped offices on the Moscow ring-road. Novikov’s operation to get the Skydancer plans was beginning to cost the KGB dearly.
Already one of their key ‘illegals’ had been arrested, the woman responsible for co-ordinating the manipulation of the anti-nuclear militants in Britain. It had taken years to put Ilena Petrova into place, years of work that was now wasted.
Above all, there was now a threat to one of their longest-serving agents of all time, a man recruited at Oxford University in the 1940s. He had been the subtlest of the academic recruits, gently influencing young men to look kindly on the Soviet Union in their lives ahead.
But now, with the arrest of that young submariner, the British investigators would begin to probe, to delve into the past. It would only be a matter of time before they found the trail leading back to that small, select boarding-school attended by so many boys whose lives had later led them to positions of authority.
General Novikov had promised the KGB that his operation was nearing its end. Just a few more hours and it would all be over – successfully. The sacrifices would have been worth it; Kvitzinsky would have the blueprints he wanted, and Moscow’s leaders could again feel that their future safety was as assured as was humanly possible.
Belinda Joyce had just finished watching the Nine O’Clock News when her husband arrived home. She was sitting on her own in the kitchen, looking at a small portable television. The children were watching another programme in the living-room.
After hanging his coat in the hall, Peter walked through to the kitchen and pulled a chair over beside her.
‘I was watching the news,’ she began nervously. ‘They said two women were arrested at Newbury yesterday, and that a senior scientist at Aldermaston had been suspended!’
‘They’re a bit behind the times,’ he replied. ‘I was reinstated this morning and the suspension’s been struck from the record. They didn’t name me, did they? If they did, I’ll sue them!’
Belinda saw that the lines around his mouth had deepened and his eyes had lost their brightness. He looked so defeated; she’d never seen him quite like that before. Standing up, she took down a glass from the dresser behind her.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked, indicating the wine bottle on the table.
‘Love one.’
He sipped thoughtfully at the cheap burgundy before answering her unspoken question.
‘Yes, one of those women they arrested was Helene, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ he told her gently. ‘Apparently her real name is Ilena Petrova. She’s a Russian spy.’
The look on Belinda’s face was one of pain rather than surprise, which made Peter think she had expected the news.
‘Can they really be so sure?’ she asked in the vain hope there might be some doubt.
‘They’re quite sure. They’ve photographed her with a KGB man.’
Belinda burst into tears.
‘You don’t know how hard she tried to persuade me to spy on your work – even steal some of your papers!’ she sobbed. ‘It all seemed . . . innocent at the time, like a – a game. But it wasn’t. God, you must think me so stupid!’
Peter put his arms round her.
‘We’ve both been pretty bloody foolish.’
For a few moments they were silent. They both sensed that the wounds caused by his love affair with Mary Maclean were healing. A permanent scar might remain, but it was one they would be able to live with.
Suddenly Belinda asked, ‘Who was the other woman? The other one they arrested?’
‘Someone called Susan Parkinson,’ Peter replied. ‘Know her? She’s supposed to be a member of ATSA.’
‘No. She must be from another branch. Are they saying she was a spy, too?’
‘They think she may just have been a protester who went too far . . .’
‘What’ll happen next?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Perhaps they’ll arrest me, too.’
‘You shouldn’t have anything to fear,’ he smiled, and poured them some more wine.
‘How much longer will this nightmare last?’ she asked.
Her face creased with anxiety. Suddenly Peter felt a great fondness for her. He thought of Anderson and his frantic, disastrous efforts to preserve the happiness and integrity of his family. Love, affection, security, call it what you will – it was what they were all motivated by in one way or another.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied eventually. ‘But I think it’s all about to come to a head.’
At eleven the following morning a dark-green saloon car drew up in the courtyard of the British Military Mission in Berlin. A small red and gold plaque on its bumper designated it as belonging to the Soviet Army. Officers from the forces of the four nations that had controlled the city since the death of Adolf Hider had the right of access to each other’s areas. Every day Soviet officers would drive into the West, and every day British, French and American officers would visit the East. However, for a Soviet officer to pay a call at the British headquarters was far from usual.
The Russian army captain walked into the building carrying a small brown envelope. The British major on duty looked surprised as the Soviet soldier slapped it down on his desk, stood back and saluted.
‘Captain Borodin of the Military Mission of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics,’ he introduced himself His voice was thin and nasal.
‘Major Howlett,’ the British officer replied coolly.
‘You see, there is, mmmm . . . a British person in our section, who has been behaving unacceptably,’ the Russian continued in a thick accent.
He tapped the envelope with his index finger.
‘His papers,’ he explained. ‘You see . . . his passport has one name, but his driving licence has another.’
‘I see,’ the major answered non-committally, slitting open the envelope and tipping the contents on to the desk. He picked up the driving licence first, which was in the name of Alec Anderson.
‘I see,’ he said again. The name on the passport was Allenby.
‘Tell me, Captain Borodin, do you have this man under arrest?’
The Russian officer shifted awkwardly. He was only a messenger, unable to answer such questions.
‘He will be returned to you,’ he began again, ‘but there is someone special who must collect him.’
He pointed
to a folded sheet of paper that had fallen from the envelope.
Puzzled, the major spread it open. It was a short letter.
‘But . . . but this is addressed to the Chief of the Defence Staff!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not sure I should read it.’
‘You must transmit it now!’ Borodin insisted. ‘It is very urgent.’
With increasing astonishment the major cast his eye down the page, scanning the conditions set for Anderson’s release from the East.
‘Well . . . I shall deal with it right away, Captain. We’ll communicate with you in due course. Where, er . . . where should we address our reply?’
‘I am at our mission. I shall wait for you to come.’
‘Very well.’
The major stood up. The Russian saluted again, turned on his heel and strode out.
When Peter entered the field-marshal’s office, following an urgent summons, he found the defence chief grimfaced.
‘I’ve been talking with our security people,’ Buxton began. ‘We’ve had a message from Berlin about Anderson, to which we have to respond. Everything I say to you has been cleared with both MI5 and MI6, so there are no dissenters. We’re all agreed as to the action we have to take.’
Alarmed, Peter said nothing.
Buxton took a deep breath.
‘We want you to go to Berlin.’
‘What?’
‘The Soviets seem to be holding Anderson as some sort of prisoner, but say they will hand him over tonight, but only to you. Don’t ask me why, I just don’t know. We received a signal from our mission there this morning, relaying the contents of a letter signed by Oleg Kvitzinsky!’
‘Good Lord!’
‘Yes. It’s all quite mystifying. He says the handover will be at a small crossing-point in the wall sometime after midnight, but it can only take place if you’re there.’
‘Why on earth would they insist on that?’ Peter frowned. ‘Do you think they’re planning to grab me as well?’
‘We thought of that, of course. They won’t get the chance, though. You can be sure of that. You’ll have an armed escort from our garrison, and there’s no way the Soviets are going to start a shooting incident over this business. They’re showing all the signs of wanting to keep it very quiet and discreet.’
‘But what about the Skydancer plans?’ Peter was thinking on his feet. ‘Presumably this means that the Soviets think they are calling our bluff, that they believe the plans Anderson gave them are fakes and they want to rub our noses in it! Or does it?’
‘God knows!’ Buxton sighed. ‘The big question is why Kvitzinsky should be involved? Presumably they got him to Berlin to cast his expert eye over the blueprints, but why he insists on seeing you is far from clear. My guess is that he is going to demand some further information as a final price for Anderson’s release! You’ll tell him nothing, of course – I hardly need say that. Our colleagues in the secret service have a different idea. They’re quite excited! They seem to think he’s going to defect!’
Peter whistled softly. That would be a remarkable bonus if it happened.
‘Well, are you saying we’ve little to lose by doing what they want, and there’s no real alternative anyway?’
‘That’s about it. You’ll go, then?’
The same flight that had conveyed Alec Anderson to Berlin the previous day took Peter Joyce to the divided city. With him went a somewhat monosyllabic representative from MI6, to be present if Kvitzinsky did indeed defect, and who would also escort Anderson back to Britain. The two men sat in different sections of the aircraft; the intelligence man wanted to smoke, and Peter did not.
The sky was clear throughout the flight, but darkness had descended as they neared their destination. With twenty minutes to go before they landed, Peter looked out of the left-hand window and saw a line of lights stretching north as far as the eye could see. Suddenly he realised it was the inner-German border dividing East from West, capitalism from communism. He could imagine the lines of fencing and barbed wire that marked that border with its watchtowers and guard dogs, designed to keep the population of the East where it was.
The engine note changed and the Boeing began its descent towards West Berlin.
They were met at Tegel Airport by the major from the British military mission.
‘Alan Howlett,’ he introduced himself briskly. He had a pointed face with a receding chin, and looked both nervous and excited at the prospect of being involved in what looked like his first real spy drama.
‘I’ve got my car here, so we’ll go straight to my HQ for a briefing, and take it from there.’
The MI6 man snorted quietly to himself at the army’s preoccupation with ‘briefings’.
Peter had never been to Berlin before. It was raining; a steady downpour flowed off the car’s windscreen like a river. The wipers made little impression on the blur of water; the garish neon lights of the city were magnified and distorted by the wet glass.
As they set off from the airport, Major Howlett tried to make conversation with the two men, but their lack of response discouraged him from further efforts.
Once inside the Military Mission they were taken straight to a conference room, where a young captain, introduced as ‘the briefing officer’, gave them an illustrated lecture on the divided city of Berlin. From time to time the MI6 man yawned loudly, to show his own familiarity with the subject, but to Peter much of what he was being told was new.
Then the major took over.
‘So much for the general picture,’ he began, looking down at his notes, ‘which we thought we’d give you just in case you weren’t too familiar with the city. But, now, on to tonight.
‘The Soviets have named Kirchenallee as the place where Mr Anderson is to be released. It’s not normally in use as a crossing-point. The boundary between the Russian and the British zones runs along the western edge of a railway track which is down in a sort of cutting. Because of lack of space on the western side, the Vopos built their wall on the east of the track at that point, even though the railway line is actually theirs. Here . . .’
Major Howlett clicked on the light of an epidiascope, which projected a vu-foil map on to the screen. He indicated the area involved with a billiard cue.
‘As you can see, Kirchenallee crosses the railway line here over a narrow bridge. The wall is at the eastern end, with a solid iron gate across the road, and at our western end there is a chain-link fence, with another gate in it, padlocked from their side.
‘Now, I’ve not done one of these before, but looking at the records of past handovers, the procedure seems to be this: we turn up and wait in our cars on our side of the bridge. They give us the once-over through their binoculars from one of the two watchtowers on the other side; then they open the iron gate in the wall, walk across the bridge and undo the padlock on the chain-link gate on the western side.
‘They check our papers, then let us walk with them to the middle of the bridge. It’s their territory officially, but for events like this the bridge is considered no-man’s land. Then, in theory, they bring across the man in question and hand him over. Bob’s your uncle!’
‘What are your security plans tonight?’ the MI6 man demanded suddenly.
‘Ah, yes. There should be no problem there. We’ll have a platoon with us who will take up firing positions just in case it turns nasty, and a couple of military policemen will escort you on to the bridge as well. We’re not expecting any trouble, though.’
‘Why are they going to such lengths?’ Peter asked. ‘Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Why not just shove him across Checkpoint Charlie if they want to get rid of him?’
The major looked at him in surprise.
‘I have no idea, sir. I rather assumed you knew the answer to that question.’
Peter felt the MI6 man was laughing at him inwardly. The bastard had seen it all before.
‘Well, if there are no more questions,’ Howlett continued, conscious of the awkward silence, ‘then I’
ll take you to the mess. We’ve got rooms for you for the night, and after you’ve had a wash and so on, we could gather for a drink and some dinner. Our rendezvous with the Russians isn’t until two o’clock in the morning, I’m afraid.’
Oleg Kvitzinsky hated Berlin. The Germans might be Soviet allies, but they despised the men from Moscow and did not mind showing it.
He had flown to the city, accompanied by two burly ‘specialists’ from the GRU, to examine the blueprints of the new British nuclear weapon system which the HVA claimed to have captured.
He had spent most of his time there sitting in the Soviet embassy, exhaustively examining the documents that Alec Anderson had delivered, and comparing them with the preliminary analysis of the Skydancer warhead test in the Atlantic, which had been telexed to him from Moscow.
From the top floor of the embassy building, he could see the endlessly-flashing neon lights on the other side of the wall, set up in prominent positions as a deliberate lure to those in the East. To Oleg it was a cheap capitalist trick – distasteful even – to try to tempt people with bright lights and baubles into a society that was attractive on the surface but which was rotten and crippled by unemployment underneath.
He had been shocked at what he had learned about Skydancer, shocked and dismayed. His decision to use Anderson as a bait to lure the designer of the weapon to Berlin had been an act of desperation. He was taking a considerable risk, but this was an opportunity he could not afford to ignore.
He dreaded that meeting, now; there had been a catastrophe that afternoon. It had made his goal virtually unattainable.
The door swung open. One of the GRU men stood there, pointing at his watch. It was after one o’clock in the morning, and time to go.
They had driven well clear of that section of the city that keeps humming throughout the night with its countless bars and brothels. Peter Joyce peered through the car window down the deserted side-streets, catching occasional glimpses of the wall, which was thrown into stark silhouette by the brightness of the observation lights on the other side. They seemed to be driving parallel with it, the side-streets cut short by its graffiti-covered bulk. The emptiness of the streets was almost eerie, as if no one lived so close to this frontier; as if the contrast between east and west was too painful to bear when seen so close.
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