by John Gardner
The Head of Registry tried to remonstrate, but the Director merely repeated the order: saying he would take full responsibility.
When all things were done, they went to the outer office, where young Worboys waited, his face carrying a perplexed and baffled look. When he saw Herbie, he made a questioning grimace. Herbie winked at him.
Seated in the back of the car, the boxed Stentor File at his feet, Big Herbie Kruger started to initiate Worboys into the explosive secret which lay at the kernel of their Firm.
The pair of ringmasters were putting Michael Gold through his paces, inside one of the small complexes of prefabricated buildings which stud the estate, surrounding the house at Warminster.
Not even the Commandant knew who was there, as the team had arrived in darkness, and in cars with dark glass windows. There were worknames, and they kept within the group of buildings, which were laid out in the form of a cross. One bar of the cross contained work sections and equipment; the rest made up reasonably comfortable living quarters, to which food was brought—placed in an outside trap, with a bell, so that, like lepers, the staff did not see them.
This was just as well, Big Herbie imagined. The Commandant would be unhappy to see him there, after the hostile reception of the last year.
When Herbie and Tony Worboys arrived, Michael Gold was being taken through the streets of Moscow, aided by film, photograph and map. The two instructors spoke nothing but Russian, firing questions, and expecting immediate answers.
“You are standing at the corner of Frunze Street. Walk towards Arbat Square. Describe. Now.”
“I am on the left side of the road. The right-hand side is the Lenin Library. Number Eleven—Basic Library of Social Sciences of the Academy of Social Sciences. Number Twelve—Empire-style house with a statue of Marshal Frunze in front. Large building at the end of the street—Military School.”
“What’s the significance of the Military School?”
“It was one of the main strategic defence points of the Tsarist army, during the October Revolution. Its former title was the Alexander Military School.”
“Good.” The instructor saw Herbie beckon. In English he said, “Okay. Let’s take five.”
“Well?” Herbie raised his eyebrows.
“Quite incredible, Chief. Two days and he knows the lot. Mind like a camera. You’d think he’d lived in Moscow for years.”
Herbie nodded. At least Michael was smart in the brain. That was something: a small plus. “That’s useful. He might be there this time next week.”
“Bloody hell,” muttered the instructor. “You want to talk?”
“Alone; and to the subject. Everyone else out of the way.”
Big Herbie sat, with Michael Gold, in one of the small offices. For an hour he went through the situation, step-by-step—plotting the moves; pointing out the pitfalls; playing the Devil’s Advocate, and genuinely attempting to present the gravest dangers to the young man.
“It is still not too late, Michael. Nobody’s going to think the worse of you if you decide to back out now. But this is truly the last chance.”
Michael Gold did not smile. Herbie could plainly see the worry buried deep in the young man’s eyes. Yet, when he spoke, the voice was calm. Herbie looked at the hands. Not a twitch or nervous movement. “Herbie, now you’ve given me the full picture, I’m more determined than ever. In Cambridge, I thought it madness; then decided it could be a bit of a lark. Now I want to help. You’ve said that your people can’t use what these boys here call ‘a face’. I’m around; and there’s an old man waiting in Moscow. He’s spent over fifty years working for England—doing what my father would probably have liked to do. No, Herbie. I’m going. Just show me the best way.”
God help us all. Big Herbie felt the stab of irony, as Michael mentioned his father; then, smiling his most stupid of smiles, he reached out, resting one great paw on the young man’s shoulder. “Okay, Michael. I’m told you have to be ready very quickly. We’re going to cut things down. The two instructors’ll give you a couple of days, running through the establishment behaviour; so you won’t give yourself away in the first ten minutes. Then I’ll have you for two days: forty-eight hours without sleep. I have to lead you through the black arts, and teach some simple tricks. After that, one day’s rest. One day’s briefing. Six days from now, and you’ll be ready and running.”
Later, Herbie spoke to the Director, on a secure phone. “One week. I’ll have him ready in one week. Told him six days, but we give him an extra for the insurance. You’ll have to map-read him through the way out with Stentor; and give him specific instructions about an abort. You do that directly before he leaves: the day before. Start booking the tickets, sir. He’ll be as ready as I can make him.”
12
IN MOSCOW THE DAYS were still bright and clear; the sun dazzling, reflecting from buildings and the remaining packed snow. The thaw had not started in earnest. There was no warmth in the sun, and the time was not yet ripe for true spring, with the thrusting of the grass, budding of trees and flowers.
Jacob Vascovsky thought of the spring. True, he loved Moscow at that time of the year, when the blood surged, and new life appeared in the city—even showing on the faces and in the walks of Muscovites, as they put another bitter winter into the bed of their memories. Yet Vascovsky hoped that, by this spring, he could get the present matter over and done with. They might even give him leave. In any case, there was the chance that Kruger would fall for his quiet pressures, and that would mean one trip out of the country. Business combined with pleasure.
The reverie came to an abrupt conclusion as Vascovsky’s driver parked the car in the space reserved in the Dzerzhinsky Square inner lot. The bodyguard opened the rear door, taking up the standard position—a little to the left, and slightly behind—as Vascovsky walked quickly to the entrance which would take him to the ‘Bridge’, and the Chairman’s office suite.
The adjutant was expecting him. No, he was not late, but the Comrade Chairman said he was to go straight in.
The Chairman rose from the huge desk, opening both arms in a symbolic gesture of welcome and greeting. The arms dropped, and the Chairman gestured to a chair drawn up close to the desk.
Vascovsky walked the considerable distance to the desk and sat down. There, in front of him, as he had expected, lay four matt photographs. The faces of his colleagues from the First Directorate’s Standing Committee for Forward Planning stared unseeing from the prints.
“Well, there they are.” The Chairman allowed himself a chuckle. “You’ve guessed why I called you in. There’s been time for evaluation. I need an unofficial verbal report. What progress you’ve made? What ideas? A suspect even?”
Vascovsky smiled. Always smile when things are not straightforward. For him it was a rule of life. Remaining silent, he looked at the photographs:
Tserkov, the avuncular, chain-smoking, weatherbeaten head of Department V. The sinister one, whose very friendliness sent a chill to Vascovsky’s bones.
Severov. A fine head of hair—remembered thinking it was like an ermine pelt—straight, tall, and fine-looking, with good features. A man who could be taken for a sixty-year-old instead of his seventy years plus. The Head of Directorate S. The one who probably knew more about Vascovsky’s career than anyone else.
Zapad, Head of Directorate T. The blank face with biting humour. The former professor—scholastic, with a mind teeming, crammed full of secret knowledge.
Last in line, the dandy, Vladimir Glubodkin—bronzed, with a good head of hair in spite of his age. Very fit, with that disinterested air which was undoubtedly a studied pose. Head of Special Service I.
“You’ve had a chance to talk to each man ...” the Chairman began.
Vascovsky made his habitual hand-twirling movement: the right arm raised, with the hand, loose-fingered, twisting from the wrist. He had seen each of them separately, over dinner with their wives. His own wife had been a great help. It was all most interesting.
> “But, any conclusions, Comrade General?” The Chairman picked up one of the photographs—Zapad, by chance. “This one, for instance?”
“I don’t think he’s our man.” Vascovsky shook his head. “I have to admit there are difficulties, Comrade Chairman.”
“Failure? At this stage?” The Chairman raised his eyebrows.
Again, Vascovsky smiled, shaking his head. “Oh, far from failure...” The Chairman seemed about to speak once more, but Jacob Vascovsky held up a palm. “No, sir. I have had opportunity to examine each of the suspects at close quarters. I have also gone through their records, and dossiers, with a microscope. Their telephones are wired. Also their apartments. The first problem is that they are elderly men. The youngest is sixty-eight, the eldest, seventy-two. All of them have led similar lives. They come from peasant, or proletarian, stock. Each has had some kind of an education; some better than others. All four joined the Red Army in the years after the October Revolution. All came to the Cheka, and served in various departments. At least two did a spell with the GRU. All have some field service. These things are common to the whole membership.” He continued; voicing his opinion regarding the subjects’ possible faults: the chinks in, otherwise, unblemished careers. Zapad drank too much, though that was common enough—even among chekists; Glubodkin still liked women, and took some small risks there. Severov, a fine-looking man, tall and straight as a lath, also had tiny secrets—at home, his wife pampered him to excess, and he hated too much exercise.
As for Tserkov, the sinister one—well, what could you say about the Head of Department Viktor? He smoked too much?
The Head of Department Viktor had his own defensive system; his own private army. It was necessary, and always had been, for the chief of that organisation.
“You have to look for means and method, don’t you agree, Comrade Chairman?”
“Explain.” The Chairman’s head cocked to one side, taking in everything Vascovsky said: weighing it; testing the ground.
“Well, at first sight I would look, among these four, for one who talks too much: in the hope that the Hallet and Birdseed information was dropped in a moment of indiscretion. There is only one candidate for that—Zapad ...”
“You’ve already eliminated him. You said so just now.”
“As a traitor, yes. If this business is indiscretion, it is a different matter. If you want a loose tongue, Zapad is your man. You’ll see what I mean if you listen to the tapes. His wife also drinks to excess, and Comrade General Zapad talks to her. The woman knows as much as he does. Every night he talks. If she, in turn, mentioned Hallet and Birdseed, in a tipsy moment, to the wrong person ...”
“And they know the wrong people?” The Chairman leaned forward, glowering, as though he was on to something.
Vascovsky laughed aloud. “That is where the indiscretion theory falls flat on its face. The Zapads are models. They share each other’s company, and that of few others. This, incidentally, applies to all four; and that is why I rule out both Zapad, and indiscretion.”
The Chairman relaxed his body, sagging back into his chair.
“Normally I would go for those who have regular access out of the country,” Vascovsky continued. “If we do have a long-term penetration agent, then he has to have ways of getting information out. This would mean that he must have the ability to travel. However, I do not count this as an absolute qualification. If we have a burrower on our hands, his lines of communication would have been well established years ago. All the candidates attend official functions; each of them know, and are known to, security officers in the Western Embassies—and people outside.” He leaned forward and removed two of the photographs. “Zapad, I reject as a possibility. Also Tserkov. I doubt that even the most hardened operative could be as successful as Tserkov, and still act as a double.”
“Which leaves ...” The Chairman allowed a heavy forefinger to touch each of the other photographs.
“Nikolai Aleksandrovich Severov. He travels little, but his assistants fly hither and thither like pollen. He is also a mine of intelligence information. Ideal. As is Vladimir Glubodkin; and he hardly ever travels. Either of them fit.
“But this one.” His hand lifted one of the photographs from the desk. Vladimir Glubodkin. “This one has a strange past. He has no linear relatives, yet there is a niece in Leningrad whom he telephones but never sees; and a nephew he has sought out, but never met. I am having them checked most thoroughly. He is my prime suspect, and I’ll play him—with your permission, Comrade Chairman—like a fish. My staff are making enquiries about the niece now. Soon I shall drop in on him, to ask more about both niece and nephew. When we talked of it last, I gave the impression of being uninterested.” He gave a wolfish smile. “But I am very interested indeed. The man’s background, after the October Revolution, is odd. Nothing you can put your finger on, but there are some anomalies. If, by chance, he is our man, the niece and nephew could be cut-outs: messengers, setups, fixers.” It was Vascovsky’s turn to lean across the desk in a close, conspiratorial, manner. “What is more, it would seem the niece and nephew have appeared only since he was appointed Head of his Department. Before that time, things would have been easier for him. It is where my money lies, Comrade Chairman, with this one.” Vascovsky’s forefinger again tapped the photograph.
The Chairman’s face drained of colour. “It is difficult to believe ...” He paused, swallowing hard, pulling his senses together. “No, no, I suppose not difficult to believe, for we all know the ways of our world. But it is difficult to accept. For all our sakes, I think I should neutralise him in some way. Remove him without suspicion. He’s near to retirement in any case.” Again the pause, a hand passing over his forehead. Then the Chairman’s face underwent a strange and terrifying change. He was in control once more: the hard and ruthless man; a man of steel; a Chairman in the mould of ‘Iron Felix’ himself. “Unless, Comrade General, you wish to try the old methods. Interrogation of the old style?”
Vascovsky gave a quick shake of his head—fast and very definite. “Comrade Chairman, no. No, I beg you. If I cannot discover the truth, with complete certainty, here in Moscow—with everything at my disposal—there is one last card.”
“Your trump?” The icy sharpness did not diminish.
Vascovsky nodded, violently and quickly. “If I cannot build a dossier of evidence now, there is a chance that I can get the truth from another source ...”
“Ah?”
“Kruger. I still work on that. It is a gamble, but there are possibilities with him. A chance. If I get near enough, and apply the correct pressure, we will know for sure.” He paused for a second, taking a deep breath. “I have one more favour to ask.”
The Chairman did not reply: looking Vascovsky in the eyes; waiting for the favour to be asked, like some monarch of old weighing up the boon to be granted by him.
“If my pressure on Kruger works, it may be necessary for me to leave Moscow at a moment’s notice,” Vascovsky began. “Naturally, I would let you know. But I need permission to act freely, and on my own initiative. If I disappear for a day or two, I trust it would be with your blessing: without question, or surveillance.”
“Naturally. You have that power.” The Chairman rose, turning towards the window and speaking without looking back. “I should warn you of one thing, Comrade General. It was through me that you received promotion, and this particular assignment. Others were not inclined to be so understanding: I fought hard on your behalf: mainly because of my belief in you and your ability. Let me down; play me false; and it will be the last time. I trust you understand. To err is human, and, in your case, it uncovered something potentially dangerous. A second error can have but one ending, and you are well aware that it cannot be escaped. If anything went wrong, which I am sure it will not, you will be in an unpleasant situation. If something does go wrong, and you are foolish enough to attempt running from it, I—your friend—would not hesitate to have you hunted; and you know how good Tserkov�
�s people from Department V are at that sort of business.”
He turned, to see that Vascovsky had risen to his feet. The slim, elegant General looked relaxed and unruffled. He even gave a small chuckle. “Comrade Chairman, I’m not a fool. I’m a loyal servant.” He tossed the photograph of his suspect on to the table. “I’ll get him for you; and with enough evidence to squeeze him until his brains pop through his eye sockets.”
General Vladimir Glubodkin stood at the window of his office, in Building B of the Yasenevo Complex. He felt a sense of relief, and had done so all day.
Like all Heads of Departments and Directorates, Stentor had access to the foreign newspapers. Indeed, it was part of the job. There was an entire staff who did news analysis from the foreign Press, and nobody thought twice about the senior officers who strolled in, daily, to take a quick look at the newspapers and magazines, brought each night and morning to Yasenevo.
Stentor only visited the Media Room on an average of once every three days; for his British masters made crash contact through the Personal Column of the London Times—the message repeated for three consecutive days.
The ciphering was complicated, and the Flash word changed each four days. But it was there; that morning; and Stentor took only nine seconds to memorise the tiny paragraph. After all, his life had been spent in committing things to memory. Far back, in the days just after the Great Patriotic War, when he had worked solely on evaluation, in a cluttered room at Two Dzerzhinsky Square, Stentor was quick at mastering the technique of speed reading, and memorising.
Today’s Flash word was DOMINIC. The whole paragraph read:
DOMINIC please phone Father. Mother now accepts your apology. We all want to see you and understand. Love Lucy.
