by John Gardner
Big Herbie, keeping his eyes moving regularly towards both possible entrances, had now almost cast off the nostalgia, though traces remained. The oval wall frescoes were still there—depicting in a washy colour views of the Riviera that no longer existed: coming, as they did, from a time long before the package tour, and rise of the beehive hotels.
Vascovsky took his time. There were fast, checking, calls, between Curry and the watchers. Seven o’clock went by. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. “Looks as if he’s playing it long, and for real.” As Curry said it, a voice came from one of the forecourt watchers. “He’s here. Cab just pulled up.”
They waited—Curry and Marcel—in silence, until: “That’s it. Out of the cab; paid off, and going in ... Now... Gone.”
Curry pressed the transmit button. “We’re running ... Running to all units ... Now,” he said. In quick succession the responses came up. Without any undue hurry, the various people who would be involved in stealing conversation, and pictures, started to make their way towards the railway station.
Herbie caught Vascovsky’s arrival in one of his swift, routine, glances towards the elevator entrance. He turned away. Best to let the General think he had been surprised.
“Herbie?” Vascovsky’s voice came from behind him.
Big Herbie turned to see the tall, elegant, man standing close to his elbow. “Ah,” Herbie said. “I was a little early. Good. So are you. How are you, Jacob?” The stupid smile did not leave his face, as he stretched out an arm, grasping the KGB General’s hand, then motioning him to sit down.
“I didn’t think you’d come, Herbie.” Vascovsky removed a cigarette case, offered it to Herbie, and lit up. “You got rid of the dogs, I trust?”
Herbie allowed the smile to fade. “I am good at that; but my time is limited. The question is, have you slipped your leash?”
“Oh yes.” Vascovsky looked tanned and fit—as elegant as ever, in a grey tailored suit. “I’ve slipped the leash alright. It’s my turn to go out on a limb this time, Herbie. Things run in cycles. Last year, you stole secretly into my patch. This year, I’m doing the same thing. The only difference is that I come unarmed, and without a retinue.”
“Good.” Herbie did not allow himself to sound friendly: a thin barrier should be kept between them.
In London, Michael Gold slept late, and breakfasted in his room. They had told him to take it easy. Rest. Relax. He would not be required until Friday and Saturday. They even made sure he had money. At around eleven, Tony Worboys called him at the hotel—“Just to make sure you’re okay.”
Michael said he was fine, asking if there was any ban on him going out.
“Do the town as far as we’re concerned,” said Worboys happily. Once the phone was down, though, young Worboys made a fast call to Curry’s deputy—just to make sure they had some quiet leeches on Gold. They would not want him getting into any scrapes, or meeting the wrong kind of person, before going back to Moscow.
Michael thought of telephoning his mother, but quickly decided that was not on. A call to his mother would have led to a visit, and questions. Instead he went out and treated himself to lunch, as it was on the Firm. From the moment of waking he could not get the blonde Intourist girl out of his head. It was as if he had been bewitched, for her face floated in his brain, meddling with any other thoughts. There appeared to be no logic except for her voice, lips, and fantasies of her body. He was sure she would give him her body, once back in Moscow.
The spell she cast began to take effect on his own body: this was not unusual for Michael Gold, whose life was permeated with more than a fair share of lust. Yet this was not lust alone. He wanted to share with the Russian girl: tell her of his life, ideas, future plans, feelings; and, in return, he needed to hear about her. He wondered what the girl’s background contained—her family? her life? friends? memories? This he had never wanted of a girl before.
Intermingled with these thoughts was the constant thread of sexual desire. The mere thought of her brought on all the pangs of physical desire, so that she floated in and out of his head naked; half clothed; always sensual, constantly desirable.
By the time he finished lunch, Michael Gold had decided he must return to Moscow bearing gifts; and, as the sexuality became more urgent, he decided on feminine presents.
There was one point when he thought he should mention the business to Worboys—for you heard things about people being compromised in the Eastern Bloc countries: compromised with women. What the hell, he considered, he really wouldn’t mind being compromised with his blonde Intourist girl. Best to be on the safe side, though; even if it was only for old Uncle Herbie’s sake.
So, Michael Gold left the restaurant, and took a cab to Knightsbridge. After all, with a wallet full of the Firm’s cash, he could afford the best in the way of female fripperies, to delight his lady in Moscow.
Jacob Vascovsky had, of course, not come alone and unprepared. He was too old a hand in the trade—too wise a dog to take any of Moscow Centre’s field heavies either into his confidence, or to Paris. His reason for coming to Paris via Berlin had method. In East Berlin, Vascovsky had picked up two men, unknown to the British and French security services. Then he had crossed to the West, and contacted three other similar ghosts. In all, these chosen few had done odd jobs for him in past years: being experienced in surveillance, and playing nanny to field agents. Two members of his team, known only as Kurt and Klaus, carried West German papers; the remaining three were neatly split—an American-documented woman, known as Anna; and two men with full sets of British papers: Frank and Gordon.
Vascovsky’s cunning, and contacts, went very deep, after the years he had spent in East Berlin. Nobody could blame either the French SDECE, or Curry’s people for not spotting ‘faces’. There were no known, or even suspect, faces to spot, and Vascovsky only wanted to be certain of two things. First, that Big Herbie was not doubling on him from the outset; and, second, that he—Jacob Vascovsky—was not going to be lifted. His quintet was carefully briefed. Their first duty would be to report, after the meeting was over, on any possible external surveillance; while, if an attempted snatch took place, at any time during the Paris interlude, they were to move in and pull Vascovsky clear—using whatever force was necessary.
Ten minutes before Vascovsky’s arrival at Le Train Bleu, Kurt and Anna had entered the restaurant—one to each entrance—and were already ordering their separate meals, one in each of the dining areas, by the time the General arrived.
Klaus, Frank, and Gordon remained outside, in front of the station building, and on the main concourse: constantly changing their positions, acting like travellers with time to kill. They mingled, bought magazines, sat quietly at vantage points, loitered, took the occasional drink, and did what all good watchers were trained to do—listened and noted anything unusual, without drawing attention to themselves. At no time was any of them far from one of the entrances to the restaurant.
Inside, Kurt found himself in a far corner, with a good view of Herbie Kruger—instantly recognisable from the briefing. Without shifting, or appearing to take any interest, he also noted other things: like the fact of an American couple who talked, and acted, a shade too noisily for his liking. Kurt had a good memory, that pair at least would be described, so that Vascovsky could run them through his personal files.
In the far room, Anna found nobody of definite interest: only, possibly—and she put a large mental question mark against it—one man sitting alone. As a woman expert in these things, she wondered first about his clothes, for the man was obviously in fine physical condition, and alert in that seemingly relaxed manner of a professional. Secondly, she instantly recorded that he sat at a table affording a good view, via the wall mirrors, into the other dining room—particularly the area occupied by Herbie Kruger. She could see all this because she sat only a table away from him.
Outside, it was virtually impossible to mark people as suspect. Anyone, or everyone, could be part of a team. The three
men circling, and watching, discovered this in a few minutes, and each decided their best course would be to remain vigilant against any possible snatch.
At their table inside Le Train Bleu, Jacob Vascovsky and Herbie Kruger faced each other. Both, for a moment, reflected the same thoughts—conscious of time and its changes; that no man or woman remains the same person from year to year. Kruger, Vascovsky knew, was not now the same. Big Herbie of the tense and nervy days of the Cold War, when he ran his all-important networks in the East. On his part, Kruger felt—more than saw—that his old enemy of the secret labyrinths, was changed by time, experience, and the altered circumstances of two decades.
A waiter appeared. The restaurant began to fill up around them, but each man centered his concentration on the other, squaring up like two world class chess champions. For Big Herbie there was a necessary dialogue to be followed—to draw the Russian, so that the electronic thieves could pick up words, and phrases, to be reshaped in their workshops. These would emerge as tapes which might, eventually, lead Vascovsky to perdition.
Vascovsky also had an end in sight—to play the big German; seduce him; make him believe, and so bring him safely into the net, and within reach of the deadly barbed gaff.
They selected a simple dinner, neither man much bothered by the thought of eating—a seafood cocktail for Vascovsky; soup of the day for Herbie; steaks for both. Vascovsky insisted on choosing the wine—a sensible Château Grancey.
As the Russian ordered the wine he was conscious of the adjacent table being occupied by a boisterous party: three men and a woman, chattering away in French. Obviously business people from the same company. A small suitcase and a briefcase were set on the floor by the table—left there and not bothered about through the serious act of eating.
On the other side of the room, Vascovsky’s man, Kurt, noted the group, wondered for a second or two, and then decided to remain watching: giving them the benefit of the doubt.
Herbie now knew the cameras were in place—at the adjacent table—and the meeting was being recorded for posterity. Vascovsky was nobody’s fool; so Herbie hoped to God that Curry knew what he was about: that they would get away with it.
“I really wondered if you would come, you know.” Vascovsky voiced the opinion for the second time.
“I’m here.” Herbie’s eyes held Vascovsky, who felt a tingle of unease. “So let’s get on with it.” Herbie appeared relaxed, perhaps too much at ease. “You have some kind of proposition?” he asked.
Jacob Vascovsky touched his knife, breaking the gaze for a moment, giving himself time to choose the correct words for his important opening gambit. Deep inside he knew he was now committed. He simply had to trust those who were watching out for him. This was the moment to get in close; twist the knife; pull in on the line. “The fact that you’re here at all gives me hope,” he began, glancing around. Kurt gave no warning sign, so he leaned forward and plunged. “You cannot be happy, Herbie. Life has to be grim for you. You wish to talk about it?”
His large opponent shrugged, the face open, readable. “You seem to know it all anyway. Me? I’m a leper. Your tapes said it. There is no more trust...”
Vascovsky made a mental lunge, and broke in, “Nor will there be. Never again.”
“Unless...?”
The General thought he detected a plea in Big Herbie’s voice and eyes. He did not allow the internal smile to break through to his own lips or eyes. “Unless you can pull off some great coup, eh?”
The plea vanished, and Herbie grinned. “If I snatched you, Jacob. That would be a coup. Or if I talked you into doubling.”
Vascovsky willed himself not even to move his head in Kurt’s direction. Relax, he told himself. Make yourself at ease. “Oh, I’d come to you. No hesitation. I’d do a walk-in, or leap over the border, at any time...”
Vascovsky watched Big Herbie do a clown’s face, drooping his lips: a caricature of the mask of tragedy. “Then we could go now. It would by my pleasure,” He hunched closer over the table, dropping his voice. “Just walk out of here, and drive to Charles de Gaulle. A couple of hours and I’d have you tucked up safe and sound.”
Vascovsky laughed, knowing what would happen if they walked out together. For a second he played the scene over in his mind—his little team cutting off all the exits; Herbie manhandled; quietly put away even. “There’s no percentage in it. Herbie”—he now followed Kruger, becoming conspiratorial in tone—“Herbie, I put it on the tape. This meeting is to iron out the fine points. You’re a leper; you’re not even British by birth. You’ve served them well; now they want you out.” He raised a hand, sensing Kruger would interrupt. “You know it, Herbie. But the British have a way of doing things; they still pretend to play the game—as they say—even when they hold all the aces, and have the cards stacked against you. They send you to Coventry; give you the cold shoulder and a pile of useless work. What they wish is that you will, eventually, say you’ve had enough. Then they’ll send you private, on half pension.”
If I don’t do it in my own time, Big Herbie thought. Aloud, he said, “Something like that,” believing this was the way the Firm would handle matters if necessary. Inwardly he gave a mocking laugh, for he not only believed it, but also knew it. Had he not seen it happen enough times?
“With us it is different,” Vascovsky saw the light at the end of the tunnel. “They promote me. Make me feel at ease. They’ve given me a job of high importance.” An acid smile to denote distaste at the tactics of his service. “Oh, I shall do it: do what they require. But,” wagging a finger, “... and it’s a big but: once that job is done; once I’ve been lulled into thinking all is well, they’ll cut me off. My form of leprosy will be more permanent. A posting to some godforsaken place; maybe even a transfer to the GRU with a brand new set of orders. Not the pleasures of Berlin this time. For me it will be Commandant of one of those places—like the Gulags; Siberia; the Arctic. Wherever, it will be most unpleasant.” Pause for the effect. Count to six. “We’re in the same boat, if on different tracks, my friend.”
He could tell nothing now, looking at Herbie’s face. The large German just seemed simple. “Well, come with me,” Kruger spread his hands wide, in a gesture of invitation.
Vascovsky had to will himself to remember Herbie Kruger’s inbred cunning and ingenuity. He wondered what was going on in that agile brain, behind the bland look. “You think that would be the end?” he asked. “I might just as well say the same thing to you—Herbie, come to Russia. You think my problems would be over if I snatched you now?” He shook his head, pausing as the waiters arrived with the seafood cocktail, and Herbie’s soup; letting them get well out of earshot before he continued. “Herbie, my destiny’s already planned. With my masters it’s like the whole thing’s been written in the stars. You got away from me last year. So, that’s over and done with. Even if I was able to take you back, by force, now, things would not change. Whatever happens, General Vascovsky is finished. My career stops when I complete my present assignment. Finish. Finis. The End. A wasteland.” He had rehearsed that particular speech well. Now he waited to see if the big fish would bite.
“Then come to us.” In the back of his mind, Herbie heard a voice from several years ago, reciting—‘We are the hollow men ... We are the stuffed men.’
It was Vascovsky’s turn to spread his hands. “I’ve said it. Where’s the percentage? There are better ways. Together we share many secrets. We are men of a particular technology—a dying technology. They’re phasing us out, Herbie.” Another careful pause. Hold back a fraction, Vascovsky told himself. Now—with confidence, “But, Herbie Kruger, if we go together, with a pooling of knowledge, we would have all the techniques, and all the ways. We could act as cartographers to the new secret world—when it comes.” He raised an eyebrow, ready for the testing question, “You believe it will come, don’t you?”
Herbie spooned soup into his mouth. Twice, giving him time to out-think the device Vascovsky was using. “What I b
elieve has no bearing on the matter.”
“But you believe we’re near the end?” Pushing.
Herbie gave one of his gigantic shrugs. “Five; ten years. Yes.”
“The computers have already taken over; the spies in the sky provide military data. No, I agree, they’re not yet fully grown; and, before they’re perfect, the new world will come. The population is already too large; the world’s food supplies lie in a state of imbalance; the natural resources are running out at a terrifying pace; gasoline, oil, minerals—all are measurable. It is over these things that the final days of our civilisation will end and fail. The war will not be fought over ideologies or creeds. The next holocaust will come from greed, not politics. It will be short, sharp and devastating. Then, when it’s finished, and youth dead as stone, the world will need to pick itself up. Technicians will be forced to pool their knowledge—the experts in industry, mining, agriculture, and the rest. All will be needed—even the military technicians; policing; and, my friend, people like ourselves who know the secret ways.” He leaned back, looking around casually. Kurt was still flying the ‘safe’ signal—his cigarettes and lighter in view on the table.
Vascovsky was sure, by the look on Herbie’s face, that he was halfway to winning. He knew how this kind of approach could outflank and psychologically persuade a man as bitter as Herbie.
For a full minute Kruger said nothing; allowing his face to show a mere gleam of interest. In fact he did not even acknowledge the thesis—attractive as it was. Did Vascovsky really believe Herbie could, or would, fall for this kind of approach? At last, as the waiters cleared away the plates, he asked—as straightforwardly as he could—the real question of the evening: what was Jacob Vascovsky’s true intention?
