by John Gardner
The General waited until the steaks were served, and the wine poured. “I have a small place, unknown to anyone but my wife, until now,” he began. “I do not intend to give you the exact location, but it is tucked away in Switzerland. Now, Herbie, if I complete my present assignment, I know ways of making a great deal of money. The job is crucial, and I can write my own ticket for the inside story of my life—to be published in various Western magazines and journals. What we can earn from that will keep us safe—and very, very secure—in Switzerland, for a long time.”
Herbie saw the whole thing in a flash—the scales dropping from his eyes like some blinding revelation. In spite of the glimpse ahead, he held up a hand, palm towards the Russian, “I could not think of living on your earnings, Jacob. I have none of my own—well, no real capital, that is.”
Time for the charm, Vascovsky thought, throwing out his most winning, friendly smile. “Oh, but you don’t understand, Herbie. I have almost completed the job they have given me in Moscow. There are a few loose ends—and likely to be more. If we are to have a partnership of mutual trust, I would need your help—to clear up those loose ends as it were.”
Herbie grunted. Oh yes, Jacob would need some help—and what help. “You honestly believe I would give you my trust?” He felt a tiny sliver of ice slide down his spine as he used the word trust.
“You’ve come to meet me, on neutral ground. You’ve listened to me. This is the start of trust. If you need further proofs, then I shall satisfy you.”
Now it was coming. The sucker bait. Vascovsky saw it as the true lure.
Herbie, allowing the whole ploy to revolve in his mind, chomped on his steak. The meat was tender and oozing blood. “Melt in the mouth,” Herbie said. Then, “So what is it you want of me?”
Vascovsky slid a hand into his breast pocket, bringing out two folded papers. His present assignment, he declared was to identify a long-term British penetration agent within the KGB. “If you’re a leper, Herbie, there’s a reason ...”
Thrust. Now the parry. “Yes, they believe I was about to defect. They still have doubts; still wonder if I work for you.”
This was not what Vascovsky had expected from Kruger. He knew there had been a tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes, and he hoped the German had not seen it. Slowly, regaining balance, he shook his head. “They do not trust you, my dear Herbie, because, unwittingly, you gave me information that narrowed down the field, as they say.” He was pleased to see the look of shock spread, for a second, over Big Herbie’s lump face. “The information has led me directly to the culprit—the long-term agent within our Service.”
Soft; then hard, Herbie thought. He allowed a feigned gasp of surprise; smothered it; then let out a single ironic laugh. “If that is true, no wonder they’re treating me as though I have the plague.”
“Oh it’s true.” He had Herbie now: sure of it. “Certainly it’s true; and I shall have their man—your man—within days now.”
Herbie looked grave, even downcast, with small lines of worry between his eyes. When he spoke, the voice came out soft and unsteady. “If you’re so certain ... then what do you want of me?”
Vascovsky drummed his fingers lightly on the thick, starched tablecloth. He had his man. Herbie was inside the box. All he needed to do was drop the grille. “I need the details from your end.” Smooth without a trace of oil, or greed. “I need the British dossier on your man, working within the KGB. For that dossier, I offer you a safe retreat; and a safe future—should the time and need arise.”
He watched Kruger’s face and hands, eyes flickering from one to the other, trying to fathom any body language. “You see, Herbie, I’m certain of my man. I know who he is; I am building evidence. However, your assistance will make things more simple. Your attitude, if I judge it correctly, is one of great bitterness towards your masters. And why not? You’re German born—not even an Englishman. Your career, like mine, is washed up. Only I freely admit to you that I feel no bitterness. My motivation is one of pure fear. If I can present my masters with a full, and complete, picture of the past, it will set them off guard: help cover my tracks; give me breathing space. It is in both our interests for survival.”
He still held the papers. Now he laid one sheet in front of Kruger. Big Herbie took it in both hands, allowing his fingers to tremble slightly.
The page carried a typed list of names, and the positions at present held by each person—
Oleg Zapad. Head of Directorate T. etc. etc.
Nikolai Aleksandrovich Severov. Head of Directorate S. etc. etc.
Vladimir Glubodkin. Head of Special Service I. etc. etc.
Andrei Tserkov. Head of Department V. etc. etc.
Vascovsky noted the trembling fingers, and knew the target was in his sights. “You’ve heard of these men, no doubt?”
Herbie said everyone in the trade knew of them. “They’re all very big guns in your Service. So?” His tone played down, a shade too casual for Vascovsky.
“So?” the General repeated. “So, one of them has worked, for a long time—I believe—as an agent of your Firm. You know about this?” Vascovsky smiled to himself.
Herbie’s hesitation was too long; he had no idea. “I would find it hard to believe. Very hard.”
“My own masters found it difficult also.” Vascovsky on safe ground now. He could almost feel the solid stone under his feet. “I also found it hard. But, Herbie, it is true.”
Slowly he passed over the other sheet. On it was typed one name, together with a formal list of the man’s appointments since he had first joined the Cheka. The name was that of General Vladimir Glubodkin—Stentor.
Herbie remained stone-faced. For good measure he allowed his fingers to stop shaking.
“As an old chekist, myself, I find belief hard,” Vascovsky continued. “But there is little doubt. You see, Herbie, it would save us much time if you would secure this operative’s dossier for us. A copy, of course.”
Herbie’s guffaw was perfectly genuine. He had been correct about Vascovsky’s ploy. “You joke, yes?”
“I seldom joke about important things like this.”
“I am a pariah.” Big Herbie’s face was a map of desolation. “If what you say is true, then the dossier will be in a steel box, wired with alarms, and guarded by the Royal Marines.”
Oh, got him completely. Vascovsky gave an inward sigh of relief. “Maybe. But you are Herbie Kruger. You can do the impossible. That dossier will obviate much trouble. It will save my masters from long, and arduous, interrogation; and it will give them some idea of what damage this man has done over the years. A last, difficult, case for Herbie Kruger. Think of it as getting your own back.”
Herbie said he could only think of it as quite impossible. He carefully folded the two sheets of paper together, holding them tightly by one end, passing the white oblong across the table to Vascovsky.
The General took the papers, not even noticing that Herbie held on to them for a few seconds, so that each man had his hand on the object.
A nice one for the cameras, Herbie considered. Who was passing the papers? Who was receiving? The big German still rumbled with laughter. “And if all this is true? If I could get what you want—and let me say now, I’d be glad to be rid of them all—if I could do this, what would I get in return, now, as a sign of good faith?”
Vascovsky believed Herbie could still do such a thing. “After all, you know your way around. If the dossier exists, I should imagine that, at this very moment, you know where to look.”
Vascovsky did not take his eyes off Herbie, as the big man scowled, then gave a quick nod. “Maybe.”
“You wish a sign of good faith. Okay, Herbie. You take this.” Vascovsky drew out yet another sheet of folded paper, passing it across the table. “I give you two names. Both have worked for the KGB, within the British establishment, for the past ten years. All the details are there. You’d have no trouble proving it. That’s my sign of good faith.”
Big He
rbie seemed to hesitate, his fingers hovering half an inch from the paper for a second before he took it. Vascovsky felt a twinge of warning—there and gone in a moment.
For Herbie it was more insurance for the cameras.
“If I’m to do it,” the pause lasted for what seemed to be a full minute, as the men again locked eyes. “If I’m to do it, you want it quick, uh?”
“Fast as possible.”
“I promise nothing. I know nothing.” Herbie pushed his plate away. “All I say is that if it is true, I have a fair idea where the dossier can be found—if it’s true.” Again the eternal pause, leaving Vascovsky in doubt for a few seconds longer. Then—“Yes, Jacob. Yes, you’re right. I want out. But I must warn you. You double on me; play me false, and I make sure you pay.”
“We all pay. One way or another, we all pay—some time.” As Vascovsky said it, Big Herbie remembered he had used almost the identical words to Tubby Fincher, on the day the Director General’s ADC had come to bring him from Warminster.
He sat, very silent, as though reflecting on Vascovsky’s offer. In reality he wondered at the arrogance of the General. Yet, Herbie could only but admire the professional risk the man was taking—putting his career out on a limb to catch him, Big Herbie Kruger. At last, he said, “If I can do it at all, it will be fast. You wish to meet here? Or shall I come closer, to show my own trust?”
Like taking candy from a baby, Vascovsky thought, glancing up in the act of lighting a cigarette. “If you wish to come closer... Well, of course. You have a suggestion?”
He watched Big Herbie scowl in thought, then nod. “I may know a way into the Baltic. Give me a code, and method. I’ll let you know.”
The General preened at the thought, asking where Herbie had in mind.
It was then that Big Herbie Kruger began to talk, and set up what he was all ready thinking of as ‘The Main Event’. With many interruptions, and slight modifications, they had method, cipher, and place arranged after half-an-hour’s discussion.
By the time they came to order the pudding, the people at the next table had left.
In the other room, Anna decided she had been quite wrong about the man in the business suit—the one with muscles. Perce was taking his cue from a body sign given by Big Herbie, a good twenty minutes before he and Vascovsky went their separate ways.
Across the room, Kurt was certain Herbie had come alone. Outside, the team had no ideas: only the instinct of professional watchers.
In Moscow it had been a busy day for Yekaterina Vascovsky. She rose late, took a light meal, then bathed and dressed.
Her toilet completed, Yekaterina went to the desk, which was commonly accepted by the couple as her property, and stood by the master bedroom window.
Without undue haste she unlocked the centre drawer, slid it out, removed the neatly packed contents of notepaper, envelopes, and other writing materials, before removing the false bottom, which was really only one thin, tightly-fitting, inner lining. Beneath this pliable piece of wood lay several sheets of flimsy paper, crammed with tiny, neat writing.
Yekaterina had waited for almost a month to deal with the matters gathered together on these sheets. The writing was in French. To the ordinary eye, they were merely copied pages, with annotations, from the works of Colette. To the cryptanalysts of the French SDECE, the information contained in these extracts from The Last of Chéri, Gigi, and the like, was of paramount importance. After a long wait, yet another covert operation was about to bear fruit.
At just after three o’clock in the afternoon, Yekaterina Vascovsky was driven—by her husband’s chauffeur—to the main Moscow store, GUM, on Red Square.
She made her way through the vast building, along the wide catwalks, and across the bridges—which make the interior seem like some large open market—up to the third floor, where Section 100 is tucked away: Section 100 being the special privilege store for clothes.
After making a few simple purchases, she left Section 100. It was as she reached the stairway, leading down from the third floor, that she bumped into the wife of the French Embassy’s Third Secretary (Trade). Both women politely apologised.
Before five o’clock that afternoon, the envelope containing Madame Vascovsky’s sheets of closely-written French, had been carried—in the Third Secretary’s wife’s shopping basket—to the French Embassy on Dimitrov Street.
In London, Worboys checked again with Curry Shepherd’s deputy. Their boy, Gold, had enjoyed a heavy lunch at the Tibereo, followed by a short walk. After that he took a cab to Knightsbridge.
“A small shopping spree,” Curry’s deputy said. “A couple of select shops specialising in top people’s lingerie.”
“Top people?” Worboys was puzzled. “Male top people?”
“No, dear boy, female. Friend Gold’s either a pouf transvestite, or has good taste in ladies. Bought some very jolly knickers our fellow tells me. Very jolly, and bloody expensive.”
Worboys decided he would talk to Curry as soon as he returned from Paris.
Curry Shepherd was delighted. “The sound’s perfect. Already on its way to London.” He paced the main room of the Place Voltaire safe flat. “And the camera people say they’ll perform miracles. The film’s also on its way back.”
Marcel had come with them—both the Frenchman and Curry waiting, together, for Big Herbie’s arrival. Herbie was followed, a few minutes later, by Perce.
“Can’t be certain, but I think there was a woman watching his back from where I was sitting.” Perce did not seem unduly concerned.
Herbie grunted. “Difficult. Could have been a man in our room. Caught him glancing a couple of times, but Vascovsky’s too much of an old pro to come in without protection.”
“You think the idiot’s on the level?” Curry shook his head.
“Don’t you believe it, Curry my old horse. He’s playing a hunch. If it works, he’ll have the crown jewels—the Stentor dossier, and me. Look, friend, I put myself on offer to speed things up. Now he probably thinks I’m easy meat. He’s out to snatch me on his home ground. But I doubt if the old man, our beloved Director General’s going to bend the rules that much. He’s already looked the other way a couple of times. I’m officially not allowed to operate outside Britain. Can you see him letting me swoop about the Baltic, landing on Russian soil even?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not, but I’d like to be there for the kill. Just to make sure.”
They spoke in lowered voices, out of earshot from Marcel, who had been called to the telephone in the other room.
The Frenchman returned, looking pleased with himself. “I have a great favour to ask of you,” he began. “In return for my people watching out for you. It is a favour that might pay handsomely.”
“Ask away, my friend,” Curry was in a state of high exuberance.
“The names the Russian gave to Mr. Kruger—their people working for you. Might I be allowed a small peep?”
Herbie and Curry looked at each other. It was Herbie who spoke. “I shall leave the paper on the table, here, while Curry and I take a look out of the window.”
They stood, gazing down at the night traffic, Curry glancing at his watch. They had a flight to catch, at Charles de Gaulle, within the next ninety minutes, and Curry wanted the departure from the safe house to be as clean as possible. Both men knew the names Vascovsky had given them—two junior officers with Military Analysis, who had served for a year in Moscow, at the Embassy.
Behind them, they heard Marcel whistle. “He’s pumped you chickenfeed, I fear.”
“Running to form,” Curry said cheerfully.
“If you would listen for a moment.” Marcel sounded concerned. “We have our own operation in Moscow. I told you, Curry, I might have news for you before you left. I’ve cleared it with our people, and an official report will be going to your Director General, first thing tomorrow. Indeed, the two names here are suspect, but very small fry. Our operation has dug out five important Fre
nch sources in Paris; and several in your own Service.” Slowly he passed over a scribbled list to Curry.
Herbie leaned over Shepherd’s shoulder to read. Certainly the two names, given to him by Vascovsky, were on the list. More important were three others—the second-in-command at Warminster; one senior officer in the Section dealing with liaison between the Firm and the Foreign Office. Last, and most important, was one of the three female secretaries who worked in the Director General’s suite of offices, at headquarters.
19
ACTION WAS TAKEN FIRST thing on Friday morning, in London. They kept the whole business in the family—no calls to the sister Service, MI5; certainly no application for arrest warrants from the Branch. At Warminster, the second-in-command was discreetly removed from his office, and walked quietly to one of the interrogation complexes.
At the London Headquarters, the Director General saw each of the other suspects without giving them any opportunity for collusion. One at a time they were taken away, by car, or plain van. By midday all were settled in new quarters at Warminster, where the confessors prepared for a high old time.
Other officers visited families, quietly whispering excuses; while local telephone exchanges received Home Office warrants for phones to be wired.
All this unpleasant activity failed to take the edge off the Director General’s pleasure at the success of the Paris operation. He had tape and film men working around the clock; while some of the document experts were reported to be well ahead with their particularly devious machinations. These included copies of cipher messages, in an original word and number code, the key to which lay in the Bodley Head collected edition of Mr. Graham Greene’s works. The fact that Stentor had reported Vascovsky’s own specially bound series of this edition—to Michael Gold—naturally played a large part in its choice.
The recording engineers came up with three high-speed tapes, in clear language, taken from the Vascovsky-Kruger messages. Each of them created damning evidence that Vascovsky had been controlled, by Herbie Kruger, for a long time—maybe even in the days when Big Herbie ran the East Berlin networks, during the late 1950s and early ’60s.
