The Quiet Dogs: 3 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Now, the same engineers were putting together two recordings of meetings between Vascovsky and his British control—Eberhard Lukas Kruger—taken from the three sources which had stolen the previous night’s conversation at Le Train Bleu.

  “It’s really quite shocking,” The Director grinned, almost with glee. “Everything sounds, and looks, so genuine. I almost believe it myself.”

  They planned a council of war for the early evening. Michael Gold would be there, and the specialists—sound, documents and film—were instructed to have the whole package ready by then. In the meantime, Herbie waited, in the DG’s ante-room, while young Worboys and Curry Shepherd went through last minute snags.

  Worboys, a shade casually, mentioned Michael Gold’s day of fun and purchases to Curry, who put it to the Director and Fincher.

  “He hasn’t had time to make any liaisons in Moscow.” The DG was distracted by the mass of manufactured evidence, which he called, ‘The dirty trick of all time’.

  Curry screwed up his nose, pursing the lips in a sign of indifference. “Probably getting ready for a mild celebration when he’s back. Nothing wrong in buying a few pairs of drawers for a lady. Done it meself before now.”

  “Horses for courses,” mumbled the Director. “Look at the grain on that photograph. Wonderful.”

  “Do anything about it?” Curry asked.

  “What?”

  “Gold.”

  “Oh, get Worboys to have a word,” as though Worboys was not even in the room. Then, realising he was—“Just put him in the picture; though there’s not much call for sexual blackmail these days. The lads from Dzerzhinsky Square’ve given up in disgust. Just a quiet word, Worboys. Right?”

  Worboys said he would do just that. He did not write it down. He was not likely to forget a small chore such as this. On the way to the airport would be a good time.

  Only in the end, it was Curry Shepherd himself who took Michael Gold out to Heathrow, which accounted for the warning not being given.

  Herbie Kruger used all his varied talents on the Director General. He charmed, played the dumb oaf, cajoled and, finally, shouted. He did not lie down on the floor and drum his heels; nor did he weep. The Director General would not have been surprised if Big Herbie had resorted to these tactics.

  “My dear Herbie, we’ve gone a long way already. You know that; I know that. When the Minister has the full report, I’ll get a chewing out in any case. Your performance in Paris was admirable; but even I—blessed with an imagination which my wife considers bizarre—would not have thought you were serious about the Baltic coast meeting.”

  They were already a long way into the argument. Big Herbie sighed. “Someone has to do it, if not me. I can prophesy, here and now, exactly how Stentor’s going to play this. We should direct him—yes. But he will not put in the dagger by himself; he’ll leave it to someone more openly ruthless, and that someone will need to catch Vascovsky in the act. We stitch him up, okay? But we also have to set the snare—is that correct, setting a snare?”

  “Snare? Yes. Snare or gin, whichever you like.”

  “Gin’s a drink. My god, and I thought I knew the language,” Herbie threw up his hands. “The English language could drive a man to suicide.”

  “So could a trip over the briny to ... where was it you suggested?”

  “There’s a small, fairly deserted, cove between Ventspils and Lyserort on the old Latvian coast. Fir trees to within a hundred yards of the beach. I thought we could use the same plan we had for getting Stentor off—only I would offer myself. I’d need cover, and let myself be seen early enough for them to make their snatch. But it has to be me, otherwise the fit-up will run aground.”

  “How about a lookalike, Herbie? I’m sure...”

  Herbie grimaced, uttering an obscenity. “You find a lookalike for me? You search all the loony houses for miles. You might find, yes. But not easy.”

  The argument volleyed back and forth. Herbie’s bulk was but the outward and visible sign of a stubborn toughness, and he fought all the way, knowing he had the Director in a very difficult situation.

  “Who’s really running this, anyway?” he asked, almost pushing himself over the desk.

  “It’s a joint thing. We’re all playing our parts, Herbie. Interlocking.”

  “But it was me,” Big Herbie thumped his chest like a gorilla, “me you asked to perform the miracle. So I do it, and your man will not come out. So I then set up another way. Remember, sir, Martha Adler will work to me. In fact she holds the aces, and we have to get a final message to Vascovsky.”

  After ninety minutes of this verbal battering, the Director partially gave in. “Tell you what I’ll do, Herbie...”

  The DG then outlined the concessions he was prepared to make. The result was almost total victory for Big Herbie. At least he gained enough to turn the business to his own advantage. The Director was prepared to seek ministerial permission for Kruger to travel as far as Stockholm, in company with Curry Shepherd.

  The Director clearly saw the necessity for some kind of vessel to be standing off the Latvian coast, at an appointed time; he also realised that craft—probably a Gemini—would have to give the impression that it contained Big Herbie himself. As far as the Director was concerned, once he had the ministerial thumbs up, the finer points could be left to Curry and Herbie—in consultation with the SAS boys who were still quietly hiding out in Stockholm’s Grand Hotel.

  “All that remains, then, is for Vascovsky to know time and place for the rendezvous.”

  The Director shuffled his papers. “And with Vascovsky, also Stentor,” he agreed. “When your protégé, Gold, takes in that package tomorrow, it also has to contain Stentor’s final timings and instructions.”

  Herbie said that would be best. He could set Martha off like clockwork. It was really a question of timing. He suspected Vascovsky would be getting back to Moscow that night—a day ahead of Gold, who would have his work cut out in order to see the package in safely, and on schedule.

  In the darker parts of his mind, Big Herbie worried, in case Vascovsky lost his nerve and plunged for Stentor’s arrest, before receiving Herbie’s confirmation that he held the key to the KGB man’s suspicions—the dossier itself.

  He left the Director’s office, heading straight for the clinic, and Martha Adler. Now was the time for long-range manipulation. Tomorrow, as Gold left for Moscow, he decided, Martha Adler would have to make contact: a preliminary, telling Vascovsky the goal was in sight. The full moment could be left until either Sunday evening, or even Monday morning. At the council that night, Herbie would propose Tuesday as the final day. The early hours of Tuesday morning. The day when Jacob Vascovsky, General of the Committee for State Security, the KGB, would be lured to a dot along the Baltic coast, and there meet with that nameless spectre which haunts all men and women whose lives are spent deep within the trade of secrecy.

  Martha appeared relieved to see Herbie. She was sitting in a chair, near to the window; her body covered in a towelling robe, which fell open as she rose to greet him, revealing the greater portion of those lovely long legs.

  The pallor appeared to have gone, confidence returned and her eyes were clear. Herbie detected a slight trembling of the hands, and that same clinging need, which spoke volumes. Martha was, he concluded, still terrified of the retribution promised by Vascovsky if she failed.

  She held on to the big man, her lips reaching up to touch his ear, asking him, in a throaty whisper, if it was all over.

  “Not yet. Nearly. Soon now. You have two more small jobs, my dear: another pair of messages—telephone calls to our mutual acquaintance. After that I shall be away for one night, maybe two. Then it will be over.”

  She shook her head, saying it would never be over; she would not believe it until there was real proof.

  “You’ll have your real proof, Martha. Very soon now. Have I ever let you down?” Echoing the argument he had used with her before.

  She became more d
ocile, after that, asking when it would be safe for her to go home, to the bungalow in Lymington? And would Herbie see her there? Had he meant what he said before? Was there a chance that she would not be alone any more? “It’s been a relief here. People understand; just as you understand, Herbie.”

  Now was not the time for Herbie to think of future long-term plans; now was the present, and a time for the netting of Vascovsky.

  He sidestepped the issues with Martha Adler: soothing her, kissing the smooth hair, and tiny ears, feeling her push against him, as though she wished for physical satisfaction here, in the clinic’s private room. He made no specific promises, leaving the impression that all would come right for them, once this particular job was done. He would return tomorrow, when she was to make the first telephone call to Moscow.

  She begged him to stay, but he pleaded duty; kissing her, embracing her with a bear hug, then disentangled himself from the clinging body.

  On the way out he met the doctor, Harvester—a man with cropped hair and metal glasses whom Herbie disliked, but respected. He often thought Harvester was one of the most ruthless men he knew. Now, however, the doctor proved friendly; seeming to be genuinely concerned about Martha Adler’s welfare. “It’ll take a few years. But, with help, and the knowledge that people love her, there should be complete stabilisation.”

  “I need her lucid and stable tomorrow evening, and on either Sunday night or first thing Monday morning.” It was Herbie being ruthless now. As he left the clinic, he wondered if he could ever give up this life of professional secrets. Would there never be a real escape?

  At the Yasenevo complex, Oleg Zapad—responsible for data on military sciences from the West: Head of Directorate T—brought the small meeting to order.

  It had been called at a moment’s notice, and not all the members of the First Directorate’s Standing Committee for Forward Planning could be present. In fact, around the table in Conference Room 110, Block A, sat the original four officials—Zapad, with the blank face and wry sense of humour. The tall, fine-looking elderly Nikolai Severov, of Directorate S, who held, under that thick smooth white hair, the knowledge of all KGB foreign operatives. Vladimir Glubodkin—Stentor—the dandy, bronzed and fit, chief of Special Service I. Last, the sinister, chain-smoking, Tserkov of Department V.

  Nobody had been able to locate the Chairman’s special representative, General Vascovsky. He was out of town, according to the General’s sidekick who posed as his adjutant: Major Vitali Badim.

  The meeting had been called, on instructions from the Chairman’s office, to formulate possible First Directorate reaction to a leak from the French Secret Service: the SDECE. News had arrived, in a flash signal that morning, signifying that five important agents, planted within the French establishment—and their SDECE—had been quietly lifted during the previous night. A sixth source—missed by the French—had remained to give the warning.

  The Standing Committee for Forward Planning were not to know that the Chairman, aware of General Vascovsky’s absence from Moscow, sat in on their meeting, via the miracles of electronics. The tapes and video would reach him later in the day. This was a quick concealment operation, for the Standing Committee were still under the impression that they used a ‘silent’ room.

  Severov was anxious. After all, the five agents were known to him. He had seen to their infiltration, following a long wooing by his own selectors.

  “We cannot deny there has been a very serious blow-out,” he began. “These men and women have only held operational status for a matter of months. Certain small items have reached us, I believe, but there’s no way of avoiding the fact that they’ve been nipped in the bud. It’s a catastrophe.” He shook his head. The mane of white hair moved, then settled back, perfectly in place.

  “And the source from whom the information came?” Glubodkin’s disinterested voice seemed to be tinged with concern for his colleague.

  “Very long-term. Buried deep. Took over from...” Stopped himself from giving the name aloud. “From an impeccable operator. She got out several years ago, after giving us a long run.”

  “She?” Tserkov was known to mistrust female recruits from foreign powers. He was of the old school. Women in the field could be good, if they were Russian women: trained to perfection. Foreign women, in place, were always a danger, as far as the Head of the dreaded Department V was concerned.

  “It was a woman who had to get out. A woman took her place. There was no interrelation.” By this, Severov meant neither woman had known of the other’s recruitment, or placing.

  “You’re absolutely certain, Nikolai?” Vladimir Glubodkin’s effete manner, they all understood, cloaked a devious and professional mind.

  Zapad tapped the table. “Nikki”—he looked at Severov with the usual bleak and inscrutable stare—“Volodya has a point. I think you should look carefully into the background of the woman who had to get out. The French have trawled well, but left an obvious hole. They’re devious bastards who’d fuck their sisters for advancement. First...” he began to tell off the items on his fingers, “we should advise the normal, and precautionary, measures in this kind of situation—plugging gaps; backtracking on those who made the original selections; reappraising every single officer who had anything to do with training; interrogating the controllers concerned...”

  “I’ve already seen to it. They’ve been recalled. As soon as the Chairman’s office informed me, I asked if this could be ordered.” Nikolai Severov ticked off items on the pad in front of him.

  “Good.” Zapad knew this was not in their brief, yet was relieved to hear steps had already been taken. “At moments like this, it is always better to advise on standard procedures. Yet—as I say—General Glubodkin has a point. Note I called Volodya by his rank. That’s for the record.” It was the first, and only, hint of humour they had from Oleg Zapad that day. He continued—“Always we think our field agents are shielded from the truth. Nikolai Aleksandrovich, you had to pull a woman out, from SDECE Codes and Ciphers, some years ago. What if she doubled? You are the only one who has her bona fides, but it has been known, Nikki—an agent is blown; they let the agent know; they re-programme to their own specifications; then they allow a getaway.”

  Nikolai Severov laughed. “Oleg, my old comrade, you know not of what you speak. Our French lady, who got out by the straps of her bra—if you’ll pardon the expression—is Caesar’s wife. She has to be above suspicion.”

  “Why?” snapped Tserkov, all traces of the avuncular manner gone. Even these high-ranking Generals went in fear of this deceptively friendly man.

  For a second, Severov looked cornered; shifty around the eyes: a man about to betray a confidence. “If I must say it aloud, then so be it. But this is highly restricted information.” He swallowed, unable to retain his usual composure. “Our French agent, who worked so well in their codes and cipher department before she was blown, is now here in Moscow. She married well. Her husband cannot be with us today, but he is the Chairman’s representative. Our former agent is now married to General Vascovsky...”

  “Who, it is well-known and documented, has French blood flowing through his veins.” Glubodkin, half-yawning, straightened his immaculately knotted tie. His old heart sang. What if...? No, that would be too good; but the very fact of Yekaterina Vascovsky’s involvement being revealed to the Committee now, was of great assistance.

  “And Vascovsky cannot be with us today.” Andrei Tserkov paused, putting a flame to yet another cigarette. “Yes, we should add this to our list of recommendations—that a complete documentation, a detailed Curriculum Vitae, of Comrade General Vascovsky’s wife be made available. Also that her lifestyle, and work, should undergo a reappraisal. If the Comrade Chairman wishes, I can deal with this myself.”

  Zapad made a note, adding the suggestion to their list. “That is about all we can recommend, gentlemen ...” He seemed to be on the point of adding something, when the telephone began to purr softly on the table. Zapad answer
ed, listening intently. “Andrei,” he called to General Tserkov. “One of your people is looking for you. He says it’s urgent, so I’ve told him to come up, and wait outside.”

  The Head of Department V gave a dour nod, excused himself, and left the room.

  “Can anyone think of a missing link? Something we could add as an extra guideline for the Comrade Chairman?”

  There were some muttered, almost private, conversations; but nobody could suggest any further recommendation.

  “Then I’ll lave this list made up, and sent directly to Dzerzhinsky Square.” As Oleg Zapad spoke, so General Tserkov re-entered the room, his usually friendly face now turned to a thundercloud.

  The remaining trio of the Standing Committee turned towards him, as he began to talk almost before the door closed behind him. “Gentlemen, an interesting point has just emerged. I may well have overstepped the boundaries of my responsibility; but General Vascovsky’s appointment to this committee has given me cause for much thought, since it was first announced. In no way did I think the Chairman was deliberately making an error, but most of us are aware that Vascovsky’s career hung in the balance last year.” Tserkov stood, cigarette in hand, just behind Zapad’s chair. “The General emerged with flying colours; though I’ve never been completely happy about him. To this end I ordered a light watch to be kept: not a permanent surveillance by my department—that would tie up too many men and women. I merely wished to follow his movements, in a loose kind of way.” He paused, for effect. “It may strike you all as highly significant, but the Comrade General left Moscow yesterday and flew to Berlin. I have just had a report that he did not stay in the East. What he was doing there remains a mystery, but General Jacob Vascovsky spent the whole of last night in Paris...”

  In the tense silence, the Head of Special Service I, Vladimir Glubodkin voiced the obvious. “And last night”—brushing imaginary specks of lint from the razor-sharp trouser creases—“five of our people in Paris were quietly removed for interrogation.” What a bonus, thought Stentor.