by John Gardner
“Quite,” Tserkov did not even bother to hide his irritation.
Later, that particular information was also to shock the Chairman of the KGB as he watched, and listened to, the video tapes. It was the one thing for which he had not bargained; and, in some way, he felt responsible. Had he not allowed Vascovsky complete freedom of action?
At the time, Stentor—Vladimir Glubodkin—wondered: ‘The Quiet Dogs? Is this the wild wind, come at last, to alarm the quiet dogs?’
Jacob Vascovsky arrived back at Sheremetievo Airport late on the Friday afternoon, surprised to find Major Badim waiting, with his chauffeur. He was not completely at ease, for his five watchers from the Paris trip had all muttered vague uncertainties regarding Herbie Kruger. Nothing definite, but the feeling, not willingly shared by the General, that Kruger was not alone in Paris.
“I thought you’d be manning the station.” The car pulled away, taking the City Exit, and Vascovsky spoke sharply.
Badim smiled, “No need, Comrade General. Our kind friends of the Militia are doing the job for us.” He saw Vascovsky start in concern, and quickly added, “It’s under control. I have a direct link with the officer in charge. He knows what’s expected of him. As soon as Kashvar emerges, he’ll be picked up by the MVD, and we’ll have him neatly hooked.”
Vascovsky did not like either the smell, or sound, of what he heard. He liked it even less when listening to Badim’s version of what had gone on during his absence.
Like most officers with responsibility to a hard taskmaster, Vitali Badim told the story from a slightly stronger, if warped, viewpoint. He did not lie, in the strict sense; but sinned by omission. Kashvar, as his version went, had decided to go out on a little expedition. “You know what these people are like, Comrade General. They get some leave, come to Moscow, and expect all the decadence.”
“What you’re telling me is that our teams lost him.”
“Not exactly. He went on a vodka binge, and got mixed up with undesirables. The Militia want him. They have a good man on the job, who tells me Kashvar will surface tonight—they as good as know where he is: with some little Komsomol Square whore, the investigator said.”
“And what about the niece, the Morozova woman? Has she arrived?” The General wanted to get straight back to Yekaterina. He had perfume, and other small delights for her. From Paris.
“Not yet, Comrade General. But we’ll know as soon as she does. I’ve still got the Kutuzovsky Prospekt apartment under watch.”
“I hope to heaven it’s not swarming with people,” Vascovsky sounded very irritated now.
“A very light, but efficient, team. Standing well back. They still have your orders—watch and report; but do not interfere.”
“Well, thank the stars, something’s been done properly.” The General decided that Badim was probably correct. The Militia would let them know; and, as long as the suspect’s apartment was still under light watch, he would be told, almost to the second, when movement occurred. He ordered the driver to take him straight home; yet, in the back of his mind, Jacob Vascovsky wondered what had become of the niece, Aglaya Mikhailovna Morozova. The General’s ‘Little Glasha’.
“We’ve had confirmation,” Tubby Fincher announced. “The Morozovs are out and safe—tucked away in our Helsinki place.”
“Leave ’em there till it’s all died down. When it’s all finished.” The Director spread various items out on the desk, ready for the main meeting.
The council of war had been set for eight-thirty, and the ‘Ladies of the Manor’, as the Director liked to call his catering supervisors—for most were twin-set and pearls girls from military backgrounds—had laid on a cold buffet, with thermos flasks of coffee.
Tubby’s people had moved in the projectors—for movie and stills—while extra chairs were set up in the main office. The final briefing was to be in two parts. First, the DG and Fincher were to be joined by Curry, Worboys, Herbie, and—later—the most essential, Michael Gold. This was the most important of the two conclaves: the briefing of Gold.
Herbie had constantly harassed the Director—plugging away, again and again, at the necessity for a fast delivery of the material. For Herbie Kruger, everything depended on the tapes and forgeries being in Stentor’s hands by the following evening—Saturday—if the main event was to run smoothly.
By the time they reached part two, Troilus would have been excluded: spirited away by one of Curry’s cohorts. For this meeting the council would grow, to include an SAS liaison officer; Curry’s deputy; an officer from Naval Intelligence; and two other men, expert in their particular fields.
Part one began on time, with the Director going through the items Troilus would be required to take into Moscow. Gold, himself, was already in the building—kept safe, and apart, while the material was itemised. The less he knew of the contents, the safer the operation.
In all there were six tapes—all re-run on to standard Russian tape, and recorded from originals on Russian machines. As well as those put together from the Vascovsky-Kruger tapes, there were three conversations—all taken from Le Train Bleu—which could have been taped at long intervals, and different times. These left little to the imagination: the words and sentences arranged to give the damning impression that Vascovsky was speaking to his British control—Big Herbie Kruger.
On one tape, part of the dialogue ran—
Kruger: You think they’re that close, Jacob?
Vascovsky: It’s only a matter of time. My masters, I have to admit, Herbie fill me with nothing but fear.
Kruger: It has to be done quickly, then?
Vascovsky: I’d leap over the border, tomorrow.
Kruger: Why not tonight?
Vascovsky: I have to think of Yekatarina. There’s no percentage in it—just leaving her.
Kruger: If I can do it, it will be very fast. Can you make the Baltic coast within twenty-four hours—a day’s warning?
Vascovsky: Of course.
Kruger: The same rules as always, then. I’ll get a message to you—there’s an isolated cove, between Ventspils and Lyserort: our people’ve used it before. I’ll send you map reference, day, time and fall-backs. If you’re lucky I’ll come for you myself. Don’t worry, I’ll have you safely tucked up in London in a matter of hours.
Vascovsky: I can get myself a little breathing time in Moscow. But come quickly. It has to be in a few days.
After hearing that particular tape, there was applause from the assembled team.
Other documents were examined. Again, these were executed with singular precision: cipher messages; notes; lists of names; drawings; plain language copies of agendas, and transcriptions of meetings. They all went back over many years.
Next, the photographs; all culled from the stills and video—some of the latter transcribed on to film, to blow up individual frames—taken on the previous evening. Once more, the forgers had produced startling results, indecipherable from the real thing. There were photographs of the two men meeting at Le Train Bleu, naturally; but, by the magic of the dark room, and some delving into files, the complete set included shots of Vascovsky and Herbie Kruger meeting, at different times and seasons, in places as far apart as West Berlin; Bonn; Paris, and even London.
Last, and most important, a small blue sheet contained a cipher of exact instructions for Stentor. If the old fox adhered to his orders, the main event on the Baltic coast would not go awry.
When all the items had been examined, Michael Gold was sent for. He sat, quiet and attentive, as the Director himself went through the ways they had camouflaged the material.
The tapes were easy: placed in commercial cassette boxes, each with a false, peel-off, label. The documents were inserted into two books—a popular novel, and a book on Russian history. Pages had been ingeniously made into thin pockets, designed to take both documents and photographs: the ends neatly sealed, so that they were virtually undetectable.
Gold was made to go through the number of items, and t
heir importance, several times. As always, his agile and retentive memory did not let him down. Within minutes he could repeat the objects, and their hiding places, backwards, forwards and, as he said, “Sideways if you want it.”
The kit included a jiffy-bag, into which he was to seal the whole consignment, once safe and at the National Hotel, ready for the drop. “It is most important”—the Director repeated with some sternness—“most important, that you get on with things. Your drop has to be made at the earliest opportunity after arrival.”
“Michael,” Big Herbie towered over him, “this is most serious. If you’ve any doubts, now is the time to speak up. That drop has to be made some time tomorrow night. You think it can be done?”
Michael Gold nodded. “I’ll do it, and then enjoy the rest of my stay.”
The way he spoke gave Curry Shepherd a small jolt. For a second, he had the feeling that the boy was on to some jaunt of his own in Moscow. But only for a second. Curry dismissed the possibility almost before he admitted to the thought.
Herbie spoke about techniques. Then the Director took over, adding ideas of his own. The whole thing, while fraught with tension, and the kind of atmosphere which attends all briefings for dangerous missions, had about it a calm professionalism.
Michael Gold soaked in the instructions, like a sponge. Nobody else was to know that the larger part of his mind dwelt on his obsession with the girl from Intourist, and the fact that he would soon be seeing her again. He realised the importance of the assignment, but could not help himself. His mind and body tingled with anticipation. For him, the package, and its delivery to Stentor, was the simple thing—an act which could be performed quickly, and without a second thought. The overriding infection in his brain was the girl.
One of Curry Shepherd’s men escorted Michael Gold from the building. The faces in the Director’s office changed. Big Herbie Kruger was on stage, and planning for the Main Event began with a short word from the Director General, who then took his leave. It was up to Curry and Herbie to fight out the details between them. The DG had obtained the okay for Herbie’s trip, as far as Stockholm. After that, they all knew the rules. If someone broke those rules, and anything went wrong, there could be no mercy.
It was up to Curry and Herbie, between them, to see that nothing did go wrong.
Well into the night they talked, examined maps and charts, made contingency plans, and questioned alternative arrangements. When the meeting broke up, the final decisions had been made. The whole thing could now only fail if Stentor did not receive the goods from Gold; or if, for some reason, old Stentor was prevented from taking their suggested action.
As they left the building, Curry unknowingly made a step towards possible disaster. Since an essential message would have to go directly to Big Herbie—who would be with Martha Adler at the clinic—Curry took control. He always worked on the principle that, if there was danger to follow, the parachute should be packed by he who was to jump. Thus Curry dismissed Worboys, and gave the order that he would take Troilus to Heathrow, by himself. Once the aircraft had departed for Moscow, Curry would speak to Kruger. After that it was up to Big Herbie.
For the second time in the space of a week, Michael Gold sat in an Ilyushin 62, waiting for the heart-racing moment when the giant aeroplane would be propelled down the runway, lifting off to climb, and set course for Russia and Moscow.
Curry Shepherd, at his own private vantage point, waited and watched as the machine trembled at the threshold, then began its roll. Five minutes later he stood in a public telephone box, dialling the clinic’s switchboard, and asking to be put through to the number given him by Herbie Kruger. After a pause, Big Herbie came on the line.
“Okay,” Curry said. “He’s running.”
Big Herbie grunted, and put down the telephone. Turning to Martha Adler, who was now fully dressed and looking almost her old self, he pushed over the sheet of paper.
He had written out the message in block capitals. Martha smiled back, leaned over, gave Herbie a light kiss on the cheek, then started to direct dial the Moscow number.
On the paper were the words—
LARA HAS SPOKEN TO KOLYA WHO SAYS IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF DAYS. DO NOTHING UNTIL YOU HEAR AGAIN, PROBABLY TOMORROW OR MONDAY. KOLYA WILL BRING THE BOOK WITH HIM BUT IT IS ESSENTIAL FOR YURI TO RECEIVE IT.
It was just before noon in London; on the Saturday morning.
At three in the afternoon, on that same day, in Moscow, the telephone rang in General Jacob Vascovsky’s office, at the Yasenevo Complex. Major Badim answered.
The woman at the other end of the line asked to whom she was speaking. Badim told her, and, as though by some intuition, said the General was at home. Did she have his number, if it was the General she wanted? She did not have the number, but it was very urgent.
Badim paused for a moment, knowing he should check with the General. “Can I call you back?” he asked.
The woman said it was difficult, but she would telephone again.
“Five minutes,” Badim told her.
When he got through to General Vascovsky’s number, it was Madame Vascovsky who answered. When he told the General, who came directly to the phone, Badim did not expect his ear to be deafened by the fast and angry shout. He gathered it was very much in order to give the General’s private number to the caller.
After another call to Vascovsky’s office, the telephone eventually rang in the Kalinin Prospekt apartment. Jacob Vascovsky smiled to himself. He recognised the voice, and the message delighted him. So, his personal analysis was correct. Big Herbie Kruger had swallowed the bait. He could afford to wait for a couple of days. His people were placed at a distance from the subject; Badim would give him word as soon as the nephew, Kashvar, was discovered by the Militia; and they would also know the moment the niece arrived in the city.
He went through to the main living room, aware of Yekaterina singing the latest popular song in the bathroom. Looking out over the rooftops, General Jacob Vascovsky was not to know that his apartment was under surveillance from Department V, who had installed a team in one of the nearby buildings. There was another team in a car across the Prospekt, on the main exit side of the building.
Already, the incoming telephone call had caused some raised eyebrows, and there was argument about whether General Tserkov should be alerted and disturbed over the weekend.
In her room at the National Hotel, the Intourist girl—who had the afternoon free—luxuriated in a warm bath. Her very best clothes lay on the bed, and she lathered herself with an expensive French soap, obtained through a friend who had access to cosmetics and perfumes.
The car was ordered. At six-thirty she would be out at the airport to meet the nice Mr. Gold—the Englishman. She hoped he was not too sad, for she was a genuinely kindly girl. Anyway, she would soon make him happy. In a funny way she had quite fallen for Mr. Gold. Now that he would be feeling rich, as a beneficiary of his aunt’s will, he would probably buy her some gifts from the Beryozka shop at the National.
She really looked forward to this night, and had it planned, down to the last detail.
The girl was also very proud that her KGB adviser—as he liked to be called—had approved her choice. “I don’t suppose he’ll be of any use to us,” the adviser, Pankov, told her. “But he’s young, maybe an idealist. Who can tell? Give him what he wants; woo him; see how pliable he is. Anything important, you always know where to get hold of me. We shall see.”
She hoped, nonetheless, that there would be no need to make any recommendation to Adviser Pankov. She would not really like to feel that the Gold man was a subject for use by the KGB. She did not care for the KGB, but working with them was part of her duty as a good Party Member. It was also necessary if she wished to keep her job.
Looking out at the cloudscape, from the oval window of the Ilyushin, Michael Gold had no sense of flying, or speed, or even the urgency of his mission. He could not even see the clouds. Even with his eyes open, Michael Gold
saw only the Intourist girl.
20
IRINA LOBANOVA, FOR THAT was the Intourist girl’s full name, waited inside the terminal building at Sheremetievo; watching, as the great Aeroflot Ilyushin taxied into its parking bay. They had confirmed Mr. Gold was on board, which pleased her, so she kept taking little sideways glances at her reflection in the window. The smile which she so carefully nurtured, flashed back at her. Irina considered that she looked good, in the green coat, with gold buttons and fur collar, below which her black knee-length winter boots gleamed with polish. Like glass itself, she thought.
Below the coat she wore her best winter suit—the smart, pepper-and-salt tweed one that her mother had made. Her mother was a skilful seamstress, and it had taken a long while to get the suit exactly as Irina wanted it—looking just like the drawing on the pattern purchased from GUM. The nice light brown blouse set it off perfectly. Irena knew Mr. Gold would approve.
Certainly Michael Gold approved of what he saw, as he emerged from the queues in the bleak customs and immigration hall. Nobody had queried his baggage, which was still marked up for the original tour. She was as gorgeous as he remembered—for it now seemed like weeks since he had seen her.
He had half expected Irina not to be there; but to see her now made his stomach turn over and heart pound. Was this really to be? Was he in that state of which he had always jeered—the thing romantics called love?
There was, of course, the whole question of delivering the package. “This time it’s really dangerous,” Big Herbie had said. “They’ll be expecting the nephew, if they’ve got around to watching.” Herbie also said it had to be done quickly. Come to that they all said it. Faster the better; and here he was, in Moscow, with this girl, and the possibilities she held for him.
“You see, I promise to be here, Mr. Gold,” Irina greeted him. Michael burbled a kind of thanks, as she led him through to the car outside. He stood back to let her climb in first, before settling beside her.
