The Quiet Dogs: 3 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  “Your aunt? The burying was well?”

  “Oh.” Aunt Amy had almost gone from Michael’s mind. “Yes. Well. Well, you know how these things are. Relatives; tears. It was all sad.”

  She touched his arm with a gloved hand. It was like fire: a fuse lighting his blood. “But now it will be better. You are a beneficiary and will be rich, I think.”

  “Not rich; no. She left a little money.”

  “You will take me to dinner, though. You promised dinner, Mr. Gold.”

  “I must go to the hotel first.” It was his last chance. Perhaps she would wait for him. It should not take long—a short trip out to the Kutuzovsky Prospekt. An hour at the most. That was it. Slip her at the hotel, and meet her later. That package had to be delivered: had to take precedence.

  “We will have dinner?” The smile reached up to the light in her eyes. In the gloom of the car she really looked stunning, with a wisp of hair peeping out from under her fur hat, which matched the fur on the collar of the green, rather military, coat.

  “Of course you shall have dinner.” Then, before he could stop himself—“And I have brought presents for you.”

  She gave a little squeal. “You should not. No. Oh, Mr. Gold, what have you brought for me? Can I see?”

  “Later.” Suddenly Michael was quite calm in the knowledge and truth about the pair of them. “You shall see later. Please. Please call me Michael.”

  “No. I call you Mikhail; and you must call me Irina.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, Irina.”

  “Good, then that is settled. You get washed at the hotel. Already I have ordered a table at a very good restaurant. You see, I knew you would take me to dinner. What have you brought, Mikhail?”

  It was getting very hot in the car; the heat began to centre around his loins, and there was a new pounding of anticipation in his head. What was it Herbie Kruger had said? “... that drop has to be made some time tomorrow night.” Tonight. Some time tonight. Some time. Even though it was important, all would be okay; just as long as it was done tonight. Really there was plenty of time. Once it was done with the girl, he would feel better: refreshed; more capable of taking on a dangerous mission.

  Irina moved closer to him. “What did you bring me, Mikhail?”

  “Oh.” His throat felt constricted. Dry. Must be the flight. Flying always dried up the throat: something to do with the air conditioning. “Oh.” He looked at her, smiling. “Female things. Pretty things.”

  “Mikhail!”

  For a moment he thought it had gone wrong: that he’d overdone it. Then she giggled, “That’s naughty of you. But nice. I shall like that. Pretty things from the West...” She moved even closer.

  It was no good. The drop had to wait, for, when they arrived at the National Hotel, Irina seemed all set to go straight out to dinner. After he checked in, leaving the Gold passport, she gave him no chance.

  “I shall wait here for you. We must not keep the car for too long, otherwise I shall be in trouble. Get ready quickly, Mikhail, and it will save having a taxi.”

  Michael Gold allowed the porter to take his luggage. In the room he did not even unlock the case, simply sluicing his face with water, and tidying his hair, before going downstairs again to join the girl whose smile seemed to have broadened: catlike. Feline—that was the word. Feline; nubile.

  It was almost half-past seven, Moscow time.

  Stentor felt nothing but anxiety. His wife just would not be talked out of going to the reception. “You must be there. You must,” she had said time and again during the day. “After all, the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet will be there; all the Politburo. It is important.”

  As if he did not know it. Of course it was important. The reception, to be held in honour of several Eastern Bloc leaders, meeting the Supreme Soviet for what, in the West, they called a summit. Yes, the reception was very important. Yet Stentor knew that, if there were to be messages, he should stay in the apartment. Indeed, he hoped for some kind of message earlier in the day. The only hope, at this moment, lay in the new anti-Vascovsky interest sparked off at the Standing Committee’s meeting.

  As he pinned the long line of medals on to the breast of his dress uniform jacket, General Glubodkin wondered who would watch who. There was irony in it; for they would all be at the reception—Vascovsky and his wife; Tserkov and the wizened little woman with bad teeth who was Madame Tserkov.

  The thought made Stentor chuckle to himself. He put the finishing touches to his tie and hair, then slipped into the jacket: standing back to admire himself in the mirror. Vascovsky would almost certainly have people watching him, Stentor. In turn would Vascovsky know that the Head of Department V had him, and his precious beautiful French wife, under surveillance?

  The irony was very Russian, with a touch of French farce. Yet this did not make Stentor feel less uneasy. Tonight he had the senses of an animal. Possibly thunder in the air; even though it was still cold. A storm? No; more than that. In the dark world, the years teach you to tune intuition, as an experienced electronics man will tune a set.

  It was in Moscow. Now. Tonight. Help and threat in equal portions.

  As they left, the General told the night guards that he might have a visitor. If someone arrived for him, they were to telephone this number at the Kremlin and ask for him personally. He wrote the number on a card.

  All the way in the car, his wife chattered. Why leave a number? You’re getting too old for this kind of thing. Always you have to be on duty—twenty-four hours a day. Duty; duty; duty. That nice General Vascovsky and his beautiful wife, now, she could not believe he was on duty twenty-four hours a day.

  With a younger vigorous wife like her, Vascovsky would have better things to do, Stentor thought. He did not say it aloud, but his mind drifted away—to the young secretary at the Complex, who was in awe of him; and amazed that he was still able to do it with such strength at his age. She really liked it as well. A man of his age, with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter: he should feel ashamed. Stentor felt no shame, though. He wished, fervently, that she was here in the car fondling him—as she did at the Complex—instead of his wife nagging away like a throbbing boil.

  In London they telephoned Big Herbie straight away. All was well.

  After an evening of pacing and concern, Herbie Kruger relaxed. He even took a stiff vodka, then telephoned Curry Shepherd.

  “I know, cocker, they called me as well. We’re on, old son.”

  “Sooner the better,” Herbie smiled his daft, stupid, smile to himself. “I’ll see Martha tomorrow. We’ll alert our General friend either tomorrow night, or first thing on Monday.”

  “Leave it as late as you can; I should.”

  Herbie agreed. He would sleep well after all.

  In Moscow, unknown to Big Herbie, his protégé, Michael Gold, was only just starting his drop. For him the night had hardly begun.

  They were lovers, in all senses but the physical, before dinner was over. She took his hand, as naturally as a trusting child, when they left the hotel to drive to the Aragvi, on Gorki Street. There, Irina told him, they served the best shashlik in all Moscow. Indeed, while strictly a Georgian restaurant, Michael found the specialities covered a wide range, and the portions were very large—a thick borshch, which he had always imagined was just the plain beetroot stew, remembered from childhood, but turned out to be a spicy vegetable soup, garnished with chopped kidneys. Irina said that borshch came in many varieties. Michael considered that canned soups did the same thing, and began to giggle, which was infectious. In fact it was a night for much laughter.

  She was certainly right about the shashlik: succulent lamb, marinated in a sauce; delicious to the palate, biting and juicy.

  To finish, there was a glorious Charlotte Russe, which Michael silently admitted was far better than those his mother made with such pride.

  The vodka was forsaken for a bottle of Georgian Shampanskoe—dry, sparkling and inclined to make Irina giggle even mo
re. The bubbles tickled her nose, just like any other young girl.

  They joked, held hands, and sat close, while Michael told her about his past, and life at an English University. In turn she spoke of her own childhood, and schooling in Moscow. Between the talk they discovered a similar passion for movies—Irina wanted to know a great deal about the kind of films shown in the West. In and out of the conversation they both wove flirtation, and this deepened, until, at one moment, all conversation stopped and they just(sat there, looking at each other.

  “You’re eating me with your eyes,” she said.

  He nodded, “And you, with yours. You’re devouring me.”

  She leaned forward, obviously wanting to kiss him, but whispering this was not polite in a public place. “We go back to the hotel, and I come to your room.” She gave him a glittering smile. “I want my present.”

  Michael gave her money for the taxi, and, during the ride back, she initiated him into the ways of handling Floor Ladies. “They all know what goes on, and some are difficult. When you get your key, leave ten rubles.”

  It was the same the whole world over. Bribes. Still, he went through the charade, finding the room just as he had left it.

  Full of food, and a little dizzy, from both Irina and the wine, Michael unlocked the case to remove the neat, beautifully-wrapped, presents. It crossed his mind that, soon, he would have to make some excuse to get away. But, for now, the moment was theirs. Fire, flood or bomb could not have stopped them, let alone the package to be delivered to Stentor.

  She smelled of the cold, and a pleasant scent, as she twined her arms around his neck, once inside the room. The kiss, with all its variations—the biting of lips, opening of mouths, and deep penetration of each other’s tongues—went on and on, until the need for air pulled them apart. Her fur hat fell off, and the long blonde hair tumbled out around her flushed face. Even fully dressed, through her top coat, she had pressed hard against him. Now, she could not wait to undo the buttons. The coat fell to the floor—“My presents?” she squealed, spotting the gold and silver parcels wrapped with ribbon.

  “Your presents,” he grinned, like a dummy, waving a hand towards them.

  Irina was in no mood to take her time, even though she exclaimed at the wonderful wrappings. Then came the cries of delight as she held up the wisps of gossamer. “But these are real silk, Mikhail. Real, true silk. They would cost a fortune.”

  He moved towards her, knowing he could not stand it much longer; but, suddenly she ducked away. “I give you a show of fashion, Mikhail.” Before he could stop her, Irina disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door firmly.

  It did not take long. She reappeared dressed only in a pair of the luxurious, heavily lace-trimmed, panties brought from London. Then there was no stopping either of them. As Michael moved, so Irina took the initiative—grabbing at him, undressing him, ripping off his clothes and pulling him down on top of her on the bed.

  Perhaps it was the magic of two people attracted to one another; maybe Michael imagined it; or, possibly, it was what he wanted to believe; but Irina made him feel more of a man than any of the dozens of casual girls he had taken in his life.

  She groaned, half-delight and half-pain, as he entered her; then their lips were locked, and their bodies docked together, nodding and bowing as though riding great waves.

  The first time was over quickly, and they lay—naked and close—quietly muttering endearments until Michael was again ready.

  The third time was Irina’s own doing, for she reversed roles, thrusting with an athletic vigour which more than matched Michael. When that was done, they again lay panting, Michael’s head reeling as she continued to whisper her love, and bite at his ear, leaning over to kiss him, one hand between his loins.

  Stentor. The thought came to his head with a rush. Aimlessly he cast around in his mind. How could he free himself? No magic answer came back, except for the magic of her hand on him, stroking new life to his already throbbing body. He had no desire to leave her. No true motivation for going out into the hostile city—except the consciousness that it was his duty.

  By now Michael was tiring, and so found it easier to control the situation. In the far corner of his mind he thought that, if he made it last—made love hard and long and strong—he could tire her: maybe bring sleep.

  She told him, time and again, that she loved him; that she had never experienced anything like this. Could she stay for the night? For she wished to wake in his arms. He went on; and, eventually, they both fell apart on the bed, panting and exhausted.

  Michael pulled back the blankets and sheets, helping her snuggle into bed, while he excused himself to go to the bathroom. Sleepily she said she should also go. She would later. She loved him so much.

  His loins ached as never before. But seldom had he been forced to work so hard at the pleasure; and this pleasure was so different.

  When he came back into the room, she was on her side, eyes closed, breathing regularly—the long deep draughts of sleep.

  Quietly, he bent over her. She was out to the world; satiated, with a happy smile, her body relaxed and fulfilled. Now, he would have to take the risk. Moving as silently as possible, Michael Gold dressed, changing into heavy grey trousers and boots, pulling a thick rollneck sweater over his head. It was late. Christ, after ten o’clock. In London they would be worrying.

  Remember the routine—he kept glancing at the inert form under the blankets and sheets—the jiffy-bag and tapes; then the books: finding the pages, removing the documents and photographs. He checked them over, one at a time, counting them; rehearsing all they had taught him. Everything was there.

  Now he packed the good greatcoat in the little plastic holdall. On with the anorak and spectacles; the cap on his head; Piotr Kashvar’s passport and documents in the anorak pocket; the jiffy-bag—now containing all the items—sealed with sellotape, tucked into the plastic bag. Money. Check. Double-check. He hoped the Floor Lady would not stop him.

  Irina murmured in her sleep; moved, seemed to open her eyes, then closed them again, and moved deeper down into the bed with a contented moan.

  Michael reached the door. London still worried him: playing on his mind. After all, the job would be done—the package delivered—in a matter of thirty minutes at the most. If he could put them out of their misery now, without waking Irina.

  She did not move. Hesitating for a second, he decided to risk it: crossing to the telephone, and quietly dialling the number they had given him. A nondescript voice answered.

  Michael spoke, very low; almost a whisper. “Norman?” he asked. The voice said it was Norman, yes.

  “Just to let you know I got back okay. Smooth trip. Everything fine. See you soon.”

  Irina did not move. Softly Michael Gold replaced the telephone, picked up the plastic holdall, and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door silently behind him.

  The moment he left, Irina turned, in half-sleep, and her eyes popped open wide and alert.

  21

  THE FLOOR LADY NODDED at her post, and nobody challenged Michael as he made his way down to the main, marbled hall of the National Hotel.

  The nights were still bleak cold, and his breath hung in little clouds, almost solid, dispersing very slowly, as he trudged towards the Sverdlov Square station.

  He must remember not to be too late returning. The underground trains only ran until half-past midnight, though—at the moment—there seemed to be plenty of activity on the cold streets. Trams and buses; cars; people, like himself, walking briskly; the occasional wail of a police or ambulance siren.

  God, what would it be like in winter, he wondered? This was bad enough: the prelude to the upturn of the year. Near the station he saw a cafe just closing; an oil lamp in the window. It reminded him of something. A poem? A book? The words came, unbidden, into his head—

  Snow swept over the earth,

  Swept it from end to end.

  The candle on the table burned,

 
The candle burned.

  He could not remember where the poem came from. Perhaps he would ask Irina when he got back. Lord make her sleep. Please. Just until he got the job done. Then he could return to the soft bed and her pliable body.

  Putting his five kopecks into the machine, Michael followed the high-arched tunnel, heading for the platform at Red Square from where the train would take him to the Koutouzovskaya station.

  A drunk tried to talk to him on the train; and a young woman got on at Arbatskaya, coming to sit close to him, even though the carriage was not crowded. She smelled of cheap scent, and her cheeks were made up with two bright spots, like a doll.

  As they drew into the Kievskaya, where he changed platforms, the woman nudged closer, lifted her skirt, revealing a slip of paper under a frilled garter. The paper had a price written on it. After the clean, scrubbed, loving Irina, the very idea of the whore revolted him. He was glad when he reached the air again, trudging towards Stentor’s apartment block.

  One of the Militia men, sitting in the discreetly parked car, saw him first. His comrade was asleep, coming out of a dream, when nudged.

  “Looks like our subject.” The first Militia man strained forward, his breath fogging the inside of the window. They were both tired, and disgruntled with the assignment—sitting there every night, watching for one missing person: just because he was a relative of some KGB bigshot.

  “You think so? How do you tell at this distance?” The second Militia man rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  “Just the description. Watch.”

  “Wind down the window. You can’t see a fucking thing inside here. It’s like taking a sauna in a sewer.”

  “Steamy also.” The first Militia man wound down the window, letting in a blast of icy air.

  Across the road, in the small apartment being used by the KGB team, the man seated at the window slept on duty: his partner was stretched out behind him on the bed—the pair of them surrounded by the paraphernalia of surveillance. But the night glasses, and camera—on their twin tripods—in the window, were unmanned.