‘You’re thinking of Château d’If.’
‘Probably. Love that book. It’s one of the great texts on how to knit yourself a legend and go undercover. Dumas père … Man was an absolute genius. Did you know that your nickname was Dantès for a while?’
‘No, sir. I didn’t.’
Edmond Dantès. Alias the Count of Monte Cristo.
A local boy trapped in a lie, who escaped captivity and became a pretend aristocrat to take his revenge on the world. Yes, that made sense. Fitz would have had fun coming up with that moniker. Tom sometimes wondered if the whole world was simply something between a quiz and a crossword for the old man.
‘Tell me,’ Fitz said, ‘how you became involved with Rafikov.’
Tom stared at the rhino Fitz had pretended to shoot and used the time to put his thoughts in order. Every time he thought he had it, he had to go back a little to something that had happened before. In the end he began with the Berliner, the military train he’d boarded at Brunswick. Fitz was interested in Sir Cecil’s flat and what Tom made of the crime scene.
Tom had known he would be.
‘The first time, I’d literally just arrived. I got up to their floor and someone started leaning on the bell before I’d done much more than notice the door had been smashed open.’
Looked as if it had been smashed open, Tom reminded himself.
He talked Fitz through the position of the bodies, the efficiency with which Evgeny had been garrotted, the sheer brutality of Sir Cecil’s death. He mentioned the lack of lividity, Sir Cecil’s broken ribs, the way the crooked end of the crowbar had been left buried in his chest.
FitzSymonds looked shocked.
‘It was pretty grim,’ Tom admitted.
‘Find anything of interest?’
Tom hesitated. ‘No, sir. I didn’t have time.’
‘Maybe Rafikov was telling the truth and a Stasi colonel was on his way to kill you.’ Fitz’s brow furrowed. ‘The question is, why would an old KGB hand like Rafikov bother to save you?’
‘Repaying a debt. That’s what he says.’
‘That bloody mess in Moscow with Sir Edward Masterton’s daughter …’
Tom wondered who’d told the old man about that. And realized, a second ahead of asking, that he had no idea who’d pulled Fitz out of retirement, and couldn’t possibly ask without getting a lecture on need to know.
Fitz was right though. That bloody mess had seen a KGB general killed and Gorbachev nearly unseated by the Soviet old guard. Alex Masterton’s kidnapping had been just one sticky thread in a much bigger and nastier web. It was undoubtedly why Rafikov was helping. Tom had begun to wonder if it was the only reason.
‘Your father-in-law called the Foreign Minister to say your orders were to bring Cecil Blackburn home. He refused to believe you had anything to do with the murder.’
‘And the Foreign Minister called you?’
‘No, when the FO wasn’t receptive, Masterton called the Blessed M direct. Don’t scowl. I know you don’t like the woman but she is Prime Minister. If not for her, you’d have been abandoned to your …’
FitzSymonds stopped.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Time’s up.’
Fitz’s pimply shadow was back, looking nervous.
‘I should go anyway,’ Fitz said. ‘I’m having lunch with the ambassador. And I’d like to drop in on the library at the Humboldt if there’s time.’ He hesitated. ‘By the way … What are you reading at the moment?’
‘Nothing, Fitz. I’m reading nothing.’
‘The compound doesn’t have a library?’
‘If it does I don’t have a library card.’
‘And it’s probably all depressingly Russian …’ FitzSymonds dug into his briefcase. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Have this.’ He held out a new le Carré. ‘One of his better ones, in my opinion. Although, obviously, they’re all good. Oh, and Tom …’
Tom knew they’d reached what mattered.
‘You do have the memoirs, don’t you? Stashed safely. Thing is, Sir Cecil said he gave them to you.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘We intercepted a letter. And no, you can’t ask to whom. Given the shit shambles you’re in it’s best you don’t know.’
‘Fitz. The fireplace was full of ash.’
‘The thing is … My guess is Rafikov has a deal in mind and I might have trouble selling it to London. Not having the memoirs could be a deal-breaker.’
‘For Moscow?’ Tom asked, puzzled.
‘Christ, Tom. For us.’
57
Nothing hidden between the pages.
Turning the novel spine up, Tom flicked through just to make sure. Then pulled off its jacket to find perfectly ordinary boards behind. Nothing hidden in the gap between spine and pages, nothing written on the jacket’s shiny inside. Why would there be? Fitz hadn’t even known Tom was coming.
He checked all the same.
‘What’s that?’
Looking up, Tom saw General Rafikov in his doorway.
Rafikov held out his hand and Tom passed the book across. ‘The Perfect Spy.’ The Russian flicked through the pages as Tom had done.
‘Nothing,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve checked.’
‘What were you looking for?’
‘A file,’ Tom said. ‘For the bars to the windows.’
‘There are no bars on the windows.’
‘A key then.’
‘The door is unlocked. You’re free to come and go. You can even take your chances with the East Germans if you’d rather.’ Rafikov grinned wolfishly. ‘I’ll have to confiscate this, obviously. You realize that, don’t you? Check London haven’t replaced all the full stops with microdots, hidden a transmitter in the spine, that kind of thing. I can find you a copy of Pravda if you’re bored.’
‘You like le Carré?’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘I’m surprised,’ Tom admitted.
‘You mean … When I hear the word culture I reach for my revolver? Goering was an idiot as well as a fascist. One can have both. Bulgakov in one hand. A B-10 recoilless in the other. You’ve read Bulgakov, haven’t you?’
‘Who hasn’t?’
The rezident smiled. ‘I should go,’ he said.
At the door, he turned back looking suddenly serious.
‘I’m sorry, I forgot. Dr Wakefield hanged himself.’ He shrugged. ‘These things happen, unfortunately. I’ll let you know if the novel is as good as your friend FitzSymonds says.’
58
‘Humphrey-Baker, Sherwen, Wong, Michaelides, Bennett …’ Mr James walked the length of the junior table handing out that morning’s mail. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Remember to take your envelopes with you.’
He stopped behind Charlie, and the boy’s heart sank at the sight of another parcel in Mr James’ hands. ‘Are you sure you haven’t had a birthday?’
‘Quite sure, sir,’ Charlie said firmly.
He had no desire to be given the bumps. Although, if this went on much longer, they’d give him the bumps just to be sure. He took the parcel from Mr James and remembered to say, ‘Thank you, sir.’
Charlie wished everyone would stop staring.
The boys wanted to know why he’d been sent another present. The masters … Charlie had seen how they watched him. There was something they weren’t saying. Mummy too. Her Friday letters were full of Granny did this, Grandpa said that. She didn’t mention Daddy. She never said anything about herself. Not even when he wrote to ask if she was all right. She’d stopped her Sunday afternoon telephone calls too.
‘Aren’t you going to open it then?’
Michaelides, obviously.
It was as neatly wrapped as the parcel before, the same crisp brown paper and tightly knotted string. As if hearing Charlie’s thoughts, Mr James dipped into his jacket and held out his pearl-handled penknife.
‘This must be …?’
‘The third one, sir.’
Mr James watched as Charlie cut the string, put it to on
e side, removed the first layer of brown paper and folded it carefully. Charlie didn’t want any more presents. The first one, the 007 car, had been nice. Mummy hated nice, but Charlie still used it when talking to Becca or himself. The second present less so. This one made him feel … Charlie wasn’t good at feelings.
Not right, possibly.
Inside the second layer of paper was a hand-made cardboard box, and inside that, wrapped in tissue, a purple Rolls-Royce. It was long and low, with an open top, plastic jewels for headlights, doors that opened and front seats in which sat two people. Charlie peered at them carefully.
One of them seemed to be him.
59
Harry FitzSymonds was already outside East Berlin’s famous televison tower, a Reisebüro der DDR guide in one hand. His other held a half-eaten frankfurter that had been drowned in bright-yellow mustard and pushed into a hollowed-out roll.
Ignoring him, Tom marched towards the Fernsehturm’s entrance.
At 365 metres high, the Toothpick was the tallest structure in Europe. Constructed in the 1960s, it had a metal sphere near its top containing a visitor platform and revolving restaurant. When struck by sunlight at a particular angle the sides of the sphere lit up with a glowing cross. The locals called this the Pope’s revenge. That last bit was not in FitzSymonds’s guidebook.
Tom bought his ticket, and pushed his way to the head of a queue for one of the two lifts, and felt rather than saw Fitz join a small group behind him. It was early and a weekday, there were no school parties and, as Tom had hoped, Fitz’s shadow decided to wait below; safe in the knowledge his target was going nowhere except 200 metres straight up to an observation platform.
Berlin was laid out below and set in a green patchwork of lakes, forests and fields. The Wall made the West of the city brutally obvious. It was brighter, faster, more crowded. Tom wondered if the East Germans around him were envious. How did it feel to look down on that alien little enclave?
‘Careful,’ FitzSymonds said. ‘Don’t go native on me.’
He pushed his guidebook under Tom’s nose and pointed randomly. Anyone looking would have assumed he was asking a question.
‘You were scowling,’ he added. ‘Practically glaring like a good Communist Party member regarding Sodom. Or are we Babylon these days? I forget … How did you know I was here?’
‘Rafikov suggested I visit the Fernsehturm.’
‘Subtle,’ Fitz said. ‘He took the le Carré, I imagine. Did you get a look first?’
‘Only to skim the jacket copy.’
‘There was a letter written on the endpapers. Invisible ink.’
‘How on earth was I …?’
‘Oh God, not for you.’ Fitz turned over a couple of pages and pointed at something else. Tom pretended to read a line. ‘It was for Rafikov. All very Moscow Rules. He’s old school enough to appreciate the gesture.’
‘You’re negotiating my release?’
FitzSymonds hesitated.
‘There’s the possibility,’ he said carefully, ‘that Moscow might be willing to force Berlin to declare you innocent and return you.’
‘Berlin thinks I’m dead.’
‘Schneider doesn’t.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘Moscow want us to release one of theirs. No one important, they say. Which suggests he is. At the moment, he’s taking a nice little wander round the nature reserve near Wormwood Scrubs with someone from their embassy.’
Fitz looked around him, dismissed a local family as unimportant, scanned the observation platform and pushed his book at Tom again. In a way, Tom was impressed. Only a stupid foreigner would keep pushing a guidebook at a KGB colonel. Because only a stupid foreigner wouldn’t know what the sky-blue band on his cap signified. ‘Now,’ Fitz said. ‘You’d better tell me who gave the order.’
‘What order?’
The old man’s eyes tightened.
‘Tom … There’s a narrow window between that gymnast of Sir Cecil’s going out and his daughter turning up. Ten minutes max. You were seen arriving. You were seen leaving. Who ordered you to kill him?’
‘I wasn’t acting on orders.’
‘Christ, Tom …’
‘Fitz. I didn’t do it.’
‘Charlie Eddington didn’t …?’
‘No,’ Tom said firmly. ‘He didn’t.’
‘I have your word on that?’ FitzSymonds said.
Tom nodded, and the old man stared at the aluminium façade of Centrum Warenhaus, East Germany’s largest department store. ‘Probably just as well … This place used to be beautiful,’ he added sadly. ‘Now it looks as if some spoilt brat kicked over a bucket of Lego.’
He hesitated. With FitzSymonds you could never tell if the hesitations were real or simply stage-setting. The older Fitz got, the more Tom suspected that he was simply playing himself. Maybe that happened to everybody.
‘Look,’ Fitz said suddenly. ‘This is confidential. Three years ago we nearly went to war. For real. Neither side came out well and it made the Cuban Missile Crisis look like a minor scare. War games got out of hand and neither NATO nor the Warsaw Pact had protocols in place for backing down. We scared each other. More importantly, we scared ourselves.’
‘Glasnost was the result?’
‘One of the results. The PM’s started to wonder if Gorbachev’s for real. Reagan too. There’s a round of Arms Reduction Talks scheduled …’
He hesitated, and this time Tom had the feeling it was for real.
‘Sir Cecil was about to name names. We thought he’d given them all up. Price for admission, etc. I imagine the Soviets thought they had them all too. Cecil always was a devious bastard. After his defection, their London attaché began to make approaches. Too fast and too clumsily. You can guess the rest.’
‘Broken crockery?’
‘One heart attack, one car crash, one skiing accident, one drowning, one unexpected fire at a very pretty thatched cottage near Exeter.’ Fitz scowled. ‘A black Labrador died. I’ve always felt sorry about that.’
‘And more recently …?’ Tom asked.
‘Rafikov’s been talking?’
Tom thought of Sir Henry Petty’s overdose. The cast list for that damn play. The alpha in the notebook against his name.
‘Call it an educated guess.’
‘Have you tried to contact Caro recently?’
Tom blinked at the change of subject. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘I was in a prison camp until a couple of days ago. And any call would have to go through Karlshorst. Doesn’t mean I’m not desperate to.’
‘Best not,’ FitzSymonds said. ‘One, the Russians will listen in. And two, she’ll only tell her father, who’ll tell his friends. Next thing you know, it will filter back to Schneider and we’ll have to come up with another plan. At the moment, the Stasi think you’re a KGB psychologist shipped in from Moscow to turn me.’ FitzSymonds smiled. ‘Let’s keep things tight if we can.’
Tom hesitated. ‘Do you think Charlie thinks I’m dead?’
‘I do hope not,’ FitzSymonds said.
60
The le Carré was back on Tom’s desk, with a single tarot card marking a page where Rafikov had underlined a sentence.
The tarot card was Death. Of course it was.
The sentence read, ‘Sometimes our actions are questions, not answers.’
Tucked into the title page was a note outlining what General Rafikov liked about the plotting, characters and depictions of tradecraft, and what he considered the book’s errors. The novel’s endpapers had been removed. So neatly that unless you looked it was hard to see that they’d been there at all.
The note ended, ‘Don’t trust FitzSymonds.’
Tom would have dismissed this as an attempt to unsettle him if not for the way Fitz had used Caro to turn the conversation away from what they’d been discussing. The old man hadn’t admitted to a new round of spring cleaning, but he hadn’t denied it either. And that mention of the arms talks … They fitted into thi
s somehow. As it was, Rafikov’s dig worked, and Tom was still worrying away at what Fitz had said long after he’d turned his bedside light off, the noise of the block had settled and he desperately needed sleep.
Tom ate breakfast alone in the Mess. He’d already acquired the reputation of a loner, and although a couple of junior officers nodded politely, no one tried to join his table. Tom made do with grunts when his coffee was brought. It was good coffee. Substantially better than he expected.
‘Angola,’ the man serving said, seeing his surprise.
Emptying his cup, Tom lifted it for a refill.
‘We gave them guns, Comrade Colonel. They gave us beans.’
Tom smiled.
The man smiled back, waited to see if Tom wanted anything else and vanished when it became obvious he simply wanted to get back to his paper. A dissident released. A ballet unbanned. A poet so successful the queue for his new book stretched right around the block. The only obvious untruths were about Afghanistan and Chernobyl. Tom imagined few people had any real idea of what had happened with the nuclear power station in the Ukraine. And most of those who did were probably already dead. But he could recognize propaganda and knew damage limitation when he saw it.
Afghanistan was different. There the approach was simply to lie.
Pravda was full of Afghan towns taken and soldiers welcomed, hospitals opened and religious fanatics beaten back. There was nothing about ambushed convoys. Nothing about the number of helicopters that had begun to drop out of the sky. The Soviet Union was changing but not so fast that it could afford to tell the truth about things like that.
There were photographs of Gorbachev.
There were always photographs. But he was smiling, looking vaguely human; not stern-faced, or smiling in the way that Stalin used to be photographed smiling, as if wondering which bit to bite off small children first.
‘Interesting?’ Rafikov asked.
The general nodded to a free chair and Tom stood, indicating that Rafikov should take it. He remained standing until the general sat.
‘Sit,’ Rafikov said. ‘Sit.’
Folding his paper away, Tom said, ‘Never less than interesting.’
Nightfall Berlin Page 19
