Meanwhile it was Boris Bolgin’s lot to work for the master of intrigue himself. He would not be a bit surprised if the man who had now kept him waiting for three and—he looked again at his watch—almost three-quarter hours ended up there on top of the heap.
You cannot underestimate Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria, almighty head of the KGB, Bolgin thought. Beria, like the other contenders, had coexisted with Stalin, which showed that he was resilient. More than resilient: he was the cutting edge, forcing others’ resilience. And he had mastered the arsenal Stalin required in order to orchestrate his own sadism and his eccentricity. Boris, he thought, be very careful—ever so careful, now that Beria had finally gotten around to calling him in. And remember Beria’s uniqueness. Someone had said to him not long ago, ‘Boris, I think with the exception of Comrade Stalin, you are the only person who knew Beria in 1934 and still knows him in 1954 whom he has not yet executed!’
Yes, 1934. Boris Bolgin knew Lavrenti Beria in 1934. Beria had been in charge of the tribunal that had sent Bolgin off to the concentration camp, for the sin of having speculated, on one ocasion, in front of someone, that Marxist dogma, in that it predicates ultimately a stateless society, ultimately predicted a society after Stalin. That had cost him seven years of hard labour, successive frost-bites that had permanently contorted his face; cost him his child and his wife, who deserted him. In that special way he had ‘known’ Beria. But Bolgin was a skilful agent as well as a polyglot, and what he had now brought forth in Great Britain made him, well, a hero of the Soviet Union, if not a Hero of the Soviet Union. The latter award would certainly have been given him, to be sure in a private ceremony, except that nobody was giving awards since Stalin’s death and nobody wanted awards, because to have received an award from Malenkov might mean, if Beria came to power, that all those who had received awards from Malenkov would next be singled out for liquidation. No awards this season—not from Malenkov, not from Bulganin, not from Khrushchev, not from anyone. That was why Bolgin relished his little pun about being a hero of the Soviet Union without being a Hero. Oh God, how he would like a glass of vodka. But even if it were sitting there in front of him, he would not touch it. No. Always the same rule: only at home, or in his hotel; only when his duty was done.
The matronly aide opened the door without knocking. It was by no means absolutely clear that she had not had a glass of vodka. Her eyes were bleary. But then—he looked yet again at his watch—it was just after one in the morning.
‘Comrade Beria will see you now, Colonel Bolgin.’
Beria did not rise from behind his huge onyx desk, an exquisite facsimile of the map of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, each republic in a native stone. There were five telephones on one side of the desk. When Bolgin had last been here, six months earlier, you could hardly see the panelling on the four walls for the photographs of Stalin that had decorated the chamber: pictures of Stalin and (in most cases) Beria somewhere alongside or in the background; but also others of Stalin alone. With his wonderful, beatific face, Bolgin thought, a shiver running through his body. The walls were now less crowded, and there were pictures here and there of other functionaries.
Beria nodded his head curtly, pointed to the chair on his right. Bolgin sat down.
Beria came right to the point. ‘Did you reach the radio operator in time?’
‘Yes, we reached him five and a half hours after the American, Oakes, got on to him. We of course approached him very carefully—he was in London, on leave from his unit. We had to see whether he was under surveillance. Surprisingly, he was not. I had plans in the event that he was being watched. He is now safely in East Berlin.’
Beria nodded. He then rose, rose in slow motion. And began shouting:
‘You bloody idiot, you moron, you brainless pig!’
Bolgin was startled. He had seen Beria-rages before, but he had never been the victim of one. Usually, for the victim, such rages proved lethal. But surely not in his case—not now, in the present circumstances, taking into consideration his quite extraordinary usefulness in London …
Bolgin struggled to get in a word. ‘But Lavrenti Pavlovich, Operation Tirana was a total fiasco for the enemy! Every single one of the agents and counterrevolutionaries was caught!’
‘Idiot, that is exactly my point. By your thoroughness you necessarily alerted Washington to the extent of our resources. How long do you expect that we can continue to operate successfully through Caruso under the circumstances? The Americans will have to do something now. If you had let a half dozen get away, or be captured later—whatever. But to place an ambush at all five of the landing sites when you advised me that no single piece of paper had written on it more than one landing site. And then—sublime stupidity—to let that idiotic Albanian send an album to London, just showing off! Showing off! Dulles is not a stupid man. He will suspect organic, total penetration. He will suspect what we have. You, by not using your donkey-brain—excuse me, donkey,’ Beria spoke now in a voice of exaggerated deference, such as he had routinely used on the one occasion when Bolgin had been in the same hall with Beria and Stalin—‘excuse me, donkey, for insulting your brain by comparing it with Bolgin’s!’
The invective lasted a full ten minutes before Beria sat down. Bolgin repeated what he had already stated in a cable: namely, that the Albanian, Firescz, had indeed been instructed to let three agents get away, that on being told about the wretched album Bolgin had had Firescz arrested, that he was at this very minute incommunicado in Tirana, awaiting orders from Moscow on the question of his ultimate disposition. But Bolgin was saying what Beria already knew. Then he simply waited until there was a change in mood. It came quickly. Beria depressed a switch on the side of the desk and spoke the words, ‘Bring vodka.’
Bolgin said nothing. When the vodka came, Beria pointed his index finger first at the waiter, then at Bolgin. This was his way of indicating to the waiter that he was to serve also Bolgin. This was Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria at his hospitable extreme. Boris Bolgin did not dare to refuse the glass, even as he did not dare to drink it. He touched it to his lips, and Beria did not notice, when he poured himself a second dollop, that’s Bolgin’s glass was undrained. Then Bolgin caught the fleeting smirk on Beria’s face. So Beria knew even that—that Bolgin needed his vodka! Was there anything Beria did not know?
‘Nevertheless you are to return. Your contacts are—I never use the word “unique.” Useful. And to be in touch instantly with Caruso. He is to continue to supervise the operation. But effective until I shall see to it that no agent—not in Great Britain, not in Europe, not in America—acts on the basis of any of that information. It will continue, of course, to come to me. If I make an exception to the rule, why, I shall make an exception to the rule. But no one else will make an exception to the rule. I anticipate that this ban by us should last at least three months. It will take that long to tranquilise the Americans. How they will account for the completeness of our knowledge of Operation Tirana we cannot know—they will simply have to continue in doubt. Perhaps they will eventually feel it was a curious coincidence that there were troops at all five landing sites. Did the radio sergeant at the camp know the landing sites?’
‘No, Lavrenti Pavlovich. What he was able to give us, as soon as the orders were received by the commander of the commando camp, was reports on training activity and, finally, the scheduled time of departure. We did not give him the information on the sites.’
‘Well. Caruso has got too valuable a thing there for us to endanger. We will do nothing in the next period, nothing more to suggest to the Americans that we are familiar with their internal communications.’
Beria then paused and leaned forward, lowering his voice. He said with some drama, ‘There are important days ahead for our country, Comrade Bolgin. And absolute loyalty from you is expected. I mean by absolute loyalty absolute loyalty; do you understand, Comrade Bolgin?’
‘Yes, Lavrenti Pavlovich.’
Beria stared into his empty g
lass, essaying nothing. Bolgin calculated that he was safe, and two thoughts brought him great joy. The first was that clearly he was to return quickly to England. The second was that in a matter of moments he would be dismissed, and a very few moments after that happened he would be at his hotel, the Metropole. There, waiting for him, would be his vodka, in the plastic bottles. And at least three books brought from his library. Soon he would be drinking, and reading Chekhov. But he waited, motionless.
It came a moment or two later. ‘That is all, Bolgin.’ Boris Bolgin shot up. ‘And, oh yes, Boris Andreyvich, you are to be commended for your work with Caruso. And’—Beria smiled omnisciently—‘for controlling your drinking, if only in my presence.’ Bolgin looked down at the little, fleshy man, the odious, sadistic, pulp-faced killer-torturer, and said, ‘You do me great honour, Lavrenti Pavlovich.’ He bowed his head, and left the room.
7
The Director grumbled when, at eight in the morning, freshly arrived in his office on E Street in downtown Washington, he was presented with the two-hour-old cable from London.
‘You should have got me out of bed on this one, Halsey,’ he said to the duty officer matter-of-factly. And then, into the telephone, ‘Call Rufus and have him come in immediately.’
Rufus was unbelieving. ‘Esperanto’ had got away less than six hours after we had got on to him?
Well, at least it was absolutely clear what now needed to be done. The Director listened to Rufus and approved the plan. And yes, he would speak to the President about that part of it that needed to be communicated to the Prime Minister.
In London, an hour later, Anthony Trust was surprised that the message hadn’t come in through his protected telephone line. No, it had come in the form of a written message, sealed, and handed to him by a clerk who had signed for it at the reception desk. Trust was to repair alone to ‘a telephone you do not frequently use’ and to telephone Rufus, in Washington, at a number Anthony Trust was not familiar with.
The communication was made within a half hour. Rufus’s voice came in clearly.
‘There is one priority above all others. It is that we learn whether Sergeant Esperanto—you have now his real name and his address—left his apartment in London hurriedly; whether there is reason to expect that he was told he had to leave suddenly. Give this top attention.
‘Now, I do not desire that anyone other than you should know what it is, exactly, that we are trying to find out. We have arranged through diplomatic channels for a police detachment to accompany you to Esperanto’s apartment. The magistrate knows nothing except that the U.S. Government has requested a search warrant on grounds satisfactory to British law to conduct a search for stolen U.S. property. Call Scotland Yard and ask for Superintendent Roberts, give him your name, tell him you have spoken to Washington and are ready to meet the search squad. Then get moving. When you have conducted your search, call me back at this number. Understood?’
‘Understood, Rufus.’
Number 138 Whitechapel High Street was in the East End of London, a block of six-storey flats in a working-class neighbourhood. The street outside was a heavily used arterial road running into London. The trucks, buses, and other traffic caused, during that hour in the afternoon, what seemed like a continuous dull roar. There were twelve doorbells. Superintendent Roberts pushed the bell designated as ‘Porter.’
A very large woman in her sixties appeared, wearing an apron, her grey hair untended but held back by a bandanna. On seeing the officer with the two policemen and the American she took the cigarette out of her mouth, made an exaggerated bow, and said, ‘An’ wot may I do for you, gen’lemen?’
A few minutes later she had opened the appropriate door. Superintendent Roberts turned to Trust and said, ‘Under the circumstances, sir, you had better handle the questioning.’
It transpired that ‘John Shroud’ had lived in the apartment for about a year, had paid his rent (twenty-one pounds per month) promptly. He was often gone, sometimes for as long as two or three weeks, sometimes overnight. A quiet gentleman. He used to have a lady friend who came in every now and then and once stayed an entire week, but she hadn’t been seen for several months. As for last Tuesday, the porter had been surprised to see him leave, a few minutes after six in the afternoon, because that very morning he had complained to her that his refrigerator was not holding the cold and he would be needing ice the following day in particular. (‘Suppose he was ’avin’ some people in,’ she commented.) He had come down the stairs, she said, carrying a suitcase, apparently in a hurry, had barely returned her greeting, waved at her, sort of, and she did so hope he wasn’t a criminal, but the room contracts had been very carefully made out by a lawyer, and the widow Longstrike had every right to repossess the flat in the event criminal charges were lodged.
Superintendent Roberts thanked her, pointed pleasantly at the door, through which she soon passed, and, under supervision of the police, Anthony Trust began his search.
He had established that Shroud had been in residence for over three weeks; therefore he must have arrived at about the time the cadre had left Camp Cromwell. The question, then, was whether he had left the apartment under pressure of imminent danger, or whether he had simply gone off to meet his next commitment, conceivably to undertake a new mission. As for Shroud’s background, Trust awaited the fruits of the extensive research being done under close supervision in Washington by the FBI, and in London by the CIA.
The flat certainly didn’t look abandoned. There were two jackets in the closet, a few shirts in the drawer, magazines on the coffee table. And the refrigerator, as the porter had indicated, had been freshly stocked, including with perishables—milk, eggs, mincemeat. What was he doing with such goods if he knew that he would not be back soon? Or at all? It would depend, Trust reasoned, on how much of a hurry he was in. If John Shroud suddenly reappeared the next day, or for that matter later today, then what Rufus was worried about was of a completely different order. If he reappeared he would instantly be arrested. On the other hand, if he reappeared it would lay to rest the urgent question: might somebody have tipped him off between 11:30 A.M. and 6 P.M. yesterday?
Anthony concluded his inspection. By the time he reached the safe house on James Street which Rufus had designated as the provisional headquarters of the ‘Sergeant Esperanto’ investigation, the mystery was cleared up.
Or rather, it had deepened.
Lufthansa, in answer to their inquiry, reported that yes, one man had appeared at the very last moment, asking for space on the eight o’clock flight to Berlin. He had paid for his ticket in cash. He carried a single suitcase, which he said he wished to take with him, as he had ‘a tight connection in Berlin.’ He gave his name as John Hightower, carried an American passport, and had filled out the customary immigration form before arriving in Berlin. A teletype to Berlin retrieved his passport number as set down on his landing form.
A check in Washington quickly revealed that no such passport had been issued, in Washington or in an American embassy or consulate.
John Shroud, aged thirty-eight, was an American mercenary, a radio specialist who had several times been called on to give training of a kind particularly useful to special missions. He was a member of a pool of technicians loosely affiliated with several government agencies that had been charged with a growing number of special missions ever since the end of World War II or, more exactly, ever since the crystallisation of the cold war. There were several agencies in London, Paris, Brussels, and Rome through which one could recruit specialists, usually at a high rate of pay, for almost any job. Shroud had been used for three operations by the CIA and by MI6, having got a security clearance in 1952. He had been a member of the Signal Corps with the Seventh Army that had fought in Sicily and in Italy. He had a Bronze Star, was discharged at Fort Sam Houston in Texas, had applied in 1946 to a Veterans Administration Hospital for a haemorrhoid operation. And there the trail ended—until his name was given by an agency in London for a sensitive ra
dio assignment involving a search for a submarine that had disappeared off the coast of Scotland with a nuclear inventory. The search had been conducted under unofficial auspices.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Trust said, leaning back in his chair. ‘We’ll let Superintendent Roberts continue the surveillance of the apartment in Whitechapel for another few days, but there isn’t any point in expecting John Shroud to reappear. He’s gone.’
The news was telephoned to Rufus, who advised that he was flying in on an Air Force transport and would meet them at the safe house on James Street at ten in the morning. ‘You are to discuss the matter of Sergeant Esperanto with no one, Anthony.’
‘I understand, Rufus.’
That morning Rufus arrived at the safe house in London looking old, but not for that reason less than omnicompetent. He was greeted with relief, rather as if the chief surgeon had arrived at the operating room and all the attendants instantly knew that that which had been impenetrable would now, little by little, be penetrated. Rufus shook hands (Rufus shook hands with as much thought to what he was doing as other men gave to doing up their flies). He took the coffee proffered him, stirred it with his spoon held upside down, and the badinage trailed quickly to a halt. Blackford and Trust waited.
High Jinx Page 4
