by John Gardner
Aloud, he said, “You’ve got problems. Tired watchers, Art. I’m trying to help. You tell me you think the G-men’re nosing around. You say an old Agency hand gets spotted by the pool. So who knows what’s going on? One thing for sure. There’s risk we got to minimalize. …”
(“Minimize, Herb.” Only he did not say it.)
“Your people got to have rest. I got to have safety. If they’re sniffing they probably know where we are. So we move downstairs to sleep. Pucky and I take turns watching. We leave some lights on here. Got me?”
On cue, Pucky Curtiss came out of Passau’s room. “Shit!” she said, loudly. “Oh, sorry, Art. Herb, I forgot the water. We only have half a bottle left. I’ll drive up and get some. Sorry.”
“Is okay, Puck. Plenty of time.” Then, cocking a thumb at Passau’s door, “He okay?”
“Out on his feet. Drained. Said I’d wake him later. Later, when we go downstairs.” Her eyes shifted to Art. “You okay?” The smile was full of friendship. Done to a turn.
“Tired, Pucky, but that comes with the territory.”
“Are we going to London?”
“Nothing yet. I’ve told Herbie I’ll give him plenty of warning.”
“I’ll go get the water.” Another smile, right up to the eyes, and she was putting on her raincoat: the belted one with the hood. Almost a trench coat. Dressing the part of a lady spy right out of central casting.
Herbie gave her a nod. “Drive careful, Puck.” Nobody would even suspect she was off to pay the bill and tell reception they’d be leaving early in the morning. Calculated risk, Herb had said.
As the front door closed, so Art reached down for his rainslicker. “Sorry if I got shirty, Herb. You sure you can keep watch for a couple of hours? My people’re really weary.”
“Tell them to take the night off. We’ll be downstairs. I told you. Pucky and I’ll take it in turns. You got a number in case of a panic?”
Railton nodded, gave him the telephone number of the apartment they were using. “Just call if you need help. If anything—I mean anything—happens out of the ordinary. I’ll call London again.”
“Give ’em ultimatum. Tell ’em we’re running out of time. If it’s any help, I really think we are. I got to get through little old Louis’ last defenses. Lay it out fair and square. Take him up to date. He should live that long.” As he spoke, Big Herbie realized he meant every word. The thirty-six hours ahead of them could very easily push Passau into terminal fatigue. After all, he had got the big sin off his chest—or thought he had. He could die happy.
For a second, Kruger thought Art was going to embrace him, but the younger man drew back. Trust was all. Herb prayed to heaven that the true bond of trust had been forged anew; prayed that Art would really call off the dogs.
As it turned out, he did, though there were other phantom bloodhounds out there in the rain.
THEY LEFT JUST after two thirty in the morning. The rain had stopped, but only on a temporary basis, and even in the small hours there was enough heat to generate a foggy steam from the roads.
In the downstairs apartment, Kruger had strutted his stuff.
They sat Passau in a chair and took the Polaroid pix. The old man seemed to have recovered his perkiness and did not flinch when they went through the plan with him.
“It’s going to be arduous, Lou,” Herbie told him. “Sitting around waiting. Boring jet flights.”
“I’m used to it. Sleep on a clothesline. I’ll sleep on the flights.”
The apartment, Herbie was certain, was unbugged. They could talk with ease. He went over the rooms before bringing Louis, Pucky and the luggage down. He knew Art’s handwriting well enough to check the places he would have inserted the tiny grain-of-wheat-sized radio bugs. “Clean as the proverbial pig and whistle,” he told Pucky.
After taking the pix, Herb retired to the main room with his traveling workshop, the little black plastic box containing scissors, punch, ruler—a portable office, the ads said, and he had bought it a couple of years ago in Bond Street, together with a leather holdall the size of a paperback book for other essentials.
You can never go completely private—as the argot called retirement from the intelligence service. When you go, you are still not free. Before and after leaving, Herbie had gathered a number of useful artifacts against the time he really did not think would ever come. The past cannot be completely sloughed off like a snake’s skin. He knew that, so had made a private store, just for that rainy day they had told him about. Now that day was here.
He looked at the pictures of Passau, chose the one that would serve his purpose best, and cut it to passport size. Inserted it into the correct place. Filled in the spaces to fit. Used the tiny forger’s seal, made of plastic and carried in the lining of his one piece of luggage. Passau was now also a Brit. Herbert Harold King. Retired. Real as hell itself, the passport battered and bent where he had carried it around for odd days, thumbed through it regularly.
During his last year of active service with the Firm, Herbie had given the blank passport some life, quietly adding an almost genuine American visa, and entry stamps for Portugal, Spain, the United States and France while waiting for a little piece of fake I.D. to be done in Maida Vale by one of me famed Printers’ Devils—who did what they called “paper” for the service.
He turned the King passport over, smiling a little. Then he pushed it to one side and got rid of the other Polaroid shots, and the trimmings. Back at the table, he slit open a large manila envelope containing his final, long-hidden identity. These were papers he had never used. They were not in his own name. Not the Buckerbee I.D. he had shown at JFK. Neither the Professor Spinne nor the joke Gordon Lonsdale, but a virgin set. Helmut Auld. Naturalized British citizen since 1948. Credit cards kept up to date since retirement. Used occasionally. Pocket litter quietly renewed every six months because old habits die hard, and when the chips are down you trust nobody, not even your own people.
He took the Helmut Auld passport, placed it next to that of H. H. King, a.k.a. Louis Passau, and worked on a couple of I-94 blanks, those cards U.S. Immigration staples inside the passports of visitors, to be removed before leaving the country. Their system was not foolproof but it worked after a fashion. The hundreds of I-94s taken from visitors’ passports each day were eventually checked against a central computer—eventually being the operative word. Sometimes it took a week, other times, months.
Herbie went into the bedroom and changed into a suit, crumpled, hanging like an old sack on his large frame. He took every other I.D. belonging to himself and burned it—except for his real passport and cards—Eberhardt Lucas Kruger: the passport which still had the “Foreign Service Retired” stamp. This, and his real credit cards, driver’s license and the like, he put into the leather wallet and rammed it down into the almost, but not quite, hidden pocket in his case. He filled the pockets of his suit with the Auld litter, a battered wallet with the Auld credit cards and the stuff you needed to move around in the U.K.
Back in the main room, he made a little pile for H.H. King—passport, a couple of letters, one credit card, address book with next of kin in it. Then he began to deal with Pucky.
From her identities, he chose Patricia Anne Carmichael because it had her down as a Social Worker, which covered a multitude of sins. It did not take long for him to manufacture an I-94 for her. He had half a dozen I-94 blanks left so he burned them and flushed the ashes away in the bathroom. You could pick up I-94s anywhere.
So it was done. The papers were prepared, the briefings over. Now all they had to do was get out, pray, buy time—a couple of days, maybe three. Put old Louis on the rack again, then call in for an ambulance to Warminster.
“No doubt they’re looking for us,” he had told Pucky when the plan had formulated in his head. “No doubt at all. What you got to remember is they’re blinkered. They’ll be on the watch for three people, not two and one, but three. Also, they’ll be watching direct exits to Europe from main ai
rports. That’s where they expect us to go. It’s where we came from, so they figure we’ll go back there. The trick is to make all the check-ins last minute and not disguise yourself. No wigs, no cute fake beards for the Maestro and myself. Just simple things. Buy the dress, Pucky, with the eye of a watcher.”
Among the purchases of that afternoon, she had done as she was told. The dress was severe, blue, button-down, belted, little pockets, a white collar and epaulettes. With the raincoat she would be taken for some kind of nurse, especially if she was in charge of a wheelchair—Passau wrapped in blankets and both of them generating a lot of panic by last-minute arrivals.
“Making yourself totally visible is sometimes better than skulking,” Herbie said. “Only thing to worry about is if either of our flights get in too early or, worse, too late. The timings look okay.” He told her this as he divided up the tickets.
The three bags went into the trunk of the car at two twenty-five in the morning. Pucky carried the bag filled with bottled water and sandwiches as she followed Passau down the stairs. Herbie had already checked the outside of the hexagonal holiday apartment. The Lincoln faced outwards, its snout a couple of feet back from the road.
They made Passau comfortable in the back and Pucky drove, Kruger sitting next to her. No headlights until they reached the main buildings of South Seas Plantation. After that, it was simply concentration. Almost a four-hour slog.
Herbie was dropped off at Tampa International. “Don’t forget what I told you.” He leaned into the window. “Just drive around, find a motel. Keep up the nurse-patient bit. Rest. Make sure the old man’s comfortable. Also be certain you park with the license plates out of sight.” He hefted his suitcase from the trunk. “See you tonight. If I don’t make it, you know where to go.” He looked her in the eyes, took a deep breath. Love you, Pucky Curtiss. Take care. Then he was gone, walking with a slight limp, one-shoulder higher than the other, into the departures area, heading towards the Avis counter where, as Helmut Auld, he rented a Cutlass, got some maps and drove away. It was six fifteen in the morning.
It took him all day, driving fast but with care. Never exceeding the speed limit, as he crossed the wide thumb of Florida, heading for Miami. To eke out the time he made diversions: doubling back on three occasions. He stopped four times. Gas, a pee and coffee. Once a tuna sandwich. The views were often bleak and deserted. Miles between the little farms and homesteads, hamlets and villages. Florida lives mainly on its coast. Other large towns or cities were easily bypassed.
He retuned the radio twelve times during the long drive. Flipping through the bands until he found a station playing classical music, wincing when he heard the sounds of country and western, or rock and roll.
“You’re a musical snob, Herb. This is also music. Enjoy.” He heard old Louis Passau’s voice from the time they had done the long drive from Virginia to the Gulf Coast. Aloud, he said, “Okay, so I’m a snob.”
It rained, on and off, the entire day. Twice, Herbie had to get off the road, for the downpour was so great that he could not even see the end of the hood; but mostly it was just a steady drizzle. Sometimes, in the far distance, he caught sight of lightning, and huge thunderheads building on the skyline.
He put it down to paranoia but was convinced, on at least seven occasions, that someone was on his tail. First a battered gray Dodge pickup with two oversized aerials. The Dodge was with him for miles, staying back a long way, eventually disappearing.
Then there was the Range Rover, equipped with extra lights, spots, two long whiplash aerials and three shorter ones sprouting from the roof. The Range Rover came and went in his mirror and only disappeared on the outskirts of Miami.
He made it to the international airport barely in time. Parking in the long-term area, sticking his gun in the glove compartment and throwing the keys into a drain as he raced down, running, puffing and panting, just making the check-in and the gate. “Y’all very lucky. I was about to close the door.” The cheeky little flight attendant winked at him as he bent and clambered clumsily into the little Saab SF340. The turboprop whined into the air right on schedule, five forty-five in the stormy late afternoon. They landed five minutes late: six fifty p.m. Nassau International. BA264 was already boarding. Tighter than he would have wished, but there, just by the gate, was the tiny red circle stuck to the Wall—the sticker he had given to Pucky. “Only if you can do it naturally,” he had told her. “With luck, they’ll get you on first, with the wheelchair. Just if you can. Put it somewhere near the gate. Where I can see it.”
If things had gone as planned, Pucky and Passau would have spent the day resting in a motel near Tampa International, then gone to the airport, stashing the Lincoln away so it would not be found for a couple of days, making a flight out to the Bahamas at the last moment, then waiting for the final dash.
They were on and safe, so he stood, trying to look smaller, hunched, a bit stupid and nervous, in the line of people heading for the jetway. A few seconds before seven twenty-five the British Airways Tristar pointed its nose skyward, retracted its gear and climbed to its designated altitude. They would be at Heathrow around ten thirty local in the morning.
Herbie would not have known the young man sitting eight rows behind him. He had boarded the flight after Kruger and looked like any other tourist. There was absolutely nothing noteworthy about him. He appeared hot and tired, wore slacks and a sports coat that could have done with a visit to the cleaners. He knew Herbie, though. He also saw as he glanced back while stowing a small case in the overhead bin, the nurse with the elderly patient who closed his eyes and went to sleep before they even began to push back.
“Drink, sir?” A severe-looking flight attendant stood by Kruger’s seat, giving him a look that said, hurry up, I haven’t got all day.
“Sure,” Herbie gave her the benefit of the doubt and his extraspecial king-sized, I’m harmless, grin. “I could murder a good strong cup of tea.”
She smiled. “Coming up, sir. Won’t be long.” Big Herbie Kruger settled back. He knew the others were on board, so he had no problems until they reached Heathrow. If there was to be any trouble, Heathrow was the place to find it. He prayed that Art Railton had not blown his top and that the big guns back home would not over-react.
BOOK 3
(UNITED KINGDOM. AUTUMN 1991)
(1)
THE BUCKINGHAM HOTEL LIES a few miles inland, in the sprawl which makes up the outer fringes of Torquay. Once the jewel of British West Country seaside resorts, Torquay in the early nineties has gone to seed. The Buckingham, formerly the site of great golfing tournaments and a monied clientele, has almost followed the town on its downward slide, though not quite.
People still go there to play golf. Companies hold their small sales conferences in the annex. Tour groups of Japanese ride in, stay for two nights, and are bused around the West Country. Couples check in on Friday evenings for weekend specials; in the season, families come for a week, have cream teas, do the sights of Devon, glorious Devon, and go home refreshed yet feeling that, somehow, they have not exactly got their money’s worth.
The public rooms, and some of the private suites, still have traces of a more elegant time. The staff does its best, which is really not quite good enough. Like so many British seaside hotels marked with four stars by the Automobile Association, the Buckingham clings to the slippery surface of an England from which the thick patina of excellence has been almost removed by the vicissitudes of politicians and the tired erosion of a country at war with its morally bankrupt self.
From the Buckingham, a drive to the seafront takes about fifteen minutes, and in the holiday season you probably want to remove yourself from the delights of the Promenade, and the gaudy Pier, in less time than it takes to get there. In the summer, there is a constantly changing community, the pervading aroma of fish and chips, paper and empty cans litter the gutters, together with the uncertain feeling that violence could occur at any time of the day or night by way of hordes of yobbos wi
th their yobbettes—noisy, looking for kicks. Overall, the vibrations are the same as anywhere else in the United Kingdom—a sense of dissatisfaction combined with a knowledge that you are looking towards the terminal moments of a dying glory.
Big Herbie Kruger, Pucky Curtiss and Louis Passau checked into the Buckingham Hotel at seven forty-five in the evening. In all they had been on the move for well over twenty-four hours.
Heathrow had been incredibly easy. Too easy, Herbie thought. The MI5 watcher, standing back from the passport control officer, did not register anything. In fact, he seemed to be looking the other way. To Herb, this meant they were letting him in, together with Pucky and the Maestro. Probably letting all three of them in and slamming the door closed behind them.
He rented a VW Passat from Hertz, did not hang around while they were processing the paperwork, saying he would return in half an hour. He went off, drank coffee, ate a bacon roll, cashed a very large amount of traveler’s checks, and felt pleased he had shaved and spruced up on the aircraft.
Nobody appeared to be in the least bit interested in him. He picked up the car and drove the mile and a half to the Post House Hotel where he picked up the waiting Pucky with her charge.
They talked the next stage as Pucky did the driving. Passau slept in the back. “He’s done little else but sleep and try to cop the occasional feel,” she said. “A dirty old man of ninety.” She saw Herbie’s raised eyebrow and added, “… or whatever.”
Kruger stepped from the car as they stopped at traffic lights just south of Windsor. He said, “See you, sweetheart,” and was gone, lumbering away along the street, Windsor Castle rising in the distance above him.
Twenty minutes later, making certain nobody was on his back, he found a garage, where he paid cash for a dubious 1989 Peugeot with two hundred thousand on the clock. The test drive revealed nothing drastically wrong with the engine and the color was right—a brown. Dry dog shit covered with dust, Herb thought. The garage owner saw the crisp notes and did not bother to ask Mr. Fyfield for any I.D. Unless there was a phantom on his back, Kruger was away and clear.
