by James Quinn
Grenham-Smythe's face was that of a pouty child, but if he had thoughts that he wanted to voice, then one look at Masterman's imposing figure silenced them. Instead he said, “Alright, Masterman, which one can I have?”
Masterman jerked a thumb towards Grant. “You can have the Gorilla.”
“But Stephen,” said Stern, jokingly, “I thought I was your best operator?”
“Yeah,” laughed Bob Knight. “Gorilla is a wanker!”
Chapter Two
“So you're Grant, are you? Heard some stuff about you and your chaps. Is it all true?”
It was later the same day and Grant and Grenham-Smythe were given the privacy of the Ops room to discuss the EMERALD operation. In truth, and after having spent the last hour in the company of the senior SIS man from London, Grant wasn't exactly enthused about any of this.
“We like to get our hands dirty, boss, that's all I'll say,” said Grant vaguely.
“Don't call me 'boss', I'm not a foreman on a building site. It's 'sir', or 'Mr West', if you please,” replied Grenham-Smythe.
“Mr West?” asked Grant, confused.
Grenham-Smythe rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “That is the name that I will be using with the source as part of my cover! Now, do you have a pen and paper? Don't want you to forget anything.”
The recruitment and running of the agent who later went on to become the shining star of the East German Desk, agent EMERALD, did, as is usual in intelligence operations, come to fruition via a very circuitous route. Things are rarely straightforward in intelligence work. EMERALD, whoever he or she was, was what was known in the trade as a walk-in. There had been no prior knowledge of this person, no targeting and no recruitment. The source had simply made the first contact, unsolicited.
The first that anyone knew about EMERALD was when an envelope was tossed through the rolled-down window of a motor vehicle belonging to a secretary from the British Military Attaché's office in West Berlin. The only thing that the secretary had remembered before she noticed the envelope was seeing a woman in a dark coat walking past the car and then disappearing into the crowd of pedestrians.
Quite obviously, the secretary opened it and read the contents. What the letter stated was that the writer of the letter wished to make contact, covertly, with a member of the British Mission responsible for 'intelligence' gathering. The author intimated that they had access to details of various Staatssicherheitsdienst operations that were taking place or about to come to fruition in West Berlin, the details of which, at the moment, they preferred to keep secret.
The would-be source made it clear that he or she was making this one time offer purely for political reasons. They did not believe in the Communist delusion or in the direction that Germany was going, but that they would explain in greater detail if a secure communication method could be established in the near future. The source stated that they had established a hidden cut-out location on Potsdamer Platz – a loose brick on the side of a disused store – and that inside would be a cigarette packet that contained more details for a future meeting.
“They are talking about a rudimentary dead letter box,” explained Grenham-Smythe unnecessarily, for what he saw as Grant's education into the secret world.
Finally, the letter had been signed with the nom de plume of EMERALD.
“Is it genuine, or is it a Stasi trick?” asked Grant.
“That is what we are here to find out.” Grenham-Smythe's plan was to explore if this possible agent was realistic and was someone that they could work with. “I want to approach the dead letter box tomorrow and clear it. I need you to drive, watch my back and make sure no one from the East German side sees us.”
Grant nodded. Potsdamer Platz was a melting pot of a place where people from all sides of the divides congregated to buy or sell things on the black market. It also had the bonus that you could quickly step over the demarcation line to your own side and you would be safe. Grant guessed that Grenham-Smythe didn't like the idea of being that close to the East and could, potentially, leave himself open to kidnap by the SSD; hence why Grant was there to provide an over-watch and offer some protection. In truth, Grant doubted that would happen and came to the conclusion that Grenham-Smythe was acting like an old woman and jumping at shadows.
But whoever EMERALD turned out to be, they had certainly picked well for the initial meeting point; easy access, good escape routes and, on a busy day, even easier to blend in. Maybe Masterman was right; it was a nice way to get his feet wet after being away on leave and ease his way back into the covert life.
“So we check out the DLB, make sure that there is no surveillance and see what this source wants to do next?” asked Grant.
“Do you foresee any problems?”
Grant looked down at his notes. “Not really, it's pretty standard. I'll drive us there and then we split up. You just do your own thing and I'll run a bit of counter-surveillance. You won't see me – I'll just blend into the background. When I give the all-clear that you are clean, then and only then can you clear the DLB.”
Grenham-Smythe nodded, already feeling jittery. “And what if someone tries to stop me or interferes?”
Gorilla Grant smiled. “Well, that's what I am there for, Mr West. I'm the muscle who'll run interference for you.”
The next day, Grant and Grenham-Smythe were in position outside a small row of stores near Potsdamer Platz. The area was generally run-down; buildings were shattered and decaying, but several had managed to build a small trade for locals – a general store, a shoemaker's and baker's – while the rest were boarded up or just abandoned. It was a place where black market deals were made under the counter.
Grant had walked the area and taken his time, watching out for any overt signs of surveillance cars, operators or just generally nosy locals. He bought a loaf of bread at the baker's and lingered in the area, glancing now and then at shoppers and people walking to work.
When he was satisfied, he removed a newspaper from his left coat pocket and put it in his right coat pocket; the code for Grenham-Smythe that the area was clean and that he should proceed with clearing the DLB. The SIS man had been sitting reading his own paper on a nearby bench, but now he casually got up and headed towards the rear of the stores.
Third empty store along, at the rear, loose brick underneath a heating vent, remembered Grant.
While Grenham-Smythe disappeared around the back of the shops, Grant was doing his job; watching in case anyone followed or paid close attention, as are the rules of effective counter-surveillance. If anyone did, he would identify them and, if necessary, deal with them in his usual robust way if they got too close. None did and then, moments later, Grenham-Smythe was coming back and walking away. Job done!
Grant had briefed him that he should take the car back to base and that he, Grant, would make his own way separately to prevent any risk of cross-contamination of them being seen together. To have one SIS operator identified would be annoying, but to have two 'burned' would sting professionally.
An hour later, he was back at the Gutterfighters' base and Grenham-Smythe was cock-a-hoop!
“EMERALD wants to meet!” he yelled. “I've already cabled SIS London that we have had a bite!”
Grant smiled and began to take off the covert hip holster that contained the Browning, followed by the ankle holster that housed the back-up .38. He made himself a mug of coffee, sat down at the desk and listened to what the SIS man had to say.
“It's a person-to-person meet. EMERALD has provided us with a new DLB so that I can arrange the details,” said Grenham-Smythe excitedly. “First thing tomorrow, I want you to check out this new dead letter box and fill it. I'm going to work on the reply tonight!”
Grant listened politely and sipped at his coffee. He read between the lines and surmised that Grenham-Smythe was under pressure from London to move this on. He felt that EMERALD was playing with them, seeing if they were genuine; it was a game, almost. He likened it to two a
nimals in the wild coming across each other in a forest; there was mistrust initially until one of them showed a little bit of their belly, then the other one would show a little bit more of their belly, until they were both left exposed and open to a lethal blow from the other. The line of letters, dead letter boxes and now contact meeting points felt like the latest in a series of clues to a grown-up treasure hunt.
The next day, in the howling wind and rain, Grant was pacing across the pathway that led to the Berlin Zoo. As instructed, he chose to sit at a bench along the pathway and directly opposite the zoo's entrance.
He sat for a moment scanning his environment, aware of people in the distance, but none within his vicinity. In truth, there could be a hundred SSD or other intelligence agencies' surveillance teams hidden in the surrounding area and you would never know. So, for a one man operator, it was virtually impossible to smoke them out. In the end, it came down to doing all your checks and just going for it. One last look and he stood and walked along the grass verge; it was a tree with a gnarled stump that he was looking for. Sauntering casually, he spotted it within a few seconds.
He reached down to pretend to tie his laces, his body shielding the stump opening near the floor; a quick reach-in with his hand and he placed the carton with the return message deep into the nook. He took a breath. He hadn't even looked at it; after all, he was just the postman. If anything was going to happen, it would be now – an East German snatch team or a surveillance camera clicking away at him from deep within the trees – but instead, the most dramatic thing that happened was that the ferocity of the wind increased.
He stood and walked away, a lone figure in the Berlin rain.
Three days later and Grenham-Smythe was becoming more irritable and even more insufferable. Any more of this and I'm going to throw him in the boot of the car and dump him in the East, thought Grant.
“Damn it, Grant, where is EMERALD? Why haven't they been in touch yet?”
Grant reasoned that as well as bodyguard, driver, and back-up man, his responsibilities seemed to include acting as a sounding board and pacifier for the older SIS man.
“Look,” said Grant, “let's think about this logically. What we have is a possible agent who is being cautious; nothing wrong with that! EMERALD wants to know that we are acting professionally and not putting him or her at risk. If we walk into an ambush, what happens? A bit of drama, a bit of posturing between us and the East Germans. We show our identification and we get a slap on the wrist from London.”
Grant could tell by the look on Grenham-Smythe's face that that was what was concerning him. He didn't know much about the SIS man, but he knew the type; one eye was on his career and pension, the other, very much an afterthought, was on doing the job properly.
“Look here, Grant, I've given my word to London that…”
But Jack Grant wasn't finished and would not be closed down by the senior officer. “But, for EMERALD it's a whole different ball game. We would be talking a cell, torture and prison – if they are lucky! I understand it's frustrating, but in the long run, really, we have to let EMERALD set the pace. Honestly, I can't think of any other way that it would work.”
It was almost a week later that they got their response in the dead letter box and it was Grant himself who retrieved the message. “We are in play!” he said to Grenham-Smythe, handing over the small package that had been secreted inside the tree stump.
Grenham-Smythe snatched at it and started to open the seals of the cigarette carton; he looked like a greedy child attacking a Christmas present. Inside was a small piece of paper written in German from EMERALD that confirmed the meeting place, time and the agent's recognition code that would be used on the day of the meeting. “It's on the Kurfurstendamm, on the bend in the road by the church that they are rebuilding,” he said.
Grant nodded, he knew the area well. “The Gedächtniskirche. Leave it with me,” he said and set about looking over the street maps that he had.
He would eventually carry out a real-time reconnaissance of the area prior to the agent meeting, but first he wanted to look over primary, secondary and tertiary escape routes in the surrounding streets. He wasn't expecting trouble, but his attitude had always been 'hope for the best but plan for the worst', and if an SSD team tried to interfere, he wanted to know which way could get him quickly to safety.
Chapter Three
They sat in one of the Gutterfighters' pool cars, a small black Peugeot. The windscreen wipers had been pretty much active since the beginning of their watch that had started an hour ago. It was the routine that they had agreed on; Grant was the driver, watcher and muscle and Grenham-Smythe was the senior officer in the back seat. They had formed an uneasy alliance over the past few weeks, each of them tiptoeing around the other and not wanting to overstep the boundaries of their respective roles.
Grant had parked fifty metres further back, at an angle that gave him good concealment as well as an excellent view of the pickup point. So far, there was nothing out of the ordinary and no sign that anyone was paying them or the pickup point any attention; not pedestrians, not police, not spies, no one. The crowds and the traffic ebbed and flowed like the tide.
In the back, Grenham-Smythe alternated between humming and mumbling to himself, almost as if he was learning the lines to a play that he was about to perform. Well, whatever he was doing he was bloody well getting on Jack Grant's last nerve! Grant tried his best to ignore his passenger and turned his attention back to the surveillance. It was now dangerously near the meeting time that they had agreed on and he was preparing himself for a no-show. Then, through the crowd of pedestrians running from the rain, he saw, from a distance, agent EMERALD.
It was a woman! A young woman! She was standing on the corner just outside the church, as if she was waiting for a tram or to cross the road. She was small, petite, but with the curves of a real woman in Grant's eyes. From this distance, the long hair was dark, almost black, like a raven's. She had a green, knee-length coat hugged tightly around her to keep out the chill of the night and an umbrella protecting her from the worst of the rain. The heels that she wore gave her an extra few inches in height, but still tethered her to her petite stature.
Grant started the engine of the car and instantly, he saw that EMERALD's head turned in the direction of the noise of the vehicle warming up. “This could be it,” he said.
“That's got to be EMERALD,” said Grenham-Smythe. “Drive over to her. Hurry, man!”
Grant moved the Peugeot out of the parking position and slowly steered the car over until the rear doors were parallel with the woman. Grenham-Smythe rolled down the window and said, “The rain is particularly heavy tonight, Fraulein. Perhaps I could offer you a lift?”
The woman bent down and peered into the rear of the Peugeot, the umbrella still protecting her from the worst of the rain. “I only travel with men of good character,” she said.
“We are all gentlemen here,” said Grenham-Smythe, completing the recognition protocol before opening the door for her.
Jack Grant was aware of the woman getting into the rear of the car, the door slamming shut and then a hand tapping him on the shoulder; the cue that he should start driving. He moved the vehicle out into the traffic smoothly and looked into the rear view mirror. His eyes connected with the woman in the back seat, just for a moment, and in that instant he knew why she had taken the codename EMERALD; aside from her coat, her eyes were an almost luminescent green.
The scenario was bizarre; a woman alone in a car with two British spies. She was either a Stasi counter-intelligence agent provocateur or one tough young lady; either way, she was nervous, very nervous, but still holding it together.
Grant's eyes flicked from watching the woman and Grenham-Smythe in the back seat, to watching the surrounding area. The Browning 9mm was hidden under his thigh – it was his car gun – located in case a quick draw was needed.
He knew he wasn't supposed to listen. He was just supposed to be the driver,
the watcher, the bodyguard, the security. But even to his inexpert ears Grenham-Smythe was making a proper arse of trying to talk to this woman. He was doing all the usual tropes – Glad to meet you… We would like you to work with us… We would like to have a better conversation in the near future. But he kept patting her knee at the end of every sentence and his tone was that of an employer speaking to an underling, rather than that of someone he was trying to work with. The SIS man was not someone who could put you at ease naturally.
When EMERALD did speak, she spoke in German and remained non-committal in her answers; her voice was both soft and strangely confident considering the environment she was in, but there was no doubt that the atmosphere inside the car was incredibly tense.
Grant was running a circuitous route around the city, partly to give his passengers time to speak briefly, but also to watch out for any hostile surveillance from possible follow cars. So far nothing, but in this weather, spotting surveillance was tricky.
“Please take this,” said Grenham-Smythe, handing over a small business card to her. “It's an unlisted telephone number where I can be contacted to arrange future meetings. This is just a brief 'how do you do?' Please memorise the number and destroy the card. However, I would like to discuss what you can offer me in more detail soon. Perhaps in a more secure and relaxed environment? We can provide safety and security there.”
Another pat on the knee, except this time it was further up the thigh. EMERALD flinched from his touch, looked at the business card once and returned it to Grenham-Smythe. Grant looked into the rear view mirror and they caught each other's eyes; green on blue.
