by James Quinn
With both sides having had their moment, the grey-faced man retired to his quarters to reflect on how best to “move forward with this difficult situation”.
As it turned out, it was neither in the hands of SIS London nor those of SIS Berlin. When it came down to it, it was agent EMERALD who forced the issue. A message was left at the original dead letter box three days later. The signal was set and in the end it was Masterman himself who went to empty the box.
The message was brief but clear; the source known as EMERALD was willing to move forward as an active agent, but not with 'Mr West'. Her condition of employment with SIS was that Herr Gorilla should be her contact and no one else. She gave them a deadline of one week. It was signed, as ever, simply: EMERALD.
A week later, Jack Grant was recalled to Berlin, back to the Gutterfighters' base. The rest of the team were milling around in the Ops room or the garage, but all of them stopped to welcome back their colleague and friend.
“Hope you thumped him proper hard,” said Tiny.
“Heard you went all Wild Bill Hickok on him, Gorilla!” laughed Bob. “Boss is upstairs waiting for you. Good luck, mate.”
Masterman was waiting in his office, ready, his face grave and serious. “Sit down, Jack. This won't take long.”
Grant nodded because he thought he knew what was coming. “Boss, I'd just like to say how sorry I am for all the trouble that I caused. It was never my intention… it's just that I couldn't have let him hurt that woman. I mean, that's not who we are, not who we are meant to be. I…”
“Alright, alright, enough with wearing the hair-shirts and self-flagellation,” said Masterman. “I haven't got the time for you to be so self-absorbed. We are in a difficult trade, you did the right thing. To be honest, if it was my call I would have shot him there and then.”
Jack Grant looked over at the older man with admiration and affection and felt a lump form in his throat. No one had gone out to protect him this much for years. The last person had been his dad.
“Grenham-Smythe has gone. He's out of Berlin and been moved sideways in the Service. It seems EMERALD made it clear that she wouldn't work with him and I don't bloody blame her. SIS London has confirmed that you are to take over running the operation,” said Masterman.
“Me? But I'm not a case officer!”
Masterman shrugged. “You are now. You know the operation, know the details, and know the agent. So you're it. Don't think for a moment that SIS London is being all altruistic, though. For them, EMERALD is still an unknown quantity. She could be the genuine article, but she could also be a double agent sent in to identify SIS personnel. This way, if it all goes tits-up they will lose one relatively junior contract agent, so it's minimum damage for them.”
Typical, thought Grant. I'm still a disposable commodity. “Yes, boss. Thank you,” said Grant, his head spinning with the news.
“Don't thank me. This wasn't my doing. It was EMERALD who asked for you personally as part of her terms. It was either you or she walked away. That was the deal. SIS London thought about it for less than a second and snapped her arm off. They think she has the potential to be a viable source.”
Grant raised an eyebrow at that. Since when was an agent meant to get their case officer out of trouble? Wasn't it meant to be the other way around?
“You start next week. Make contact with EMERALD and for Christ's sake let's move this bloody operation forward! Oh and one more thing – this is the last time I'm going to get you out of trouble for hitting one of our own. Even if it was a little shit like Grenham-Smythe,” said Masterman.
Three days later, Jack Grant was sitting on a bench in the Tiergarten enjoying the early morning sun. He was dressed in a smart business suit and gentleman's winter coat; gone were his heavy work boots, duffle coat and thick jumpers. Today, he was an SIS case officer here to make contact with an agent; his agent.
He glanced at his watch; 10:29, almost time and as he looked up, he could already see her walking along the pathway toward him, her petite frame hidden inside a knee-length woollen coat of good quality, the heels making her walk delicately and the black, raven hair tactically concealed beneath a headscarf. She looked confident, alert and ready.
She sat down next to him on the bench and said in perfect English, “Now, Mr Gorilla. Shall we start again?”
Jack Grant was sucked in by those green eyes. They hypnotised him. A smile played mischievously at her lips. “I'm EMERALD, but you can call me Lisbeth.”
Chapter Five
Linz, Austria – 1989
“Would you like some water?”
Peter Vogel, the Harlequin, looked up at the older man and nodded. Grant fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and delicately poured a slither into his mouth, just enough to wet his lips. They sat for a while in silence; Peter Vogel rotating his wrists to get them comfortable and Jack Grant back on his seat with the pistol.
“It's a lot to take in, I know,” said Jack Grant finally.
“Don't flatter yourself, old man. I'm hearing nothing at the moment, only the half truths and the made-up stories of an old spy. It's pathetic,” said Peter Vogel.
Jack Grant shook his head sadly. “I'm sorry you feel that way, Peter. But at least, if nothing else, you get to hear about your mother, from someone who knew her. What did Ulrich Vogel tell you about her? Honestly, what?”
“He told me enough. He told me you killed her!” barked Peter.
“Peter, that's simply not the case,” said Grant, once again offering a sad shake of the head. He wasn't getting through to this young man and he needed to; time was running fast against both of them and everything was at stake.
“Did he tell you the little things about her – how, when she was confused, she would furrow her brow and scrunch up her nose? How her green eyes sparkled, I mean literally sparkled when she was happy? How she could be beautiful, frustrating, tough and kind all in the one moment?”
“No, no he didn't,” said Peter Vogel and the pain in his voice was clear. “He never really talked about her as a person.”
“Then listen to me. Let me tell you all about her and the world that we lived in.”
Chapter Six
Berlin – May 1960
They quickly settled into the routine of espionage tradecraft and Berlin was their playground.
Gorilla had set up a new system of dead letter boxes, brush past locations, telephone numbers and safe houses that could be used to pass on information or to de-brief his agent. If EMERALD had something to pass on, she simply filled a DLB and then marked a nearby lamppost with a slash of green chalk. The green chalk was the safety signal to say I have something for you to collect. Gorilla would then covertly empty the DLB and see what EMERALD had to tell him.
It was simple, rudimentary, but, for the fledgling spy and the fledgling agent runner, basics were what worked best. Gorilla had his usual daily routine of checking the safety markers that were located around the city and EMERALD had her life of living undercover. Grant was taking his role seriously; he was her protector, confidant and greatest supporter in the work that she was doing for them. At times, he was also her teacher, instructing her into the arcane dark arts of spy-craft.
“It's a Minox B. A nice little camera, just in case you come across anything… interesting. The technicians have hidden it inside a purse. It's not perfect, but it will do you a decent photo,” he said, imparting his wisdom for the day as he showed her how it worked and how it could be concealed.
She smiled at him, their hands brushing as he passed her the tiny camera.
“Don't take any chances. Nothing hurried, nothing rushed. Better to lose a scoop today, so that we can have a hundred scoops for the future. Do you understand?” he said.
“Yes, Herr Gorilla. I understand,” she said, the playfulness apparent in her voice.
“EMERALD, this is serious. Pay attention,” he said, mildly scolding her and playing the professional intelligence officer.
The weeks passed i
nto months and the stream of intelligence from EMERALD, while slow at first, gained traction, and then filtered off. It was the usual story of peaks and troughs and depended on what she overheard, or what documents her husband had left lying around, either on or in his desk that she had managed to pick with the lock-pick set that Grant had given her.
“It's not much at the minute,” said Grant, feeling disappointed with the limited intelligence feed. He was under no illusions that this was a major intelligence case. It was small-time by comparison to some sources, but it was his and he wanted the best for his operation.
But Masterman was more benevolent. “Not true, EMERALD is doing well. Details of Stasi personalities, several locations mentioned, as well as photos of an internal banking document for operational funding for future operations – it's bloody good! SIS Berlin is more than happy.”
“It just doesn't feel like enough,” complained Grant.
“Slow and steady. You've spent too long being the action man. Intelligence work is a different animal, it's one that takes subtlety and patience. The first rule is to keep your agent alive and onside… after that, we can start pushing for better product,” cautioned Masterman.
They spent the afternoon together talking in the safe flat, the agent and the agent runner, and all the while the microphones picked up their voices and the tapes recorded the conversation: “What do you want?”; “Why are you willing to spy?”; “Tell me about your husband and his work.”
To Gorilla, she was an enigma. Was she a lover? A blackmailer? A daughter? A double agent? Triple agent? But they were questions and answers for the analysts, locked away in their cubicles and rooms. Gorilla's job was to get to the heart of his agent, find out what motivated her and how he could continue that trend.
“Why here? Why now? Why me?” he asked. He was seated in the armchair while she paced around the room. He had learned quickly that she talked more openly when she moved about, dominated the room, almost like she was an actress on stage.
“I'm doing this for our combined humanity – East and West. So that we can be more than just capitalist or communist, so we can be humanists. It is why I chose you to be my… what is the term that you spies use?” she said.
“Your case officer?” suggested Grant.
“That's right. My case officer, but I am more than just a case, more than just a number in a secret file. I think you see that just as clearly as I do. I am a human being, a person and I will only do this on my own terms. I would not put my trust in people who would recklessly put me in danger anymore. I have trusted enough men in my life to know that they are ruthless and cowardly and stupid. But…” she paused.
“But what?” he prompted, filling the gap.
“But not you, Mr Gorilla. I don't believe that is you,” she said, turning to him. She stood in silhouette in the window and for him, the mystery of her only deepened even more.
“It's not,” he confirmed for her.
She took a step forward, out of the shadow and she smiled at him. “I think you have kind eyes. It is why I am willing to trust you with my life – your kind eyes and the way that you act.”
He looked up at her. “I will not let you down, Lisbeth. You are my agent. I will always keep you safe.”
She tied up the bicycle at the rear of the house. Silly, she knew, because there was no chance of it being stolen from outside. The neighbourhood was respectable and there was very little chance of petty crime. Besides, everyone knew that the master of the house was a senior officer in State Security.
They lived in a three-storey town house in Kopernick that had a view of the promenade and the Spree. The ground floor consisted of their lounge, dining room, kitchen and rear gardens. The second floor was three bedrooms; a master and two guest rooms, all en suite.
The top floor was the Citadel, as her husband insisted she call it. This was where he kept his office, study and private space. It was strictly out of bounds to all but him. However, a leak in the roof had meant that he had temporarily been forced to work in the dining room on the ground floor for the past few months, while the tradesman were painstakingly repairing the beams and tiles.
She suspected that the housemaid that cleaned and the gardener who tended to the lawn were both Stasi informants for her husband. Even her employer, she was convinced, informed on her to her husband about who she talked to in the shop, what time she arrived, what time she left.
She thought the house was her gold-plated cell. Beautiful, decadent almost, but still a cell, still a cage. The blessed reprieve was to escape from the closed community of East German government functionaries and their families in Kopernick and to travel into Berlin for her work in the bookshop and to feel the lifeblood of the city. The only other escape was when they took short summer breaks in the Vogel family farmhouse in the countryside that Ulrich Vogel had been left when his father died.
Lisbeth knew from the first moment that it was a marriage of convenience for both of them. She was vulnerable and lonely and had wanted to belong somewhere, anywhere, and Ulrich Vogel had pursued her with vigour, courted her, flattered her, and promised her a life of wealth, status and prospects; all the things that she had never had before. It was a sham and she knew on their wedding night that it was not the life she really yearned for, at least not with this man. Physically, he repulsed her and his attempts at seduction had the opposite effect on her. She had felt his rage that night and then had come the cold hand of abuse. The next morning, he had told her that it was his right to do what he had done in their bed… and then he had gone out for the day, leaving her alone.
Ulrich Vogel, for all his trappings of power and wealth, was a crude and narcissistic man. He expected people to bend to his will, to abide by his rules and ultimately for him to be in control of everything in his circle, namely his wife, her thoughts and her emotions. He dominated and tried to control every aspect of her life, like a jailer will dominate a prisoner. It was relentless.
Lisbeth had pushed back and tried to placate him, but that only succeeded in making him even angrier, even more controlling. Then the violence had started; small at first, verbal, mental and finally physical, until she realised that there was no escape for her. She questioned her own mind. Ulrich was an expert, partly through his career and partly through his personality, at manipulating people to achieve his own ends. She had once read the novel Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier and could identify with the lead character. At times, Lisbeth questioned her own sense of reality, too.
There was no chance of divorce; that would never happen. To the outside world, they were the perfect couple, the smart young career SSD officer and his beautiful and faithful wife. They were the German Democratic Republic's ideal of the society that it wanted to create. Was she a communist? No, not even remotely near. However, she did think of herself as a socialist who believed in a decent wage for doing a decent job, social responsibility and fairness and equality for all.
As the years had progressed and Ulrich Vogel had risen higher and higher within state security, he began to ignore her more and more. His distraction with work was a blessing for her. They barely communicated and the only time that he paid her any attention was to make her go to an official state event, or take out his frustrations on her physically. But even these days, those episodes were few and far between. In many respects, he treated her as a piece of the furniture; ignored mostly, abused occasionally, and while he no longer wanted 'it, he also didn't want anyone else to have 'it', either.
The past five years of their marriage had taught her how to hide and blend in; the mental abuse had taught her the skills of surviving and the physical violence had taught her resilience. But the thing that she had learned the most was patience; the patience to make a move when the time was right for her, when she saw an opportunity and how to exploit it. She knew that there had to be an escape route. She just had to find it!
That escape route came on the day that Ulrich, now forced to work part-time in the dining room at home becaus
e of the repair work on the roof, had left several documents scattered carelessly on the dining table. She had been passing through to tidy up his breakfast things while he was getting dressed upstairs. Lisbeth had glanced quickly at reports, finance columns and operational orders, all bearing the SSD official crest. She quickly tidied away the plates and cups and was gone from the room like a ghost. Ulrich would simply assume that Frau Obermann had been carrying out her chores as usual.
Lisbeth had ruminated on it for the rest of the day; thinking, pondering, working it through in her mind. It had been her day off from the bookstore, a rest day, so she decided to cycle the thirty minute journey into the centre of Berlin. As long as she was back for supper, her husband would be none the wiser.
The bike ride into Berlin was one of her guilty pleasures; the freedom, the scenery and the physical pleasure of exercise liberated her from her life – at least for a few hours. She stopped in the Tiergarten and enjoyed the peace, watching the visitors to the park come and go. The tranquillity allowed her to reflect on what she had seen that morning. In a sense, she had found a chink in Ulrich Vogel's armour; he had become complacent and lazy. Whereas before, he would have been meticulous about hiding confidential documents from everyone in the house, these days, because of the necessary building work on the roof and therefore the Citadel, he had been working late downstairs before retiring to one of the guest bedrooms to sleep.
How many times had he left confidential documents out in the open downstairs overnight or even during the day? She tried to remember and estimated at least several times, to her knowledge. But how could she use this? The information in those papers was, to her, next to useless…
Then it came to her. Yes! Useless to her, but not to other people, people who dealt with information, secret information and Berlin, she knew, was the centre of the buying and selling of that kind of information. If she could get it to the right people, people in the West, she could buy herself her freedom and never go back to the hell that she had been living in for years.
