‘Listen,’ he said, ‘do you think we could go find something to nourish ourselves with? I’m starved.’
The man looked at him for a moment, and then smiled, and nodded. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. My wife always prepares me a very substantial breakfast. Meat, fish, breadrolls.’
‘I could use a drink, too,’ said Charles. The man had irritated him even more by reciting his breakfast menu.
‘I’ll treat you,’ said the man, taking Charles’ elbow. Charles didn’t particularly like being held this way by another man, but allowed himself to be escorted out of the gardens of Rosenborg, across Kronprinsessegade, to Dronningens Tvaergade, where the man politely propelled him into Hos Jan Hurtigkart’s restaurant.
‘I don’t think I’m dressed for this,’ said Charles. He saw himself in the mirror behind the reception desk, and realized how shabby and crumpled he looked. His shirt was clean but he had never been a good packer.
The man appeared to have a regular table. In any case, they were discreetly escorted through to the back of the restaurant; fresh napkins were cracked over their laps; and Charles had a large Jack Daniel’s in his hand before he knew it. All around them, there was the happy burble of people eating and laughing and enjoying one of Copenhagen’s more expensive restaurants. Charles said, ‘Lamprey has an entertainment budget?’
The man smiled. He was short, stocky, with cropped blond hair and one of those open, fatherly faces that you feel you can trust. He wore a green twill hunting-jacket and a brown checked shirt with a tightly-knotted brown tie. He could have been any of a million Danes; he could even have been a Swede or a German or an American. He was nondescript to the point of invisibility, and yet Charles felt instinctively that he liked him, especially since he was going to buy him lunch.
‘Lamprey is financed by those intelligence services for whom its members work,’ said the man. ‘The United States unwittingly contributes most of Lamprey’s budget, followed by the USSR, then Britain, then Germany. Even Denmark pays its tithe. There is such waste, you see, in intelligence budgets, and such secrecy, that it is difficult for governments to keep track of where their money has gone. Appropriating a few hundred thousand dollars for our activities is not so very difficult.’
Charles swallowed his drink, and set the glass back on the table. ‘Do you have a name?’ he asked the man.
The man continued to smile. ‘You could call me Hans, if you like. Will that do?’
‘What are your other two names? Christian Andersen?’
‘Now, now, my friend,’ the man called Hans smiled, and laid his hand on Charles’s wrist.
Charles had made the arrangement to meet ‘Hans’ in the grounds of Rosenborg Palace with a thin-faced young messenger who had arrived yesterday evening,’ as promised, at the bar, wearing a motorcycle helmet. The messenger had simply said that a senior representative of Lamprey would see him tomorrow, at eleven-thirty, opposite the bridge that crossed the moat. And so it was that ‘Hans’ had arrived, bland and genial, and shaken Charles’ hand even before Charles had identified himself.
‘Something very dangerous is happening,’ Charles had said. He had called Agneta twice during the night, round at Roger’s place, to make sure that she was all right.
‘Well, my friend, you are quite correct,’ ‘Hans’ had agreed. ‘There has been a disturbance throughout the world’s intelligence communities for some months now; a strange kind of ripple. These men, of course, are chosen for their sensitivity to political fear, just as you were once chosen. Well, the feeling is very strong. You can lift your nose to the wind, and smell it! Somewhere deep down, the ground is moving!’
Charles had said. Tell me about Nicholas Reed. What went on at the Hvidsten Inn?’
‘You knew Nicholas Reed, of course,’ the man had told him.
Now, he said, with his hands lying in noticeable repose on the linen tablecloth, like the hands of a priest, or a doctor, ‘Nicholas Reed was a CIA agent called Peter Seeker. He had previously been working in the Philippines, but he was posted here after the assassination of Benigno Aquino.’
Charles felt an empty pang. Of course, the butterscotch candies at Klarlund & Christensen, in ‘Nicholas Reed’s’ desk. Peter had always had a weakness for butterscotch candies; he had once told Charles that his mother used to make them at home when he was. a kid, back in – where was it? – Mankato, Minnesota, some place like that.
‘Hans’ saw that Charles was affected by what he had said. He looked at him for a moment, and then he asked, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh, sure. I didn’t know him that well. We worked on a couple of things together, nothing spectacular. The Bomlafjorden business, in Norway. That was one. But he was very good at undercover work. He could make me believe that he was somebody else. Good at plain old systematic detective-work, too.’
‘That’s why he was chosen to infiltrate Klarlund & Christensen.’
‘Do you have any idea what goes on there?’ asked Charles.
‘Well, some. But, of course, Peter was killed before we found out everything that we wanted to know.’
The waiter came up, with a napkin over his arm, to take their order. ‘Hans’ said, ‘The escalope of veal will do for me.’
Charles said, ‘The turbot, plain broiled, no butter. You got that? No butter.’
‘Kosher, sir?’ the waiter asked him, politely.
‘No,’ Charles retorted. ‘I simply don’t care to have one of the finest fish that swims the world’s waters tainted with some rancid juice that was squirted out by cows.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Hans’ pointed to Charles’s drink. ‘Another one?’ he asked, quietly.
‘What the hell,’ Charles agreed.
When the waiter had gone, ‘Hans’ said, ‘We first began to suspect that something unusual was happening at Klarlund & Christensen about seven months ago. One of our duty clerks noticed a British intelligence agent called Jaggs coming out of the Klarlund & Christensen building one morning; and of course he notified his senior officer. We kept the building under observation for five weeks, and we saw not only intelligence staff but senior diplomatic staff from the United States, from the Soviet Union, from Great Britain, from Cuba, from Ecuador, from China. Almost everywhere in fact, except Western Europe. No Germans, for instance; no French; no Italians; no Swiss; no Dutch.’
Charles watched without speaking while the waiter brought him another drink. He felt like knocking it back straight away, but he decided that he could wait. He said to ‘Hans’. ‘It sounds like some kind of high-powered conference.’
‘Exactly; and the indications were that some major agreement was being reached about Western Europe without the participation of those nations most deeply affected. Peter at first believed that it was economic; that Britain would agree to pull out of the Common Market and forge closer ties with Comecon. He had access to one of Klarlund & Christensen’s computer terminals, but he was unable to break into their data banks. That, presumably, was what you and Jeppe Rifbjerg were trying to do that night you crashed into their lobby.’
Charles nodded. ‘I’m sorry. If either of us had realized that you people were already on the case… well, the least we would have done was ask you for some protection.’
‘Hans’ hesitated for a moment. Then he said, ‘You know that Jeppe Rifbjerg was found?’
‘Found? No, I didn’t. I spent most of yesterday trying to call him on the telephone.’
‘Beyond the reach of telephones, I regret, Mr Krogh.’
Charles’s lips suddenly felt dry. ‘When was this?’ he asked.
‘This morning. They gave me the news shortly before I came out to meet you.’
‘What did they do to him?’
‘Hans’ shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know that.’
‘I’m asking you. What did they do to him?’
‘Hans’ looked down at the table, and carefully adjusted his knife and his fork. ‘He was found in a garage on
Skt. Annae Gade. They had cut off his arms and his legs while he was still alive.’
Charles felt the liquor rise up in his throat. He sat there for a long time with watering eyes before it consented to sink down again. Then he reached inside his jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’
‘They’re bringing your fish.’
Charles stared at ‘Hans’ for two or three crucial moments, then returned the cigarettes, unopened, to his jacket pocket. ‘I ought to work with you. I think you’d help me to quit. You’ve got those eyes. What is it? Hypnosis?’
‘Hans’ said, ‘Our suspicions so far are that the United States and Great Britain have forged new agreements with the Soviet Union; which, in the long term, may have a beneficial effect on world peace. Britain will almost certainly withdraw from the Common Market, and trade independently, with an increasing bias towards the Communist bloc; while the United States may Well agree to withdraw substantial numbers of troops and missiles from West Germany.’
Charles broke up his turbot with the edge of his fork. He didn’t need to be told what a dramatic effect it would have on the world if Britain were to pull out of the EEC, and the United States were to withdraw even a fraction of their military forces from Germany. His political instructor at the CIA had always told him, ‘The world is like one of those mobiles you hang from your child’s bedroom ceiling. Only one small piece of that mobile has to be out of balance, and the whole world starts trembling.’
He couldn’t eat very much, even though he was hungry. He kept thinking of Jeppe, lying on the floor of that garage, limbless, bloody, like something out of Tod Browning’s Freaks. Halfway through the lunch, he excused himself and went out to the men’s room, and was violently and painfully sick, whiskey and half-chewed fish. He stood for a long time with his head bowed over the washbasin, until ‘Hans’ came into the men’s room, and stood watching him, and said, ‘You can help us, you know. At Lamprey, we need everyone we can get. Especially now.’
Charles raised his head. The window of the men’s room was open, and looked out over copper rooftops, dreaming sky. Pieces of green and gold and endless blue; the world of the Little Mermaid. ‘Why is it,’ he asked, ‘that poor bastards like you and I become responsible for the whole fucking world?’
‘Hans’ laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘you and I are the engineers of international politics; the ones with the greasy rags who have to duck under the pistons while the machine is in motion, to keep it running smoothly; the ones who risk their lives in order that governments may make their decisions; and that bureaucracies may continue to survive. Don’t ask me why such responsibility falls on such ordinary people as us; in every walk of life there are people who ask themselves the same question. We do this job because nobody else will do it, and because we cannot bear to see it left undone.’
Charles lit a cigarette. His hand was shaking. He blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘Whatever this conference decided, you think that it’s stored in Klarlund & Christensen’s computer?’
‘Certainly, there will be clues.’
‘Otto Glistrup said that the computer could be accessed from outside, on the telephone line.’
‘Hm,’ smiled ‘Hans’. ‘Don’t think that we haven’t tried. But, the computer is completely secure. There are too many codes to penetrate.’
‘Perhaps we should take another crack at breaking into the building.’
‘Hans’ shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, my friend. The security has been increased tenfold. And you know, of course, that Novikov is in Copenhagen, the one the Russians call Krov’ iz Nosu.’
Charles nodded. ‘I had the dubious pleasure of throwing him out a window. Unfortunately, there was a ledge straight underneath. As far as I can gather, he’s alive, kicking, and dying to cut me in several hundred small pieces.’
He paused, and then he said, ‘Was it Novikov who killed Jeppe?’
‘Hans’ glanced away, shrugged. ‘Of course it looks that way.’
‘Bastard,’ Charles breathed.
‘Hans’ said, ‘We need a computer expert, desperately; a real expert; somebody who can penetrate Klarlund & Christensen’s memory-banks, and not leave a trace that they have been there. Well, I don’t know where we could find such a person, but perhaps it could be possible.’
‘I’ll keep my eyes open,’ said Charles, half-sarcastically.
‘Hans’ thought for a long while, and then he said, ‘There is one other possibility. This you must keep in the very strictest confidence. Last night, some of our people in West Germany managed to abduct a very senior Soviet army officer; a man very close to the Stavka itself.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Charles said. Then, ‘You’re kidding?’
‘Well, of course it was risky,’ ‘Hans’ admitted. ‘It remains risky, too. But we feel that these are critical times, and that extreme measures are called for.’
‘You’ve kidnapped a Soviet army officer? What is he, colonel or something?’
‘Higher than colonel.’
‘General?’ asked Charles, in disbelief.
‘You probably know him. T.K. Golovanov, the First Deputy of the Ministry of Defence.’
Charles stared at ‘Hans’ incredulously. ‘Holy shit. The Kremlin must be going ape.’
‘Well, of course,’ smiled ‘Hans’. ‘But they cannot admit anything publicly, because of the loss of face. As yet, you see, they are not sure whether he was kidnapped or whether he defected. If he defected (which he regrettably did not) then they will believe that he will tell the West everything he knows. At this moment of military tension, it must be crucial for the Defence Council to find out where he is; whether he was abducted or went of his own free will; whether he is dead or alive; whether he will talk.’
‘You can guarantee that he won’t talk,’ said Charles. He crushed out his cigarette, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his nose.
‘We can try.’
‘Golovanov? He’s one of the old toughies. Hide like leather, balls like hard-cooked eggs. He was at Kursk, wasn’t he, and Stalingrad?’
‘I repeat,’ said ‘Hans’, ‘we can try.’
‘Well, good luck, that’s all I can say. Meanwhile, is there anything you can do to help me get Novikov off my back?’
‘Hans’ beckoned to the waiter. ‘Do you want anything else?’ he asked Charles. ‘Coffee? Tart?’
Charles shook his head. ‘I want to get over to visit my lady in a half-hour. Those Soviet creeps gave her the fright of her life.’
‘Hans’ leaned forward on the table. ‘We have been trying to keep Novikov under surveillance. So far, it has been very difficult, because the Soviets have been keeping him well hidden, and only letting him loose when there is a job to be done, like killing poor Peter Seeker, or attempting to dispose of you. Whatever information Peter had, it must have been vitally important for them to send Novikov to kill him. Novikov, as you know, is their only killer with a hundred per cent success rate.’
‘That gives me a feeling of overwhelming cheerfulness,’ said Charles.
‘Ah, but you can help us, my friend. If you allow one of our people to follow you, inevitably Novikov will show himself, and then perhaps we can get a lead on him.’
Charles shrugged, looked down, and drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I didn’t think the time would ever come when I got myself used as the Judas goat.’
‘My friend, life is a succession of reverses.’
Charles glanced up again, and said, ‘Maybe.’
‘In the meantime,’ said ‘Hans’, ‘we will continue to look for somebody who can break into Klarlund & Christensen’s computer; and we will continue to try to persuade comrade Golovanov to tell us what it is that is disturbing Europe’s intelligence communities so much.’
Charles walked to Peder Skrams Gade to see Agneta. It wasn’t too far, and the afternoon was sharp and bright. He turned down Store Kongens Gade to Kongens Nytorv, then
along by the water at Nyhavn, where the heavy cumulus clouds were reflected in the slate-grey of the dock, and trees flickered on either side with warm and whispering gentility.
Roger lived on the second floor, over a ceramics shop. The polished window was sparsely arranged with Flora Danica dinnerware, and underglazed statuettes. The polished brass plate by the side door said ‘R. Strong’ which was a joke. Roger’s real name was Rubins. The door was open, an inch or two ajar. Charles, who had been taught to be suspicious of open doors, cautiously pushed it wider with the toe of his shoe.
There was nobody there. He mounted the bare wooden stairs, his footsteps clattering. In one of the rooms upstairs, somebody was playing old Jimi Hendrix records very loud on a cheap record-player. A small part of Charles’ mind was instantly transported back twenty years; to summer days in Copenhagen and Stockholm, to young blonde girls in miniskirts, to flowers and sunshine and grass, and those hair-raising days when intelligence agents had actually come to believe for a while that they were James Bond or the Man from UNCLE. Some of them had learned karate and came leaping out at you like idiots when you least suspected it, usually to crash flat on their backs on the floor and qualify for three months’ sick-leave.
Charles reached Roger’s door, and knocked. He waited with his hands in his pockets. He knocked again, and this time the door swung open. It stopped, shuddered, squeaked. Charles listened for a moment, slowly removing his hands from his pockets. No sound; not even the everyday noise of somebody vacuum-cleaning or listening to Radio Denmark or taking a shower. Charles called, ‘Hallo?’ and waited; and then, ‘Agneta?’ but there was no reply.
Sacrifice Page 26
