by Bill Walker
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to ask. Perhaps we should pop down and see her?”
“Really? I do not wish to impose....”
Michael smiled, then motioned toward the door with a courtly flourish. “No imposition at all,” he said. “Besides, the old girl’s always pestering me to bring home a pretty girl for her to dote over. And you most definitely fit the bill.”
Erika smiled for the first time then, her face lighting up with an incandescence that made Michael’s heart stumble. It was like a solitary shaft of sunlight knifing through the boundless gloom—a supernova of the soul.
And it was the scariest bloody feeling he’d ever known.
Chapter Thirteen
Simon Welles hurried out of the Communications Room, a long sheet of fax paper trailing from his right hand, and a look of alarm spread across his youthful face. Turning right at the first hallway junction, his pace increased, and he had to force himself not to run. Not only would it be a breach of etiquette, but anyone seeing the Deputy Director running might draw the wrong conclusions, might start rumors that would be hard to quash. And Welles had built his career on keeping rumors quiet.
Approached discreetly by a recruiting agent eight years before, right after finishing his degree at King’s College, Welles had been dazzled by thoughts of dashing about in Aston Martins and bedding scores of exotic women. Of course, he knew it was all rubbish; he knew the reality would be a lot drearier, but the one thing he knew beyond a doubt: he loved England more than life itself and would do anything to protect her from her enemies.
Now, as he rushed toward the end of the hall, the fax clutched tightly in his fist, he had a funny feeling, the kind he got when he knew something momentous was just over the horizon. These feelings had guided him unerringly since childhood. Call it a sixth sense, ESP, or whatever, it didn’t matter. What did was that it always meant that the ground was about to shift beneath his feet, heralding opportunities for the man who knew how to read the signs.
If Simon Welles played his cards right, he would be the youngest Director in the history of MI6.
Reaching the end of the hall, he hesitated only briefly as the SAS guard standing in front of the Director’s office, his L85A1 Bullpup rifle held in constant readiness, took the time to open the door for him. Welles slipped inside and the door clicked closed behind him. It was after five and the secretary’s desk was empty. He barely registered this as he made for the large set of mahogany double doors, his fist rapping the door twice. There was only a moment’s pause before a gruff voice said: “Come in.”
Welles pushed open the doors and walked into a spacious room paneled in solid mahogany, a breathtaking view of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament through the floor-to-ceiling window that formed the back wall. He went right to the massive hand-carved desk sitting in front of that impressive view and placed the fax onto its leather-trimmed blotter.
The man behind the desk snatched it up and scanned it, peering over a pair of reading glasses perched on his hawk-like nose. Sir Robert Sandon, Director of MI6 for the past ten years, had the look of a well-fed predator, his movements quick and precise. Grunting wordlessly, Sir Robert dropped the fax back onto the desk, picked up a lit Romeo and Juliet cigar from a large glass ashtray and placed it in his mouth, letting the acrid smoke swirl around his leonine head.
“My doctor tells me I should give these up,” he said, with measured contempt. “What do you say, Welles?”
His voice was sonorous and velvety smooth, a voice one could trust. Welles knew that it was all affectation. Sir Robert Sandon used that magic voice and his considerable charm to cultivate loyalty and trust in others. Like a trained politician, he used people without the slightest remorse. It was a weapon that came with the job, and it was something Welles never wanted to forget.
“I would say, sir,” Welles replied, “that your doctor should stop buying them for you.”
Sir Robert chuckled. “Right you are, Welles, right you are. The bloody bastard has a lot of nerve.” The older man sighed, his eyes returning to the fax. “Has this report been confirmed?”
Welles nodded sadly. “Yes, sir, it has.”
“Poor, Sir William. A lifetime of faithful service, only to die on some bloody park bench. It only says poison here. What kind?”
“Toxicology says prussic acid. Smells of KGB to me.”
Sir Robert’s face darkened as he steepled his hands, the cigar still fuming. “Anything else?”
“Just this,” Welles said, pulling something from his pocket. “They found it on the body.”
Welles placed it on the desk and Sir Robert leaned forward for a better look. When he saw that it was a Royal South Wessex cap badge, his face drained of all color. “My God.... They’ve come home to roost, at last.”
Alarmed, Welles took a step forward. “Are you all right, sir? Would you like some brandy?”
The older man waved the suggestion away, a frown of annoyance turning down the corners of his mouth. “No, I’ve got to think.” Sir Robert’s frown deepened when he leaned forward to take a closer look at the cap badge. It was such an innocent-looking object, Welles thought. Why did it elicit such a look of horror from a man he’d always considered fearless? He was about to ask that very question when Sir Robert reached for the phone, rapidly punching a series of numbers on the dial with the eraser end of a pencil. Dropping the pencil, Sir Robert leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on some distant imaginary point in space. Welles could hear the ring of the phone through the handset, measuring his superior’s rising anxiety with every passing moment. Finally, someone answered on the sixth ring.
“Roger? Yes, I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour.... Yes, I know there is a vote coming up, but a rather delicate matter has arisen. I must see you....” Sir Robert’s eyes flicked to Welles. “It has to do with a D-notice.... Right, I’ll be there within the hour.”
Sir Robert hung up and reached for a decanter of brandy sitting toward the front of the desk on a silver tray. “I believe I will have that brandy after all,” he said, his hands shaking as he poured two fingers into a snifter and pushed it toward Welles. He then poured as much for himself into another snifter and downed it in one gulp. “I’m told Churchill used to drink a quart of this a day during the war. I don’t know how he kept it all straight.”
Welles looked worried and Sir Robert took it as his cue to wave him toward one of the leather-covered chairs arranged in front of the desk. “Sit down, Welles, there’s something you need to know....”
An hour later, a profoundly disturbed Sir Robert sat slouched in the rear of his chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce limousine as it shot across Westminster Bridge, speeding toward his meeting in the House of Commons. The tires on the car made a rhythmic clacking sound as they ran over the bridge sections, and it made him want to scream.
Why now? After all these bloody years, why was it surfacing now? Being the natural pessimist that he was, he briefly toyed with the irrational idea that this was somehow aimed at getting to him, that someone was doing this deliberately to discredit him. But, of course, he knew this to be utterly false. The stakes here were far higher than the career of a petty bureaucrat. The fates of nations rested on this.
And although he was used to handling crises, this one had unhinged him. It was the one thing in his entire career that he’d been afraid of, the one thing he’d known deep down that he couldn’t handle. Now, here he was, running for help. It didn’t matter that it was mandated as part of protocol and procedure that he consult with the Home Secretary; he hated the very idea of running to MacKinnon. The man was a pompous ass who took supreme pleasure in talking down to everyone, except for the Prime Minister, and only because she was a lady—iron or not. Roger MacKinnon was a man who would think nothing of cutting another man off at the knees if it meant the furthering of his career.
As for his own career, it was less-than-stellar because he preferred it that way. Things at MI6 ran smoothly because he’d worked lik
e the devil to keep it that way. Now, it all looked as if it would go to the devil, after all. Sighing, Sir Robert picked up his snifter of brandy from the built-in cocktail cabinet and took another healthy swallow, recalling earlier times when his beloved service had stood on the brink of disaster.
As a young field agent recruited during the early post-war period, Sir Robert saw MI6 mire itself in one scandal after another. There was the Kim Philby affair, and the defections of Burgess and MacLain to Russia, which had done incalculable damage to Great Britain’s security. And though there was no direct threat, the Profumo Scandal of 1963 with all its lurid underpinnings rocked the British government to its core and presented wider ramifications when it was discovered that Christine Keeler, one of the two girls involved, was also dallying with a Russian diplomat.
MI6 took the flak full in the face.
Knowing that its prestige was tarnished, and its effectiveness compromised, MI6 began a quiet campaign in the late sixties to revamp itself. Scores of older agents were given early retirement, while new agents—many from Sir Robert’s recommendations—were recruited from all walks of life. Where in the past, only the cream from schools like Oxford and Cambridge were considered, the leadership of Her Majesty’s Secret Service made a concerted effort to seek out and train those who walked a more common road. Their reasoning was thus: send in the right agent for the right job. If the mission required a man of the streets, then that was the man who got the job. On the other hand, if a cultured man was needed to infiltrate an area or organization in which the average man would stand out, then the cultured man was sent in. It was a brilliant concept, brilliant because of its simplicity.
With a move to bigger, more spacious and secure quarters across the river in Century House at 100 Westminster Bridge Road, MI6 was ready for its new role on the world’s stage, a role it began to play with vigor under Sir Robert’s able guidance.
A car horn blared, ripping Sir Robert out of his daydream. The Rolls pulled around a minor accident at the foot of Westminster Bridge, made the left turn, and eased through the gates to the entrance of the House of Commons. The chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for Sir Robert, who tossed back the last of his brandy, his face flushing from the effect of the alcohol in his blood.
“Should I wait for you, sir?” the chauffeur asked, trying to keep the note of disapproval out of his voice.
Sir Robert glanced at his watch as he climbed unsteadily out of the limo. “I shan’t be more than half an hour, Giles,” he said. “Amuse yourself as you see fit.”
And with that Sir Robert marched toward the entrance to Parliament with a determined gait.
Giles watched him until he disappeared inside and shook his head. “Bloody lush.”
Inside, Sir Robert walked past a group of MPs and nodded his greetings to those he knew. One or two tried to buttonhole him to ask his advice on certain foreign policy matters that were up for debate. He put them off politely, but firmly, pleading an important appointment. For once, it was the truth.
He found Roger MacKinnon standing outside the Common’s Chamber, an impatient look on his well-fed face. Standing well over six feet, he was nearly bald, with wide bushy eyebrows overhanging hard merciless eyes that gave no quarter. This was a man who never forgave a slight received, nor a favor owed.
“What have you got, Sandon? I’ve got to be back in for the vote in five minutes.”
Sir Robert chose to ignore the man’s obvious contempt for his peerage, something he knew grew out of envy. It was no secret that MacKinnon was jockeying for knighthood himself. He’d bloody well earn one, now.
Sir Robert glanced over his shoulder.
“Out with it, man, time’s a-wasting.”
Bloody peasant!
“It’s about Sir William’s death,” he said, stifling his anger. “They found something on his body.”
MacKinnon gave Sir Robert a withering glare that clearly said: stop wasting my time.
Sir Robert pulled out the cap badge and pressed it into the cool flesh of MacKinnon’s palm. To his credit, the man barely reacted, but Sir Robert saw the pupils of MacKinnon’s flinty eyes dilate and his pasty skin turn a shade whiter. A moment later the iron-willed self-control was back.
“I’ll inform the Prime Minister of this, though I’m sure she will wish the D-notice to stand. Relations with the Russians are quite tense these days, as you well know.”
“But do you think that’s wise?”
“It will be my recommendation.”
“But surely with Sir William’s death—”
“His passing is a great loss to us all, a bloody shame.” He glanced at his watch. “But Sir William knew the risks of his profession...as do you.”
“Then I am to do nothing?” Sir Robert asked, incredulous.
MacKinnon took a step toward Sir Robert, who resisted the urge to retreat. “You are to monitor the situation and keep me and the PM informed.” He paused as a thought occurred to him. “Anyone else know of this?”
“Aside from the Germans?”
“Yes.”
“Just some bureaucrats who have been making inquiries about war graves. I’m having my Deputy handle it.”
MacKinnon nodded. “Good. We can’t afford to have it splashed in the bloody tabloids just yet. This mess can still embarrass us. I want it nice and tidy. Is that understood?”
All too well, you bloody popinjay.
“Perfectly, sir,” he said.
But MacKinnon was already hurrying back into the Common’s chamber. Watching him, Sir Robert knew with a certainty that came with his years of service that no matter what happened, Roger MacKinnon would somehow see to it that none of the shit splashed onto his natty Savile Row suit.
Chapter Fourteen
Dark gray clouds hung low and heavy over East Berlin, especially over Stasi Headquarters on Nonnenstrasse. Taking up nearly the entire block, the nerve center for the Deutsche Demokratisch Republik’s Secret State Police never slept. Even now, at just after six a.m., the offices hummed with activity, lights shining out from nearly every window.
On the top floor, at the northeast corner overlooking the twice-life-size statue of Karl Marx, a man stood gazing out of his office window, his expression bemused.
Time had not been kind to Gerhard Müller. His once jet-black hair was now nearly white, the sharp planes of his handsome face had softened and bloated from years of overindulgence of black-market food and drink. But the eyes remained the same: greedy, all-consuming, merciless. They were still the eyes of a predator, a survivor.
And survived he had. As the war neared its end, Müller—now a Gruppenführer—saw the ways the winds were blowing. On the one hand, fleeing to the West would offer salvation of a sort, though he knew he’d spend his life running from both the Jews and those in the Allied governments determined to make the SS pay for its alleged crimes. Unfortunately, he had no funds saved with which to make that flight, and Müller had no intentions of living like a beggar. And despite rumors of an organization forming to help SS members evade justice, he knew this was not an option open to him, for he’d never been popular with those in power.
On the other hand, fleeing to the East seemed just short of suicide. The Russians hated the SS. He knew the part of Germany captured by the Russians would never be given back, and any government set up in their zone of occupation would be as ruthless as the one for which he now worked. And they would need skilled practitioners in forming the new state.
The decision was obvious: he would flee to the Russians. With the armies of the Allies moving ever closer to Berlin, Müller had set about remaking an identity for himself. Identity papers were prepared showing him to be a former member of the Kriminalpolizei who’d been drafted into the army to fight in the east in the last desperate offensive. He then had his blood group tattoo removed from under his left arm—a mark that would positively identify him as a member of the SS—disguising it as an old bullet wound, which was duly noted in his false papers, alo
ng with an award of the Black Wound badge.
When the end came in April 1945, the late Gruppenführer Müller donned his ragged Wehrmacht uniform and disappeared into the Eastern Zone of Occupation, spending a few days in hiding.
So, it was Hauptwachtmeister of Police Werner Mueller who “surrendered” to a Russian patrol, and after a few months of interrogation and imprisonment, he was brought before an ad hoc committee comprising a Political Commissar and two high-level Russian officers. Mueller smiled inwardly as the committee pointed out his previous “experience” as a policeman in the Reich, their eyes taking on a greedy gleam.
They then gave him a choice: spend the rest of his life in a gulag, or serve the budding Staatspolizei, an organization that would soon be feared under its diminutive name: Stasi.
For Mueller, it was no choice at all, but he made it look as if the struggle with his conscience was genuine. He asked to have twenty-four hours to think it over, and then after a presumed night of hard contemplation, told the committee that he accepted their offer.
Within weeks he found himself in Moscow undergoing “reeducation” and training not unlike he’d received in the SS. A year later he was back in East Berlin as a Leutnant in Stasi. Now, after nearly forty years of political toadying—something he abhorred—he ran the organization. Men who would bridle with rage if they knew the truth about his Nazi past, now took his orders without question. He was respected.
Feared.
Somehow, it was fitting.
Werner Mueller’s mind came back to the present when his eye caught sight of a lone peddler pushing a cart laden with fruit and day-old baked goods up the street, his back bent with age, his clothes little better than rags. He watched the old man struggle with the weight of his wares and briefly toyed with the idea of ordering him brought before him. He could picture the scene: the old man trembling, his soiled tweed cap twisted in his callused hands, a look of silent pleading on his wizened face. He would approach the man and ask him a single question, the first question he always asked during the course of an interrogation: “Do you love the state?”
