by Ted Allbeury
‘Tell me what’s worrying you, Tolya.’
Petrov smiled and it was the first time Lawler had seen Petrov smile since the visit to his parents.
‘No. You tell me about the girl in the photograph.’ Lawler sighed and took a deep breath. ‘Her name is Joanna. Joanna Calthrop. She’s about twenty-seven. We lived together for nearly six years. We’ve got a daughter named Sarah. She’s three years old. Joanna went off with someone else about three months ago.’
‘Why didn’t you marry her?’
‘She’s already married.’
‘Why didn’t she get a divorce?’
‘He’s rich and influential, and he still loves her in his own peculiar way. He wouldn’t divorce her and I think Joanna kept him as an insurance policy. A bolt-hole she could go back to if all else failed.’
‘Why did she go off with another guy?’
‘It’s a long story. And very boring.’ He sighed. ‘And very sordid.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Does it really make any difference, Tolya?’
‘I think so.’
‘When I first met her she had left her husband about a year before. She was lively and pretty and she was on drugs and hard liquor. She was mixing with some of the wildest specimens of the so-called upper classes that you could find. The kind we used to send to the colonies with a family pension provided they never came back. The people who supply the gossip columns with their juiciest material. Some of it too juicy even for them. We shacked up together and I calmed her down. She was off the drugs, and one whisky a day was enough.
That lasted about three years and by then we had Sarah. Then I had to do a two-month stint in Washington and they came with me. Some creep from the Brazilian embassy latched on to her, and in a matter of days she was back into the smart set and drugs. By the time we left I was getting flak from the embassy, and SIS brought me back to London. They read me the riot act but they were sympathetic. What she got up to in London didn’t matter so much. It got worse and worse and I was no longer able to influence her. She was charged with drunken driving and then she left with a man who runs an antique shop. He receives stolen goods and is suspected of financing a drug-distribution operation. She lives with him in Kensington. That’s about it.’
‘Do you love her still?’
‘No. I sometimes feel sad for her. And sometimes I loathe her. But I love the little girl.’
‘Why don’t you take the little girl back?’
‘It’s not possible. I don’t have any legal rights because we were not married.’
‘But you have influential friends, surely they could bring pressure?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘And this makes you sad about the small girl, Sarah?’
‘Yes. It’s my fault that she is in bad surroundings.’
‘The mother’s responsibility too.’
‘She isn’t & responsible person.’
‘Does she care for the child?’
‘In a way she does. But not the right way. She sees her as a decoration. A possession.’
‘Was the woman — Joanna — good to you before she started drinking again? Did she love you?’
‘No. She didn’t love me. She needed me at the time. She isn’t really capable of loving anybody. She’s neurotic. She pretends very well. And you can pretend that it’s love for a time. If you want to pretend.’
‘And you pretended?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid I did. It was stupid of me.’
Petrov sat looking at him, and the Russian looked older, more mature, more in control of himself. As if the retailing of someone else’s misfortune and foolishness had made him wiser.
‘And what you going to do now?’
Lawler smiled wryly. ‘Nothing, just soldier on.’
Petrov nodded. ‘He was right, your Silvester. We are a bit the same. We got no stake in the world.’
‘Is that what you want, Tolya, a stake in the world?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that the problem?’
Petrov shook his head vigorously. ‘No. That’s not the problem.’
‘Tell me what it is. Maybe I can solve it.’
‘Did you read the file on Behar . . . on Blake?’
‘I went through the summary. I didn’t see any relevance to your situation.’
‘Maybe you should read the file, not just the summary.’
‘There are four files. Thick ones.’
‘So. Maybe you should read four thick files.’
‘Why don’t you save me the time and just tell me?’
‘Because of two reasons. If I tell you, you will not believe, and if I tell you I would be dead in a few days.’ He paused. ‘And now I am sure that you would be dead too.’ He leaned forward, his face earnest and his eyes alert. ‘This what I tell you about Blake is nothing to do with what you and I do now. It is not nice and cosy and friendly, it’s part of our other life. Remember what I say. When you read of Blake you are back in business of espionage. Is not a game, that part of our talk. When I speak of Blake I speak as colonel in KGB, not a man with a crazy Irish girl-friend in a strange country. Is about living and dying. You and me. I was not colonel because I was stupid or afraid. You know that. You ask Silvester of my record.’
‘I’ll do what you say, Tolya. Do you want me to talk to Siobhan?’
‘If you think you can do any good, yes.’
‘I’ll talk to her anyway.’
11
George Blake was granted indefinite sick-leave to recover from the debilitating effects of pneumonia, dysentery and vitamin deficiencies. Most days he lay in bed reading at his mothers house in Reigate. There had been talk at the Foreign Office of an OBE but the idea had been dropped. MI6 had already broken a major security rule when they had recruited him. Only natural-born British subjects of natural-born British parents were recruited to the Foreign Office let alone its secret service. And while George Blake had been in Korean prison camps Burgess and Maclean had defected to Moscow. The security screening of civil servants had become a continuous issue in both Parliament and the press. The less attention received by Blake the safer his position would be. They had no doubt of his loyalty. Fie had proved it conclusively all through his career, and his recent courage and loyalty in the prison camps were even further proof.
When he had recovered he was posted to Queen Anne’s Gate, the HQ in London of SIS. And it was there that he met his first and only love. She was a secretary who worked for him. A gentle, pretty, intelligent girl, the daughter of the Foreign Office’s Russian language expert. It was a strange courtship, typical of the diffident man who so often said that he wanted no responsibilities away from his job. He owned no furniture, no flat, no car, not even a radio, but it was obvious that he loved the girl. When they talked of marriage he tried to put her off. How could he keep her properly? He was half-Jewish and barely used to the life and customs in England. He was shortly to be posted to Berlin. But on 23 September 1954 George Blake married his pretty girl, and his superiors were quietly pleased. A secret agent in Berlin who was married was far more secure than a single man.
It was a white wedding at Marylebone’s parish church, and was attended by many officials and secretaries from the Foreign Office. They honeymooned in the South of France. On the marriage certificate he gave his name and his father s name as Blake not Behar. When they returned to London he found that he was not to be posted to Berlin until the following April, and the couple lived with his mother in her flat at Baron s Court.
BERLIN 1955
The girl bent down to switch on the electric fire and stood up slowly, her hand on her faintly convex stomach. She was four months pregnant and she sat down slowly in the armchair and reached out to switch on the radio. She turned the volume down and listened to the music from RIAS Berlin. It was a repeat of a Bert Kdmpfert concert that had been given in Cologne.
She looked across at her husband as he sat at the table. He was studying a street map and a han
dful of photographs. He looked so young, and yet so determined. Intent on what he was doing, like a child with a new puzzle, determined to succeed. Because she had worked at Queen Anne’s Gate she knew the kind of work that he was doing. Not very precisely, but well enough to wonder why he chose to do it. He didn’t seem like any of the other SIS men she had met when she worked at Queen Anne’s Gate. They weren’t all like one another but they had something about them that marked them off. A self-assurance, an air of confidence, even a sense of humour. But her George had none of these things. When they met new people they tended to patronize him and she sometimes felt guilty that she understood their attitude. She had overheard somebody describe him as a nonentity and she knew what they meant. It wasn’t just his quietness and diffidence but his appearance and attitude: he was so self-effacing, more like a salesman in some old-fashioned department store. But his superiors seemed to be well pleased with their puritanical and conscientious recruit. He was a good husband. He cared for her, helped with the housework, and did the shopping when it meant driving across to East Berlin. Once or twice a month he took her out for a meal or a concert. He was frequently out until the early hours of the morning, but that was just part of his job. She had no fears about other women, and that was more than many British wives in Berlin could say. He looked younger than his years despite his rather earnest face, but often, when she said some endearment to him, his face would light up, his eyes sparkling as if his mind was coming back from somewhere far away.
Gillian Blake was happy with her husband, and happy at the thought of having a child. The flat in Platanen Allee was in one of West Berlin’s pleasantest suburbs.
George Blake parked the car in the car park at Olivaer Platz and walked to the corner of Duisburger Strasse and Konstanzer Strasse. The van was already there. As he walked towards it the driver flashed the lights twice, very briefly. When he was level with the back of the van he knocked on the door, and when it opened he went up the two metal steps and the door closed behind him.
The three soldiers were all in civilian clothes. He knew them all. The lieutenant and the sergeant were from Security Signals, and the third man was the SIS liaison officer with the BfV. It was he who spoke first.
‘They’ve given us clearance, George. Carte blanche and no questions asked. He’s been on net already tonight.’
Blake nodded and turned to the lieutenant. ‘Have we got tapes of tonight’s traffic?’
‘Yes. It was high-speed and we haven’t got equipment for reducing it here. We’d like his set for examination until you need it for evidence.’
‘I’ll be taking him to the villa.’
‘The car and the driver are round the corner. We can get them round in seconds when you want them.’
‘Is he alone?’
‘So far as we can tell.’
Blake looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven. He looked at the lieutenant.
‘I’ll go up now. Give me five minutes and then ring. Two long and a short. I don’t think he’ll give any trouble.’
The air was hot and heavy inside the building and he walked slowly up the stone stairs to the top floor. The door facing him had a visiting card in a brass holder that said simply Paul Kretski: Geigenbauer – violin maker.
He already had a key. One of his men using the cover of meter reader had seen to that. Outside the door he stood quite still, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he slid the key into the lock and opened the door.
The man stood there, a look of surprise on his face, a small metal file in his hand as he turned from filing a cello bridge held in a small vice on a wooden bench.
‘Herr Kretski?’
‘Who are you? What’s going on? How did you get in?’
‘Are you Paul Kretski?’
‘Yes. But I don t—’
‘Please sit down.’ Blake nodded towards a wooden chair and hesitantly the man sat down. His hand was trembling as it rested on his knee and there were beads of perspiration on his upper lip.
Blake looked at him. ‘Where’s the radio?’
The man pointed at the small Telefunken set. Blake shook his head.
‘The other radio. The short-wave radio. ’
‘Are you a policeman?’
‘Where is the transmitter, Herr Kretski?’
‘What would I want with a transmitter? I repair violins and cellos, not radios.’
‘You’re wasting my time.’ Blake said it in Russian, and it was as if the man had been struck. His face was white, his mouth open, and his body was shaking violently. For a moment Blake thought the man was going to faint. Then the bell rang and he walked to the door, still keeping his eyes on the man.
When the three other men came into the room the man groaned involuntarily.
‘Where is the transmitter?’ Blake still used Russian.
The man shook his head slowly. He was too scared to speak. Blake sighed, and sat down and waited.
It was ten minutes before they found the transceiver. It was in a drawer under a commode at the side of the single bed. The two Grundig TK 20s were in the wardrobe. The Security Signals lieutenant looked as pleased as if he had just won the Irish Sweep. He tried not to say anything but in the end he gave in.
‘It’s a Mark 7 Sigma. A real beauty.’
Blake nodded and turned to the man.
‘You’ll be coming with me.’
The man stood up. He had regained some of his composure. Blake pointed to the door and followed the man down the stairs. The BMW and the driver were waiting outside.
‘Why were you in direct touch with Moscow?’
‘Those were my orders.’
‘Why direct to Moscow? Why didn’t you just pass the information to the KGB in Karlshorst?’
‘Only Moscow could answer that.’
‘When did you last hear from your wife and daughter?’
‘I got a letter last week.’
‘What was the postmark?’
‘Dresden.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said she was receiving the money every month and had been paid half in hard-roubles. And the apartment was to be decorated.’
‘Why don’t you telephone her in Moscow?’
‘All telephones to the Soviet Union from West Berlin are monitored.’
‘You could phone her from the safe-house in East Berlin.’
‘I don’t know such a place.’
Blake sighed and looked at a card. ‘You were there on the third and fifteenth of last month. You were photographed going in and coming out.’
‘Tell me what you want. I need to sleep.’
Blake pushed across a packet of cigarettes and a lighter and watched the man as he lit the cigarette and inhaled. He never threatened or used violence. He just kept on and on. Going over the same questions again and again before moving to some new line of questioning.
‘Why did you stay in Smolensk after the war was over?’
‘I had no choice, I was still a prisoner of war. If I stayed and worked I could be released.’
‘Where did you meet your wife?’
‘She was a secretary of the company which obtained the special woods for my work.’
‘Why did you become a Soviet citizen?’
‘I was there. My wife was Soviet. My work was there.’
‘Where did you get your radio training?’
‘In Moscow.’
‘Where in Moscow?’
‘At MVD headquarters in Dzerzhinski Square.’
‘In your messages last week you said that there would be workers’ risings in East Berlin next month. Did they ask for information on that subject?’
‘They said I should join the Union and go to meetings and inform them of what was discussed.’
‘You did that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What response did you get?’
‘It was then I was given the briefcase with the US dollars and told to give them to Otto Kellner of the Transport Union.’
‘Did you get a receipt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I posted it as I was instructed.’
‘Where to?’
‘To an address in Warsaw, I don’t remember the details.’
‘Who brought you the dollars?’
‘I told you. A Russian brought me the money. I don’t know his name.’
‘Was he MVD?’
‘I think so.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘I told you. Cafe Keese in Bismarck Strasse.’
‘What was the password?’
‘No password. I carry a violin case and a piece of music.’
‘What music?’
‘Sag’ beim Abschied leise Servus.’
‘What did the Russian look like?’
Kretski closed his eyes to think. He spoke slowly and hesitantly. ‘Tall. About one metre eighty. Thin. Brown eyes. Quite good-looking.’
‘How old?’
‘Very young. Early twenties, maybe twenty-five. Very sophisticated.’
‘Did you speak Russian or German?’
‘Both.’
Blake showed his card to the Volkspolizist as he was stopped just past the Brandenburger Tor and ten minutes later he pulled up near the Friedrichshain Hospital. He walked for ten minutes to the safe-house and rang the code on the bell. Two long and one short. It was several minutes before the door was opened. He felt a sudden flash of anger that it was the girl. She was wearing a dressing-gown that revealed most of her naked body and she yawned as he spoke to her. ‘Where is he?’
‘Asleep.’
He pushed her to one side and went up the broad stairs two at a time. As he switched on the light the man asleep in the bed didn’t stir. He shook him awake and the man rubbed his eyes, shielding them from the light.
‘For God’s sake, Georgi. What is it?’
‘Kretski’s blown, Tolya. Finished. You must pass it on immediately.’
