The Secret Houses

by John Gardner

  ‘No. Only Naldo and myself – and Herbie of course, but he’s really only a spear carrier. I think the Chief sent him along for the experience.’

  Caspar nodded. Herbie was told to talk to Ramillies about anything under the sun, and use his common sense. ‘Pretend you know more than you really do, Herb,’ Naldo counselled.

  It was from Herbie Kruger that they first realised, the following morning, that Ramillies Railton was starting to crack. They had left Arnie with him while the three of them had breakfast, looking heavy-eyed after snatched odd hours of sleep.

  ‘That fellow is one frightened man. Leave him longer and he’ll need change of underpants.’ Herbie spoke in such a normal tone that the other two – Caspar and Naldo – did not at first realise the meaning of what he had said.

  ‘Herb?’ Naldo looked up from his coffee. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Herbie gave a grunt. ‘We speak German to each other. Every time I go in he gets cosy – you know, like I’m different to you crowd. I am German. He asks the whole time about if you’re serious.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Serious about sending him back to Moscow.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘I spoke the truth.’ Herbie gave the grin of a monster. ‘I said, yes, of course; why not? It would be good for him to go back to Moscow. In Moscow he would see his life in – how do you say it? – in perspex?’

  ‘In perspective?’ Caspar tried.

  ‘Ja. Perspex-tive.’

  ‘Perspective, Herb,’ Naldo said as though on auto pilot.

  ‘The best was last time. He cry, that one in there. He think I’m more on his side, and he weep tears. Not in front of you, but with me. I sing him a little Mahler.’

  Naldo grunted. ‘That would make anyone weep.’

  ‘Well, I have not yet properly learned the music of Kindertotenlieder – Dead Children Songs. But I have the words. I tell him words. Tell him he is going back to Moscow. Tell him more words, like ‘In diesem Wetter, in diesem Braus’ –

  In this grim weather, this storm,

  I’d never have sent the children outside!

  But they’ve taken them out of the house.

  I had no say in the matter.

  ‘And he wept at that?’ Naldo frowned.

  Caspar nodded slowly. ‘I think I understand.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘My dear brother, whose own twin was driven out of his mind by battle at sea, has been reflecting on his youth. People do that when faced with the kind of horror he must know waits for him in Moscow.’ He gave an enormous sigh. ‘I think it’s time I laid some more news on my shit of a brother. It’s time to go for the bastard’s jugular.’

  Naldo followed as Caspar strode – showing no sign of his one artificial leg – down the passage to where Arnie continued to talk to Ramillies about his secret life.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  So now, on that first of many mornings when he began to win his brother back, to see justice done and take vengeance for the whole of his family, Caspar went to him with the same cold lack of humour that he would maintain over the next weeks and months.

  ‘Well, brother Ramillies, have my people looked after you? Do you want for anything?’

  Fatigue creased Ramillies’ face, making him look like a man in his late sixties, rather than his fifty-two years. His eyes were bloodshot, his stubble grey, and his thinning hair dirty and dishevelled. ‘They haven’t let me sleep,’ he said, his voice surly and hoarse.

  ‘Good practice.’ Caspar spoke sharply, with no sympathy. ‘Good practice for what you will undoubtedly go through when they get you back to Moscow.’

  Ramillies appeared to sag within his own body, his head giving a tiny nod that could be taken as tacit agreement.

  Caspar continued. ‘The three packages – the photographs and records – are ready to be sent covertly into the East. I await final instructions from my superiors.’ He sat, looking maliciously at his brother for almost three full minutes. Then Caspar drew in a deep and tired breath. ‘I hold out no hope, Ram. No hope at all, but God knows why, I have put some proposals to my Chief.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered. I shall go back and face what has to be faced.’

  ‘Certain death?’

  Ramillies nodded.

  ‘Very well. I’ll get on to London now.’ He stood, turning towards the door. Ramillies spoke again as Caspar’s hand touched the knob.

  ‘Cas?’ It was the first time in three decades that Ramillies had spoken to Caspar on the equal terms of their brotherhood. ‘Cas… What are the alternatives to Moscow?’

  Caspar stayed by the door, then took a step back into the room. He asked Naldo and Arnie to leave him alone with Ramillies and they both gave signs of reluctance, as though following Caspar’s lead as good dancers will follow a partner.

  ‘Please,’ Caspar said very quietly. ‘Please leave me alone with him.’

  Finally they left the room. Herbie was outside and Caspar went back towards the table separating him from Ramillies. He hesitated but did not sit down.

  In reality he was playing for time. On the previous evening he had given Naldo and Arnie a guided tour of the safe house to show them some of what he had called the extra-interrogatory devices: the listening and recording devices in the basement – each linked to a main room or particular area of the house. Caspar had checked on the one covering the room in which the primary interrogation would take place – even though, as yet, Ramillies had no idea he was to be interrogated. Possibly he had prepared himself for it, and then with Caspar’s arrival the preparation had become ragged.

  When he judged that Naldo and Arnie had activated the hidden microphone, Caspar seated himself again. ‘There’s little I can offer, Ram. Very little. You had better know that this whole operation was mounted solely to get rid of you. I was sent over to give positive identification, that’s all. Just like the Coroner’s Office has to have identification of a body. The word was no deals, no interrogation, nothing. Identify him as your brother and throw him back – with the evidence. Let the dead bury the dead.’

  Ramillies, so devoid of humour, gave a thin smile. ‘Talk’st thou to me of “ifs”? Thou art a traitor; Off with his head!’ he said.

  ‘Ah, still a Shakespearean, Ram? Thought Chekhov would have lured you from the Railton habit.’

  ‘He has his moments.’ Ramillies’ voice was as dry as a bone and the hint of a smile had long gone from his lips. ‘Right at the end of The Cherry Orchard the bourgeois family leave old Firs, the family retainer upon whom they have all relied for years, locked in the house. He tries the door and says, “Locked. They’ve gone. They forgot about me… My life’s gone as if I’d never lived…” Then, from offstage, comes a distant sound, like that of a string snapping, slowly – sadly – dying away. Then silence broken by the sound of an axe striking a tree in the orchard outside. Is that what I’ve come to, Caspar? Was the little game in the Alexanderplatz the sound of the string snapping? Because that’s how I feel – that my life’s gone as if I’d never lived.’ He looked up, his eyes full of deep thoughts and concern. Then – ‘Alternatives?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I don’t think there are any, but I just might be able to give you a few more years. It depends.’

  ‘On whether I’m traitor enough to double myself. Tell you all I know. Policy; some names; possible strategy.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you could tell us that much. Long and costly business as well, Ram, now the Socialists are in power. We’re accountable for every penny these days.’ He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed for a fraction as though in deep contemplation.

  ‘You did say you had put forward some proposals.’ Ramillies said it softly, as though fearing he might break in on Caspar’s thoughts.

  ‘Only a small idea or two. Orders are that you should be returned unopened – without interrogation. London sees you as a very committed member of the Soviet regime. They all know that you were manipulated before and after you were first
sent into Russia. But you’re a part of Revolutionary history now, aren’t you? Still a believer. Or have you become just another disillusioned Party hack?’

  ‘What are your small ideas?’ Ramillies either did not wish to answer his questions or could not.

  ‘I might just make out a case for you to be taken back to England and subjected to a thorough interrogation.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That would end up with a trial for treason, and one bright morning you’d take a walk with the public hangman.’ He tapped the table lightly. ‘But I suppose even that would be better than the things your good friend Comrade Beria will do to you.’

  Ramillies did not answer.

  ‘There’s another possibility, of course, but not much hope at the end of that one either.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘That we have a long talk. You answer certain questions – there must be some queries London wants to clarify. If the answers come out right, we could possibly get the okay to lose you. You might run and take your chances. No.’ He saw the doubt on Ramillies’ face. ‘No, you’re quite right. That’s a non-starter. They’ll never buy that.’ Another endless pause, then – ‘Was it really worth your life, Ram?’

  Ramillies put his head in his hands, making motions as though washing his face. ‘I really do not know. To me, Communism is similar to Catholicism. The ideal, the faith, always remains true, though some members of the body politic can be corrupt and misleading. The truth remains in spite of human frailty.’

  ‘And there’s a lot of human frailty within the ideal now?’

  Ramillies nodded. ‘Stalin doesn’t care a fig for the Revolution or the Party. Sometimes I think he even despises it. He’s a thug. Tell London I can give them certain things – some hard intelligence. Some – I must stress some only. Not all I know. It’s time I was honest with somebody. Tell them I’m still joined by the hip to the ideology that made me become what they see as a traitor. I see myself as a man who has remained true to his faith. I believe in political destiny, and I cannot carry the Party message – the message of the Revolution – unless I am alive. So I will exchange some intelligence for my life.’

  Caspar sighed. ‘Lot to ask, Ram. They’d hold no brief for that kind of talk in London.’

  ‘Would you try it anyway?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Finally Caspar left the room.

  ‘Of course it’s a load of double-talk,’ he said to Naldo later. ‘It’s possible that my brother’s guilty of the worst sin – of really believing all that business of staying alive to further the cause. My guess is that he doesn’t give a damn about anything but his own skin; and that’s our strength. We can play along with him, and so milk him dry. Who knows, we might even get him to face the real facts of life.’

  So it began, the long trail through Ramillies’ memories. Caspar went to him later that day and told him, ‘London’s bought it – but only up to a point. You are not to be allowed back into the U.K. We keep you in Germany at least until we see how positive you are – which means we keep you here until they’re satisfied of your full cooperation. I have to stress full cooperation. I shall send back daily reports. If you fall below what they think is the line of truth, then back you go, Ram, and I shan’t have any say in it. In fact I’ll even dump you in the Russian Zone myself. Now, will you cooperate?’

  Ramillies only nodded his head, and a memory from childhood stirred in Caspar’s mind. Ramillies tended to be truthful. If he wanted to avoid direct lies he would nod or shake his head without speaking.

  ‘Will you cooperate?’ he repeated.

  Ramillies opened his mouth, closed it again, looked down, and then seemed to regain strength from somewhere. ‘Yes.’ The voice was firm. ‘Yes, Caspar. Yes, I shall cooperate fully and without reservation.’

  ‘Good.’ He did not allow himself to look either happy or relieved. ‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’

  In all it took nearly six months to bring Ramillies Railton to the true point of their questioning – the problem of Klaubert, Jo-Jo Grenot, and Caroline Railton Farthing. The approach had to be made obliquely, through the tall grass and undergrowth of a lifetime of deception that lay deep, encasing Ramillies’ history. Nobody – least of all Caspar – wanted him to even suspect the main object of the questioning.

  During those months, many things happened.

  To start with there was the incident which became known as ‘Herbie’s trouble.’

  While Naldo and Arnie exchanged wry smiles when it occurred, it was really no laughing matter. It was discovered when they decided a doctor should give Ramillies a thorough checkup. Caspar was not happy about going into a long, and possibly arduous, interrogation unless they were medically sure Ramillies would stand up to the physical strain. He had lost weight, was not sleeping, and appeared to get genuinely exhausted after even short sessions with Caspar, who quickly realised that if he was ever going to get the real answers to the important questions, it would be necessary to backtrack through the years, digging all possible details of Ramillies’ career in the Russian Service, right from the very beginning.

  So, because the circle of knowledge was so closed, Naldo was dispatched to London, under a passport which fingered him as Mr David Rathbone. Once there he met C in the Northolt house to talk about getting medical opinion.

  C said he would arrange matters. It would be a military doctor who had signed the Official Secrets Act, and was, to use C’s own words, ‘As discreet as a one-time pad.’

  Naldo was with C for the best part of an hour, and as he was not due out again until the following day, spent the remainder of the time with Barbara, who met him at the Kensington house, wrapped her arms around him, led him to the bedroom, and gave him her all. Naldo returned to Germany feeling happy and tired. In his mind he considered the experience had been like drinking the most satisfying alcohol in the world and then being dragged through a warm and magic pool that produced the kind of pleasures you only imagined in adolescence.

  Back in Munich, the doctor arrived – in darkness with a large member of the Military Police SIB, in civilian clothes.

  While the doctor was examining Ramillies, Herbie went to Arnold, looking very embarrassed, and haltingly asked if he could possibly have a word with the visiting physician.

  ‘What’s up, Herb?’ Arnie was concerned at the anxiety in the big German boy’s eyes.

  Young Kruger looked away. ‘I think I catch a little cold, Arnie. Maybe I need – what you call it? – a pick-you-up?’

  ‘Yeah. Pick-me-up, Herb.’

  ‘That’s it. If I could see the doctor perhaps for five minutes…’

  ‘See what I can do, Herb.’ And Arnie went in search of Naldo, who at that moment was with Caspar and the doctor.

  ‘Basically the man’s exhausted.’ The doctor – a young major – was speaking of Ramillies. ‘He’s obviously under stress, but tired.’

  ‘Heart okay?’ Caspar asked.

  ‘Sound as the proverbial bell. Heart, lungs, all the organs seem fine. Just tired. Shouldn’t be under too much stress.’

  ‘Pity.’ There was no anxiety in Caspar’s voice. ‘’Fraid he’s going to be under a bit of stress, Doc. Will it kill him?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘No. No, it won’t kill him, but he might collapse on you. If he could be allowed to go a bit easy – ’

  ‘Sorry, Doc. Do what we can, but he’s got to work quite hard.’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘I’m told you’re in charge. Up to you.’

  ‘Yes, it is really, isn’t it.’

  During this last exchange, Arnie whispered to Naldo, who stepped in, asking the doctor if he would mind giving another member of their unit a quick going over.

  The doctor went off into one of the other rooms with a distinctly crestfallen Herbie.

  He reappeared fifteen minutes later, asking for Caspar. ‘You are the senior officer here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Caspar was wary.

  ‘Rules of the game at the moment.
I’m duty bound to report a self-inflicted wound.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your man, Kruger. Medical ethics concerning confidentiality go by the board in the occupied zones, I’m afraid. If this is a military unit, I have to report a self-inflicted illness.’

  Caspar looked up sharply. ‘In a strict sense this is not a military unit. Will Kruger be okay?’

  ‘Long as he has no alcohol for a month and takes the pills as instructed.’

  Caspar nodded. ‘Give him the pills, Doc. I’ll see to the rest.’

  ‘That girl, that Helene,’ Herbie fumed later. ‘She was all bees – is that right? – all bees?’

  ‘Honey?’ Naldo suggested.

  ‘Bitter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.’

  ‘Butter, Herb.’

  ‘Well, only one thing melts in her mouth – I know! Bet she must have been making fuckings with other people. I felt she was not telling me whole truth!’ He gave a histrionic sigh. ‘Ach, I feel uncleanly.’

  ‘The Doc says it’s just a dose of the clap,’ Naldo said. Arnold grinned. ‘Keep taking the pills.’

  ‘No laughing thing!’ Herbie almost shouted back. ‘That doctor say I should always take preventions.’

  ‘Good rule, old son.’ Naldo felt a bit of a hypocrite, reflecting on his own sex life, but he had one partner only, and that, as far as he could see, would be for the rest of his life.

  ‘Preventions are like swimming with all clothes on,’ Herbie grumbled.

  ‘You could get something much worse.’ Arnold had straightened his face. It was true enough. He had an old friend whose father had caught syphilis which was never detected. The man had died in an asylum. ‘Just take care, Herbie. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ He frowned. ‘When I go back to Russian Zone, Nald?’

  ‘Don’t know, Herbie. Maybe not for a long time.’