Quiller KGB

by Adam Hall

  Waiting.

  The light swung, brightening the zone in front of me and then leaving it dark and I hadn’t been ready, hadn’t wanted to be ready: I needed the rhythm of the light’s movement to establish itself in my mind.

  Waiting as it swept and then I took a breath and blocked it and went for it, going through the sprint starting position and driving with my feet and plunging through the dark with the bright beam swinging towards me from the left and the area becoming deadly with each passing second as I ran, feeling the touch of the terror I’d known I’d feel because of the inexorability of that moving light, because of the knowledge that whatever happened it wouldn’t stop, if I stumbled or lost my speed or veered too far to the left or lost my nerve it wouldn’t stop, it would find me, flooding across the ground and drowning me in its glare and reaching the retina of the eye of the man who would fire the gun, shadow down, the terror alone driving me now, run run run with the adrenalin alone keeping me mobile, keeping me alive but the shot came and I heard the shell striking the tarmac on my right side, run run run as if nothing had happened but there were chips of tar and stone flying up as the light swept nearer, nearer, faster than I’d believed it would as I ran headlong and he fired again and the impact was closer and I’d heard the windrush of the shell as it had flashed past my head on the left side, the side where the light was coming, strengthening as it came, filling the receptors at the edge of the vision field as the darkness in front of me grew to a lightening grey as I ran ran ran with the terror still with me, with the scalp crawling as the nerves waited for the hit, for the bursting open of the skull as the last thought sprang there - over now - flashing across the synapses before it was blown into oblivion.

  Dive.

  Dived as the light came flooding and my hands went forward to break the fall and I dropped flat in the shadow of the vehicle and the next shot smashed into the bodywork with a scream of metal against metal and I lay with my face on my spread hands and my breath coming in shock waves from the lungs, letting my eyes close and feeling the inevitability of the next shot.

  It didn’t come.

  Rest, rest now. It’s over for a time.

  Cone:

  Immediate plans?

  I’m going to see if I can get them interested.

  The ground cold under my hot body, grit under my hands, the smell of oil, the smell of rubber, nothing natural here in this civic hunting-ground, no tree, no leaf, nothing but hard surfaces and the inhospitable furnishings of stone and metal and concrete, the habitat of man.

  Holding his fire.

  I don’t suppose for a moment he’d run short of ammunition: there’d been planning done. They may not have known I’d head in this direction, though I’d been moving south from the cafe, east and then south, but they’d assumed I’d reach some area where I’d be trapped and couldn’t get out again. This site wasn’t ideal because of the light’s movement but at least I was cut off from the street behind me and on both sides by the buildings, and the man with the gun could bring me down before I could find effective cover and make an escape.

  Light washing across the ground where I lay but not reaching me, the vehicle above my head and its shadow shifting from right to left as the light swung left to right.

  Get them interested, yes. Signal to London: the executive has managed to get the interest of the opposition, which was his intention. Brief report on success; interim objective achieved, so forth.

  Not really.

  More realistically: doubts as to the executive’s survival for more than another ten minutes are such that I advise replacement if possible or termination of mission.

  Alas, poor Yasolev.

  Move. Move now. We’ve got to do it again.

  Silent night, unholy night, with only the faint sound of the late traffic along Treptow and the harsh sawing of my breath as the organism drew in oxygen for the muscles. I wasn’t ready yet. I would wait.

  Or termination of mission, yes, with Holmes over there in the signals room getting some more coffee with his eyes on no one because the news wasn’t good on the board for Quickstep, not terribly good. Where’s Mr. Shepley? Pick up a phone. You think we should get him? The last signal on the board: executive attempting to trap opposition agent and interrogate. Or words to that effect; I couldn’t be at all sure, not knowing Cone enough to get into his mind. He might have been talking to Yasolev the whole evening for all I knew. I’m sorry, but my agent has virtually gone to ground and thrown off my support people and at the moment I don’t know where he is, though I do know he’s in danger, so forth. They could be in signals with London in the hope that somewhere they could find a shadow willing to work with Yasolev, someone Yasolev could approve of.

  Or Cone might be tougher than I knew, with enough nervous stamina to go on working with an executive who had so far run wild at every turn and deliberately gone solo. Anything was possible; even that Shepley knew I’d have to work like this and had told Cone to put up token protests but let me run and put smoke out if I needed it or get me to a hospital if I needed it, just keep Quickstep running and by the millionth chance bring it home and bring me home with it.

  Academic, yes: this is entirely academic, my good friend, you’re absolutely right. Thing is to move on, isn’t it, put up a show, go out with the blood hot and one small ray of hope shining in the night before the winds of chance blow it away.

  Move, then. It is necessary.

  Countdown: six, five, four as the light came sweeping from the left. I let its rhythm move into my mind again on the subconscious level while I reached up and wiped more oil from the crankcase and smeared it over my face and hands again, this stuff stinks, but only because the stomach is queasy, only because you’d rather smell roses, wouldn’t you, in your last few minutes on earth.

  Three, two, one.

  Crawl forward, crouch in front of the vehicle, wait. Its shadow had begun darkening on the right as the searchlight flooded the buildings on the left of the car park and then reached the ground, sweeping towards me. Wait. Sweeping nearer, creating shadows to the right of the vehicles in front of me, brightening their bodywork, reflecting from the windows. Sweeping nearer - starting position - nearer, flooding over the vehicles and moving on - go for it.

  Chasing the light, lost in the darkness it was leaving behind it - flat out, you’ve got three more seconds - the scalp crawling on the right side, the side where the shell would come if I faltered, stumbled, fell - run run run - the light from the next beam coming behind me and catching up, catching up fast as I ran ran ran and pitched headlong into the shadow of the next vehicle in the row ahead, lie flat, lie flat, do nothing, A sheet of light spreading across the ground and then flooding the vehicle as I shut my eyes and rested, the heartbeat thudding inside the rib cage and the breath sawing, the nerves sending a cascade of coloured light across the retinae until the tension slowly came off and the organism started returning to normal.

  Light dying away.

  Ten minutes. I would give it ten more minutes before I moved again. There was no hurry, though the dog might make a difference.

  There’d been no shot this time; either he hadn’t seen me or he was letting me run, toying with me, certain I could never make the next two rows of vehicles and reach the street. He could be giving me respite, giving me hope, playing on the nerves - a sniper would be liable to do that; they’re a special breed, cold-blooded, subtle and meticulous, their egos geared to the intricate and finely-balanced mechanism of the guns they use.

  ‘Aus mit dich!’

  I hadn’t seen it because my eyes were shut; I’d heard it snuffling, and when I’d looked up it had been coming through the gap between the next two vehicles ahead. I’d kept absolutely still but it had scented me: that was what it was doing here. It was a Doberman, big but not yet mature, and it was standing within three feet of me, watching.

  ‘Weggehen!’

  It didn’t take much notice, just drew back a bit, the metal tag on its collar jingling. A
nd went on watching me. I could feel the hairs on my arms and hands flattening again after the shock: when I’d seen that bloody thing I’d thought they were sending in dogs to flush me out of here, but this wasn’t trained; it had broken its lead and was wandering.

  The light came sweeping again and the dog turned its head and watched it, puzzled, because lights don’t normally move; but it didn’t look substantial enough for it to chase or try to catch. Its eyes became jewels as the light passed over them; then it was dark again.

  ‘Aus mit dich!’ I slapped the underside of the crankcase and this time it took some notice and when the next beam came past the dog was halfway between this vehicle and the next, looking back at me and wondering why I’d told it to go away instead of being friends, and then it spun sideways and leapt once and hit the ground with blood spilling under the bright sweeping light and I thought you bastard, oh you bastard.

  I knew him now. He was a sadist. There’d been a choice for him to make: the dog could have been useful to him; it had already shown him which vehicle I was using for cover and it could have gone on following me whenever I made a move, and that would have been tempting to a professional marksman, a technician - an ideal situation, with a dog to keep track of his quarry. But he’d made the other choice, of terrorising the quarry itself by showing me what it would be like when the last shot came and I spun and leapt and hit the ground with my blood spilling under the light, just like that.

  Bastard.

  Not because of what he’d done to me but because he’d taken a dog’s life to do it: that was obscene.

  Ten minutes, then, another ten minutes and I’d give him his chance, because there was no option. If I had to go then I’d go the way of the dog and at least have company.

  Rest, relax, await the moment. It would be of my own choosing: I would move when I decided to move. If he took Voice.

  It came from the left. I thought I’d heard it before but decided it had been someone in the street on the far side; this time it’d come more clearly from the left, and now there was the faint crackle of squelch. It was a man with a walkie-talkie and he was stationed over there and reporting his position - there couldn’t be any other answer. The sniper had sent beaters in, at least one but more probably two, the other positioned on the right. They could be armed but I doubted it; East Berlin is efficiently policed and the penalty for bearing weapons is imprisonment.

  It could be that the sniper hadn’t expected me to make two moves and get away with it, and now he was worried because there were only two more rows of vehicles between here and the street, where there were lights and traffic and people, giving me ample cover and a first-class chance of escape. I suppose it should have encouraged me a bit but of course it didn’t: he’d seen the danger and had dealt with it.

  Five minutes.

  But there was a new factor coming into play that I didn’t want to think about. In front of me there were still two more rows of vehicles and I could reach the first row in darkness between the beams of light, unless the beaters caught a glimpse of me and signalled my run to the sniper; but if I reached cover alive there wouldn’t be another move to make, because I knew approximately where the sniper was and from his position the front row of vehicles would be silhouetted against the lights of the street.

  Two minutes.

  And even if I could reach the front row it would be a dead end because beyond it was open ground and I would be a silhouette if I tried a final run.

  One minute.

  So there wasn’t a great deal of point in going forward again. They’d set up an execution and there was only one man in the firing squad and he didn’t have the dummy round in the gun. But the only alternative was to stay here and let them come for me sooner or later, taking their time, and I’d rather go the way of the dog, running flat out for dear life, than have them come and find me lying on my back underneath a bloody street-maintenance vehicle with nothing left to do but bare my neck.

  Then go for it.

  The light came sweeping and I waited till the dark came down and then got into motion with all the force I had in me and I was halfway there when a shell ripped the left sleeve at the shoulder and smashed into the rear window of the vehicle and shattered the glass as I kept running with the light nearing from the left and he fired again and the shell hit the rear of the same vehicle but lower down and pierced the fuel-tank and brought the reek of petrol into the air as I dived for cover. The third shot made impact at a flat angle and tore metal away from the side of the vehicle and I heard the shell ricochet and hit the ground and bounce and rattle against the vehicle ahead.

  Lie flat and rest, let the shock expend itself in the organism. Relax, let go, hands and face against the gritty tarmac, the heart thundering in the chest and the sunburst of colours fading from the nerves in the retinae, relax, we did well, we survived and here we are.

  Here we are at last, at the dead end of the run.

  Rest, relax, don’t think about it. There must be something we can do; it can’t be over.

  Wrong. Because when I opened my eyes and studied the environment I saw the situation was exactly as I’d thought it would be when I reached here. From the sniper’s viewpoint the last row of vehicles would be silhouetted against the lights of the street beyond and if I made a final run he’d take his time and check the aim and put the first shot into my spine.

  A rose for Moira.

  The light sweeping, flooding the ground and passing on, leaving the dark. Nothing has changed. You knew there was no real chance when you realised they’d trapped you here on this killing-ground. Nothing has changed, but when you feel ready then make your final run, just as a gesture, and die like a man.

  Correction, yes.

  Like a dog.

  Chapter 15

  TRUMPETER

  God knows what it was: something soft.

  The only light in here was from the flames.

  Soft and pliable, possibly a dead cat, though a dead cat would be stiffer than this. I raked lower, and found an empty box and some banana peel and a paper bag with something in it, though I didn’t want to know what.

  The light of the flames was coming across the top of the open bin and I tried to see things by it, but it wasn’t easy, here among the rotting detritus of man. I was looking for rope, ideally, a piece of rope, or failing that, some wire, or even string if it were strong enough; it wouldn’t have to last very long.

  Be it known that the bearer is in the private service of Her Majesty the Queen, and shall be permitted free passage and certain privileges on demand, wherever her dominion shall extend.

  Stink of fish as I dug deeper and found bones and a beer can, the bearer, being in the private service of Her Majesty, assiduously pursuing his duties, though it be in this bloody hole where no one, may they catch the pox, has left any rope. No point, you might well think, in flashing my laissez-passer and demanding certain privileges, since Her Majesty’s dominion doesn’t extend as far as the trash bins in the German Democratic Republic.

  I reached for his throat and felt the pulse. I’d put my watch on again but I couldn’t see it in this light and in any case you don’t need a watch to tell you if a man’s pulse is approximately normal. This one’s was steady, perhaps a fraction slow. I’d put him out five minutes ago and he was probably still well under. He was one of the beaters.

  Something long and thin and - bicycle tube, yes - and some rotten fruit by the feel of it, black market and an exchange of hard currency under the counter, and a wire coat-hanger: that would do. I hooked it over the edge of the bin and went on digging. It was ten or fifteen minutes before I found all I wanted, and the flames had died away. It had been a night for bonfires, you may have noticed.

  There’d been quite a lot of petrol on the ground when I’d got my lighter out and it had made a sheet of flame before the whole tank went up and by that time I was diving for the vehicle in front and there’d been no shot: I think he was surprised by the explosion and couldn’t bri
ng the gun into the aim in time to drop me.

  There were several bits of rope and I joined two or three and found another coat-hanger and untwisted the hook and got his wrists behind him and his feet together; then I forced his mouth open and stuffed some rag in and bound it with the rest of the rope.

  I’d waited till the fire crews were milling around and then I’d gone for the buildings on the left and found him still there with his walkie-talkie and he wasn’t carrying a gun. This stinking bin was further along the wall and I’d had to drag him there because he’d tried to resist and that was when I’d put him under.

  Got the worst of the oil off my face and then I took a look from the top of the bin. The fire crews were starting to roll their hoses but there were a lot of people in the area and I dropped onto the ground on the side facing the wall and kept in its shadow. His shoes were tight but better than bare feet; I didn’t want anyone asking questions. From the sniper’s viewpoint it must have looked as if I’d gone up in flames because there’d been a fifty-foot jet when the tank had burst and the two nearest vehicles had taken fire and their tanks had gone up too; but there could still be some of Volper’s people in the environment and I wouldn’t be taking any chances I could avoid.

  The nearest phone box was half a block away and I wanted to run there but it would have called attention.

  ‘Gunter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want you to pick me up on the corner of Beckerstrasse and the municipal vehicle park in Treptow. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘I can find it.’ He asked me for the nearest cross-street and I told him and rang off and dialled again and Cone answered before the fifth ring.

  ‘Look,’ I told him, ‘I’m bringing a prisoner in.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Treptow. But I can’t bring him into the hotel: we look too messy.’ He told me there was a lock-up garage in Hausvogteplatz and I noted the number.