by John Gardner
The one thing that worried him most of all was the interrogations. Brute force had long been replaced by psychological tricks and drugs. Naldo was terrified of betraying his country, even though his country thought he had already betrayed it.
He lost all track of time. When the slim good-looking officer came to him again, Naldo thought he had been in the Lubyanka for around two weeks. They took him from the cell and into a small room, bare but for a scrubbed table and two chairs. He realized, as they sat him down, that he had his back to the wall, and there was a slit in the wall behind him; covered up from the outside but there none the less. There was paper and a pen on the table from which they had never properly got rid of the bloodstains.
So this was one of the famous Lubyanka cellars; one of the rooms of confession. The prisoner wrote it all down and signed it, then, from nowhere, a bullet took off the back of his head. It was the old routine. The interrogating officer would excuse himself for a moment and the shot would come from the slit in the stone behind the prisoner’s head.
So I’m going to die, Naldo thought, and, at that moment, the Russian who looked like a Frenchman came in.
‘Mr Railton, good morning.’ He sat opposite, his eyes straying to the paper lying on the table. ‘We would, naturally, like a full confession from you. Just the bare facts will do — that you are a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service; that you penetrated our intelligence service; that you are guilty of crimes against the state.’
‘I write it all down, and then you shoot me.’
The man laughed. ‘Oh, no, Mr Railton. That’s the old-fashioned way. I think we want you alive.’
‘So that my confession can be read at the trial?’
The Russian smiled, ‘There will be no trial. How’s my old friend Kruger?’
‘Now it begins,’ the voice echoed in Naldo’s head. This time he could not say who spoke, Caspar, his father, or Big Herbie.
‘I don’t know anyone called Kruger,’ Naldo said with an infuriatingly wide grin: almost an imitation of Herbie’s daft smile.
2
In London, the real problems started ten days after the news of Naldo’s arrest. The Soviets had made certain that everyone knew, including the news hawks in Fleet Street, not to mention the American press. There were two long communiqués via Tass; the first gave bald facts, that a British spy, one Donald Arthur Railton, had been arrested in a Black Sea resort after a gun battle. The way it was worded, Naldo came out as a latter-day gangster. The second communiqué was more detailed. Railton was in custody. He was a long-term British penetration agent who, for many years, had given the Soviet intelligence service tidbits of information. In 1964 he had entered the Soviet Union saying that he had been forced to run from probable arrest. The entire thing had been a British operation from the start.
The press release went into a lot of detail, saying that Railton’s story was believed for a time, then it was discovered that he was consorting with anti-Soviet elements. Railton had been on leave in the Black Sea resort of Sochi when the KGB had cornered him just as he was about to pass vital intelligence to the West. Railton had fired on a KGB team. Fire was returned, but finally Railton had given himself up. Happily there were no casualties.
The press had a field day. David Watson, the spy-watcher who had his information regarding the Credit committee directly from Indigo Belper, submitted the Caspar Railton story to his editor once more. They had it set and ready to start running when a D-Notice crunched it to pieces.
‘Only one thing for it now, Claud,’ Watson’s editor was determined to get the scoop. ‘We must get one of your tame MPs. Questions in the House. Right? Told you to do it before. Right?’
‘The times were out of joint. Nobody would play.’
‘Well, do it now, Claud.’
Watson went off and fixed lunch with a back-bencher who owed him a favour or two. On the following Monday the back-bencher put the Foreign Secretary to the question. ‘We have all seen the reports in the press regarding a Donald Arthur Railton, who has been arrested in the Soviet Union as a British espionage agent. Does the right honourable gentleman deny Railton was working for our intelligence service?’
The Foreign Secretary made the usual evasive reply. He had been advised that Mr Railton had long retired from any activities connected with the Foreign Office.
‘Would the right honourable gentleman agree that Mr Donald Railton was a nephew of the late Sir Caspar Railton?’
The Foreign Secretary said he believed this was so.
‘Then has the right honourable gentleman any statement regarding the late Sir Caspar Railton? There were rumours that the Foreign Office had held an enquiry after Sir Caspar’s death. The rumours maintained that Sir Caspar had been a long-term Soviet penetration agent, and it was said that this had been proved.’
This was not a matter for the Foreign Secretary to comment on at this time.
Speculation in the press was followed by more questions. Two weeks later the Prime Minister made a statement. During 1964, information came to light that the late Sir Caspar Railton had been working in the Foreign Office for a number of years as an informant for the Soviet secret service. A committee had been set up to examine the evidence. It was on record that the late Sir Caspar Railton might well have been a Soviet agent. Certain irrefutable facts pointed in that direction.
So the cat was out of the bag, and the press used a tremendous amount of ink on the story. One publishing house contracted Watson to write the definitive book on the subject. Then, towards the end of June, Alexander Railton was arrested, late on a Tuesday night, for contributing to the moral delinquency of a minor.
Gus Keene was at Warminster when the news came through, and he sent Martin Brook straight to Cheltenham. Alex Railton was being held overnight in the local gaol and was to appear in front of the magistrates at nine the next morning. The police were not letting him go, even though they were under pressure from a local solicitor. Pompous Andrew, it was said, had driven straight to Cheltenham.
Martin telephoned Keene late that night. The arrest had followed a serious complaint lodged by the mother of a fourteen-year-old girl. The mother had discovered what were described as ‘certain items’ (contraceptives, a phallic vibrator and some extraordinary underclothes) in the girl’s room. Under questioning, the girl had told her everything had been given to her by Mr Railton. The Railtons were friends of the family.
‘Looks open and shut,’ Martin said.
Gus was worried. They could put Alex away for a long time. Whatever happened, GCHQ would never employ him again. There had been random surveillance on Alexander since his name was put in the frame. Now, Gus thought, they had lost him completely.
‘I had a talk with the local law,’ Fat Martin continued. ‘They tell me Alex is outraged; denies everything; shows no sign of agitation or remorse; isn’t going down easily.’
‘Would you expect him to?’
‘Suppose not, but the coppers don’t sound at all happy.’
‘See what the magistrate makes of it in the morning.’ Gus had surrendered to being philosophical about these things. He had enough problems. His wife had left him and a divorce petition was being filed. Carole was anxious to know if her name appeared and was causing Gus some grief. Apart from that, he had several important cases running, none of them easy.
On the dot of nine the following morning, Martin called from Cheltenham. ‘The event’s off.’ His voice had that tired, disillusioned tone.
‘What d’you mean, off?’
‘They released our friend ten minutes ago. The local law’s withdrawn all charges; Alex left breathing the proverbial fire and brimstone. The girl apparently broke down very late last night and said she had been lying about him. The goodies she had stashed away were bought at a local sexual aids shop with her own pocket money.’
‘Oh, hell. Now where does that leave us? And how the blazes can a minor get stuff like that?’
‘She looks twenty when sh
e’s tarted up.’ Martin sighed at the distant end. ‘I’ve seen the pictures. They’ve also found the receipts in her room, and she’s admitted wanting to pin something on Alex. She had a crush on him and he turned her down. Told her she should know better, and that if there was any more of it, he’d inform her parents. So, off she went to the local kink shop and bought a load of stuff that she hid in plain sight.’
‘Little bitch,’ Gus grunted. ‘I’ll be at the shop all day. Just leaving. Do a report for me and I’ll try and get a full surveillance on chummy. OK?’
‘Delighted. Any time.’ Martin closed the line.
C already had the full story by the time Gus arrived for his monthly meeting. ‘You look tired, Gus. Everything OK?’ he asked.
‘I should imagine you know that everything’s not OK in my private life, chief.’ Gus slumped into a proffered chair.
‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs, Gus. You were never the one to allow private matters to cloud your judgement, and I don’t believe that’s what’s worrying you now. Incidentally, young Carole came to see me. Offered to resign. I told her no.’
Gus nodded slowly. ‘You want the truth, chief, Alex Railton’s got me worried. I’ve only had the bare facts from young Brook, but something’s nagging away in the back of my mind. Can’t put a finger on it.’
‘Well, I’m not going to brighten your day, Gus. Clifton Farthing’s missing, presumed killed in action, which means Langley has no effective contact with Arnie Farthing any more. Their embassy reports no sightings of Arnie since around the time they pulled Naldo.’
‘Great. Good. Super. Wonderful. What we doing about Naldo?’
C smiled and opened his hands. ‘What can we do? We know he’s still alive. There’s been no trial, which probably means he’s being dried out. Our closest source says they’ve moved him from the Lubyanka. He was in Lefortovo for ten days, which is very short-term for interrogations, then on to one of their clinics. Ironically it’s the so-called “Out-Patients’ Clinic for Psychiatric Diseases”, in Sochi.’
‘There will be a trial though, surely.’ Gus was not really asking a question.
‘Who knows? I suspect they’ve nabbed Arnie as well — Christ, Gus, I shouldn’t be saying any of this to you. I’m not even supposed to dream about Arnie and Naldo — dream the truth, I mean.’
‘Safe with me, chief.’
‘Not the point. We’re in enough shit already, what with the PM’s statement on Caspar …’
‘Why couldn’t you have denied that, sir?’ Gus had lapsed into an almost formal tone.
‘Because, officially, it’s the truth. I appointed the damned committee. I have to accept the findings. The findings are that Caspar was a penetration, so that’s what we’re left with. Find someone to carry on a crusade against the findings, give us new evidence, and maybe we can reopen the business. Put down Willis and his gang. Go and do it, Gus.’
‘I might at that.’ He looked at his shoes for a long time, as though they held the answers, like crystal balls. At last he said, ‘I want round-the-clock watchers on Alexander Percival Railton.’
‘I can try, but what’s the object, Gus?’
‘I believe he’s tainted. You can argue it’s because of his poor old father. That and the recent developments.’
‘What recent developments?’
‘Come off it, chief. They’ll turf him out of GCHQ for a start.’
‘Already turfed.’
‘That was quick. The police picked him up as he was leaving last night …’
‘And he’s not going back. Not even allowed in to clear his desk. It’s all being done for him.’
‘He going to fight it?’
‘Not on your life. The decision was made last night. I am told he was informed this morning. When he turned up at the office. Apparently he merely said he was thinking of leaving anyway.’
‘I’d still like the surveillance. Even more now. Especially now.’
They shifted from the intrigues surrounding Railtons and Farthings, alive or dead, and moved on to other business, which was considerable. Yet something niggled in the back of Gus Keene’s mind. Something had surfaced during the routine, random checks they had made on all members of what had become a blighted family. He thought it had to do with Alexander, just as he thought the charges against the man, plus their subsequent dropping, was a put-up job in more than one sense. If C had asked outright, Gus would have told him he thought Alexander was about to do a runner, and he could not have been more wrong if he tried.
‘Know what I think?’ C asked him just as their session was finishing.
‘What do you think, sir?’
‘I think,’ C said slowly, ‘that they’re keeping Naldo for stock.’
‘We haven’t got anyone to trade.’
‘No, but it’s possible someone juicy’ll come along. Poor old Naldo, going through the mill over there, and then having to suffer your inquisition if we get him back.’
Gus merely grunted.
3
The rumours about refurbishing Lefortovo Prison had been without foundation, Naldo decided. The fact that he was there had been his own fault. First lesson, he thought, never try to be funny with an interrogating officer.
After he had denied knowing Herbie, the officer in question had smiled back, got out of his chair and called the guards. Within fifteen minutes, Naldo was in a voronok — a prison van — on his way across the city.
Within an hour he was in one of the ice cells. Below ground, within the prisoners’ section of Lefortovo, there are isolation cells maintained at low temperatures all the year round. In spring, as Naldo discovered, there was a rime of frost on the walls, and he was ankle deep in water. He had no bed, no toilet facilities and they fed him a little bread and water twice a day. Apart from that, he saw nobody.
Within forty-eight hours he was reduced to sitting in the water in one corner. A week later it seemed to him that he had been in this cell all his life. In nine days all sense of time and place had gone, the disorientation of Naldo Railton had begun. He hung on to one thing only. Though he soon ceased to remember how or why, he knew that his own father had gone through something like this. After ten days, they dragged him out of the cell. He was placed in a warm bed and given an injection.
When he woke it was in a hospital room: a private room with bars on the window through which the sun streamed. He lay there, floating, it seemed, above the bed. Then people came in. Men and women. One of them said, ‘He’s coming out of it. Fill him up again.’ Naldo knew what was said, though it was not spoken in English. As he drifted again, he felt at peace with the world. He could not tell if this was a dream, or whether he was living in a kind of drunken stupor.
At one point he knew that they had moved him to a different room — one he knew, in Berlin. He carried out highly lucid briefings, and was sad about the people he spoke to as they were doomed. Naldo knew what it was like to be a military commander ordering people to go on a suicide mission. One of them was a woman.
There were other people, different places. Languages he knew, but had forgotten. He saw the men and women passing before him, looked into their eyes and spoke to them. For almost a day he spoke to C, going through operations stretching back for years; then, for a time, he was with BMW, cursing him and saying Caspar was innocent. He even broke all his personal rules and told BMW where both the diaries were stashed, at the post box in Slough waiting for him to collect, in the name of Bernard Carpenter.
He spent a great deal of time sitting in a house in Berlin with Arnie. He stood by the window and watched the snow coming down outside. Then even that altered. There was another meeting with Arnie. Herb was there as well, only Herb was so young. Herb was almost a child, a teenager.
‘Now it begins, old sheep,’ Herbie said, and Naldo went out into the snow, knowing that, somehow, he had been burned. After that, he only saw a few people he recognized. Some of them were long dead. They included his Uncle Caspar. After Caspar
appeared, a voice in Russian said, ‘That’s it. We won’t get any more.’
Naldo Railton slept peacefully and woke. He recalled having woken briefly in this room before. A hospital room with bars on the window. He realized the sun was not shining and he felt dog tired, as though he had spent months walking over difficult terrain. Nobody came, so he slept again.
It was morning when they woke him. A nurse, young and blonde, breezed into the room and asked if he had slept well, placing a breakfast tray on a table which could be rested over his thighs. She propped him up on pillows, and said the doctor would be in shortly. He looked better.
‘Where am I?’ he asked.
‘Where are you, indeed! You’re where you’ve been for the last six months, Mr Railton. Now you eat your breakfast,’ and she was away with a crisp, sexy rustle of her starched uniform.
On the tray there were bacon and tomatoes, toast, butter and a large pot of coffee. He ate his first English breakfast for some time — he had no idea how long.
A clean-shaven doctor arrived after his breakfast had been removed by the blonde nurse. He had a Scottish accent and was very hearty. ‘Well, you’re certainly looking better, Naldo. Sometimes these things take a while. I think you reached a crisis in the night. You had Sister Jopmore sitting up with you, most of the time.’ He began to examine Naldo. Eyes, ears, throat, blood pressure, reflexes, chest. ‘Aye, you’re coming along famously.’
‘Where am I?’ Naldo asked.
‘Och, none of your old tricks now, Naldo. You’re almost well, man.’
He tried another tack. ‘What’s the date, doctor?’
‘It’s the one after yesterday’s date, and the one before tomorrow. Come on, Naldo. It’s 4th December. They’ll be decorating for Christmas soon. Or would you like to be out of here by Christmas?’
‘Only if I can go to Redhill.’
‘Aye, I don’t doubt that. Your father’s going to be there. He telephoned this morning, as he’s done every morning since you’ve been in. Sends his best wishes.’