by John Gardner
The hospital routine went on around him all day. English nurses bustled in and out. He was given pills and an injection. Food came regularly. It was appetizing and well prepared. By nightfall he had almost come to believe he had suffered some terrible loss of memory.
In the night, he woke, sweating, his mind in turmoil. As his hand moved to the bell, illuminated by the bedside locker, he pulled back and everything returned to him. Everything, including the strange journey that seemed to have taken place, together with its meetings and the people he knew, or had known, from the past.
This was the moment of truth. Now he was the traitor. He let out a long wail of despair which echoed into the night like some terrible banshee crying, and he saw both past, present and future lying in ashes around his bed.
They tried to keep up the pretence of his being in an English hospital for five more days. On the sixth morning, it was not the chirpy blonde nurse who came in to wake him from a now drugged sleep, but the KGB interrogator he had last seen in the Lubyanka.
‘Now you can tell me how my friend Kruger is, yes? You’ve told us just about everything else.’
This time, Naldo did not give his imitation of Big Herb’s daft smile.
4
London was clogged with Christmas shoppers. It got worse every year, Gus thought as he made a painful way over to the shop. Now C wanted to call off the heavy surveillance, and Gus had no answers. C had not said as much, but had hinted at it during a telephone call earlier in the week. The surveillance was giving them nothing new. Besides, it tied up a lot of manpower.
Even the shop was trying to get into a festive mood. Mistletoe hung from corridor lights and there were sprigs of holly over the photographs. Some offices had cards pinned up, and a Christmas tree stood in the main reception on the first floor. Even Willis greeted Gus cheerfully when he arrived on the fifth floor. ‘Your monthly meeting again, Gus? Time flies and all that. See you at the Christmas party.’
‘You want to pull the lads off Alexander,’ he announced to C almost before he had taken his seat.
‘Not necessarily.’ C was brisk and to the point. ‘The long-term watch on that one hasn’t given us the whiff of a fly’s fart, Gus. We both know it. But I’m not going to press you. I would rather present you with another possibility.’ He moved from his desk to a table placed along one side of the office. The table contained around sixty surveillance photographs, each numbered and ciphered with the name of the target. Gus saw immediately that the photographs came not just from the close watch they had kept on Alexander since the spring, and the ‘little matter of the girl’, as C liked to call it. These photographs were also from the random surveillance, about three days and one full night, they were running on each of the Railtons. Gus noticed the first one in the upper row was of Dick and Sara, hobbling together in the rose garden at Redhill Manor.
‘What is it you wanted, then?’
‘Well,’ C trod carefully, ‘I think it would be wrong to withdraw altogether from Alexander. But I do think this one deserves a much closer look.’ His hand drifted towards five photographs of a watch kept on a Railton they coded Woodpecker.
Gus looked at each picture in turn, and asked why. ‘The elderly lady in conversation here.’ C pointed, then looked at Gus for a reaction.
‘We’ve never had an ident on her,’ he said, then he saw C’s face. ‘You can give us an ident?’
C nodded. ‘Not your fault, Gus. We’ve all got other things on our minds, and I know you’ve been overstretched at Warminster. I had a peep through the snapshots the other evening. Mulling over how we could spread the manpower in a more economical way.’
‘You mean that’s —?’ His lips were beginning to form a word.
‘Yes, and she’s been doing an awful lot of travelling around of late.’
‘You mean we’re on to the wrong brother?’
‘Precisely. The elderly lady’s a naughty, Gus. Don’t expect elderly ladies to be doing this kind of thing, and she’s probably known him since he was a young lad.’
‘Then we put the full works on him, and put Alexander into the random category.’
‘Exactly what I thought. Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve issued orders to that effect.’ C gave a bland smile. ‘When’s the wedding, Gus?’
‘Just before Christmas, chief.’ The divorce and its aftermath had gone more smoothly than Gus had had any right to expect.
‘Good. Glad you all managed to sidestep any service involvement. Now that’s dealt with we can get down to more pressing matters.’ C walked over to his desk and picked up another flagged file. ‘Tell me how we’re doing with Bald Eagle,’ he said.
‘Sod Bald Eagle,’ Gus thought. ‘I want to get my hands on that bastard in the picture.’
TWENTY-ONE
1
There were eight of them in C’s office: Willis Maitland-Wood; Gus Keene; Carole Coles; Martin Brook; a senior officer from Five called Daryl, who was the regular liaison between the two services; one of the most reliable P4 lawyers; and the Head of Special Branch, known to all as HOB.
Each sat quietly as C went through the photographs. He matched places, times and dates to the recordings: the conversations stolen through spikes, telephonic harmonica bugs, and parabolic mikes.
The first tape was a conversation between the target and a woman, who had already been identified by C.
‘I hope you’ve got it for me,’ the woman said. You could not tell her age, the voice might have belonged to a girl of twenty or a woman in her seventies.
‘Only some of it.’ The target sounded defensive. ‘The client’s a trifle shy, but he’s also on the hook. He brought work out to show me. Samples. I took a quick look, then told him we had to have the lot. He’s offering exclusive classified material on the current, and future, deployment of American missiles, here in the UK.’
‘Documentary evidence?’
‘I saw a couple of pages, which I’ve copied here, that’s all.’
The woman made a sound of frustration. ‘Paaah!’
‘Hang on,’ the target said rapidly. ‘He’s tied in tight. He has no room to move. He’ll give us all the goods. It’s fixed. The man’s in the mire without my help.’
‘Verdi is getting pushy. He wants it yesterday.’
‘Then give him the two pages as an appetizer. The rest will come, I promise you. Tell him to make direct contact if he wants it.’
‘I think he’ll probably do that. He seems annoyed about something. He’s not happy with you.’
‘Tell him to call me.’
The tape beeped, and C pressed the pause button. It was a big Revox reel-to-reel machine ‘We’ve put all the most damaging material onto one tape,’ he told them. ‘The next section is a telephone call made two days later, that would be 7 January, to the target’s office at exactly 19.00 hours.’
‘Yes?’ was all the target said when answering the incoming call.
‘You are alone?’ The voice was male; a slight accent, possibly middle European.
‘As always at this time of day.’
‘You recognize my voice?’
‘Yes. Snowball said you might call.’
‘I need to see you. Can we lunch tomorrow?’
‘Dinner would be better.’
‘As you wish. Say the Caprice at eight. Book the table in your name.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Again the tape was paused, to allow C to speak. ‘The contact was, in fact, that evening. Photograph Four. Target with the man we’ve identified as Second Secretary (Trade) in the Soviet Embassy, name of Savelev, Vasili Savelev. They dined at the Chesa in the Swiss Centre, Leicester Square, and we couldn’t get any sound on them. The conversation was agitated. Later we quietly checked. The pair dine there quite often. Also the target occasionally sees a woman there. The tradecraft’s good. We intercepted a booking for the following day at the Caprice, but nobody turned up. A week later there was another contact call. Dinner at the Chesa again. This time w
e got sound in. Here we go. Extraneous noise has been removed, thanks to the boffins.’
On the tape, the same pair greeted one another and ordered their meal. Once it had been served, the contact asked —
‘You have the stuff now?’
‘No. I’ll have it on Thursday without doubt. I’ve had to get a little tough with our client. He now knows where he stands; I’ll have photostats of all documents by Thursday evening.’
‘We’ll meet again, then. Same time, and you’d better have the stuff. Centre’s getting very edgy about you.’
‘I’m not happy myself.’
‘Why have they taken you off their list?’
‘I’ve told you. Nothing specific. Only the old stuff. My cousin; my father. Possibly the business in Cheltenham.’
‘You’ve detected no surveillance?’
‘Nothing. You?’
‘We don’t think so. Galina and Sammi have swept behind me, and one time they followed you. It seems clean.’
‘Well, I hardly think they’re going to put anything on me. They’ve been concentrating on my brother. I fixed that one myself. He’s got no idea, and he wouldn’t know a surveillance operation if they wore placards. Anyway, those people are always short of watchers. They have to borrow from MI5.’
‘It’s possible we might have to let you go dormant for a time.’ The contact spoke very quietly, but the words seemed to carry a subtext of threat. ‘We do look to you for the current stuff. Too much work has gone into this burn.’
The conversation then moved to trivialities, theatres visited; TV shows watched; even the mention of a concert at the Festival Hall. Towards the end, it was reiterated that they would have dinner on Thursday.
‘Right,’ HOB said. ‘Do we know who they’re burning, sir?’
C nodded. ‘Cipher clerk, MoD. Name of Stanley. Nicholas Stanley. He has personal problems. Mainly financial, and I suspect the target’s got him well buttoned up. Interesting remark about his brother.’
‘Indeed it is.’ Gus gazed at the ceiling. ‘Who are Galina and Sammi?’
Willis took that one. ‘Galina Kirsanov, thirty, assistant to the Second Secretary, who is, of course the KGB resident. Sammi’s one of their drivers. Black. Attended Patrice Lumumba and was shunted into special operations three years ago. Blends in nicely over here. Full name Sammi Omunda. Soviet papers, of course.’
‘Did your people know there was counter-surveillance?’ HOB asked.
Willis was about to answer, but C beat him to the draw. ‘Yes. We had people on the embassy. They watched all the comings and goings, remained at a discreet distance and kept in touch with the main teams, advised them which way to move, how to avoid detection, when to switch bodies. It appeared to work.’
He gave the HOB a slow smile. ‘Let me go back to young Stanley of the MoD. He has access to the documents described in the conversations. From what we know he’ll be taking copies of the entire series out of his office this evening. We know he has an appointment with the target at 5.30 — in the target’s office. That’s unusual, but I suppose necessary in this case. The target won’t want his hands on the stuff for any great length of time. Stanley put in a request for the whole file this morning, and we marked it. One copy only. Every page has transposed words or typos. So it’s directly traceable, back to Stanley. We have them all —’
The P4 lawyer broke in, ‘Bang to rights.’
‘So we pull him — Stanley — after chummy and his contact, Savelev.’ The HOB looked satisfied.
C said they should also pull the girl and Sammi. ‘They’re never far behind. I suggest using several teams, and cars very close. We don’t want any heroics, or public interest.’
HOB nodded. ‘You realize, of course, that we can only hold the Sovs for a few hours? Less for the girl and the black fellow, more with the trade secretary, but only if he has the stuff on him.’
‘He’ll have it, and, if they work true to form, Savelev will leave the Swiss Centre first. The target goes about ten minutes later.’ Willis was determined to have his say. ‘If you take my advice —’
‘HOB knows all the tricks, Willis,’ C said not unkindly. ‘I look forward to results.’
‘I get a small go at the Soviets?’ Gus asked.
‘’Fraid not, Gus. Your lovely wife here,’ inclining his head towards Carole, ‘can take a shot at turning the girl. No harm in making a pass. And you won’t have very long, my dear Mrs Keene. All three will be PNG’d on their way back to the embassy. Keep ’em indoors until Aeroflot can fix them up. So, quickly-quickly, Mrs Keene.’
Carole was touched. When she was plain Carole Coles, C hardly spoke to her. Now he never took liberties, always calling her Mrs Keene. ‘I’ll give it a whirl, chief.’ She flashed him the smile she reserved for would-be defectors, and Gus, then added, ‘Might I make a suggestion? Mrs Railton — Barbara. She’s in the Kensington house and we have a very light presence there. I think we should beef it up for the next few months.’
‘Agreed,’ C snapped. ‘See to it, Willis.’
‘And what about Snowball?’ HOB wrinkled his nose.
‘Any time, I’d say.’ C’s brow creased. ‘Any time after you have the rest in the bag.’
HOB gave a curt nod. ‘And, I presume, before we let the Russians go.’
‘Naturally. Good luck.’
Gus lingered, and when the others had left he asked C if he could have what he called ‘the loan of one officer’.
‘Who’re you thinking of, Gus? I write it on a piece of paper and read your mind, eh?’
‘I don’t think there’s need for that, sir. You know who I want, and I’d like him to liaise with the SB.’
‘What you mean, my dear Gus, is that you want Kruger in the car, or taxi, or whatever they’re going to use, when our man climbs in.’
‘It’ll amuse him, sir, and he’s pining for Naldo.’
‘Aren’t we all, Gus? Aren’t we all?’
2
The Swiss Centre complex is situated at the north-easterly edge of Leicester Square, where the narrows of Wardour Street snake chaotically into New Coventry Street. The centre covers a Bally Shoe outlet, plus Watches of Switzerland, a cinema, and an entrance to the gourmet food shop along the Wardour Street side. The main entrance, straight off the pavement of New Coventry Street, allows access to the food hall and has stairs down to three restaurants and a sweet and cake shop. The Chesa, the Swiss Centre’s flagship restaurant, is just to the right at the bottom of the stairs, where you are greeted by pleasant girls, either in red uniforms or the national costume of one or another canton.
They had three people already inside the Chesa — one man dining alone, and a young couple, seated near the table that had been earmarked for the target and his control. A further three women officers, and two men, either waited for dates who would never turn up, or drifted between the other restaurants, trying to make up their minds where to eat.
It was seven o’clock, bitterly cold, and outside the other teams were in place. Among the watchers and snatch squads there was much tension. Everyone knew this might be their only chance.
The welcome party covered all entrances and exits. One of them, in jeans and a short coat, shivered just inside the main entrance, while a gentleman, seemingly oblivious to the temperature, played the bagpipes, just as he did on most nights of the year.
Radios crackled in cars, then from cars to hidden walkie-talkies with earplug mikes. At 7.10 the Russian Second Secretary boarded an underground train at Knightsbridge. The news rippled around Leicester Square, and downstairs in the Swiss Centre: muttered key-words, and short sentences were fed through the earplug mikes. A few minutes later everyone heard that Sammi was right behind him, while the female agent was heading their way by taxi.
At 7.15, the target was en route by taxi. A full team had the cab well boxed in.
The Russian was the first to arrive; Sammi loitered around Leicester Square, while the Russian girl, whom they coded Balalaika, came in a
taxi and took a seat in the far corner of the restaurant where she had a good view of the entrance and her resident’s table. Everyone admired her choice of seating, because there were so many blind spots in the Chesa, which has white stucco walls curved into a series of arches down the length; a bar opposite, and more white stucco, all hung with giant cowbells and pieces of rustic Swiss farm equipment.
The target arrived at 7.30 on the dot, greeting the Russian like a business colleague he did not know very well. They ordered a very light, one-course, meal and the thick envelope which obviously contained the documents was passed, almost casually across the table, in plain view. They were in the restaurant for exactly fifty minutes, and the Russian left first, going out of the main entrance. The team earmarked for him got the news from one of the ‘waiting-for-a-date’ girls.
Savelev turned right, pausing at the corner of Wardour Street with the car pulling up directly in front of him. He stepped back, to avoid the two men who got out. Then a third man pushed him forward, almost into the arms of the car’s occupants. It took less than fifteen seconds, and he was sitting with a Special Branch officer on either side of him, and the car gathering speed, before he even had time to cry out.
‘Not too much shouting please, Mr Savelev, sir,’ one officer said firmly.
‘You have no right —’ Savelev began.
‘We are officers of the Metropolitan Police, Special Branch, sir, and we are taking you to West End Central Police Station where we wish to ask you some questions.’
They both flashed identity cards, but touched neither Savelev nor his briefcase. They knew there were photographs of the envelope being taken and placed in the case.
Five minutes later the target came out, looking for a cab. A passenger was just paying one off on the corner. The fare must have been heavy because he fumbled with his change. They had come all of thirty yards down Wardour Street as soon as the instruction had crackled over the radio.
The driver nodded to the target, indicating he could get in while this idiot tried to sort out his money. As the target climbed in, so its previous passenger followed him, and, with neat timing, the far door opened for a bulky figure to climb in.