The Secret Families

by John Gardner

  The press were led to believe that Alice Ross was a rather silly woman, who did not understand what she was getting into. They also spoke about her departure to serve imprisonment in Holloway Prison. In fact, through an arrangement with the authorities, Alice was taken to the most secure section they kept at Warminster, where the confessor’s started to work on her life, leading her through the long labyrinth of treason, coaxing names from her, and filling in the blanks.

  When Stalks came in to see Willis Maitland-Wood and Gus Keene, at BMW’s request, after Christmas 1970, she reported that Andrew’s family appeared to be much more relaxed without him at Redhill. ‘Anne was positively pleasant,’ she said, ‘and the kids seemed to be relieved their father had been banged up.’ She reported that Barbara had made a brave effort to join in, but she was obviously deeply depressed, while young Arthur and Emma were, to use her words, ‘very supportive. Really went out of their way to be of help.’ Of Alexander and his ‘brazen wife’, as she called Delia, there was little to talk about. ‘Alex seems to have become less opinionated. He struts less, and doesn’t say much. It’s as though his problem’s altered him somehow.’

  ‘It has,’ BMW said with a touch of acid. ‘Alexander’s applied to be positively vetted again. Even says he’s ready to be fluttered, as the CIA would call it.’ Fluttering was agency jargon for the regular polygraph test on which they insisted, though everyone knew there were ways of beating the lie detector.

  ‘Nobody’s going to take him back, are they?’ Stalks was appalled.

  ‘It could happen. Everyone’s short of trained staff. Alexander’s just the kind of man we’re looking for — if we can bring ourselves to trust him. They’re going to vet him, and my money would be on him coming back in: well, at least back to GCHQ.’

  Stalks also painted a grim picture of Sara and Dick. ‘Getting more infirm by the minute,’ she told him. ‘Strange how age treats people. James and Margaret Mary must be in their late seventies, yet they bounce around quite happily. Alert and physically spry, apart from occasional moments of depression about Naldo. I know Sara and Dick are older, but when you see them together, you’d think James and his wife were thirty years younger.’

  As she was leaving, Stalks asked if there was any news of Naldo, and was met with a shifty look and a negative reply.

  Late in January, old Phoeb, Caspar’s widow, died, and it was noted by all that Andrew did not apply for permission to attend the funeral. These things apart, life went on much as usual, with all the attendant treacheries, rumours and betrayals, right up to the summer of 1972, when the Railton family would have hit the headlines again if things had not been kept deeply silent.

  Unknown to the world at large, which included the press and most members of the SIS and MI5, the Soviets had been making overtures since early in 1971. Their offer was straightforward. They were prepared to exchange Naldo Railton for his cousin, Andrew.

  No deal, the Foreign Office replied without hesitation. The minister was adamant and did not even consult C about the rejection.

  The Soviets made the offer again six months later, and were once more rebuffed. This time C was brought in. ‘Play the usual game,’ he advised. ‘Let them think we couldn’t care less about getting Naldo back. Anyway, Gus is still working on Andrew. Let ’em stew.’

  Early in 1972 Gus reported that no more could be gained by sweating Andrew, and the dance began in earnest. First the Foreign Office agreed to ‘exploratory talks’, with the proviso that nobody tipped the press in either country.

  ‘One thing’s for certain,’ C told the minister. ‘None of this must become public property, and, if we do reach an agreement, the first specific has got to be a five-year blanket of silence.’

  The minister nodded, and the talks went ahead. In early August, agreement in principle was reached. In the last week of that month, the whole thing was signed and sealed. The exchange would go ahead, under a five-year cloak of silence, on 10 September. The Soviets would have made the exchange straight away, but the Foreign Office, on advice from C, needed time to assemble their forces, to refit the secure guest suite at Warminster, and make decisions on exactly who should know the facts, and who should be kept in ignorance. They required a good fortnight, and were ready only twenty-four hours before the exchange.

  TWENTY-THREE

  1

  Naldo Railton knew nothing of his impending exchange until it happened. On the contrary, his impression was that they were removing him from the hospital to stand trial in Moscow.

  It began with a slow weaning off the sedation, around the middle of July. They had done this from time to time before, so he thought nothing of it. But now they went on, cutting down the sedation and making certain he did not go to pieces with withdrawal. Then they got him out of bed and allowed him to dress and sit in a chair. They had only done this for a few hours at a time before, now the hours turned into whole days. He was appalled at the way clothes hung on him, as though they had been bought from a mail-order firm who had sent garments two sizes larger than ordered.

  They kept the door locked and bolted on the outside, and after a few weeks he found he was able to walk quite well. On the morning of 5th September — at least they told him that was the date — two young KGB officers came, with the doctor, and asked him if he was fit enough to travel. The pair of men were correct, neither polite nor authoritarian. They made it clear that they would abide by his decision, and doctor’s advice, as to whether he was really well enough to endure what they said would be ‘quite a long journey’.

  Naldo asked where they were taking him, and for what reason. Both men shook their heads and said these things were, as yet, operational matters. Their jobs, they intimated, would be at risk if they told him. In any case they were only taking him on the first leg of the trip. It all depended on his health.

  The doctor examined him, and said in his opinion he was fit. Even though, by this time, Naldo was convinced the show trial was about to start, and had probably been triggered by some political event, he could not shirk it. ‘I’ll go with you,’ he said, and they were off within the hour.

  They took him by car to a small airstrip, and it was only during this short ride that Naldo was able to confirm that he had been kept near Sochi. That night he was in a safe house in Moscow. They had landed after dark, and he could see little, for the rear compartment of the car had been blacked out with a special glass, but he knew it was Moscow, for the city, like many in the world, has its specific smell: a vague sourness in the air; just as Paris smells of Gauloise cigarettes, coffee and garlic; and New York has a particular scent which, combined with the echoing noise of traffic, makes it easy to identify. Oddly, Naldo thought, London had become bland. He could recall days when they might have put him down, blindfolded and he would recognize the capital city of his native country by its particular scent — soot, and something undefinable, but London’s own. Since it had, rightly, become a smokeless zone, the odour of London had disappeared.

  In the safe house, his two young guardians were replaced by half a dozen new men who offered him a change of clothes. ‘They will fit you better,’ the most senior officer told him, but Naldo refused. By now he was not so sure of the trial, and had become confused and tired. Part of his mind told him they were going to kill him when the moment was ripe. But, for the time being, another doctor came and checked him. He was given vitamins and food, then told to rest. He wondered if he was paranoid, for he felt certain the food had been drugged. Within an hour of eating, he could hardly stand up: requiring only a bed and sleep.

  When he woke it was day again, though he had no idea what day. They had removed the ill-fitting clothes so he was forced to dress in grey cords, a roll-neck sweater and a matching cord jacket. The labels, he noticed, had been removed, but he would put money on them having come from Marks & Spencer.

  That evening the man he knew only as Jacob arrived, dressed as ever in civilian clothes. Was he ready for the final lap of the journey, Jacob asked. Th
at depended on where they were going. Once more, Naldo became preoccupied with death. If they could shoot down Arnie, Spatukin and Kati in the open, then he would be easy meat.

  ‘We’re going to Berlin.’ Jacob smiled.

  ‘That the end of the line for me?’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘Just the beginning, I think.’

  They made the journey by night and he saw the lights of Berlin below them, with the obscene snake of brilliance that was the Wall, blazing with its high-security illumination. The plainclothed KGB men formed a human wall around Naldo to get him off the aeroplane and into the waiting car, which drove at high speed to yet another safe house. He ate and slept again. In the morning, Jacob returned and said as they would be in the house for a couple of days, he would like to talk over certain things.

  The questions were oddly standard — bearing in mind that he was a member of the British secret service. Had he been treated well? Had any of his views regarding the Soviet Union changed since he had lived there? What were his views on the United States? The CIA? What were his views on KGB? — ‘After all, you were treated as one of our own for a time.’ Jacob’s eyes went stony, as if to say, ‘You know more than most people.’

  Naldo was still confused. He did not know why the questions were being asked. He had no idea whether this was still some kind of final statement, for they were quite capable of killing him and dumping his body in the West. It had been done before. It had been done to one of his own people. He answered the questions in the most ambivalent way he could, but Jacob merely pressed him for more detailed answers. In all, this interrogation went on until the night of 9th September, though Naldo had no idea of time or date, for they kept the windows of his room covered with frames of thick black material. It reminded Naldo of wartime England and the black-out frames that went up at dusk throughout those long years of fighting.

  At last (it was in reality around 7 p.m. on 9th September), Jacob said enough was enough. ‘We have a small banquet prepared in your honour.’

  ‘The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,’ Naldo said sombrely.

  Jacob made a gesture with his hands, as though throwing away all responsibility. ‘You consider being returned to your own people as being condemned?’

  ‘My own —?’ Later Naldo was to say he really did not believe it.

  ‘Dawn tomorrow. In less than twelve hours. We’re exchanging you for your cousin, Andrew.’

  They took him, in tight security and secrecy, to the eastern side of the Heerstrasse checkpoint. Naldo sat in a car parked in the shadows and waited, thinking that, in all the spy fiction he had read, the exchanges took place at Checkpoint Charlie. That was often true. He had, himself, brought in people via Charlie.

  He could see the harsh sodium lighting around both sides of the checkpoint, and a distant glow as dawn approached to kill the streetlights of the West. As the sky turned to a pearl-like morning, an aeroplane, in the far distance, climbed away, probably from Tempelhof.

  Jacob walked back to the car and opened the door. ‘Come,’ he said, beckoning. ‘They are ready. Your cousin is with them, and we have all the people we need.’ They walked slowly towards the huts and the double sets of booms. As they neared the first boom, so a figure emerged from one of the checkpoint huts. He was tall, and wearing Western clothes, a dark overcoat with a buttonhole. His face seemed to have been lit by a lone spot: a touch theatrical.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Naldo nodded in the direction of the lone man.

  ‘Nobody in particular.’ Jacob did not even look at the figure. ‘He’s a man we use sometimes. His name’s Philip. But, now there’s something I wish you to do for me.’

  They had reached the first frontier boom, white with red rings, hinged poles placed one above the other and joined by a criss-cross of heavy metal strips. From the far distance of his memory, Naldo thought of nursery teas and sugar tongs that reached out, in that same pattern of joined silver Xs. The place could easily have been a railway crossing. As the dawn began to take hold on the sky, Naldo shivered. They had not bothered with an overcoat. One of the soldiers came out of the small blockhouse from which the booms were operated. ‘Comrade Colonel-General, they’re ready. All is in order,’ he said in German.

  ‘Colonel-General?’ Naldo raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Give Schmitzer my good wishes,’ Jacob said. Naldo looked at him harder, as though seeing his face for the first time. He knew Schmitzer had been Big Herbie’s crypto when he had worked on both sides of the Wall. ‘Tell him I look forward to seeing him again soon. It will happen. Tell him Jacob Vascovsky says it will happen.’

  The first set of booms were raised and, some fifty yards away, a similar set came up on the other side, rising up and juddering as they almost reached at right angles to the road. Naldo could just make out the group of figures under the lights.

  ‘Go,’ said the soldier in the box. The second set rose.

  Vascovsky tapped Naldo lightly on the shoulder. ‘Goodbye, until the next time, Comrade Railton.’ He laughed, then thrust something into Naldo’s hand: an envelope; a stiff envelope. ‘Go now.’

  Naldo turned away and started to walk. He saw the other figure moving towards him and, slowly, he recognized him clearly as Andrew. His cousin had lost weight, but his shoulders were stooped and he walked stolidly, like a farm boy following the plough. Perhaps that was what he had been doing all these years, following the plough that was his conscience, his ideal, his life. The plough that was Communism.

  As they passed, Andrew did not raise his head, or make eye contact. Naldo saw there was no point in even opening his mouth, so he looked away. Seconds later he saw Max, the Warminster heavy, with three of his sidekicks, closing in towards him.

  ‘Stay in the centre of our circle, Mr Railton, sir.’ Max did his usual trick of speaking without moving his lips. ‘Keep close. They’ve taken out people before this, right here at the exchange. Good to have you back, sir.’

  There were three cars. He glimpsed Curry Shepherd standing by the lead car, and Herbie beckoning him to hurry.

  ‘Nald. Oh, good you come back, Naldo. In get quick,’ and the bear-like arm went around his shoulders, almost pushing him into the car next to Gus Keene who was smiling. Minutes later, they were off, travelling fast, one car in front and another behind, Naldo sitting between Herbie and Gus.

  ‘You OK, Nald?’ from Herbie.

  ‘I will be. Bewildered. Bit confused. Just left a fellow who sent you a message.’

  ‘Oh?’ Herbie leaned forward and the car seemed to creak.

  Naldo told him about Jacob Vascovsky and the message to Piotr. He felt Herbie’s muscles tense, the whole of the big man seemed to go rigid next to him. An age passed before he spoke, and then it was poetry of some kind.

  ‘I am not going to the green clover!

  The garden of weapons

  Full of halberds

  Is where I am posted.’

  ‘Come again, Herb?’ Gus spoke at last.

  ‘Ach, is only poem. Poem set to music by Gustav Mahler, Gus. Mahler is my saint, my conscience and my hiding place. I ever tell you that, Gus?’

  ‘Several times, Herbie. Let me have a word with Naldo. Got to tell him the order of march and all that.’ Then he reached out and grasped Naldo’s hand. ‘Good to have you back. I fear I’m going to be a pain in your arse for a few weeks.’ He went on to say they were going straight to the RAF base. There was an aircraft ready. ‘Fly us into Northolt,’ he said, and that brought back a whole wasps’ nest of memories. It was in an ugly little house in Northolt that he had plotted with the then C; with Arnie and Caspar as well. Ages ago. Yesterday. Time did a loop then rolled off the top.

  Gus talked on. They would go straight from Northolt to Warminster where Barbara was waiting. ‘She’s longing to see you. What you got there? Parting gift?’ Gus’s hand stole the stiff envelope out of Naldo’s grip. ‘Pretty pix by the look of them. Mind if I hang on to the pictures, Naldo? For the time being, eh? See if they’re
of any interest.’

  ‘I know what they are.’ Naldo turned his eyes onto Gus and nodded. ‘I know, and I don’t want to look. I saw one of the set a few years ago, and I think they showed me one of the people involved before shoving me across their cursed border. Keep ’em, Gus. There might even be some of me, with a lady who’s long dead as well.’

  ‘OK. I’ll have them somewhere safe.’ Keene went on to specifics. How they would live in the Warminster bunker for a while, and how he, and others, would, to use his language, ‘take a steady trip through your time abroad. Barbara can stay with you, if you want it. You both have to talk about that —’

  ‘We’ll want it,’ Naldo snapped out. ‘I want to see the kids as well —’

  ‘All grown up, Nald,’ Herbie chipped in. ‘Young Arthur’s in the Foreign Office; Emma working in the publishing business. She is in Purr — that right?’ He looked at Gus.

  ‘PR,’ said Gus. ‘Public Relations, looks after authors and the press. Goes with them when they’re trying to sell their bloody books. PR, Herb.’

  Naldo smiled. ‘I have a few favours to ask of you, Gus. Important favours.’

  ‘So, they’ll wait until we get to Warminster, right, Naldo?’

  It wasn’t going to be all that simple, Naldo thought. Gus would be resistant; could not be hurried. But he had to be hurried, because Caspar’s memory was slipping away with each minute and Naldo wanted to get his hands on the diaries that would blow their crazy notions to hell and gone.

  They hung about at the RAF base, and Naldo had the feeling that, perhaps, they were buggering about with time — making him wait; putting him off balance. Then he realized there was no way they would fly him back in daylight.

  There was a P4 doctor waiting, and he gave Naldo a more thorough going over than the Russians. He also asked very pertinent questions. ‘Do you know what they’ve had you on for the last few months?’ — this after he had taken a urine test. Naldo did not know, but said it was some kind of sedative. The doctor’s eyebrows rose, and he said that a new and strict regimen was needed. ‘You’ve been kept short of exercise, I think.’