by Bob Cook
“I’ve told him,” Owen said. “But he’s adamant that this chappie won’t settle for less.”
“He’ll bloody well have to. How the hell could I justify that sort of expense to the PM?”
“I don’t know. I explained to Wyman that the money simply isn’t there, but he says there’s no alternative.”
“Nonsense,” snorted the Minister. “What about internal inquiries? There must be a way of winkling out the information at home. More brandy?”
“Yes please,” Owen said. “No, Wyman’s right about that. The information we need is in East Germany, and we won’t get it anywhere else.”
“Can’t we send someone out?”
“Too risky. If we do have a ferret in the Department, our man would walk straight into the hands of the SSD. They’d be waiting for him.”
“And what if there isn’t a ferret? We’d have paid out two million pounds for nothing.”
“I agree, it would be a gamble.”
“Gamble? It would be sheer folly.”
The Minister blew out a long stream of yellow smoke and gazed contentedly at his glass of brandy.
“So what are we going to do?” Owen asked.
“Do? Shelve the investigation, I suppose.”
“That could be very dangerous.”
“We have no choice,” said the Minister emphatically. “I can’t justify forking out two million quid on this. As far as I’m concerned, if there’s no other way of doing this, here endeth the lesson.”
Owen nodded.
“Let us hope, then, that there really is no ferret.”
The Minister settled back in his armchair.
“I’m sure there isn’t, old chap,” he said. “There’s probably a simple explanation for those arrests, and we’ll all be kicking ourselves when we find out.”
“You’re probably right,” Owen said.
“Can’t afford two million,” said the Minister. “No way. There’s a recession on, you know.”
Chapter Twenty-three
BULGAKOV SAT BEHIND his large oak desk in Erfurt, reading some files. The SSD was being most helpful, and he now had virtually all the information he needed. Despite this, Bulgakov still regarded Captain Fichte with undisguised disdain. He found Fichte’s enthusiasm as unpalatable as Fichte’s acne. It was only when one was old enough to cultivate a healthy cynicism that one became proficient in this line of work, he reflected.
There was a hesitant tap on the door. “Come in,” Bulgakov said. Fichte walked in and smiled timidly.
“Prisoner Reichenbach, Herr Major.”
Bulgakov nodded solemnly.
“Bring him in, please.”
A thin little man was pushed into the office at gunpoint.
“Thank you, Hauptmann. You may go.”
Fichte shut the door behind him.
“Do sit down, Herr Reichenbach,” Bulgakov said, with reptilian courtesy.
Reichenbach sat down nervously. He did not like Russians.
“What do you do for a living, Herr Reichenbach?”
“I’m a printer,” Reichenbach said. “I’ve explained all this to the police…”
“Then you can explain it all again to me,” Bulgakov smiled. “I am not a policeman.”
He looked casually at Reichenbach’s file and lit a Dunhill. “You were arrested on the eighteenth of December for illegal trading in foreign currency. Is that correct?”
Reichenbach nodded.
“And you were sentenced to five years’ imprisonment.”
“Yes, Herr Major.”
“Did you make much profit out of these… activities?”
Reichenbach shrugged.
“A little. It’s not as lucrative as you might suppose.”
“Isn’t it? How interesting.”
Bulgakov blew smoke towards Reichenbach’s face.
“I suppose you made a lot of contacts in this line of business.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m sure there is quite a fraternity of criminals in Erfurt. You must have known a number of them.”
“You’re mistaken, Herr Major,” Reichenbach said. “I only did this occasionally, for my friends. I wasn’t involved in anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“No?” Bulgakov’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “You must be aware that there are black-marketeers here in Erfurt.”
Reichenbach said nothing.
“These people,” Bulgakov continued, “would be very interested in obtaining foreign currency, wouldn’t they?”
“I suppose they would. But I had nothing to do with them.”
“You only did it for your friends.”
“That’s right.”
“How very noble of you.” Bulgakov flicked ash onto the carpet. “So if I mentioned the name Grünbaum to you—Josef Grünbaum—I suppose that would mean nothing to you.”
“No.” Reichenbach shook his head.
“You have never heard of him?”
“No.”
“Oh dear,” Bulgakov sighed. “How disappointing. I had hoped that you were going to tell me all about him.”
He ground out his cigarette.
“Some people,” he continued, “think that you are connected with Grünbaum. They think you have known him for a long time. Why should they think that?”
“I don’t know, Herr Major.”
“These people think that you and Grünbaum were involved in more than just currency offences.”
“Do they?”
“Yes, they do. Why should they suppose that, do you think?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Bulgakov stood up and walked over to the window with his hands in his pockets. He looked out at a rainy spring morning.
“Does the name Gödel mean anything to you? It wouldn’t, I suppose.”
“No,” said Reichenbach.
“Neumann? Kurt Neumann?”
“I’m afraid not, Herr Major. Who are these people?”
“Just…people.”
Bulgakov returned to his desk and sat on it, directly in front of Reichenbach. He stared the prisoner straight in the face, as if he were trying to find something there.
“Funny, isn’t it,” Bulgakov said. “All these people think you know Grünbaum, and here you are, denying all knowledge of him.”
He smacked his fist into Reichenbach’s face. The prisoner toppled backwards.
“Get up.”
Reichenbach got to his feet, shaking. Red syrup oozed down from his nostrils and onto his lips. He righted his chair and sat down.
“Let me ask you once more. What was your connection with Josef Grünbaum?”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Reichenbach protested.
“I think you have,” Bulgakov said. “Listen. Grünbaum is dead. He was shot while you were in prison. You will not betray him by telling me about him. Not now.”
The German shook his head.
“I had never heard of Josef Grünbaum before you mentioned him to me. Truly.”
Bulgakov hit him again. There was a muffled snap as Reichenbach’s nose broke. Understandably, Reichenbach howled and clutched his face. He sobbed gently as Bulgakov lit another cigarette.
“When did they recruit you? Was it before 1958?”
“Nobody recruited me,” Reichenbach blubbed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a printer—”
Bulgakov grabbed him by the throat and forced Reichenbach to stare into his eyes.
“If I wanted to,” he said evenly, “I could kill you. Now. All you have to do is tell me about Grünbaum. I’ve told you, he’s dead. You can’t hurt him.”
Reichenbach trembled like a beaten child.
“I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about. If I knew I’d tell you. Really. I don’t—”
Bulgakov threw him against a wall and drove his fist into Reichenbach’s groin. As the German sank to the floor, Bulgakov obligingly kneed him in the face.
“That’s the price o
f loyalty,” Bulgakov explained. “That’s what they paid you for, isn’t it?”
Reichenbach spat out little red fragments of teeth and ran a sleeve across his mouth.
“You’re mistaken,” he mumbled. “There’s been a terrible mistake.”
“Has there?” Bulgakov asked softly. “Listen, Reichenbach. I can beat you until your head falls apart. I can grind you to powder. I can do exactly what I please with you. Spies aren’t protected by any laws, you know.”
“Spies?” Reichenbach looked up in astonishment. “Are you saying I’m a spy?”
Bulgakov went behind his desk and sat down.
“You’ve been trained very well,” he said. “I can see that. But it makes no difference in the end.”
He looked at Reichenbach’s broken face and red eyes. It always ends like this, he thought. They always die with that confused, incredulous look in their eyes. Presumably, no one ever dares to contemplate such a fate. Otherwise they would not do their work in the first place. They always think that it can’t happen to them, and even when it does, they still refuse to believe it.
“It’s going to be a long day,” Bulgakov sighed. He said it in German, but he was really talking to himself.
Chapter Twenty-four
“PLATO WILL HAVE TO BE DROPPED,” Owen said.
“Indeed,” Wyman said. “May I ask why?”
“The Minister gave a number of reasons, and I agreed with him.”
“I’m sure you did,” Wyman said.
“First and foremost, there is the question of expense. Two million pounds is an outrageous sum. Had this Plato been prepared to settle for a more sensible figure, we might have taken a different view. If you are certain that Plato will not negotiate, then there is little we can do.”
“Other than give him the money.”
“Other than ignore him altogether,” Owen snapped. “This leads on to the second point. How can we be certain of Plato’s bona fides? You have given us no indication that Plato will fulfill his side of the bargain, apart from your belief in his honesty.”
“After thirty years in this occupation, I think my opinions about the integrity of a source are worth slightly more than you suggest.”
Owen shifted uncomfortably.
“I am not denigrating your abilities,” he said. “I simply maintain that you haven’t proved that Plato is worth the absurdly high fee he’s demanding. Two million pounds for one informant is an unprecedented figure.”
“As I recall,” Wyman said, “there was a time when we would gladly have paid that figure and more, had it meant Philby’s exposure, or that of Burgess. Why is it that we are always wise after the event in these matters?”
“But in this case, what is the event? That’s my third point: we are still not satisfied that there is an infiltrator here in the Department.”
“‘Satisfied’ is a rather odd term to use, isn’t it?” Wyman said. “Until you can provide a better explanation for how the Dovetail network has been systematically dismantled, you must accept that we have a KGB plant in the Department. Surely, elementary logic would dictate this view.”
“I am not talking about logic,” Owen said. “I’m discussing practicalities. The exposure of the Dovetail network can probably be explained by other means. Henceforth, I would like you to explore all the possibilities, not just that of having an infiltrator in the Department.”
Wyman sighed in frustration.
“As I explained to you, an investigation at this end would be an enormous task. It could take months, and I don’t have months. You will recall that I am supposed to leave the Department at the end of June.”
“If you haven’t sorted it out by then,” Owen said, “I shall find a replacement for you. If necessary, I’ll do the work myself.”
The idea of Owen having to plough through twelve hundred dossiers gave Wyman much private amusement.
“I’m sure you’d find the work most agreeable,” he said.
“Of course I wouldn’t,” Owen barked. “But at least it wouldn’t mean giving absurd sums of money to some greedy German, with no guarantee of getting anything in return. In the meantime, you will start the investigation, and we’ll see how you progress.”
“Very well,” Wyman said. “There appears to be no alternative. I only hope that the Minister won’t have cause to regret his decision.”
“If you do your job properly,” Owen said acidly, “he’ll have no cause to regret it. Will he?”
Chapter Twenty-five
“MR RAWLS? HOW DO YOU DO. I’m Michael Wyman.”
They shook hands, and Rawls was escorted into Wyman’s office. He had just spent the last ten minutes convincing Mr Berkeley that he was not an American tourist, and he’d then been sent upstairs with a pamphlet entitled “Prepare To Meet Thy Maker”.
Rawls waved the pamphlet at Wyman.
“Does everyone get one of these?”
“Oh yes,” Wyman smiled. “Mr Berkeley’s a very generous man. I say, I haven’t seen that one before. May I take a look?”
“Sure,” Rawls said. He began to wonder what he had let himself in for.
“My word,” Wyman exclaimed, “this is good stuff. Mr Berkeley obviously doesn’t worship the God of Mercy. Apparently, we’re all sunk in the Pit of Depravity, and the Lord will smite us with everlasting boils and sores.”
“Is that a fact?” said Rawls.
He sat down and glanced swiftly at his surroundings. They confirmed his worst prejudices. Hundreds of documents, all of them classified material, were strewn casually about the desk and floor like Weimar banknotes. Several half-full cups of tea had penicillin mould floating in them, the ashtrays were overflowing, and according to the calendar on the wall it was still January.
Some books were heaped carelessly on a shelf above a rusty filing cabinet. Rawls read the titles: Das Kontinuum by Hermann Weil, The Journal of Symbolic Logic 1962, a book of Giles cartoons and The Theory of Numbers by R. Dedekind.
“I understand you’re into logic,” Rawls said.
“I dabble,” Wyman said. “Quite interesting, once you’ve got into it.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve come to see you.”
“I was rather surprised,” Wyman confessed.
“It’s about these arms talks scheduled for July. You’ve heard about all that, I guess…”
“Very little, in fact.”
“Well, we’d like everyone to turn up in Geneva, but nobody’s too sure about it at the moment. You see, Mr Wyman—sorry, I should have said ‘Doctor’, shouldn’t I?”
“‘Michael’ will do fine.”
“Okay, Michael. The Russians claim we’re jeopardizing the talks by manufacturing too many tactical missiles. They’re right, but that isn’t going to stop us making them.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“We’re going to prove that the Russians are being as aggressive as anybody else, and that we’re just taking defensive measures. So far, the case looks pretty good: we know they’ve been conducting a whole series of large-scale military manoeuvres throughout the Iron Curtain countries. We’ve also got reports of new rocket installations in East Germany.”
“And where do I fit in?”
“I understand you specialize in the southwest corner of the DDR.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I was wondering if you’ve heard anything that might be of help to us: troop movements, military convoys, that kind of thing.”
“I see. Offhand, I couldn’t tell you. We do get reports on all that business, and we keep them upstairs. If you like, I could look through them to see if there’s anything of interest to you.”
“I’d be very grateful if you could.”
“How soon do you need them? I could get a file completed in twenty-four hours, or if you’re in a rush, I could do it now.”
“I’d appreciate getting them today, if that won’t be too much trouble.”
“N
o, not at all,” Wyman said genially. “If you don’t mind waiting here, I could run off photocopies in about fifteen minutes.”
“That’d be great.”
“Splendid,” Wyman beamed.
He stood up and opened the door. Mrs Hobbes was outside, emptying the dust-bag of her Hoover. Wyman turned to Rawls. “Care for a cup of tea, old man?”
“Prefer a coffee, if that’s OK.”
“I say Mrs Hobbes, any chance of a coffee for my guest?”
“Of course, Dr Wyman. How does he like it?”
“How do you like it?”
“Black, no sugar,” Rawls said.
“Black, no sugar,” Wyman said.
“Right you are, love,” Mrs Hobbes said. “Oh, Dr Wyman? Can I do your office today? It really needs it. You haven’t let me in for weeks.”
“Some other time, Mrs Hobbes. Things are rather busy at the moment. See you in a jiffy, old chap,” he said to Rawls.
Wyman went upstairs. Rawls waited for the leisurely footsteps to disappear before he got up and crossed the room.
“‘Old chap’,” he grunted. “‘Old man’. Asshole.”
There were four filing cabinets in Wyman’s office. One was labelled A-K, another L-Z. Carpet fluff poked out from under them, indicating that they had been there for some time. The third was a small table-top cabinet labelled “M.o.D. Code Compendia 1974-79”.
The fourth cabinet was more promising. It was simply labelled “Thuringia”, and it was locked. Rawls went over to Wyman’s desk and opened the top drawer. It contained pens, writing paper and an assortment of elastic bands and paper-clips. He opened the top side-drawer and found a paperback entitled How to Play the Flute, by Arthur Schopenhauer, and a couple of spare ribbons for Wyman’s battered old Olivetti typewriter.
The drawer below contained a box of matches, an invitation to a Fellows’ Dinner, and a small bunch of keys. Rawls took the keys and returned to the filing cabinet marked “Thuringia”.
The third key opened the cabinet. The top drawer contained entries from A to F. He opened the drawer below and looked up “Grünbaum”. The file was lengthy, but Rawls saw what he needed in the opening lines of the first page: