Disorderly Elements

by Bob Cook

  “GRÜNBAUM, Josef 1930—(See also GÖDEL

  Otto; NEUMANN, Kurt; REICHENBACH,

  Gunther; HAHN, Friedrich; MENGER, Moritz)

  Leader of network ERF1O6F.”

  Rawls copied this into his pocket-diary and closed the filing cabinet. He returned to Wyman’s desk and was just about to replace the keys when he heard a rattle behind him.

  “Black, no sugar,” said Mrs Hobbes. Her blood-red lipstick curled in a benevolent smile.

  “That’s right,” Rawls said. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t get many visitors here, especially Americans.”

  “So I hear.”

  She looked around the office and frowned.

  “Disgusting, isn’t it? I’m sure Dr Wyman’s a very clever man, but he still needs to learn about hygiene. Just look at those cups.”

  “Yeah. Pretty bad, huh?”

  “He never lets me in here, that’s the trouble. Always says he’s too busy. Only costs five minutes to have your office cleaned, that’s what I tell him. He says it only takes four minutes to destroy the world. Funny man, our Dr Wyman.”

  “Yeah. A real scream.”

  “Well, I must be getting along. Nice talking to you, love.”

  She shuffled out of the room. Rawls gazed at her bloated backside in horrified disbelief. Only the British, he reflected, could employ somebody so repugnant in their intelligence offices.

  “Christ,” he muttered, “is this MI6 or London Zoo?” He put the keys back in Wyman’s desk and was struck by a flash of inspiration. He took out one of Wyman’s spare typewriter ribbons and exchanged it for one in Wyman’s Olivetti. The used ribbon then went into Rawls’ pocket.

  He noticed Wyman’s note-pad. There was nothing written on the top sheet, since Wyman tore pages out after writing them. But Rawls tore off the top two sheets anyway and consigned them to his pocket.

  He was halfway through the worst cup of coffee he had ever tasted when Wyman returned, brandishing a wad of photo copies.

  “Here you are, old boy,” Wyman said. “There’s nothing terribly exciting here, but some of the activities in Mühlhausen last February might interest you.”

  “Great. Thanks very much. I’d better be going now. I’m supposed to be meeting someone at the American Club at five.”

  “Taxi or tube?”

  “Which is quicker?”

  “At this time of day, the tube. Take the Central Line west bound at Tottenham Court Road and change at Oxford Circus onto the Victoria Line southbound. It’s just down the road from Green Park tube station.”

  “Thanks. I’m much obliged.”

  “Not at all. Cheerio.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Rawls walked out and hailed the first taxi he saw.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  THE NIGHT WAS COOL, damp and slimy, and so was the Thames. Rawls strolled westwards along Chelsea Embankment and watched the leisurely slurp of the river some twenty feet below him. On the other side of the water huddled a dark amorphous jungle called Battersea Park.

  His luminous watch read 2.17 A.M. He quickened his pace as he passed Albert Bridge. About halfway down Cheyne Walk, he paused and turned around. There were footsteps about fifteen feet behind him. Someone was following him home.

  He crossed the road onto the north side and broke into a run. The soft footsteps behind him also crossed the road. From the corner of his eye Rawls saw the silhouette of his pursuer. There were two courses open to Rawls: he could either make a straight run for home or he could tackle the other man. He took the latter option.

  Rawls tore round the corner of Beaufort Street and saw two cars parked there. He crouched between the vehicles and waited for the muted footsteps to catch him up.

  The other man turned the corner, saw no sign of Rawls, and slowed down apprehensively. Rawls waited for about two seconds while the pursuer passed the cars, and then he sprang at the man’s back.

  Rawls was good at unarmed combat. He held a black belt, second dan in ju-jitsu. He did not expect the other man to be more proficient than that. With practised skill, Rawls jabbed his left fist hard into the kidney of the unknown man. Understandably, the pursuer arched back in pain, and Rawls’ right arm closed around his throat.

  Unfortunately, the other man was also proficient in the martial arts. Despite his discomfort, he knew how to deal with such attacks. His right arm smashed a back elbow-jab deep into Rawls’ solar plexus. Winded, Rawls crumpled forward and allowed his opponent’s left arm to reach back and grab his hair. The pursuer flicked forward and pulled hard. Rawls flew over him and landed on his back, with both feet pointing towards the King’s Road.

  Just as Rawls hit the pavement, his opponent twisted round and pinned a knee across Rawls’ throat.

  “I think that’s enough for one night, Mr Rawls,” Bulgakov said calmly. “Don’t you? I only wanted to talk.”

  “Yes,” Rawls gurgled.

  “Good,” smiled the Major.

  He stood up and helped Rawls off the pavement.

  “Holy shit,” Rawls croaked. “Next time, just say hello, will you?”

  Rawls limped back to his hotel in Beaufort Street, accompanied by Bulgakov. The two men had first met in Chile in the early 1970s. Rawls had been working for the CIA’s Clandestine Services Department as an operational link-man between his own organization and the International Telephone and Telegraph Company. Like the CIA, ITT was working to undermine the regime of Salvador Allende, but unlike the CIA, its motives were purely financial. ITT had assets worth $150 million in Chile which were threatened by Allende’s policy of expropriation.

  ITT pursued an independent programme of subversion in Chile, using its own resources and agents, until Wilson V. Broe stepped in. Broe was the chief of the Western Hemisphere Division of the CIA’s Clandestine Services, and therefore Rawls’ boss. Through Broe’s intervention, ITT and the CIA worked in concert in Chile. Rawls was sent out to organize the collaboration.

  While Rawls was helping to overthrow the Allende regime, Bulgakov was helping to prop it up. It was Bulgakov’s first major assignment with the First Chief Directorate; his job was to help reorganize Allende’s confused and inept counter-intelligence system, and to help disseminate propaganda and disinformation.

  Both Bulgakov and Rawls recalled their cynical encounters in the drab cafés on the back streets of Santiago late in 1972. Both men had known that Allende’s regime would topple; Rawls had commiserated with Bulgakov for having been given a hopeless mission. The Russian had been asked to give first-aid to a dying man. The American was there to administer the last rites.

  “You haven’t changed much,” Bulgakov said.

  “Nor have you,” said Rawls. “Where did you learn the ju-jitsu? I thought I was pretty good, but…”

  “There’s a training establishment on Metrostroevskaya Street,” Bulgakov said. “I got my black belt there. You shouldn’t have jumped at me.”

  “Too damned right I shouldn’t,” Rawls grunted. He nursed his throat ruefully. “Anyway, what did you want to see me about?”

  Bulgakov smiled and pulled out a Dunhill.

  “I thought you’d never ask. I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  “You know why I’m here,” Rawls said.

  “No.” Bulgakov shook his head. “I know why you claim to be here. You’re supposed to be helping with the groundwork for the arms talks, and visiting people at GCHQ. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “It’s true,” Rawls said.

  “GCHQ is in Cheltenham. What are you doing in London?”

  “I’m here to see the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. Then I’m going to see Trafalgar Square, the Tower of London and, if time permits, Madame Tussauds.”

  “Very droll, Rawls,” Bulgakov said. “Listen, I think I know why you’re here.”

  “Of course you do. I’ve just told you.”

  “It’s about that fool Grünbaum, isn’t it?”

  “Who?”
/>   “Don’t be boring, Rawls. Please.”

  “I didn’t think I was here to entertain you, Bulgakov.”

  Bulgakov peered at Rawls through a cloud of smoke.

  “You think Grünbaum was exposed by a nash in MI6, don’t you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think someone has made an enormous error.”

  “Yeah? Fascinating.”

  “As I understand it, you and the British think there were other arrests relevant to Grünbaum’s death. Neumann, for example.”

  “What about him?”

  “The Germans say he was put in the psychiatric hospital for legitimate medical reasons. You don’t believe that.”

  “Eastern governments regularly put people they don’t like in psychiatric hospitals. Your buddies in the KGB just love locking people up inside the Serbsky Institute. If they don’t agree with us, they must be crazy, isn’t that the idea?”

  Bulgakov shrugged.

  “Such things do happen,” he conceded. “But not this time. Really, Neumann is a genuine lunatic. He was put away because he was a real danger to the community.”

  “I’ve heard that line before,” Rawls grinned.

  The Russian sighed.

  “I’m not making much progress, am I? Believe me, Rawls, there is no nash. Truly. I don’t understand why Grünbaum’s death and the other arrests should lead you to suppose there is.”

  Rawls gave Bulgakov the sort of look that most people reserve for visitors from Mars.

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay,” Rawls said. “Two questions: One: how did you find out I was here and what I’m here for?”

  “Very well. The London rezidentura* noticed the departure of Michael Wyman for Europe on May 11. Wyman made inquiries about Grünbaum and the others in Rome, Paris and Vienna, and some of those inquiries were reported back here. We had known about Grünbaum for years, and we couldn’t understand why the British were making such a fuss about his death. We noted your arrival on May 21, and you were seen visiting Wyman’s office. Wyman’s people have nothing to do with GCHQ, so we guessed what you were after. Does that satisfy you?”

  “It’ll do,” Rawls said. “Okay. Question number two: if Grünbaum really was nobody in particular, and if I’m chasing my own ass, why the hell should that bother you?”

  Bulgakov blew out a long puff of smoke and smiled serenely at Rawls.

  “Because if you believe this rubbish, Rawls, you will probably go to East Germany to investigate. Am I right?”

  Rawls said nothing.

  “And if you go to East Germany there will be trouble.”

  “How come?”

  The Russian looked upwards in exasperation.

  “There is always trouble when you and your friends visit the DDR, or any other Socialist country. Right now, with the arms talks coming up, we can’t afford any silly scandals. You people are experts at creating unnecessary difficulty. There is no need for any of it.”

  “Now you’re being boring.”

  “There is no KGB nash in MI6, Rawls. There really isn’t.”

  Rawls nodded reflectively.

  “Just one more question, Major.”

  “What is it?”

  “If there really was a Soviet ferret somewhere in the Firm—just supposing—would you say anything different from what you’re saying now?”

  Bulgakov smiled.

  “No,” he said. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

  “Right,” said Rawls.

  Footnote

  * Rezidentura: The KGB section within each Russian embassy.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  MEMO:22/5

  From: Wyman

  To: Owen

  Re: FINGERPRINT TESTS ON GRUNBAUM FILE

  New Scotland Yard laboratories confirm that the new prints on the Grünbaum file and the keys to its cabinet match those on Rawls’ coffee-cup. This and the switched typewriter ribbon form conclusive proof of CIA interest in the Grünbaum affair. We may assume that Rawls has been assigned to investigate the case.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  THE MINISTER’S CLUB served excellent meals. Over dinner, Owen tried to explain Wyman’s latest memo. However, the subject became submerged beneath the hors d’oeuvre (caviare served in ice and eaten with the Club’s finest crystal spoons, washed down with a bottle of chilled Montbazillac 1957). They moved on to their main course, Filet de Bouef à la Périgourdine (beef with truffles, braised in Madeira, glazed and served with slices of Foie Gras), which they lubricated with a bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges 1959. They finished with a dessert of Pont L’Evêque cheese and a bottle of Saint-Emilion 1955.

  After this they both belched discreetly and sat down in their armchairs with their glasses of brandy.

  “Cognac, this time,” said the Minister. “Champagne VSOP, mind you. Still, the Armagnac has something which—”

  “About the Americans,” Owen said.

  “Ah, yes. Nosey devils. We can’t have them poking around.”

  “That’s precisely what they are doing.”

  “Yes. Are you sure this Rawls fellow was looking specifically for the Grünbaum file? I mean, it could have been accidental—”

  “There’s no question about it,” Owen said. “His fingerprints were plastered all over the filing cabinet and Wyman’s keys. The Grünbaum file was in a lower drawer, so if Rawls had been searching at random he would have looked in the top drawer as well. There were no fingerprints on any of the top files, which indicates that Rawls knew exactly what he was looking for. The CIA clearly know what’s going on.”

  “How very bloody,” said the Minister. “Very bloody indeed. You know, I really can’t stand the Americans. They’re so noisy and vulgar.”

  “How are we going to deal with them?”

  “Mmmm. Good question. Got any ideas?”

  Owen shook his head.

  “The only thing we can do is to seek out the infiltrator before they do. Otherwise there’ll be a scandal of epic proportions.”

  “Yes,” said the Minister. “Highly unpleasant. The thing is, they’ve been on my back for some time about security in London. They claim we’re not strict enough, the impudent peasants. I suppose we’re going to have to find this blasted ferret.”

  “Yes,” Owen said.

  “And how are we going to do that?” Owen paused uncomfortably.

  “I only know of one way,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “We must give Plato his two million pounds.”

  The Minister coughed angrily.

  “For God’s sake, not that again.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The Minister ran a distressed hand across his forehead.

  “The PM will flay me alive,” he said.

  “And what will happen if the Americans find the infiltrator?”

  “Departmental genocide,” the Minister said. “It would make a Stalinist purge look like natural wastage.”

  “So we have no choice.”

  “I suppose not. Damn those bloody Americans. Why do they always get involved?”

  “I’m afraid they don’t trust us. They think we’re inept.”

  “And what right have they to think that?” the Minister shouted. “God knows, they’ve put their foot in it often enough.”

  Owen sighed.

  “Heaven knows what Rawls has already found out.”

  “Who is he, this Rawls? Is he any good?”

  “He’s a typical CIA whiz kid,” Owen said disdainfully. “Efficient. Good record. All in all, a bloody nuisance.”

  “What made Wyman suspicious of him?”

  “We don’t get many Yanks calling in at the Department. And who on earth would want to see Wyman?”

  The Minister slurped his brandy and emitted another muffled belch.

  “How did the Americans find out about all this, do you think?”

  “We can only guess,” Owen said. “They p
robably have their own sources. But it could just be that one of Wyman’s European contacts talked a bit too loudly.”

  “Wyman! That man really is the limit. It’s a pity we didn’t get rid of him sooner.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you,” Owen said. “Still, without him, we’d never have heard about the ferret.”

  “Ferret, indeed,” the Minister sneered. “It will probably turn out to be an office junior who talks too much in his pub.”

  “Perhaps. But he must be found, whoever he is.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said the Minister. He groaned in dismay. “Two million pounds. It’s obscene, Owen. Obscene. I’d have enough trouble justifying that sort of figure at the best of times, but right now… who the hell is this Plato? Doesn’t he read the newspapers? Someone ought to tell him we’re in an economic recession.”

  He gazed sadly into his glass of Cognac.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  MOST PEOPLE ARE UNAWARE that the CIA is not the United States’ largest intelligence agency. That title belongs to the National Security Agency.

  The NSA is the biggest and most efficient intelligence system the Americans have yet devised. It was founded in 1952, and employs approximately 25,000 people and operates over 200 intelligence posts throughout the world. Despite its size, few people have ever heard of it. Its existence was virtually unknown outside the US until 1960, when two of its employees, Bernon Mitchell and William Martin, defected to the USSR.

  The NSA avoids publicity by acting solely as an eavesdropping facility. It employs few “secret agents”, and engages in no paramilitary activity, but its headquarters at Fort Gordon G. Meade, Maryland, house the most sophisticated eavesdropping equipment ever created. It can listen automatically to one million simultaneous telephone calls, and it can overhear and record telecommunications virtually anywhere in the world. As well as intercepting messages, it runs a team of highly skilled cryptologists. It was the home of one of these cryptologists that Rawls visited on the evening of May 25.

  Harvey Everett James was a friendly little US major in his mid-thirties. He was married to a fragrant, thirteen-stone woman called Edna, who stood a full seven inches taller than he. This improbable union resulted in six noisy children, and their home life was a model of suburban bliss.