by Bob Cook
“Very well. How does he want to be paid?”
“Via the Swiss bank account which I set up. As soon as the money is paid into it, he will begin his inquiries.”
Owen nodded gloomily. One could have been forgiven for supposing that Plato’s two million pounds were coming straight from Owen’s pocket.
Chapter Thirty-two
WYMAN SAT IN HIS MOST comfortable armchair and watched the nine o’clock news with total indifference. The newsreader’s voice calmly and methodically announced the day’s catalogue of disasters. Inflation was up by half of one percent, and unemployment was up by 300,000. The Director-General of the CBI expressed his confidence in the Government, and the General Secretary of the TUC reaffirmed his loathing for it.
“A plague on both your houses,” Wyman muttered. There was a knock on the door. Wyman got up and opened it. A well-built young man in a Savile Row suit smiled at him and said:
“Dr Wyman? My name is Yuri Tereschkov. May I come in?”
“By all means. Do sit down.”
Wyman turned off the television, heedless of the housewife from Bolton, Lancashire, who had just given birth to quintuplets.
“What can I do for you, Mr Tereschkov?”
“I work for the British-Soviet Chamber of Commerce—”
“No,” Wyman said genially. “I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“No,” Wyman repeated. “Let me see…you are Captain Anatoli Bulgakov of the KGB. Your face is familiar.”
“So.” Bulgakov nodded, as if he were conceding a point of debate. “As a matter of fact, I’m a Major now. Your files must be out of date.”
“They usually are,” Wyman yawned. “Anyway, Major, what can I do for you?”
“It’s more a question of what I can do for you. We have received some interesting reports from Rome. You were there recently, I believe.”
“That’s right. It’s very pleasant at this time of year.”
“I understand you were inquiring about someone called Josef Grünbaum.”
“Actually,” Wyman said, “I was in Rome to visit a sick relative in the Trastevere. But do carry on. You’re most fascinating, old chap.”
“As you know, Grünbaum died recently in unfortunate circumstances.”
”Oh dear,” Wyman said sympathetically.
“It is rumoured that you have made some very drastic inferences from Grünbaum’s death.”
“It’s the neighbours,” Wyman explained. “They do love to gossip.”
Bulgakov took a deep breath and continued.
“I heard about your inquiries in Rome, also in Paris and Vienna, and apparently so did the CIA. They have put someone called Rawls onto the case. You know about this, I presume.”
“I do now, don’t I?”
“I have seen Rawls recently. At our first meeting he tried to kill me—”
“Americans are like that,” Wyman observed.
“But we later managed to establish a rapport. He too is a little perplexed by your speculations. We are all anxious to avoid difficulties.”
“That’s nice.”
“There are one or two things you ought to know,” Bulgakov said. “Firstly, we have known about Grünbaum for years. To be frank, we never considered him a problem. He did not have access to important information, so we let him carry on with his activities.”
“That hardly explains his death.”
“His death was a genuine accident. It had nothing to do with us, you must believe that. He had a fight in a bar. When the police arrived to stop the affray, he went berserk. He was shot in self-defence.”
“Most reassuring,” Wyman said. “May I ask why you are telling me all this?”
Bulgakov smiled.
“I suspect you are planning an investigation into Grünbaum’s death. If that is so, you will no doubt send people into Erfurt, and the Americans are sure to follow. That will certainly lead to trouble.”
“Indeed. I never really saw the KGB as an organization of trouble-shooters. I will have to revise my opinion of you.”
Bulgakov shook his head.
“Naturally, there is more to it than that. There are the arms talks in July. My government is anxious to avoid any scandals that might interfere with the talks. You understand that, I hope.”
“I don’t know what to understand, Major. Everybody seems to know what is going on in my department, and everybody thinks that it should be stopped. If you were in my position, Major—if you knew the truth of the matter—would you regard that as a deterrent or an incentive to proceed with your plans?”
Bulgakov shrugged.
“I think that you are wasting time and effort on a problem that does not exist. If you proceed, you will create real difficulties for everyone concerned. If operatives are sent into the DDR from your country and America, I will have no option but to stop them. That could be very ugly. Very ugly indeed.”
“I’m glad to hear that aesthetics play an important role in your decision-making process, Major.”
The smile left Bulgakov’s face. He stared coldly at Wyman. “You are facetious, Dr Wyman. I do not think that is appropriate.”
“My dear fellow,” Wyman protested, “you seem to think you know what we intend to do. You assume that people will be sent into Germany to cause you much discomfort. What are your reasons for assuming that?”
“I have told you. A certain amount can be deduced from your inquiries in Rome. The misgivings of Rawls complete the picture.”
Wyman shook his head.
“Sorry old man, I can’t buy that. If Rawls had serious doubts of any sort, he wouldn’t tell you about them. He might be American, but he isn’t that crass.”
“His very presence in London is a sign of what his people think. You have obviously worried them.”
“Why, I wonder?”
“You know that better than I do. It can only be because you have asked so many questions about Grünbaum. Worry breeds worry in our profession.”
“Yes. A bit like the stock exchange.”
“Exactly.” Bulgakov smiled again. “Believe me, Grünbaum is not worth worrying about. He was a petty criminal, a small-time gangster with pretensions to greater things. His death signifies nothing.”
“How did you find out about him?” Wyman asked. He offered a Rothman to Bulgakov.
“I prefer mine,” said Bulgakov. He lit a Dunhill. “Grünbaum? As I said, he was a petty criminal. The Volkspolizei found out about his black-market interests, and his other activities soon became known. He received stolen property, sold Western consumer goods at outrageous prices—the usual things. Eventually it became known that he sold information as well. I can’t believe that he was of any real use to you. He never had access to interesting information.”
Wyman nodded.
“Fascinating,” he said. “So what do you suggest we do?”
“Forget about Grünbaum. Call off your investigation.”
“It sounds all very cosy,” Wyman said. “So all I have to do is say to my people: ‘Major Bulgakov dropped in last night. Awfully nice chap. He says we should forget about all this boring Erfurt business.’ And if the KGB says everything’s all right, it must be, mustn’t it?” He smiled benignly.
“I’m sure you can think of something better than that,” Bulgakov said.
Wyman scratched his cranium in bewilderment.
“It’s all a question of motive, Major. I mean, it’s very nice of you to call round and all that, but I have to ask myself what your motives are. Unfortunately, I have to assume that they aren’t what you say they are. Nothing personal, you understand.”
“Of course.”
“It all leads up to one question. You think we’re pursuing inquiries in Erfurt. You’re trying to dissuade us from doing so. I must therefore conclude that there’s something you don’t want us to find out. What is it, Major? If you told me that, I really would be persuaded.”
Bulgakov laughed quietly.
“I
’ve told you: I don’t want any trouble. I don’t want to endanger the arms talks in July. That’s all.”
“We seem to have reached an impasse, Major.”
“We do indeed. I have told you everything.”
“I rather doubt it,” Wyman said. “But you’ve certainly told me all you’re going to tell.”
“Yes,” Bulgakov said. He put out his cigarette. “And on that note I must leave you, Dr Wyman. Take my advice: don’t waste your time on Grünbaum. Good night.”
“Cheerio,” Wyman said. He showed the major out and returned to his armchair.
“Well, well,” he muttered. “How very peculiar.”
He poured himself a glass of wine and realized he hadn’t offered any to the major. How uncivil of me, he thought.
Chapter Thirty-three
“WHAT DO WE KNOW about this Bulgakov fellow?” Owen said.
“Not as much as we’d like,” Wyman confessed. “I managed to prise loose the MI5 dossier on him. It’s not very substantial, I’m afraid, but it will do for our purposes.”
He gave a little cough and consulted his notes.
“Anatoli Vasimovich Bulgakov was born in Minsk in 1947. His father was a war hero. The family moved to Moscow in 1962, and from 1966 to 1969 our friend studied Law at Moscow University. In 1969 Bulgakov was recruited by the First Directorate of the KGB.
“It would seem that Bulgakov is a very bright chap. Thanks to his ability, and his parental connections, he became a favourite of Yuri Andropov, who of course ran the KGB at that time.
“Originally, Bulgakov trained with Department A of the First Directorate—the disinformation crowd. He was also given tuition by the Executive Action Department where, apparently, he graduated with honours.”
“So we have a first-class killer on our hands,” Owen remarked.
“Indeed,” Wyman said. “It would seem that Bulgakov is quite exceptional, even by KGB standards. Clearly, the extent and variety of his tasks imply that he was being groomed for a special position. That position isn’t reflected in his rank; apparently he’s still only a Major. His importance lies in his ability to function with almost no reference to Moscow Centre. Most of that crowd have to obtain approval from Dzerzhinsky Square before they can do so much as break wind. Not so with our friend Bulgakov: he’s completely autonomous.”
“What else do we know about him?”
“We first hear of Bulgakov in 1971. At the time he was working for the Second Department in South America—Chile, to be precise.
“The details are somewhat blurred here, but it seems that Bulgakov was helping Allende’s government with counterespionage against the CIA, as well as with disinformation and propaganda. When Allende was ousted in late 1973, the military junta expelled Bulgakov, along with every Russian in sight.
“We hear no more of him until 1975 when Bulgakov turned up here in London. Evidently he had been transferred to the Third Department, and they placed him in the British-Soviet Chamber of Commerce.”
“What does he do here?”
“A very good question,” Wyman said. “The MI5 people are guessing, I think, but this is what they believe. You may recall that in ’74 Wilson’s Labour Government concluded a trade deal with the USSR, in which the Russians were given a multi-million-pound credit allowance.
“The Russians asked for their own inspectors to be allowed into the factories that were supplying goods to them—Rolls Royce, Ferranti, International Computers, Vickers, Wilkinson Sword, and several others.
“For reasons I still cannot fathom, Wilson and Co. granted that request. Hence the Russians had a golden opportunity to plant KGB men deep into British industry. Needless to say, they took it.
“MI5 think that Bulgakov’s job is to supervise and co-ordinate these so-called inspectors. They also think he’s responsible for suborning trade union leaders and other people in industry. The point was driven home by the British Security Commission in May ’82. Their findings named Bulgakov as a potential security threat.
“But there’s no concrete evidence against Bulgakov, and there’s no point in sending him home. As far as anyone knows, his role at the Chamber of Commerce is purely administrative, and so he could easily be replaced by somebody else.”
“Mmmm.” Owen stroked his moustache with an HB pencil. “Do you think that’s what Bulgakov is up to?”
“Of course not,” Wyman said. “His visit to me last night proves that he’s involved in something completely different. Besides, the KGB wouldn’t waste someone of Bulgakov’s proven ability by giving him a desk job, would they?”
He lit a cigarette and watched Owen struggle to comprehend all the new information being thrown at him. Owen’s perplexity, he noted, was directly proportional to the number of nervous habits Owen displayed. At the moment, Owen’s HB pencil was doing the grand tour of Owen’s face, his fingers strummed uneasily on Owen’s desk, and his rubber-soled shoes shuffled nervously over Owen’s nylon carpet.
“What I don’t understand, Wyman, is why Bulgakov should visit you in person. What did he think he could gain by it?”
“I should imagine that he wanted to find out what sort of a person I am,” Wyman said. “If I turned out to be a cybernetic ice-man like Rawls, Bulgakov might surmise that we were onto something.”
“Possibly. And how did you present yourself, out of interest?”
“It was getting late,” Wyman smiled. “I tend to become a little vague at that time of day.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Owen said. “Doesn’t the man realize that by warning us off he’s simply inviting us to go in? Perhaps he wants us to go in.”
“Perhaps. He mentioned the Geneva arms talks, but I don’t think he’s particularly bothered about them one way or the other. It has occurred to me, however, that he might be setting up some sort of trap.”
“A trap? What do you mean?”
“It’s a little involved,” Wyman said, “But please be patient. Bulgakov assured me that anyone we sent into the DDR would be immediately picked up. The fact is, the KGB know very little about how we get people in and out of the satellite states. We’re actually quite good at it. It’s one of the few areas in which we are notably more successful than the Americans; for some reason, the Company’s failure rate in infiltration is very high.”
“So?”
“So just suppose we did send someone in. If Bulgakov does have a ferret working here, the whole procedure could be reported back to him in detail. Bulgakov could grab our man, and he would also learn about our infiltration system. Hence, it’s to Bulgakov’s advantage that we send someone in.
“On the other hand, if we don’t send someone in, if we just sit back and forget about the whole thing as Bulgakov suggests, then our KGB ferret will remain happily undetected. Either way suits Bulgakov fine.”
“This assumes, of course, that someone here really is a KGB plant.”
“Of course. But I think we must assume that.”
“Why?”
“Because none of this would have arisen had it not been for our suspicions regarding Grünbaum’s demise. Anyway, the plot thickens here. It would seem that we have two alternative courses of action, and both of them are to Bulgakov’s advantage. Either we send someone in, and Bulgakov grabs them, or we ignore the whole thing, and Bulgakov’s ferret lives happily ever after. This is the situation Bulgakov presented me with, and that, I think, is why he visited me in person.”
“I still don’t understand,” Owen said.
“Please bear with me,” Wyman said. “Bulgakov is a realist, is he not? He knows that we suspect a plant, and he knows that unless he’s careful, we’ll find out who that plant is. Therefore, the best thing, from his point of view, would be for us to abandon the search. But as I say, he’s a realist. He can’t conceive that we might give up the hunt for the sake of a few pennies.”
“There’s no need to be snide,” Owen said.
“It’s the truth, isn’t it? Could Bulgakov really conceive of
that happening? Of course not. So Bulgakov must assume that we will pursue inquiries. And if we must conduct an inquiry, Bulgakov would like us to do it in the way that suits him best, namely, by sending a man into Germany.
“And so he posits the two alternatives as if they’re the only two, and that’s what he wants us to believe. But of course they aren’t. We don’t need to send people into Germany: we could make exhaustive internal inquiries, or, better still, we could use a contact like Plato. That sort of thing must worry Bulgakov enormously.”
“I see,” Owen said. “An incredibly tortuous piece of reasoning, but I take your point. Nevertheless, you’re making one big assumption here.”
“What’s that?”
“You assume that Bulgakov’s mind is as complex and duplicitous as the average don’s.”
“The Russians do produce good chess players,” Wyman said.
“It doesn’t occur to you that Bulgakov might have been telling the truth? That he really does want to avert a scandal? That Grünbaum really was a nobody? And, by implication, that there is no Soviet plant in this department?”
“It has occurred to me,” Wyman said. “But I’m not inclined to take the words of a KGB officer at their face value. If KGB men spoke the truth, people like us would be out of a job, wouldn’t we?”
Owen coughed in embarrassment.
Chapter Thirty-four
ON THE AFTERNOON of May 28, Rawls flew to Schönefeld airport in Berlin. There he changed onto an Interflug service, and he arrived at Erfurt shortly afterwards. He was travelling as Thompson Clarke, an American businessman specializing in the buying and selling of flowers.
Rawls had chosen his cover well: the Internationale Gartenbauausstellung, Erfurt’s horticultural show, spans 250 acres and is open all the year round. It attracts specialists and dealers from all over the world, and provides an excellent cover for the traveller who is clearly no tourist.
A taxi took Rawls to the vast new Interhotel Kosmos on the Krämpferstrasse. The Kosmos is a luxurious four-star megalith in the very heart of Erfurt, and it suited Rawls’ needs admirably. He was shown to a room on the twelfth floor, and after a quick shower and shave he persuaded the restaurant staff to give him an early meal. The evening menu had not yet been prepared, so Rawls had to content himself with a cold plate of Thüringer Kesselfleisch, one of the local sausage dishes.