by John Gardner
“No more questions, Herbie, for heaven’s sake”—rising, smiling, and putting out a hand. Only a year or so to run for his retirement, Herbie thought. Maybe George had figured on taking the golden bowler a little earlier. It would make sense of the last days.
“No questions, George. Answers this time.”
George said thank God for that. “You really mean you can tell me what all the burrowing’s been about?”
Herbie nodded. “You’ll understand, I’m sure. Woman I want to use in the East. Prepare yourself for a surprise, George, because it’s a voice from the past.”
“Yes”—uncertain, interested.
“Fenderman…” Herbie started.
“Was killed with Kuche on the moor. Wormwood. I told you.”
“Fenderman was called back from his honeymoon for that operation. You told me, George.”
“That’s right”—almost surprised.
“His bride’s turned up.”
“His…?”
“Frau Fenderman. Beloved wife of the late Claus Fenderman. Your old buddy from Operation Wermut.”
“Here? Here in London?”
Herbie said she had been in London for a while.
“Christ. You been keeping her under wraps, Herbie?”
“Very close to the chest, George. Think I can use her. I’ve had the dogs watching her night and day. Until now, of course. We’ve cleared her. The dogs are off. In fact I’m dining with her tonight.”
George sat, half slumped in his chair, a smile, unobtrusive, around the eyes. He asked what she was like.
“Still good-looking. Over the hill, though, like all of us, George. You understand now why we had to go through it all?”
George said, of course. “I suppose Fenderman’s name showed up in the files?
“I don’t like doing jobs by half.” Herbie grunted and laughed. “George, you might even have been involved in some skulduggery from the past. Had to be sure. You ever meet her in Berlin?”
He didn’t think so. After all, he had met Fenderman only a couple of days before they went on the Wormwood Operation. “May have shown me a photograph. I was thinking about it last night after we talked. I remember, Fenderman was in quite a state about his wife.”
“You like to meet her, George?”
He didn’t think he had the time. Depended on how long she was staying. Maybe next week. It would be interesting. “You’ll be seeing a lot of her, then, Herbie?”
“She’s dining with me tonight, as I said. My place. Seven o’clock, but I’d rather you met somewhere else. I’ve got to put the question to her, if you see what I mean?”
“The old initiation ceremony? Yes. Recruiting’s a funny thing, Herbie.”
“Painless for you, George.”
A shadow crossed George Thomas’ face. “Yes,” he said after a short pause. “Yes, the Rammer was bloody good.”
Herbie told him he’d ring next week, and perhaps they could all get together—Herbie, George, and Frau Fenderman.
When he reached his own office in the Annexe, the telephone was ringing. Schnabeln and Girren had Frau Fenderman, protesting, in the car. They had picked her up after she had actually arrived at Heathrow. “Bit of a chase once we realised where she was headed.”
“Bring her in,” Herbie snapped. “I’ll have her at our rendezvous at six-thirty. Keep her in the car until I call you in. Going over there with Worboys in about half an hour; and keep her safe, Schnabeln, she’s evidence.”
Worboys still looked shaken. “Never mind, boy.” Herbie grinned. “Think of the time you’ll have telling the juniors about all this when you’re an old hand.”
Worboys said he understood only half of it, and Herbie promised to fill in all the details when it was over. He then checked his Sauer M 38H, stuffed it into his pocket, and said they were off to Hampstead.
53
LONDON 1978
THE HOUSE STOOD BACK from Hampstead Heath, a large Victorian building with iron gates and a short drive lined by small conifers. Worboys got out and opened the gates. Herbie told him to leave them open—“The others’ll be along in due course.”
When she opened the door to their ring, Herbie thought what a superb woman she must have been when George first met her. “Angelle,” he said, smiling. “Sorry to barge in like this, but we had to…”
“George isn’t back yet.” Her hair had remained a golden red, though now flecked with grey; she had kept her figure. Only the face showed the signs of age, the crows’ feet around the eyes and the deep crescents on either side of the mouth. Her accent still betrayed her French origin.
“I didn’t really expect him to be, Angelle. Do you know young Worboys?—Mrs. Thomas. Angelle Thomas. Angelle Tours once upon a time, I believe.”
They shook hands, and she held the door open for them. “Georges telephoned. Just a little while ago. Said he might be late.”
“Yes.” Herbie’s voice had become grave. “Yes, I imagined he would do that. We really want to talk with you first, Angelle.”
She looked puzzled, then worried, as she led the way through to a large, comfortable room—large enough to spread furniture, the walls hung with three or four originals—nothing fancy, local artists, Herbie thought. It was almost six o’clock, the light starting to go, but the curtains remained open in the two big alcove windows which looked out on a garden that, in summer, would be a pleasant and secluded place—shrubs, a long broad lawn, flower beds. Country in the middle of Hampstead.
“Nothing’s happened to George, Herbie?” She sounded really worried now.
“Not that I know about. Angelle—er, Mrs. Thomas—was with us during the war, young Worboys. A heroine in her own right.”
Angelle made a dismissive sound and then laughed—the laugh just as George had described hearing it for the first time in Michel Downay’s flat so long ago in Paris. “More than you were, Herbie,” she said, taking their coats. “You sure there’s nothing wrong with George?”
“Nothing new.” Herbie let it fall flatly between them, and she faltered on her way to the door, then pulled herself together and continued on her way.
“Can I offer you something?” she asked, coming back without the coats.
“You might not want to, not when you hear what I have to say.”
“Oh.” Flat, but as though she understood. “What’s it about, Herbie?”
“Depends how much you know.”
“This official?”
“Very.”
“Ask me then.”
“I’ve just had to go through George’s file with him…”
She nodded, cool, collected. “He said you were raking at the past.”
“You met him first in Paris?”
“You know that.”
“When?”
“You know that also. When I was living in Downay’s flat in ’41.”
“He went off with Downay, to Germany?”
“Yes.”
“And you went to the safe house in the Rue Cambon. They got you out. To England.”
“You know that also. I came and worked for F Section.”
“You did two missions. Six months in ’42, and three the following year. You met George again in London?”
“It was the romance of the department. Everybody knows that.”
“You met George Thomas in London—in the Baker Street headquarters?”
She nodded. Herbie asked when, and she said during her first spell back in 1942—“Just before Christmas.”
“You recognised him instantly?”
Again she said yes, of course.
“I know, Angelle.”
“Know what?”
“I know what happened. I know it wasn’t George Thomas you met. Apart from old Sandy Leaderer, who’s now senile, everyone else is dead—Ramilies, Fenice, everyone except you and Maitland-Wood. He told us about it this afternoon.”
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about then.” She sounded sharp and clipped. “He’s been accep
ted as George Thomas ever since he came back from the Stellar run. He’s been loyal. He’s been with your people ever since. Jesus, he’ll be retiring soon. Ramilies and Fenice thought it necessary. Only a few people had handled George. The interdepartmental jealousies were rife. He could be of use to them straightaway. A change of identity solved so many problems.”
“Didn’t you get a shock?” Herbie spoke very quietly now.
“Ramilies was very clever. He knew we would meet, and that I would recognise him. Our first meeting since Paris took place in Ramilies’ own office.”
Herbie’s great head bobbed up and down like a Buddha. “And you could tell the truth of course. The last time you had seen Heinrich Kuche was in Paris. Were you upset about George? The real George?”
“Of course. But I fell in love with George—Heinrich, I can’t call him that, he’s been George Thomas for so long. I’ve been in love with him since 1943. It’s a long time, Herbie. What are you delving for now? There was nothing wrong. There’s been nothing wrong. Ramilies and Maitland-Wood were worried when they found out he was the only survivor.”
“I understand George—the real George—was killed in the shooting, on the moor after the landing. Operation Wermut.”
“They were concerned. They’d been running him very close to the chest. They wanted to use him again. They were afraid that other people might want him put through the mill. Interrogated, possibly distrusted. Ramilies and Maitland-Wood always trusted him.”
“So Willis has told me this afternoon.”
“Well then”—she shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” Herbie said gently. “Our George Thomas is in reality an ex-SS officer called Heinrich Kuche. He tells a good story. The real George must have loved you a great deal, Angelle. Kuche gave me the lot, chapter and verse. The whole thing from recruitment—oh, even before recruitment—up to the end of Wormwood. He told it from George’s viewpoint, and occasionally it showed. Only occasionally. I couldn’t see him. Odd.”
She repeated, “Well then,” shrugging again and adding, “What’s wrong?”
“Angelle, your George—Heinrich Kuche—I think had a work name on that operation, Wormwood. I think the name was Fenderman. If I’m right, he’s got another wife, and she’s here in London. I’m sorry, but if I’m right, he has never been quite what he seems. If I’m right, he’s been the deepest penetration agent the Russians have had within the service since the war. I think he’s wanted to get out—go private—for some time; but he’s in trouble, Angelle.”
Her mouth opened and closed, a little bubble of sound coming from the back of her throat.
Outside, a car drew up in the drive, crunching on the gravel.
54
LONDON 1978
WOMAN DETECTIVE SERGEANT MAUREEN Cooper had been attached to Special Branch for less than a month, spending most of the time at a desk, learning the kind of trade with which they dealt. That morning she had been prepared for yet another somewhat boring day. Now, in the early evening, she found herself enveloped in a mixture of fear, nervousness, and excitement.
Vernon-Smith had chosen her because of her build. She was only thirty years of age, but, with a little judicious rearrangement of her figure, plus a severe grey suit and wig, she would pass—in bad light or at a distance—for Hildegarde Fenderman.
She had not thought twice about accepting the job. You did not turn things down in the Metropolitan Police—particularly if you wanted to get on in the branch to which she had been assigned. In almost ten years of service she had been in dangerous situations before: though never in one quite as sensitive as this.
Vernon-Smith had been honest with her. “You’ll be a target from the moment you leave the hotel,” he said, explaining that he would be waiting for her at the flat in St. John’s Wood, and that she would be watched all the way. “Our people’ll be around, but we can’t give you complete immunity. The idea is to draw him to you—to the flat. He’ll probably have a go either as you’re arriving, or after you’re inside.” He added that the latter was more probable, knowing in his heart that if Thomas was going to strike, he would want both Herbie Kruger and the woman in the same blow.
Maureen Cooper braced herself for the most dangerous few minutes. The cab, in which she had ridden from the Devonshire Hotel, was drawing up in front of Herbie Kruger’s apartment block. Vernon-Smith would be waiting.
It was, perhaps, a good thing that she did not know that Vermin Vernon-Smith waited with extreme anxiety, for the watchers he had put on George Thomas in Whitehall had lost their mark within minutes of him leaving the office building. Kruger and Worboys were at the Thomas house in Hampstead now, and the pair of heavies employed by Kruger’s people had Frau Fenderman in their car—probably arriving in Hampstead any time.
All that did not change the fact that the Special Branch leeches had lost Thomas, or Kuche, or whoever he was. Thomas under wraps was one thing; Thomas away on his toes was a threat of some proportion. Vermin had markers out—armed and everything—but they could not be everywhere, or see everything. You had to do this one by the book and keep well back.
But Maureen Cooper was in happy ignorance of all this as she stepped from the taxi and paid off the driver. Walk heavy, Vermin had told her. The lady walks a bit flat and doesn’t hurry. In her mind, WDS Cooper had two pictures—the woman she represented, and the man they were after. From the photographs he didn’t look his age. From the description he was spry and in excellent condition.
She took a deep breath and walked, heavy and flat, slowly up the path to the entrance. There was relief as she reached the shelter of the doorway, then her heart jumped, for somebody stood inside the foyer, pressing the button for the lift. She pushed the doors open and walked in.
For a moment, she thought that the figure might be one of her colleagues—she’d seen nobody, not even the two-car tail on the taxi. But the man standing waiting was no colleague, nor was he anyone to worry her—an elderly man, shortsighted, stooped, pebble spectacles, and ill-fitting teeth which he ground in an abstract and irritating manner. He moved badly, slowly, using a black walking stick with a silver-knobbed head. She noticed the gloves and shoes were good quality, and the coat had once been expensive—getting threadbare now, the velvet collar frayed.
He stood back, or rather shuffled, almost losing his balance, as the lift came down. He looked so fragile that she opened the gates for him and asked what floor. Third, he said, the voice old, short of breath. Really the fourth but he had made a habit of always walking up the final flight. “Keeps me in trim,” he panted with a croaking laugh. “Never know when you’re going to need that bit of strength. When the lift mechanics’ strike was on…” he puffed and chattered. Obviously wanted to talk. Maureen Cooper felt sorry for the poor old bugger. She said she wanted the third also.
They stopped at the third floor and she held the gates open for him; he wheezed badly as he limped through. Poor old sod, she thought again. He’s got a game leg on top of it all. With great courtesy the man raised his drab, old-fashioned Homburg and thanked her, nodding the bent head and staggering on his way towards the stairs like an elderly drunk. She was conscious of something, then realised that he made very little noise—rubber-soled shoes and a rubber tip on his stick.
There was nobody else on the landing, and Maureen Cooper went quickly to the door of flat eleven, pressing the bell—a fast three, then one long and another fast three. Infantile: morse for SB, but it was at least a signal.
The door opened quickly, Vernon-Smith stepping to one side, an automatic pistol in his right hand. “No trouble?” he asked quietly. As she shook her head, he motioned her in and closed the door. “He’ll possibly try here, or as you’re leaving. We’ll give it an hour.”
On the stairs to the fourth floor, Heinrich Kuche, who now thought of himself completely as George Thomas, cursed and lifted his head, one gloved hand grasping the ebony cane that had once belonged to Michel Downay, the other hand curling around the butt of the Luge
r in the pocket of the old coat with its velvet collar.
He was really quite surprised about his ability to imitate an old and crippled man. But it worked—and so simple, just the stoop and shake, the wheeze, pebble spectacles made of clear glass, the clothes, the badly fitting dentures. The limp was easy enough. The wound from Wewelsburg played up in cold weather, and he could simulate without a problem. He had always been good with voices and walks, and the little cache of equipment was always kept within easy reach—the small suitcase in his office, and the spare umbrella that just took the cane inside the canopy—knob downwards, the ferule strapped on just below the curve of the handle.
He hefted the cane now, standing on the stairs. He was superstitious about it. George had laughed in Berlin all that time ago, but he had insisted on taking it with him when they’d prepared for Wermut. Well, this was his private escape kit: this and the three clean passports, collected over the years, together with one thousand pounds sterling in cash and the four diamond rings which would bring in another couple of grand if need be. The escape kit he never thought to use; never wanted to use; did not really want to use now. But they had him. Herbie Kruger was a clever bastard: even tried to pull a trap on him. Christ, he really had thought it was Hilde coming in through the doors of the building—but, then, he had expected her. Getting old, George, he thought to himself. Then stopped, wondering stupidly if he should now start thinking of himself as Heinrich again. Or Claus?
No point in hanging around here. They would be watching outside, but he’d probably make it, using the old man’s walk and wheeze. If he was stopped he had a driving licence in the name of Cocks. Henry Cocks.
George turned and ran lightly up the stairs to the fourth floor. He pressed the elevator button and the noise seemed terrific as the cage rose from the floor below. Concentrate on the old man, he told himself. Then get round the corner to the car. Drive and think. The lift descended and he began his shuffle out.
There was an old empty van across the road. That would be the nearest they would get. He paused as if to catch his breath, and then took a few more paces forward; stopped again and repeated the procedure every few steps, leaving longer gaps between the stops.