by John Gardner
A streetlamp still bathed the drive in a yellowish glow. “Okay?” Herbie looked at her and she nodded. “I would suggest we move quite quickly.” She nodded again and stepped in front of him, beginning to walk out towards the car.
Crouched low in the bushes by the gate, George Thomas, who was also Claus Fenderman and Heinrich Kuche, saw Schnabeln go to the car. He saw the porch light go out, and then the light in the hall. The black ebony cane was still in the car, parked at the corner, but the Luger pistol began to come up in his gloved right hand. Pretend it’s a practise shoot, he told himself. Pretend, and remember how you hate her, and the idea of going into the East. Take it to its consummation now.
He straightened up, invisible against the bushes, raising the Luger in a two-hand grip, sighting towards the entrance as the plump figure of his first bride came through the door, clearly visible in her grey suit.
56
LONDON 1978
THERE WERE FOUR SHOTS. A pair of twos in quick succession. The technique and accuracy of a marksman.
Herbie was slightly to the right and behind Hildegarde Fenderman, and his reactions were fast, leaping forward and pushing with both hands to slam her into the gravel.
Not quick enough for the bullets though. On a target the grouping would have been perfect. The first two toppled Hildegarde Fenderman backwards, catching her in the chest. Herbie, heaving her down against her backwards motion, must have aligned her head with the trajectory of the second pair.
The head seemed to split open, shattering, showering Herbie with blood and brains. She made no sound except the awful dead crunch on the gravel.
The Sauer M 38H was in Herbie’s hand without him even knowing it: the reflex leaping through his brain and muscles from the past.
He saw Schnabeln scrambling from the car, and a figure flitting through the gates.
Schnabeln was heading back towards the body. Noise, a scream and shout, came from behind him, in the door, but Big Herbie was away, his feet slipping on the gravel, pelting down the drive.
He skidded slightly as he reached the gates, conscious of his thumb working the safety off the pistol. One big shoulder hit the iron and he was out on the ramped pavement, turning to the right in the direction he had seen the figure moving.
It was almost a hundred yards to the corner where the car was parked, lights off. The figure was running, hard, his feet making no sound on the paving stones.
Herbie parted his legs and lifted both arms, grasping the pistol, finger already taking up the pressure on the trigger.
“George,” he shouted. “George, stop. For God’s sake stop.”
But the figure kept on going, almost to the car now, one arm reaching forward towards the door.
Herbie pressed the trigger and there was the answering hollow click of a misfire. He swore, looked down at the weapon, and recocked, lifting it again.
The figure was half in and out of the car when he pulled the trigger for the second time. Not just a click but the whole wretched sound of a jam—the cartridge stuck in the breech—almost impossible, unheard of, with that weapon.
In rage, Herbie’s huge arm came back and he flung the useless piece of metal towards the car, which now had its engine running, the tyres screaming as it shook its tail and pulled away.
Herbie began to dash after it, his eyes blinded with fury. Breathless, and in a terrifying rage, he finally reached the corner, sick with the realisation that—what with the speed and the light, the surprise and action of it all—he could not have told anyone with accuracy either the make or colour of the car. Nor had he marked its licence plates.
Now it had disappeared into the traffic, and the big man stood, helpless, explosive with fury, his hands lifting and falling against his sides in a gesture of frustration.
Very slowly, with head bent, he turned and walked back towards Thomas’ house, his shadow incredibly immense across the road.
The hotel near Pangbourne was most comfortable and the staff seemed very considerate to the old man. They thought he was a sweet old boy, though the porter mentioned that he should really get those teeth seen to. Tipped well. Name of Henry Cocks. Said he would be staying a week or so. Doctor had recommended a rest. Peace and quiet. A taxi had brought him from Reading, though he had rung earlier to make a booking.
He had eaten well. Drunk some claret, and had a bottle of whisky sent up to his room. Whisky and hot milk.
Henry Cocks lay on the bed now, the door locked and a glass of neat whisky in his right hand. Two weeks here, he thought. Two weeks and then Henry Cocks would go, probably the soft route via Ireland.
It was no good brooding because there was only one place left to go—if he wanted to live. He would make up his mind about it later. All he really wanted now was sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw young George Thomas, walking with Schmitt, back towards the car on the moors. They were close together, and Braun a little to their left.
He had taken aim most carefully, around George’s waist, because that was where he carried the grenades and explosives. It had been lucky. One shot. One shot had blown him and Schmitt to nothing. Braun took more; and Hilde… well, he had to be certain about Hilde. But for her he would be in the comfort of his home now.
Angelle, he thought. Oh God, Angelle. He was going to be so lonely without her. At his age as well. Loneliness was the cross you bore when you were a stuffed man, a hollow man.
Herbie Kruger brooded. He had a vodka the size of the Empire State Building in front of him. It was late, and he thought everything was covered. The Director would be back later. He would write the report tomorrow.
George was away, and clever. He wondered if they would ever pick him up. He had grave doubts about that, but it would keep—someone else’s problem now.
Before pouring the vodka he had called Angelle. She was sleeping, the cousin had said, but then she had come on the line. Like so many people in shock she seemed almost too calm. Yes, she was all right. She would be fine. Yes, yes, it would be a good idea for them to have dinner sometime. She would probably be going back to stay with her cousin later that night, or first thing in the morning, but she would keep in touch. She supposed they had to have the policeman on guard at the gate. Herbie said it seemed a good idea.
In the house at Hampstead, Angelle Thomas put down the telephone and returned to packing her suitcase. It was the second call that evening. Downstairs, the cousin she had never seen before sat quietly reading. She had kept his number ever since George gave it to her a year or so before. “Just in case.”
The first telephone call had come through half an hour before Herbie.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You forgive me?”
“I think so. I don’t know.”
“You have rung the number?”
“Yes.”
“Do as he says. But only if you want to. Please. Please.” Then the line had gone dead, the “Please. Please” echoing in her head. Of course she would go. He would need her. She would need him. No matter what was in the past. She might even kill him like she had told Herbie, in her rage.
Herbie went over to the tape machine and put on Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder—Songs on the Death of Children. As he slid the tape into place he wondered if anybody had thought of putting a tap on the Thomas telephone. Vernon-Smith hadn’t mentioned it. Unlikely George would be foolish enough to call her. No. Maybe, tomorrow, first thing, he’d see to it.
He pressed the “play” button and went back to his drink. Christa Ludwig’s voice filled the room, clear from the speakers:
Nun will die Sonn so hell aufgehn…
The sun will rise as brightly now
As though the night had brought no tragedy
The tragedy is mine alone,
The sun it shines for everyone.
You must not let the night engulf you….
Big Herbie Kruger took a long pull at his drink. He swallowed. Then swallowed again and felt the lump com
e to his throat.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Herbie Kruger Novels
I am not going to the green clover!
The garden of weapons
Full of halberds
Is where I am posted!
When you are in the field, God help you!
Everything depends
On God’s blessing!
For anyone who believes it!
Anyone who believes it is far away.
He is a king!
He is an Emperor!
He is making the war!
Halt! Who goes there? Speak up!
Clear off!
Serenade of the Sentry from Des Knaben Wunderhom by Arnim-Brentano. Set to music by Gustav Mahler between 1892 and 1895
FULLY CLASSIFIED TO REMAIN SECURE AND LOCKED RED TAG
DATE AS STAMP
AUTHORITY: Head of Service
Head of C & C
Director Special Sources: East Germany
The following cryptonyms have been assigned to the undermentioned now operating under general cipher QUARTET as directed by Special Sources: East Germany. Link with TELEGRAPH BOYS.
Girren, Walter ANNAMARIE
Schnabeln, Christoph SPENDTHRIFT
Mohr, Anton TEACHER
Blatte, Anna MAURICE
DECIPHERED TRANSCRIPT
DATE AS HEADED
TIME CIPHERED (Cheltenham): 10.02
FOR: DIRECTOR GENERAL SIS.
FROM: SECRETARY I/C GENERAL MOVEMENTS. CONSULATE GENERAL. BERLIN WEST.
FLASH SECURE
HAVE WALK-IN CLAIMING TO BE CAPTAIN KGB EAST BERLIN WILL ONLY IDENTIFY AS PIOTR AND SAYS WILL ONLY TALK TO YOUR OFFICER NAMED AS BIG HERBIE STOP REQUEST INSTRUCTIONS STOP CONSUL GENERAL FEELS HE SHOULD BE RETURNED UNOPENED. FLASH FLASH FLASH
CLASSIFIED HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL
RED TAG
FROM: Director
TO: Director Special Sources: East Germany
DATE: As stamped
Dear Herbie,
This is a letter officially informing you that the Charlton house has been opened for your use today.
I am required by standing orders to notify you of this in writing and this letter will be placed on file with a copy to the Minister and Treasury.
It is understood that you will occupy the Charlton house only for as long as it takes to interrogate the recent defector TAPEWORM, and that you will have only the normal and minimal staff required to ensure correct security and normal care.
I would be greatly obliged if you would vacate the Charlton house as soon as possible, once you have ensured your interrogation is complete.
Sincerely,
Director SIS
CLASSIFIED A+ PINK TAG
SIS REGISTRY: A4296/5
TO: Head of Service
FROM: Head of Registry
DATE: 10 August 1980
Following your requisition order dated as above—CS/567—I have today placed the following files into the custody of Mr. E. L. Kruger, Director Special Sources: East Germany.
SZ/24 Muller, Gertrude (dec)
SZ/25 Blenden, Willy (dec)
SZ/26 Birkemann, Andreas (on pension)
SZ/27 Birkemann, Beatrix (on pension)
SZ/28 Gabell, Luzia (unknown: pres dec)
SZ/29 Habicht, Emil (dec)
SZ/30 Becher, Franz (dec)
SZ/31 Zeich, Moritz (on pension)
SZ/32 Reissven, Peter (dec)
SZ/33 Zudrang, Julie (believed dec)
SZ/34 Kutte, Kurt (dec)
You will note that these files make up the major dossier of the network run in East Berlin by Mr. Kruger under cipher SCHNITZER GROUP c. 1955-1965
Ambrose Hill
Head of Registry
CLASSIFIED AA. FOR THE DIRECTOR AND G STAFF ONLY RED TAG
SIS REGISTRY: A4296/6
TO: Director SIS
FROM: Head of Registry
DATE: 10 August 1980
Following your requisitioning order as above date—AA/666—I have today passed the following files into the custody of Mr. E. L. Kruger, Director Special Sources: East Germany, after making the necessary enquiries concerning the safe keeping of this Most Highly Classified Material.
TB/1 General File. Telegraph Boys
TB/22 Gemini
TB/23 Horus
TB/24 Hecuba
TB/25 Nestor
TB/26 Priam
TB/27 Electra
PART ONE Tapeworm
1
IT WAS AUGUST. IT had always been one of his favourite months, because they usually got out of Berlin for a few weeks. Sometimes back to Moscow. The Old Man had often turned a blind eye to the girls he took back with them.
Now he was left with only two certainties. First, there was death, the only sure thing in the lives of all human beings. Second, there was the indisputable fact that very soon his own people would be coming to arrest him. There would be no girls in Moscow this August, only a small room, or maybe a hospital ward. And endless questions.
So, at five o’clock in the morning, he viewed the situation with the exact logic learned patiently through the years from the Old Man.
He had not slept. The reality of his present condition would not allow that luxury. Instead he had gone through each step, examining every eventuality and permutation.
They would probably leave him for another forty-eight hours. That would be good psychology, and they seemed to be playing the whole business in a most classic manner.
After it had happened, a major had been flown in from Moscow to take charge. The short interrogation was friendly, even sympathetic. Some of it almost casual, as though they were really considering his feelings as a brother officer.
But then they could afford that. Time was on their side. They also had his personal luggage. “Don’t bother about your things,” they had said. “We’ll send them on. Just take what’s necessary for a few days.”
That was during the previous afternoon, when the major’s assistant, a very young lieutenant with acne, brought in his posting. He was to report to the barracks at Karlshorst. The major came in later. “Just wait at Karlshorst for instructions,” he had said. “There’s plenty of work for a man of your experience and qualifications. Comrade Captain.”
He knew then for certain what they were doing; and, almost without thinking, took what small action he could, arranging to arrive at the Karlshorst barracks as late as possible. The duty officer did not even seem to be expecting him; which could be a good sign. It was suggested that he report to the adjutant some time after nine in the morning. They found him a room in the officers’ quarters, and offered him a meal.
He had played at being in shock, trying to convey indecisiveness. The major and his team would be busy enough; so, having packed him off to Karlshorst, they probably argued that he was safe for a day or so.
Maybe forty-eight hours. If he had been handling the affair that was what he would have done. Possibly he would leave it a little longer. The Old Man, however, would have put a watch on him, whatever his state of mind.
He was careful: dragging his heels on the way to the barracks. With his small case, and the briefcase, he had stopped many times; called in at a couple of bars; seen one of the girls; gone for a meal; used both railway and bus. All the time he checked, from the middle of the previous afternoon until almost midnight: they had nobody watching.
Today almost certainly there would be some kind of surveillance. Leave him to sweat at Karlshorst, and watch from a distance. Probably they hoped he would try to make a run for it: thereby proving complicity. They would not expect him to go quickly, though. Normally they would presume the full impact was unlikely to hit him for a day or two.
Then, if he tried to run, it would give them the ascendency, making their job that much easier. Already they must be certain that the Old Man had confided in him. You do not spend over twenty years as aide to such an officer without knowing at least some of the truth—or enough of it for the e
xperts in Dzerzhinsky Square, at the Centre—to complete a jig-saw. Maybe, a puzzle of their own devising.
There was only one way to go, one man to approach. He hated the idea, but running was better than what would take place in Moscow. Whatever happened there, his career was finished.
Reluctant though he might be, his will to survive was strong. He had to run, and quickly. Whatever the dangers. The Old Man’s legacy also included the means to get out. The means that the Old Man had, in the end, refused to use for himself.
The night had been stifling. Now, at five o’clock, it was light outside, and he could see that rain was on the way. Thunder also. The boiling, humid weather of the last few days appeared ready to break. It was as if the elements were matching his own mood and decision.
If his nerve held he could just do it; even though the reluctance was like iron in his mind. He did not suppose the British would use drugs on him, and he knew enough about interrogation to hold back, just giving them enough. In that way his conscience would be clear. He would know that, at least, he had not completely betrayed his country. There were also the Old Man’s instructions—for whatever reason. The couple of falsehoods, and one piece of misdirection which he had to use.
He could take nothing. His case contained only shirts, socks and underwear. His best uniform hung in the small cupboard. Apart from these things, and his toilet gear, there was the uniform he wore, and the briefcase.
The basic needs were in the pockets of the civilian raincoat, folded neatly inside the briefcase. The other matters remained engraved in his mind. Unless they made him open the briefcase at the main gate nobody would be any the wiser if the guard had orders to turn him back.