The Kobra Manifesto

by Adam Hall

  He was making notes.

  ‘Objective for surveillance. Tangier says he’s just got in from Teneriffe.’

  He picked up a telephone.

  ‘Put Whitaker on immediate call, will you?’

  He put it down. I said:

  ‘Who’s this one?’

  They think it’s Fogel.’ He made another note.

  ‘Heinrich Fogel?’

  ‘Yes.’ I began counting the seconds and he got it on four, looking up quickly. ‘He was your opposition in Budapest, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Old times.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The bastard had lined up a very long shot that had smashed a hole in the wall an inch from my head. I wished Whitaker luck.

  ‘General theory,’ Macklin said.

  Wait a minute. They only think it’s Fogel?’

  ‘That’s right’

  ‘When are they going to find out?’

  ‘As soon as they can find someone to identify him. For the moment he’s gone to ground.’ He got up and put the file back into the cabinet and kicked the drawer shut and stubbed out his cigarette, lighting the next, cupping his hands round the match. There wasn’t any draught: he liked people to think they were steady. ‘Right. I’ve no specific instructions for you but Egerton won’t be leaving the building until you’re through Clearance: he’ll probably go and sit in with Signals. All I know for the moment is that Perkins will be going out as soon as we can find him, with Ferris local-directing in Milan-‘

  ‘If they can pick up Ramirez again.’

  He squinted at me through the smoke. ‘You know, one of the most encouraging things about this situation is that we only really need to keep tabs on one of these objectives, on the reasonable assumption that they’re converging on a fixed rendezvous.’

  ‘You’re talking a lot of cock, Macklin. Look what happened to Harrison: you’d have lost the whole bunch.’

  He drew in smoke, his face twisted into a half-smile.

  ‘Just making sure you know the score, old boy.’

  ‘You’re not putting me into surveillance, so you can stop wasting your time.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’

  That’s good.’

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s going to direct me in the field?’

  He hooked his leg over a stool and dangled one foot, trying so hard to look unconcerned that it had me on edge. He and Egerton knew such a bloody sight more than I did about this operation and they’d both got gooseflesh and I didn’t find it terribly reassuring. The mission wasn’t even running yet and there was one man dead: two, if you counted Milos Zarkovic.

  ‘We shan’t know,’ he said, ‘until we know the field,’

  ‘It could be anywhere. Right?’

  ‘Right. Anywhere.’

  There was a knock on the door and it opened and one of the security guards put his head round.

  ‘Mr. Perkins has just come in, sir.’

  Thank God for that.’

  Macklin got off the stool and went over to the cabinet.

  ‘I’ll go and get cleared,’ I said.

  ‘What? Yes. You do that.’ He pulled open the drawers and then turned his head suddenly, looking at me over his shoulder, the bleak light on his face and one eye squinting over the cigarette. ‘If I don’t see you again before you go,’ he said, ‘take care,’

  Chapter 5

  ALITALIA

  I always go through Firearms like a dose of salts because a gun is more trouble than it’s worth: you’ve got to conceal it across frontiers and get it through the airport peep-shows and look after it in strange hotels and you finish up babysitting for the bloody thing right through the mission. Some of the front-line executives carry them but don’t often use them, so maybe they look on them as a suitable fetish for their trade, like garters for tarts.

  I don’t draw a capsule either.

  Because if you’re firing correctly on both frontal lobes you can often convince the opposition that you don’t know anything of interest; but if they find one of those things on you they’ll understandably believe you’ve got a headful of information more valuable than your life and they’ll put you through the whole roller-coaster from electrodes to heroin-deprivation and you’ll die with your hair white and only yourself to blame. It’s strictly no go, ‘Sign here sir, will you?’

  No weapons drawn.

  I wasn’t long in Accounts either: Nothing to bequeath, no next of kin, so forth. The routine thought crossed my mind: at any given moment I’m not worth much in cold cash but why not leave it to Moira? But the routine answer came up: she got a quarter of a million in sterling for her last film so the only gesture I could make would be to put down on this form: Five thousand roses for Moira, to be delivered at dawn by six white horses from Harrods. But these arthritic old bags would only talk me out of it because their pet charity is the Salvation Army and they’d send the cheque round on a bike.

  ‘Your medical card has come through.’

  I took it over to one of the windows where there was a bit of light. String of normals, vision 20/20. Remarks: 12 lbs below ideal weight for height. Vitamin and mineral deficiencies. Suggested supplementary intake daily as follows - 500 mg Vitamin C organic and 100 mg Calcium. They might as well print that last bit because in our trade we live on the nerves and the adrenals are under constant pressure, and there’s nothing we can do about it except drink more milk and orange juice and see a bit more of the girls.

  ‘When did this medical card come through?’

  One of them looked up from her knitting.

  ‘Last night.’

  This is the sequence: when we come out of a mission we’re sent to Norfolk for various tests including a medical and it normally takes a month to come through to London, and this is well in time for clearance on the next mission because the leave period is a standard two months. During these two months they can drop on us if something urgent comes up and we have the right to tell them to buzz off if that’s the way we feel. In most cases we rally to the call because that’s what we live for and the only reality is when we’re working. The point is that I’d come off my last mission precisely seventeen days ago and they must have rushed the medical analysis in Norfolk so that I could get clear for a new mission in record time.

  Typical Egerton. He’d got me into his office and I’d dug my heels in and told him no, repeat no, and I’d come out saying yes and I do not know how that bastard does it. There’s always a reason but it’s never the kind of reason he could possibly have manufactured: only this occasion some bloody fool in the hierarchy had made a mistake and set up a chain reaction that ended when Egerton picked up that phone. I think he would have told them what he did in any case: he doesn’t like those people throwing their weight around where his executives are concerned. But this time he’d done it at the precise psychological moment: and I was into the mission.

  No, you don’t take on a job that’s not in your particular field just because a director puts in a good word for you: if it’s not in your field then you’ll be uncomfortable and that can be dangerous and sometimes fatal. I’d taken on this one because Egerton had reminded me by pure chance that he always looks after his executives. I probably hadn’t thought about it consciously: it had been civil of him, and that was about all. But the data had hit the organism on the subliminal level and got an emphatic response, because all the time the forebrain is driving you through a mission against grievous and increasing odds the organism is kicking and yelling somewhere down there inside you, desperate to stay alive.

  In that priestlike scarecrow with the dull brown eyes my organism had sensed a friend. If I were going out on a new mission, this was the one Where I stood a chance. And there was another reason, appealing this time to the forebrain: whatever kind of mission Egerton was cooking up it didn’t look like anything in my field because I’m a penetration specialist: the hole, the kill and the get-out. But that man is highly in
telligent .and he wouldn’t want a misfit in anything he was running and I therefore supposed that somewhere along the line in Beirut or Cairo or Tangier he was expecting the operation to take on the character of a penetration job and that was why he wanted to get me in.

  Well he’d got me.

  I took the medical card back and dropped it on to the desk.

  ‘Get Sam along here for me, there’s an angel.’

  ‘My name is Miss Robinson.’

  ‘All right, but for Christ’s sake get Sam here, I’m on a count-down.’

  I think they spray the air with carbolic after I’ve gone.

  The security guard met me outside and took me along the corridor to Codes and Cyphers and unlocked the door for me and left me there.

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  The new seventh,’ she said, ‘or you can stay on one of the series.’ She touched her blue-rinsed hair.

  I tried out the new one but it was too complicated: you could commit it to memory inside half an hour including the inverted radicals and the alert numerals but if you got one of the prefixes wrong you could throw the whole pattern out and finish up with gibberish.

  ‘I’d have to keep this on me, Harriet You got a sixth series, acid-destruct?’

  ‘With or without abbreviations?’

  ‘Without.’ They can trip you unless you’re phrase-perfect.

  I finished up with a short, flexible pattern designed to pomp crude intelligence into the network without any frills, embossed in high relief on fifteen-second acid-soluble plastic.

  ‘Be good, Harry?’

  She looked up from her work, ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Any time.’

  ‘Look after yourself,’ she said.

  ‘You know me.’

  Credentials: Paul Wexford, overseas representative of Europress, London Division; passport with extensive frankings and selected western visas including Portugal; independent assignments, letters of introduction, continental references, so forth. It was light cover, unsophisticated and convenient at frontiers, with a press pass in five languages and some invitations to public seminars and grand openings. You could blow a hole right through it with a peashooter and as soon as the operation began taking on some kind of shape there’d be a directive from London to change it; but for the moment they couldn’t provide me with viable specifics because even Egerton didn’t know what I was going into.

  Four American Express guest cards and the usual mnemonic aids, Paul Wexford running from the first line to the tenth in ten separate lists of names, so forth: the only thing they don’t give you in Credentials are alphabet bricks. Driving license, worn Polyphoto of current girlfriend (not unlike the one Milos Zarkovic had carried in his wallet, and my scalp contracted for a moment).

  ‘Keys?’

  She dropped a bunch on the desk: two Yales and a tumbler model, two car keys and a Jaguar tab. They wouldn’t ever open anything but you can keep the opposition fiddling about for hours if they snitch them on what they think is your home ground.

  Going down the staircase on my way to Travel I saw Perkins coming out of Briefing and thought he looked a bit off colour: we’re always superstitious about replacing a deceased executive in the field. I didn’t talk to him.

  In Travel they fitted me out with currency and credit cards and told me that Mr. Egerton was in Signals and would be glad if I’d go along there as soon as convenient: typical Egerton again, courteous to a degree. I found him hitched angularly across a packing-case of new electronics with a set on his head. He saw me come in but went on listening, his eyes wandering forlornly from wall to wall. In this section of the room, currently reserved for his operation, one of the sets had gone dead and I knew it had been beamed on Milan.

  ‘If you need to repack your things,’ Egerton said at last, ‘I think you might do that.’ He got off the packing-case and hung the set on the hook.

  One of the Signals wallahs across the room was bent over a speaker, monitoring some stuff that had come off the unscrambler a few minutes ago: I could hear the interposed time slips.

  ‘Surveillance secure … aid requested from local police and granted … discreet forces deployed in area Riff Hotel. I will come in at ten-minute intervals — Tangier.’ And Egerton was pushing him hard, asking for ten-minute intervals on a gone-to-ground situation: the poor bastard could be on the air all night. He must have our man-in-place working with him: Glover, at the Oasis Bar.

  Egerton was half-listening to the monitor tape.

  ‘What am I on,’ I asked him, ‘immediate call?’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes.’ His eyes wandered over my face. ‘You may have to leave directly from your flat, of course.’ He was holding out a thin knuckly hand. ‘I’m really most grateful, you know, most grateful. I didn’t want anyone else, you see, not for this one.’ He smiled wanly and turned away, forgetting my existence.

  There was a break in the overcast and the sun was coming out for the last hour of the day as I reached Knightsbridge and sent up a wave from the gutter with the nearside wheels of the Jensen.

  Fox to 15.

  Base acknowledged and I cut the switch and clipped the mike back and got out and opened the boot. There are one or two obligations when you’re on immediate call and one of them is to keep them informed of your travel pattern so that they can pick you up at once when they want you. Another obligation is that you remain on readiness at all times and that means you can’t see a film or go along to the Turkish baths or visit a girlfriend: most of our girl friends have telephones but the directors have agreed not to ring us unless there’s something urgent and since any kind of signal is designated urgent when we’re on immediate call we tend to live like monks during this period: the nerves are quite sensitive enough in the pre-mission phase and we don’t want 13 risk being hauled out of bed by the telephone right in the middle of everything. The girls wouldn’t like it either.

  Perkins hadn’t been on immediate call but they’d still got on to his known girlfriends because it was urgent.

  I lugged the suitcase out of the boot and slammed it shut and went up the steps and opened the front door. The obvious choice was a full yoharka and I did it very fast and one of his shoes came off and smashed into the mirror on the wall as he went down with the breath grunting out of his kings. Part of the butt was showing through the gap of his jacket and I pulled the thing free of the holster and took the magazine out and put it in my pocket and kicked the gun across the floor where he couldn’t reach it. Then I checked his eyelids and saw he was still well under. The trouble with the yoharka is that you tend to use it only when there’s no time to prepare anything more subtle, so you can’t always place it correctly or work out how much force the situation requires: it’s a very fast nerve blow and strictly for killing unless you pull the momentum a little, and I’d used it about halfway between because I didn’t know whether he was armed.

  I felt for the heart and it was all right so I went into the kitchen and got an ice tray and came back and propped him up and stuffed some cubes inside his jacket in line with the spine. He took three or four minutes to surface. ‘How do you feel?’

  His eyes rolled a bit and his hand went at once to the holster. He was a middle-aged Slav with a gold tooth and slight stubble and garlic on his breath. He was focusing at last and trying to move so I used a pressure point progressively to stop him from fidgeting. There hadn’t been time to shut the front door after me and I could hear the rain starting again, pattering on the roof of the porch.

  ‘Who do you work for?’ I asked him.

  He didn’t say anything and I realized he wasn’t feeling too happy about this because he shouldn’t have’ let it happen. He’d got into the place from the kitchen window-there was mud on the floor by the fridge - and the first thing he’d done was to prepare an exit on the other side of the house and he’d been too close to the front door to get the gun out in time when I’d opened it. This was the third since last July: it’s almost routine and we just ph
one the Bureau for someone to come round and clean the place up. Accounts get terribly fussed because we always insist on reasonably decent furniture and of course they have to replace it, but it’s mostly drawers and in my case the Chinese lacquered cabinet in the study because it looks as if it ought to have a lot of secret panels so they always rip it to bits, and the best of luck.

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  I put some pressure on and he began going white.

  They’re going to get in, whatever we do, and we’re damned if we’re going to have two-inch-diameter steel bars at all the windows and electronic alarms everywhere because in between missions we like living in a fairly civilized way. Of course we never keep anything useful in our flats or wherever we live, but they can never be certain about that and I suppose it’s tempting.

  ‘Who do you work for?’ I said it in Russian and Yugoslavian as well, just in case there was any connection with Zarkovic. He still didn’t say anything and it annoyed me and I used quite a lot of pressure and he gave a reflex jerk and passed out for sixty seconds.

  We don’t often bother the Bureau, except to clean up and take the broken stuff away for replacement. The Bureau has been established ten years or so and in the early days we used to report a breakin by phone right away and they’d send a whole team along and if we’d caught anyone they’d take him back for interrogation because we were very keen to build up files on anything we could get our hands on; but these types never turned out to be interesting: they mostly second assistant economic attaches or local characters making a bit on the side while they’re out on parole. At this level the major international networks leave each other alone and it works perfectly well: otherwise we’d never get any work done. We know all the restaurants and girl friends’ flats where .we can drop on any number of lower-rankers in the opposition field but there wouldn’t be any point; they don’t know enough to warrant the trouble and they’d only start tagging us everywhere and trying to get us into a corner and the whole thing would grind to a halt.

  On an active mission it’s totally different.