The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  A cargo of old rabbits, thought Herbie. Aloud, he asked what Pavel thought he had to give them—“Just headings will do.”

  Pavel Mistochenkov said he would provide the names of six more secretaries working for the Bonn Government who were passing information, and their case officers, there was also a Federal Republic politician who had been buried deep by the KGB for a long time—his case officer as well.

  “That should be enough to start with.” Herbie nodded several times. “You’ll probably think of one or two other things later.”

  “If I give you these? If I give them now? Can you provide me with some assurances?”

  Herbie took a while to answer, then said it would be a few days; but, yes, he thought that when Pavel’s information had been checked out they could begin talking terms.

  The Russian indicated that he was ready to talk now. Herbie nodded assent, then quickly asked, “You didn’t tell me what your new appointment was to be, Pavel.”

  There was a lengthy pause. Mistochenkov swallowed. “I was to be put in charge of counter-intelligence within our own forces in Berlin. Spying on my own comrades—a job I’ve never done, and a job I would hate to do. A Spitzel.” He used the German slang word for an informer, which, Herbie mentally acknowledged, was good psychology. Privately he again thought, a cargo of old rabbits.

  “I understand,” Herbie said with great sympathy, adding that Pavel’s service had a nasty habit of siphoning people off to do dirty jobs, like watching their own.

  “It’s immoral, but not the only reason.” Mistochenkov was covering himself.

  Eventually, Herbie thought, he would get the whole political thing: the ‘I choose freedom’ spiel. “Now, let’s have the names.” He made it as jovial as possible. This was the easy bit for friend Pavel. Ten to one Herbie’s Service—or the FIA—knew all about the six secretaries, and the politician; they probably also had a watching brief on the case officers.

  Pavel brought out the names one at a time, coupling each with a KGB work name, to show willing. He was like a man laying out a good hand in a card game. It was supposed to convey slight reluctance.

  When it was completed, Herbie pressed the bell for one of the lion-tamers, telling Pavel that he wanted to get the names flashed out immediately. He must not take his bit for granted. “Then we’ll get an answer back fast. After that, Comrade Mistochenkov, I shall do some kind of a deal for you; but we must talk. A lot of talk. There are many questions; you will understand.”

  Pavel understood, but looked gloomy.

  Max arrived at Herbie’s summons, and when Pavel had been escorted away Kruger sat silently for a few moments before taking any positive action.

  “Standard size for openers,” Tubby Fincher chuckled when Herbie spoke to him on one of the secure lines. “But I’ll pass the names on. Bet you the FIA have most of them. No MO, I notice. No handling techniques.”

  Herbie sighed. “Only half an hour. Thirty minutes or so talking turkey with him. I’ll put the screws on this afternoon. Make him think he’s giving us something important.”

  “Make him think that we think he’s giving us something,” corrected Tubby in a sing-song voice. “Come back to me this evening.”

  Tapeworm and Herbie lunched together alone, served by Charles, who discreetly disappeared between courses. Herbie made sure Pavel got the impression he was drinking a good deal, and that they appeared to be talking trivia.

  Herbie began by asking the Russian when he first knew, in the old days, that they spoke of him as Piotr—this during the soup: home-made by Miss Sturgis.

  “Not until we picked up your people. At the end. When we lost you. The boss cursed that. We had you quite early on—or at least suspected it was you.”

  Herbie nodded, saying he supposed that was when he was working for the Karl Marx Locomotive Works in Babelsberg.

  “In the last four weeks we had people on to you twenty-four hours a day. How did you slip them?”

  Herbie grinned inanely and said it was a trade secret.

  “It’s all changed now.” Mistochenkov sounded sad. “All the beehives are dismantled. Gehlen’s dead; the CIA’re busy in the Far East, and they’ve had their teeth pulled in Germany. The Cold War’s frozen in history now, and West Berlin’s no longer an Agentensumpf.” He used the word, current in the fifties and sixties, to describe West Berlin: a spy swamp.

  The man was not a fool, Herbie thought, as Charles served the main course—lamb cutlets. Using the slang they had known during that time was strangely evocative.

  “Surprised they bothered to keep the Colonel-General and yourself on the job if it’s like that.”

  “You know it’s like that.”

  “I know your people have caused havoc in Bonn. Plenty of human element in Bonn.”

  “It was always big in Bonn. Bonn and Munich. The Berlin thing is kaput.”

  Herbie raised his eyebrows, saying he didn’t agree; then began to turn the conversation back on to the names Pavel had given him; sliding quick questions under the Russian’s guard—about contacts, ciphers, drops, the kind of ops they were running, the strength of the information they were getting out.

  Pavel parried, then started to answer one or two questions: gingerly at first. Suddenly he stopped. “Assurances,” he said, fear clouding his eyes again. “No more about those people until you tell me I stay. That was the bargain.”

  “Bargain?” Herbie spread his hands wide, palms open, facing upwards. “It’s all a foregone conclusion, Pavel. Names are not enough. You know that. Maybe the Americans … Well?” Then, as if he had only just thought of it, “Why didn’t you go to the Americans? In spite of recessions and problems they would have paid more. Probably. They suck up to the NATO people more than the British.”

  “You came to mind. An old adversary. Your people were very good. They told us little: what they did tell was always good—about you, I mean. I thought you’d be fair.”

  “Me? Or my masters?”

  “Both.”

  “Pavel, my masters are only the flavouring in the savoury now. We’re squeezed between you and the Americans. We’re part of NATO and the EEC. Small fry in both: small fry for big money; small fry and small influence. Me? I am an adopted son. A German with a British passport, and a British job. A World War Two boat-person whom they took in, fed and trained. You would have done better with the Yanks. How did you know I was still around?”

  Pavel smiled. “Because you are indestructible. The boss, Colonel-General Vascovsky, mentioned you. Not long before … Well, he said you had been spotted in London.”

  Herbie crunched up the last piece of fat from his lamb chop, swallowing it with relish. “And you say it’s all dead? To be spotted in London is to be spotted by an individual: or did they get a blow-up of me in Regent Street from one of your intelligence satellites?”

  Mistochenkov made a movement with head and shoulders.

  “Where there’s an embassy …” he said, knowing it explained all things.

  “It’s far from dead, Pavel.” Herbie wiped his mouth, his mind half on what Miss Sturgis might have conjured up for their pudding. “We may pretend; but it’s all one big Agentensumpf now—cities, towns, villages, deserts, space. The second oldest profession. Still going strong.”

  Miss Sturgis had provided apple pie, cooked the way Herbie liked, with cloves liberally sprinkled into the apple. He wondered who had tipped her off about that.

  During the afternoon he kept off any mention of the names Mistochenkov had given to him. They spent the time walking in the garden or sitting in the main room, with the windows wide open. They spoke of Pavel’s past work, not going into anything difficult.

  “Training?” Herbie asked at one point. “Where’d they train you, Pavel? Siberia?”

  The Russian gave a grimace and said, yes, in fact that was exactly where they had trained him. “In Novosibirsk. On the Krasny Prospect. School No. 311. Know it, Herbie?”

  Thank God he did not, Herbie laughed;
then asked if they had taught him anything.

  Pavel spoke at length about training—the rudiments were useful, he supposed, but it was a long time ago. They had laid special emphasis on the history of their elite organisation. He remembered they had all been a little shocked to find out that the old dreaded Tsarist Okhrana used similar methods of agent-handling to those they were taught. “We had an instructor who demonstrated with archive copies of case histories from the Okhrana files. He put them next to service copies. The similarities were striking.”

  Herbie commented that things changed little. “Ivan the Terrible wasn’t so far removed from ‘Iron’ Felix Dzerzhinsky, or Beria.”

  Pavel hastened to add that things had changed a great deal since he was trained. Herbie gave one of his huge shrugs. “They haven’t as far as we’re concerned.”

  Dirty tricks, Pavel explained, had altered drastically. The old compromising photographs and tapes were not so effective nowadays. It was the permissive society of the West that he blamed.

  Herbie said that dirty tricks were only good nowadays if you could threaten criminal action in the target’s own country. Pavel was effusive in agreement. They were getting more sophisticated about doing that: using the Press, and the agencies of other countries—like they sometimes used Boss, the South African Security Agency, but without that service’s knowledge. “You have probably found it also. The trick is to make it look genuine, and from an outside source. Our people are very struck on tampering with bank accounts; and false evidence in letters. But it’s got to look real. The manipulation is difficult.”

  That evening Herbie told Tubby Fincher that their asset appeared to be settling down.

  “He’s sold you a pup about the case officers.” Tubby’s voice was deep, belying the thin, almost withered frame from which it came. “I’ve had long talks with the FIA boys.” Tubby used the NATO abbreviation for the West German Federal Intelligence Agency, known on its home ground as the BND.

  Herbie was not surprised.

  “They know three of the names he’s given you. The other three are double-up work names.”

  “Then there’s nothing new under the sun.”

  “Well, yes. Two of the secretaries are new. They’re very pleased. They’re also dancing jigs about the politician. Been concerned about him for a while. Apparently showing signs of stress. They figure he’s just about burned out and ready to run. You get a pat on the head for that.”

  Herbie said he would get as much of the operational drill as possible from Tapeworm. “I’ll dangle papers of asylum in front of him tonight. Could get all that dross out of the way by tomorrow, and start on the real work. He is giving me direct misinformation about the Colonel-General and himself.”

  Tubby made a remark about establishing rapport, which drew a quiet, firm response from Herbie, who let him know that he had a lot of experience in establishing rapport.

  Back with Pavel Mistochenkov, Herbie wagged a jovial, admonishing finger. “Naughty, Pavel. Very naughty.”

  Pavel gave him a blank look, which Herbie later described in his report as ‘no writing on his face’.

  He knew it would take a long time to get inside the KGB captain. Initially, though, he had to approach honestly. People, he told the Russian, were pleased with the names—particularly the politician. He omitted to say that the BND already had their eyes on that one, and thought the Soviets had probably finished with him anyway. It was a typical defector’s trick. Some people you could lose without massive feedback. The politician, if he really was burned out, could probably be sacrificed without doing any damage.

  Then he got on to the question of the case officers. “Six secretaries. Six controls, you gave me. Vodka?” He poured himself a liberal glass.

  “Yes. Yes.” Mistochenkov answered both questions, and Herbie went on to point out the error of the man’s ways. The case officers were doubled up. Three, not six.

  Pavel assumed surprise. “I only get names. It wasn’t our operation.”

  Herbie clenched his big fists, giving them a little shake, touching his shoulders, like a movement from a Greek dance, then splaying his arms wide. “Come on, Pavel. You see everything, hear everything in the late Vascovsky’s department. Names? What are names in our trade? It’s the numbers that count. The BND say they add up to three, not six.”

  “I am passing on what I know.”

  Three busy men, Herbie voiced. They must be young and virile. In most cases the recruitment of young secretaries in Bonn was done by expert seduction over a period of time; until the case officers became lovers, and the targets totally reliant—emotionally and sexually—on them. “Six girls and three men, Pavel. Your people found the wonder drug? They supply the controllers with bicycles? In Bonn at night, they say, you can hear nothing but the creaking of bed springs while the secretaries are being serviced by KGB Lotharios. That’s agent-handling these days.”

  Pavel admitted that the BND could be right. He tossed his vodka back in one draught, saying that he did not intend to mislead his inquisitor.

  Herbie poured more vodka, and opened up his briefcase, removing several forms and official-looking documents, flicking his strong fingers towards them. “Your passports to paradise”—the daft smile, on and off, like a neon advertisement of a clown. “Papers to give you asylum.”

  Mistochenkov’s whole personality appeared to relax. For a second Herbie thought the man was going to leap from his chair and plant kisses on his cheeks. There was a great exhalation of relief, then the Russian stood up and crossed to the window.

  They were in the main living room of the house, with its leather-buttoned chairs and reproduction drum tables, light coming from discreet, brass-shaded, military lamps—also reproductions. One wall was lined with books—mostly spines, bought by the yard—all leather, or imitation leather, bound and gold embossed. The French windows were partly open, and the heavy velvet drapes pulled back. Outside, dusk began to distort the trees, and the pleasant warm smell of grass and fresh vegetation filtered into the room.

  Mistochenkov stood for a moment, looking out at the garden. Then Max appeared from the half light, coming from the trees like a silent killer—which was probably part of his trade.

  “Might I suggest the curtains be drawn?” Max addressed Herbie in a soft, deferential voice. “One never knows. The patient could catch a nasty cold.”

  It was neatly timed, Herbie considered. Max knew his job. There was almost certainly no danger from showing oneself at the windows of the lighted room; but Max was a professional. He nodded, motioning the Russian back into the room; leaving Max to enter, lock the windows and draw the drapes.

  A small incident, but enough to give Pavel the impression that he might still be in danger. The Russian’s hand shook slightly as he took another glass from Herbie.

  “The relief is great,” he said quietly, relaxing in the chair again, as Max left them.

  “They’re not signed or authorised yet.” Herbie gave him another smile, longer this time. He explained that the papers could go forward within a matter of hours if Pavel filled in some of the spaces he had omitted concerning the handling of the West German politician and the six secretaries. Quietly Herbie asked how much he really knew about the servicing of the names he had given.

  The Russian was quite good: either expert as an actor, or really distressed. Okay, yes, he knew there were only three people doing the handling of the secretaries. There were two for the politician. He did know the lot. “You understand, Herbie. You must know the effect all this has on me. It is not natural, after so many years with my Service, for me to tell everything.” He patted his stomach. “It makes me feel sick, here.”

  Herbie told him to take a deep breath. They could stay up all night if he wanted. Just deal with it gently. “We need the fine print, Pavel.”

  It took until almost four in the morning, and Pavel Mistochenkov looked drained when they finished. It was probably the vodka, Herbie reflected; the people the Russian was sacrific
ing would not be a great loss. The handling methods were in reality nothing abnormal. If anything, some were old-fashioned.

  Charles had taken over: prowling the house and grounds. Herbie left instructions for Pavel’s door to be locked, and the man quietly checked every fifteen minutes—there was closed-circuit television surveillance on the room. He should be left to sleep as late as need be. Herbie would probably not want to be with him at all the following day. He would write his report. That was getting the rubbish out of the way. Once Pavel knew asylum had been granted he would relax. Over the next week or so the job would be to break him down, clean out the easy stuff; then hit him hard with the truth about Jacob Vascovsky’s death.

  A week? Maybe two weeks, he thought.

  6

  IN THE END IT took almost three. Seventeen days passed before Herbie Kruger was to lay the real news on Mistochenkov. The Director—worried about costs, as ever—tried to rush Herbie. The large German, however, was not to be hurried.

  Within a few days he was certain there was a good deal more to Pavel’s arrival in the West than met the eye. It was also significant that the Soviets were not kicking up a fuss. There had been no Press releases on either side, and none of the usual overtures through political channels.

  More to the point, the Russian was frightened. Just as with the recruitment of young girls working in sensitive government departments—‘Emilys’, one intelligence expert called them—the game was to make Pavel almost completely reliant on his confessor: Big Herbie Kruger.

  The strategy was simple psychology. Herbie would spend a day with Pavel, in which he would be friendly, concerned and reassuring. Then he would leave him alone, perhaps for a whole day, or a day and a half. On his return, while still showing concern, Herbie would be brusque and business-like, giving the impression that his own people were forcing the pace.

  Max and Charles were instructed not to speak with their guest except when absolutely necessary. Worboys was kept in the background: though Herbie, taking pity on him, sent him off to London with the occasional odd job, allowing him to be away for the best part of a day at a time.