The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Now, somewhere a long way off, outside the apartment on the Dahlmannstrasse, came the echo of a girl, probably tipsy, laughing—a high melodic sound: as though she had lost control, prostrate with mirth.

  In his sleepless state, Herbie heard Ursula Zunder’s laugh, mixed with this unknown girl’s peal of merriment.

  Herbie Kruger could have wept at the images that particular sound drew from the memory banks of his past. The well-stored feelings, pictures and senses from that happiest of times, could never be controlled. He tried to quell them, push them away, deep, like drowning kittens. But they returned of their own volition, almost every day: triggered by innocent things—a musical note; the sound of a train; a door closing; footsteps on stairs; the sight of a head in a crowd; or, as at this moment, a laugh from a darkened Berlin street.

  Ursula Zunder and Eberhard. Lukas Kruger had first met with laughter.

  7

  WHILE WORKING UNDER THE cover of a Grenzganger, in those late days of 1959, Herbie Kruger made certain that he always left the East by either the S- or U-Bahn stations on the Friedrichstrasse. He did not return religiously by the same route, but made sure the journeys home terminated, each evening, at the same Friedrichstrasse station.

  On that particular evening he took the S-Bahn from the West Berlin station at Bellevue. It was a slightly longer route than usual, as the line loops over the Spree, then back again across the river in the East. On that day it was, however, more convenient. Herbie had spent the afternoon not far from Bellevue, in a liaison meeting with the Head of Berlin Station, the sombre officer from Military Intelligence,” and a pair of researchers from London.

  When he thought back to that evening—as he did many times over the years—Herbie knew he had only partially noticed the young woman seated opposite him on the train. Initially he recalled the trim, neat figure; an oval face, capped by short blonde hair—not really blonde, but more of a peppery gold. ‘Copper’ was her own description. She was dressed simply in a grey skirt and jacket, visible because her thin raincoat lay unbuttoned, spread back, open.

  In reality this was a kind of background picture. He spent most of the journey peering through the window’s darkness, glimpsing the lights; thinking how quickly the buildings were rising in West Berlin, compared to the programme in the East. He remembered the days just after the war ended, when the Trümmerfrauen—the women of the ruins—worked long hours, cleaning and clearing the bricks and rubble. On his few brief visits to the city, after joining the Americans, Herbie had seen them at work.

  When he now saw young women in London—fighting for rights, proclaiming lost causes: or the svelte, elegant ones who nagged and worried over the trivia of some minor inconvenience, Herbie would think of the Trümmerfrauen. The young, neurotic, pill-ridden society had it all to come; as surely as dawn would break.

  It was only after they got to the Friedrichstrasse S-Bahn station that Herbie took any interest in his fellow passenger. They both left the train at the same time, the woman walking ahead of him. It was the walk that first caught his true attention: an unnatural movement; stiff from the waist down. He wondered if she had been injured, yet it seemed odd, for her body was proportioned like an athlete; even that of a young boy. Her arms and shoulders moved with grace, and in a slightly different rhythm from the waist and legs.

  They were separated from the main crowd, with people bunched behind and in front, approaching the exit gates where a pair of Vopos stood, watchful: waiting. The Vopos and Grepos often picked people, indiscriminately, from disembarking passengers. Documents were examined; also packages, baskets—there were even body searches. People brought goods over from the West every day. Sometimes if they were caught the goods might be confiscated, and that would be the end of it. Occasionally there was a clamp-down on ‘subversive literature’—which covered a multitude of books and magazines, newspapers and periodicals. People were more careful about these.

  The woman ahead was slowing down. Herbie hung back: there was something odd here, and he did not really want to get involved. Herbie remained about four paces behind her. Others passed him, and even overtook the woman. Then she faltered. Herbie thought he heard a small noise of desperation start from her throat. Then her walk became even stranger, a shuffle of short steps, before—with unexpected swiftness—a copy of Paris-Match descended from under her skirts, hitting the ground in front of Herbie with a flutter and thud.

  Instinctively, Herbie lunged forward, scooping up the magazine, thrusting it under his coat, jamming it between arm and body. Hardly had Herbie straightened into his stride, when Harpers slid from between the girl’s legs, sprawling on the damp concrete, open appropriately—Herbie thought as he flicked it up beside Paris-Match—at a double spread of underwear ads.

  He was still in a crouched position, not more than an arm’s length behind the girl, when a whole sheaf of paper cascaded from under her skirts, trailing behind her as she walked on, as though trying to pretend the worst had not happened. There was Time, Newsweek, two copies of the New York Times, and a periodical which seemed to be concerned with photography.

  The material was all of a nature frowned upon in East Berlin, and the girl had no option but to continue walking, spreading the batch of magazines behind her, like a ‘hare’ in a paperchase. Herbie was reminded of a light aircraft on a leaflet drop. He did not even pause to think, but continued to move forward in his crouch, sweeping up each of the journals or magazines, throwing them, one after another, into his coat, where they lay, precariously grasped, but out of sight.

  People crowded in the exit, and the Vopos were so busy scrutinising faces that they appeared not to have noticed the cascade of printed matter. Herbie rendered up his ticket, still keeping his left arm tightly to his side, clutching at the literature. Once clear of the Vopos he thrust his right arm under the coat to steady the load; then set off quickly after the girl. She had now increased her pace: walking with a normal and definitely agile swing.

  “I think you dropped something, Fräulein.” He fell into step beside her.

  “Me? No, I don’t think so.” The eyes, oval, like her face, glinted with fear. She imagined they had spotted her: probably visions of the SSD prison, not far from the Alexanderplatz, were already grim in her mind. You did not know who to trust these days. Never, Herbie, thought back; never had there been any time, since the beginning of the world, when you could trust another human—unless they proved their love for cause or person.

  He smiled, telling her that, truly, it was okay. He had her magazines; opening his coat to show her, explaining what he had done. “I was behind. I was behind you when they fell from under … from … Well, I picked them up and brought them through.” His arms made a gesture: a man lost for words.

  She slowed her walk, turning towards him. Her face, he saw, caught in the dim glow of a street light, appeared white with fear. Then the dark, grey-flecked eyes suddenly lit up as she accepted his honesty—the eyebrows arching. She had a straight, Italianate nose, which now wrinkled as the corners of her mouth tilted—showing deep tiny crescents of laughter on each side, bracketing the lips.

  “Oh my God. I thought I’d be in such trouble.” She began to laugh. “It’s the first time I’ve ever tried to bring magazines over. I only wanted to gloat at the photographs: the lovely things women can get in America; and in France, now.” The laugh burst into a bubble which seemed to catch her breath. They stood there, in the damp street, Herbie chuckling, and Ursula—though he did not yet know her name—giggling at the thought of how ridiculous she must have looked, with the magazines falling from under her clothes. She put a hand out, holding on to Herbie’s arm as though to steady herself. Herbie felt its warmth, even through his greatcoat: another warmth, intangible, spreading between them.

  At last he said that she must have been shaken up; would she like to come and have some coffee with him? There was a place he knew, not far; on the Friedrichstrasse. That was unless her husband or …?

  She had no
husband. They introduced themselves to one another, with a formal gravity; then broke up with laughter again, for that also seemed ludicrous. She thanked him, and they walked together to the restaurant. Herbie tried to match his own, heavy strides with the languid, easy lope which, later, he was to know and love so well: her body always under control, but relaxed and easy.

  The waiter did not seem happy at them just ordering coffee, so Herbie persuaded her to eat with him. They had immediate rapport. She laughed easily, even teasing him as the meal brought them closer. It remained unsaid, but they were happy in each other’s company: at home as they talked.

  That night, Herbie simply took her back to the door of the block in which she had a small apartment. They shook hands: again very correct. With Martha Adler, even a few weeks before, he had not hesitated: no second thoughts about walking up to her apartment; even circling her waist with his arm, pulling her close.

  Now, with Ursula, Herbie would have given anything to go with her: he would have also given nothing for himself. He desired the agony of waiting for the moment. They had talked, and laughed, for over three hours. When he left her—with a date to visit the cinema on the following Saturday—Herbie stood, for a minute, watching her almost skipping towards the door of the apartment block: like a child, clutching the magazines in front of her. A child with new toys.

  As he lay, now, under the duvet, in the bed above the Dahlmannstrasse, Herbie recalled the sensual thoughts that had coiled around him at the first parting. She turned at the door, blowing him the kiss he had not claimed. He thought of holding those magazines: his hands on the shiny paper, touching it, where it had touched her: under her skirt. It was the most sensual thought he could ever remember.

  That day had been Ursula Zunder’s monthly free day. She had week-ends, and one free day a month, working as assistant supervisor to the secretarial pool at the Ministry of the Interior building—flanked by the Maurstrasse and the Glinkastrasse—not far from where the Birkemanns lived. Indeed the Birkemanns also worked there. Ursula Zunder was a definite possible for the Telegraph Boys: but Herbie dismissed the idea as soon as it came into his head. This girl, with her trim body, laughing eyes, sparkling intelligence and humour, had to be kept separate from his work. It was an immediate decision; made with no hesitation. A luxury never before allowed in his life.

  Until then every person he met had been weighed-up for potential or danger: a safe bet or a risk. It would not be like that with Ursula Zunder.

  Herbie knew, that first time, when he walked away from the apartment block. He detected something in her eyes; and divined the same sense in himself. As she left him Ursula had the look of a person who has searched for something over a long time, and was now within an ace of finding it. Herbie had lived so many secrets already, that he had not known, within his own being, that he also had followed a quest. Ursula Zunder was the gold at the end of his invisible rainbow: the Holy Grail of his own seeking.

  Nothing stirred now, outside in the Dahlmannstrasse. Herbie Kruger, the big, tough yet sentimental man—with an icy intellect, and reputation, in his own world—felt the pricking at his eyes. In the darkness, he allowed the tears to come, at last falling asleep, guilty at the indulgence of his own weeping.

  Max woke him gently, bringing coffee. It was seven in the morning. In ninety minutes Christoph Schnabeln would arrive.

  Herbie lay there, adjusting to his dreams—of Ursula’s lips finally on his, a few days after the first accidental meeting. Her small firm hand, later, in his huge paw; or resting on an arm. His own arms around her; their bodies close. He knew, also, that he had dreamed once more of the set of ruby drinking glasses; and the Durer woodcut of an avenging angel.

  Lying back in the warmth, sipping coffee; listening to Max clattering around in the kitchen, Herbie recalled, unwillingly, the weeks of courtship—for it had been a courtship in the real sense. Respect had flowed from one to the other. There was no easy giving or taking between them; no matter gone into lightly. Their times together, in those months, had helped Herbie through one of his most trying periods of work—when most of his days, and a number of nights, were spent searching and vetting likely recruits for his team of Telegraph Boys.

  They did not sleep together until three months after meeting; and, while Herbie was aware that Ursula would have preferred marriage straight away, their joint conclusion was to allow the relationship time to build and flower before taking the final step. She had no idea of Herbie’s true work until the disaster days of 1961; and even then no full picture of it until the catastrophe of 1965. Until then the bond between them was stronger than any natural marriage: even though the living was somewhat peripatetic. She would be at his little flat in Pankow for some of the time; but the bulk was spent at her apartment, which became home for both of them.

  It was during their first seven months that Herbie made real progress in the preliminary stages of filling the Telegraph Boys’ appointments. He found the rake-thin, tall, shortsighted Otto Luntmann—known as ‘The Professor’ (grey-haired at twenty-eight: once a schoolmaster)—a natural because of his well-established job as a civilian messenger at the Soviet Embassy in East Berlin. Luntmann eventually became Horus—watcher of the Soviet Military and Air Attache at the Embassy.

  Herbie was also able to commence a trace on the joky prankster, Moritz Winter: a man full of bounce, like the stock uncle known to all large families; forever playing practical jokes, doing imitations, a source of embarrassment to his friends when they met in public places. Moritz reminded Herbie of a man he had once seen jump from a French railway carriage at Dijon station at three in the morning—Herbie was doing a quick run across Europe by rail from Paris, for a courier link in Cannes. The railway station at Dijon was deserted, but for a solitary old man selling bottles of wine, minerals, and rolls, from a wire trolley. Yet the japester had leaped on to the platform, cupped his mouth and shouted at the top of his voice, “Avez vous la moutarde?” That was just such a man as Moritz Winter.

  Winter was still in his place now: moved up the ladder a little, to chief storeman at the Soviet HQ at Karlshorst; working, with several other civilians, under a Russian quartermaster, seeing to the regulation issue of door frames and lavatory seats; paper and pens; booze for the officers’ mess, and mirrors for the private soldiers’ ablutions. For so long now Moritz Winter had been Gemini—watching and reporting on the Soviet General in charge of liaison with the senior staff officers of East Germany’s National People’s Army.

  Through all that time Ursula became Herbie’s one constant: the source of his content, the stimulant for his weary mind, and the solace of his body.

  Herbie tried to throw off the memories, as he now pushed back the duvet and lumbered into the bathroom. He shaved with great care, for his face, for any kind of razor, was like a tank trap, with its bumps and lumps, and troughs of skin. Rarely did he get through the morning ritual without nicking himself at least once. Back at St. John’s Wood the bathroom litter-bin was spotted with bloodstained tufts of cotton wool. This morning his hand was steady. Behind the depression of the past night’s haunting a sun of hope began to rise.

  He went into breakfast, wearing his usual loose grey suit, that fitted where it touched: the jacket hanging sloppy, and the trousers riding at least an inch high. Today he sported a floral tie, at odds with both suit and shirt.

  “Christ, Mr. Kruger,” Max set ham and eggs before him. “Hang about while I get me Polaroid sunglasses. Did you choose that, or was it some malicious present from the opposition?”

  The joshing was lost on Herbie, who thought the tie rather smart. He took a mouthful of food, and heard Ursula’s voice from the past—“Darling, you should give blood for the Party” (this after his shaving). “Herbie, sweetheart, you really can’t wear that tie. Red, and a blue-striped shirt, don’t go together.” Since leaving the East he had lost all sense of colour combinations.

  The small, apple-cheeked Schnabeln-Spendthrift—arrived on the dot of eight-thirt
y. He looked concerned, but kept to the ritual: exact timing, and the three double rings on the bell. He had left the Metropol Hotel at seven; crossed into the West at eight; gone straight to the approved meeting place with the Coach Tour firm—in at the front door, straight out of the back. By the book. It had always worked in the past. To their knowledge he had never been spotted. Berlin Station street men would see him in and then leave, knowing of the meet, but not the hunt.

  “Something is wrong?” he asked immediately, and Max chimed in quickly—“Not in front of the hired help, dear. I speak the lingo, you know, and this is all highly confidential, I’m sure. Eat first.”

  While Max was getting food Herbie quickly tried to allay Spendthrift’s fears. “A job. Came up sooner than we thought. Took us by surprise: with the trousers down.”

  Schnabeln said he had been very worried, because the meeting had been called forward. Nothing to concern him, Herbie soothed. All over by Sunday night. They had the best part of two days. There was some equipment to be taken over; certain routines to be run. He stressed the routineness of the business. A report to be flashed back. All over. Painless, like having a filling with an anaesthetic.

  The trick was playing everything like a normal debrief. While Max cleared the plates away they waited, talking inconsequentialities, or lapsing into silence for periods. Herbie went to the window and watched the street. He wanted Max in position before they began in earnest. Schnabeln fiddled with his briefcase, while Herbie refreshed his mind on the last Telegraph Boys’ reports he had glanced through before leaving London.

  There was movement in the East. Gemini reported a number of meetings with the DDR people that had suddenly come up. His target was bobbing to and fro like a yoyo. Out at the General Soviet Forces, Germany, in Zossen-Wunsdorf, Priam had disturbing news. All the baloney concerned with arms limitations in 1979 had come too late. The salt had lost its savour. The Soviets had already stock-piled enough lethality. The talk at Zossen-Wunsdorf was of new warheads coming in for the advanced SS-19s, and smaller SS-14, ICBMs in the East. The delivery rockets could remain unchanged for decades; what really mattered were the warheads. Priam talked of superior warheads, some—about a quarter—with chemical fillings, some multi-purpose. There were also to be changes in the armoured regiments in the DDR. New equipment was rumoured to be on the way.