by John Gardner
“Some panic if I’d taken these,” Schnabeln allowed the smile to fade, nodded his thanks again to Hoffer, apologised for the extra work he had loaded on to Rudy Frettcher, and left, weaving slightly.
Once outside Christoph Schnabeln shook off the sickness by walking fast: concentrating on the job in hand. The Wartburg was at the Metropol, and he would need that for making quick, personal contact with the other three members of the Quartet. Before that he could make the call to his Vopo friend, hoping the man was on duty, either that night or first thing in the morning. The tracing of Luzia Gabell would be impossible if the policeman—a sergeant—had the week-end off. Christoph could not push the old flame idea too hard.
Luck was a lady, and with him. At the Metropol he told the duty man on the desk that Hoffer had sent him back because of his upset stomach; but he was feeling much better now. He winked, as if to bring the man on the desk into a conspiracy. “I’ve had two days slogging away at those bastard tour operators in the West. I don’t intend to work tonight, see?”
The desk clerk saw, and smiled as he watched Schnabeln make for the public telephone booth in the foyer. The Vopo sergeant was not at home. “Night duty shift for the next three weeks,” his wife said, not sounding that unhappy about it. At the far end of the line Schnabeln thought he heard the sound of a man’s cough. He grinned to himself, making farewells quickly, and dialled the Volkspolizei Headquarters, where his friend would be on duty.
Yes, anything for an old comrade, the Vopo sergeant said. There was not much doing tonight. Later it would probably get busy, but he would run through the files and call him back.
No, Christoph told him. He would be out. “I’ll call you, later, from some bar. I’m really working, but I just got to thinking about her. If she’s at a loose end … well … You know how it is …?”
The police sergeant knew how it was. Nobody better. He would be there until six. “If you find her and she’s any good, I might look her up myself,” the Vopo laughed. “Let me know.”
Schnabeln went out to the Wartburg. There was no point in going to Walter Girren’s place yet. He did not finish at the theatre until after ten o’clock. First he would see Anton Mohr, out in Köpenick; then a quick trip to Anna Blatte. If she did not leap on him he might have time to trace his own people—Hecuba and Priam. There was an emergency routine for urgent contact. But on a Saturday night, you could not be certain. It could be tomorrow before messages reached the men and women serviced by the Quartet, and Herbie had been adamant that his private meetings—using the only two safe houses available—should begin not later than eleven on the Sunday morning.
As he turned the car in the direction of the Köpenick district Schnabeln caught sight of his wrist-watch. Jesus. Every half-hour. He was supposed to bleep the West every half-hour. Setting the car on a straight stretch of road, Christoph Schnabeln brought his hands together on top of the wheel and operated the button, giving a thirty-second burst of his long bleeps.
“At last,” Tiptoes Corn noted the bleep. Miriam Grubb logged the time. “Spendthrift,” she said. “Moving, and very near the Metropol Hotel.”
Worboys wondered, aloud, if Spendthrift and Herbie were together. Of Charles there was no sign. Still searching for Max, or prising open car doors. No more news from London, either. The Director had somebody coming over, and gave the impression that it would be from Berlin Station. They should be here by now. Worboys invoked every deity known to him, from the Trinity downwards. He could deal with the screech, but did not like the idea of being in sole charge of this lot.
Miriam Grubb saw his expression, and reached over, clasping Worboys’ hand. It would work out, she said quietly. It would work out, and when it was over they would have Honeymoon Potatoes again—in better surroundings.
Tony Worboys gave her a weak grin, and felt the familiar stirrings of his body; reflecting that he lusted amazingly after Miriam Grubb. For a second or two his mind riffled through a few of the basic facts, in very clear vision, but without the sound.
Then the telephone rang, and the Director was on the line from London, his voice calm in Worboys’ ear, while Miriam kept an eye on the VUs in case the screech came early.
In the building near Westminster Bridge, in London, the cipher machines had been speaking their own uneasy languages.
Tubby Fincher was on his way, by car, to Northolt where a Harrier jet stood by to ferry him into Berlin, cleared as military traffic and heading for Gatow.
As Fincher left the building the Director reflected that he looked less like a warrior of the secret world than any other man he knew—this rake-like figure, all skin and bone, carrying a light overnight bag. “Bloody white witch doctor, that’s what he looks like.” The Director watched Tubby climbing into the waiting car, then turned and walked back to the elevators, his stocky body moving as though he had to force his way through the atmosphere by sheer strength. It was a walk of purpose and determination. The Director knew exactly what he had to do now, and so took the elevator up to the very top of the building—to the C & C rooms, where he sought out the senior officer on duty: that same ‘Jones the Spy’ who had brought the Trapeze message from Stentor to his office only a couple of hours before. Two hours, which now seemed to have been a passage of days.
Together the Director and Jones the Spy sat down in one of the main cubicles containing a direct telex cipher machine. There they began to talk to the outside world—to Berlin Station in particular.
The problem was to contain most of the elements. The Director had no intention of revealing the Trepan operation to Berlin; or, for that matter, the fact that his senior expert in all things bright and beautiful within the DDR had gone over the Wall on a mission that was only partially sanctioned.
Yet two things had to be done. First, provide cover for Tubby Fincher’s visit, without stirring anxiety and without having a street man constantly on his confidant’s back. The Director also had to get a message into East Berlin. Not just a message—an order: instructions for the whole beehive to be evacuated.
Jones the Spy simply obeyed orders, working the machines. The Director himself did the encoding and unzipped the replies. The whole business took over an hour.
First, he talked in cipher—screeched from the telex—concerning Fincher’s imminent arrival at Gatow. Head of Berlin Station knew Tubby Fincher personally and would recognise his work name.
Happily, Head of Station had not gone away for the week-end. It took the duty officer only fifteen minutes to get him into the cipher room, so that he was talking almost directly with London and his superior.
The first message was suitably ambiguous. A room was to be reserved—at the Kempinsky if possible—for Fincher (the cipher used the name ‘Dombey’) who was arriving at Gatow on a personal visit. Berlin Station would provide a private car, and then leave him alone. The matter was domestic, and Dombey was not infringing Head of Berlin Station’s territorial rights.
Berlin came back with an understood and Wilco.
The second bit was more difficult. It was of the greatest urgency: to be acted on as priority. Head of Station was to open File Four: Source Six (a closed file, kept in the vaults near the shredder, and only to be opened on the Director’s authority, against an emergency such as this). Head of Station was to check on the address, and immediate contact method, for Spendthrift in East Berlin. He was to examine nothing else, and reseal the file after completing the necessary logging procedure.
Head of Station was then to dispatch, with haste, one of his loners who had to make personal contact with Spendthrift. The Director went through the jargon which would convince Spendthrift he was not being sold a pup. Then the message, clear and simple. Decamp Quartet and all those they handled. Reason—Soviet intelligence was closing fast for the kill. Berlin’s man was to offer any reasonable help in evacuating those to whom this referred. Berlin Station was to offer all reasonable help. No, repeat no, incidents: which meant no shooting.
Berlin came back
with a Wilco and Wilrep-hour: which meant Head of Station would be back to London within the hour, with details of the man sent in, and when they could expect a report.
The Director nodded and left Jones the Spy at the machine, with threats of firing squads or transfer to the KGB if he deserted that post for a second. Jones the Spy was to call the Director as soon as any further word came from Berlin.
In his office the Director put through a direct, open-line call to the Mehring Platz penthouse, speaking a certain amount of double-Dutch with Worboys. During the course of this he learned that Herbie was installed in the Metropol Hotel, and that Spendthrift was nearby.
Worboys put down the telephone. He looked relieved, and both Tiptoes and Miriam glanced from their magic boxes, questioning with their eyes.
From what he could make out, Tony Worboys told them, all hell was breaking loose. Tubby Fincher, of all people, was on the way. Berlin Station was dealing with what the Director had called “the little problem concerning the surgeon and his colleagues”. They just had to stay put, track the bleeps and rely on Tubby when he arrived.
He had just finished putting them in the picture when Charles returned, with a battered-looking Max who was making heavy weather of his minor injuries, and cursing Herbie Kruger with every jinx, enchantment, evil eye and cantrip he knew. Charles fussed around him playing nurse; and, between fetching hot water, a large brandy and bandages—which were totally unnecessary for the bump on the back of Max’s head—he apologised for taking so long. “Had to stash the car away from Polly Polizei, Lieblings. Service motor with all the gadgets, and not known to Berlin Station. Max had a hidey-hole.”
“You watched your own back, I hope,” Worboys had found his measure again, and regarded the pair of lion-tamers with a stony eye.
“We’re not bloody amateurs, dear,” Charles spat. “Max is a very brave soldier. Walked under his own steam. Watched each other’s backs. Clean as a virgin’s—”
“The big hairy Kraut,” Max blasted. “Blood-sucking son of an ape’s whore. Slippery, uncouth reptile. Bloody Big Herbie sodding Kruger.”
“Shut up, you,” Worboys shouted, with such command that everyone looked at him, Charles’ mouth falling open.
“Well,” Max shrugged. “The madman hit me. In my own car. Threatened me with his gun as well.”
Jesus, thought Worboys, how did Herbie pull that one? He had heard the Director give an express order concerning firearms. Charles and Max only.
“He should’ve shot your balls off,” Worboys spat. “Now shut up and pull yourself together. Mr. Fincher’s on the way.
“Old Scarecrow himself, eh?” Max, sotto voce.
Worboys gave him one more warning, telling him that he had got himself done by Herbie, and would have to answer for it. Max stayed silent after that, and Worboys quietly asked Miriam if she’d hold the look-out for a minute: he wanted air.
On the balcony Tony Worboys took in several deep breaths and looked out over the now-familiar view of Berlin. In particular, he gazed into the far distance, across the jagged, well-lit area of the Wall. Somewhere, among the far lights of the East, Big Herbie was on a personal quest. Young Tony Worboys thought he knew enough about Herbie to be certain that the man would never have taken such drastic and insubordinate action unless he thought it absolutely necessary.
Herbie’s professionalism was sacred. He would not dash off in a fit of pique or spite just because the Director had forbidden it. He hoped, almost to the point of hysteria at this moment, that Herbie Kruger would one day be able to give a complete picture of his reasons. For a second Worboys almost saw him—in a kind of wish-fulfilment—lecturing at the school on the nature of taking independent action in the field.
Worboys had a lot of life to live: much to learn about stress, revenge and yearning. He was a long way off that time when a man—even a professional like Herbie Kruger—reaches the age of disillusionment and tries to take actions into his own hands, believing that right will not always prevail, and all stories do not have happy endings.
Before going back into the apartment Worboys gave a casual glance West. He could see the lighted broken tower of the Kaiser Wilhelmskirche, and the glare of neon and street lights from the Kurfurstendamm. The Ku-damm would be busy tonight. Saturday night.
The bars, hotels and clubs on the Ku-damm were indeed busy. One of these crowded, drinking places sported the English public house name of the Black Horse. Holding court at the bar of the Black Horse was one Curry Shepherd—a favoured regular customer.
Curry Shepherd had something of the ex-officer-gone-to-seed about him. Just occasionally, at the Black Horse, they would see him in a smart suit and shirt, wearing the tie of a famous British regiment. At this moment, however, Curry was in his usual old, almost threadbare tweed jacket and grey flannels. He wore an open-necked shirt, but the clothes somehow managed to give the impression that they had once been very good, but, like their owner, had seen better days and a lot of service.
Curry was a tallish man; sharp, penetrating good looks and what had once been blond hair, thinning now and in need of cutting. People said that it was the permanent tired look in his eyes that got the girls. There was a girl with him now: a dumpy little thing with a touch of the gypsy about her. She looked young enough to be his daughter, but hung on his every word, a hint of adoration in her eyes.
One large Shepherd hand was wrapped faithfully around the girl’s shoulder, while the other clutched a glass of Schnapps—“to keep the cold out,” he would say, even on the hottest day of the year. Curry was always good value, even though some of his little bon mots had long become repetitive.
At the moment he was telling the girl some story about his now-divorced wife and odd goings on with a local vicar back in England. The whole thing was ludicrous, highly embellished, but exceptionally amusing; as were all Curry’s stories.
The regulars often marvelled at Curry Shepherd. Only a mad Englishman, they argued, could possibly hold down the job of foreign representative for a highly reputable firm of London publishers, yet manage to consume such quantities of alcohol. Also, only someone like Shepherd could dress so badly after once holding the rank of colonel in a famous British regiment. There were those who did not altogether believe that part of Curry’s story; but there was no doubt about his present job, of which they had all seen evidence. The publishers produced a lot of books with a German flavour, but the job sometimes took him as far afield as Paris and Rome. Once a year he went to London.
Behind the bar the telephone burst into a harsh, commanding Teutonic clamour. Curry Shepherd made his usual joke about Alberich working on the Ring again, and the barman took the call, placing the flat of one hand over his right ear to blot out the noise.
The barman said Ja a couple of times, then picked up the instrument, placing it on the bar in front of the Englishman. “For you, Curry.”
“Who the hell knows I’m here?” Curry looked genuinely surprised, even though every friend he possessed in Berlin was well aware that, when in town, Curry Shepherd could be relied upon to be at the bar of the Black Horse for a large portion of each evening.
“Hello,” he bawled into the telephone. His voice bore the stamp of high-volume parade-ground training.
“Curry?” asked a quiet voice at the other end.
“We have mild or hot; Madras, Vindaloo or Biriani. Yes?” Which was his standard response.
“It’s David,” said the voice, and someone would have had to be looking very closely to spot the slight change in Curry Shepherd’s eyes.
“David. Jolly d. What’re you doing in the great divided city?”
“Passing through. Thought we might meet.”
“Of course. Why not? I’m at the Black Horse on the Ku-damm. Come on over.”
“Rather you came to me.”
“Jolly d. Mind if I bring a bird?”
“Rather you didn’t.”
“Ah. She’ll be a bit put out. Have to do a spot of the old glib-tongueing,�
� he wanked at the girl, moving his hand to tweak at her breast. She giggled and moved closer. “Where are you, David?”
“Hotel Les Nations. Near the Tiergarten.”
“Know it like the back of my neck, old cocker. This is business, I presume, and can’t wait? Rather had plans for tonight.”
“I’m not here for long, and there’s a book I really think you should see. I’m certain you’ll want to follow it up: giving you first crack.”
“Jolly d of you, cocker. When you want me, then?”
“Oh, I’ll be here for the next couple of hours. Really, I’m doing you a favour, Curry.”
“Okay, cocker. Business is business. See you soon.” Curry Shepherd put down the telephone and grinned at the girl, speaking to her in English, because she was working on the language. “Sorry, angel eyes. Business calls. Literary agent in from London. Whistle stop and all that.” Heaven knew if she really understood Curry’s particular version of the English language, but she appeared to be getting the message. “Fella thinks he’s found a German Tolstoy or something. Got to meet him, pronto.” With that, he launched into negotiations for a date on Monday night, which, in the back of his head, he knew might be quite impossible for him to keep.
David was Head of Berlin Station, as far as Curry Shepherd was concerned. The Hotel Les Nations, near the Tiergarten, meant the safe house they kept in the Dahlmannstrasse; and meeting David there within the next two hours meant as quickly as Curry Shepherd’s long legs could carry him.
Indeed Curry Shepherd worked for a London publisher: but only on a temporary basis. He was an old Berlin hand from way back, a street man with much experience under his belt, and the publishing cover gave him easy travel facilities. In effect, he led a pleasant life these days, as his particular talents were seldom on call. David’s line, about “doing him a favour” indicated that this was something of high import.