by John Gardner
“You didn’t know I was here. When you set out for the meeting you didn’t know.”
“I knew something was very wrong. Christ, I’m not an idiot. I’ve carried on, even when your people seemed to forget our existence. Then, suddenly, I find myself being wooed by the KGB.”
“Wooed?”
“Literally. Not in your sense—the trade sense. Presents; little favours; being screwed.” She lifted her eyebrows. “When you trained me, Herbie, you said a crash meeting usually meant the worst. I was a star pupil. I can even remember how you put it. The crash meeting should be looked upon as a warning of thunder: a prelude to lightning. If a crash meeting is ordered, treat it like a time bomb. Take more care than ever before.” She laughed, throwing her head back. “You were a randy devil in those days, Herbie. You even said to me, ‘If there’s a crash meeting wear two pairs of drawers,’ remember?”
Unsmiling, Herbie nodded. “So this,” gesturing at the pistol, “was your spare pair of drawers?”
She said, yes, if he wanted to think of it like that.
Where did she get the pistol? How long had she had it? Martha told him: a gift from a Russian officer, a couple of years ago. “There’d been a number of attacks on women in the Pankow district. He was doing me a favour. Promised me a certificate, but it didn’t arrive.”
The authorities always had an excuse to pull her then; hold her for questioning. Unauthorised possession. His harshness did not diminish. Herbie leaned over the table and began to give Martha Adler the full treatment—harder than any of the others. He wanted to know everything: the names of all her contacts in the last years; particularly the Russians. How much of the information she passed came directly from them, instead of her personal observation? Her target was the Soviet Attache to the DDR’s Political Headquarters, so how much of her reports was culled from hearsay? How much from reality—her own experience?
Schnabeln, by the door, stayed longer than usual. Priam, the next appointment, was his own man, and could be picked up within ten minutes. It crossed his mind that Herbie might even forget his presence in the room, so concentrated was his attention on the woman Hecuba.
How did she feel, all those years ago, when she realised Herbie’s appointed handlers had deserted her? She knew why it stopped. There was talk. Herbie should not forget that she worked in the political HQ; that she had access to most of the gossip. “I knew, Herbie. I knew some had got away and that some were caught, some shot down. I didn’t know about you—though I discovered later, from a chance word.”
“What kind of chance word?”
“At a party, in the political compound. There were some SSD and KGB people there. It’s surprising how indiscreet those boys can be. They actually used your name—Schnitzer and Kruger. You put their noses right out of joint.”
So what had all this got to do with the way she felt?
She understood. She did not feel deserted. “You always said that, if anything happened, I was to carry on. Someone else would take over. They did—badly and unreliably, yes: but I got stuff through; remained loyal. It’s been worth it.” She leaned forward over the table, looking at him. Just as she must look at men when trying to lure them to her bed, Herbie thought. “I hate them more than ever, Herbie. I’ve kept faith; done my job.”
Herbie grunted—“In spite of temptations?” he said.
She answered, yes. The one word, clipped and angry.
Schnabeln thought, God, he’s getting her. A ratter with a big rodent caught in the barn: worrying her until she gives in. Dies.
Indeed, it was really only at that moment Herbie put the pressure into top gear: sweating her in every way he knew. Details? Details? More details—as though he knew her file by heart: memorised every piece of raw material she had sent over.
Almost as an aside Herbie glanced towards Schnabeln, telling him he could get out. Even that was said sharply; and as Schnabeln left he wondered what he would find on his return.
The questions went on. Hard, heavy, probing, until he sensed she was getting angry, losing her balance. Only then did Herbie ease up, entering the mellow phase which, in turn, would lead to the moment of truth.
All memories of past dealings with her had flown. In the core of his intellect Herbie Kruger was certain he had their double. Martha Adler. Under the table, he gave the Trepan team another bleep. Then he rose, looking at her, without sympathy, asking the questions concerning her own welfare and condition. She had a wildness about her now: the poise gone, even the beautifully-groomed ash blonde hair tousled by the constant running of her hand—a gesture of distress. When the questions went deep, Herbie noticed, she plunged the splayed fingers of her right hand into the heavy hair.
He did not want to turn his back on her; but it was time to put the question. He went and stood by her, placing a hand on her shoulder, then sliding it along the back of her neck, starting the personality change; beginning by laughing, low and pleasant.
She appeared to be even more puzzled, so Herbie went to the door and peeped out; then to the window. He spotted Curry Shepherd, sitting at a sidewalk table, sipping coffee and reading an English newspaper. It flicked through his mind that it must be an old edition.
“Martha, my darling girl. It’s good to see you.”
“Herbie? What the hell. That was my line. What …?
But he took her in his arms, embracing her, kissing her cheeks, then pulling away. She looked wary: confused. He had to be careful, he told her, just as he had warned the others. “They watch me also, you know. By rights, I should not be here. It was the only way.”
She asked what he meant, and Herbie gave her his big smile—the one you reserved for the publicity stills. Then he put her to the question—“A man can teach another man to do good—believe me.”
She did not seem to even notice what he had said. Why had he been so rough on her? She of all people? Hadn’t she been his most trusted person? Hadn’t he picked her—out of all those who must have been around at the time—to do this one very special job? Now he treated her like some faithless whore: or like a priest trying to test someone’s faith. “Well, my faith’s kept up to scratch, Herbie. Right up to scratch. Yes, I’ve stolen for my faith in the West; lived under this accursed regime; stolen, lied and whored for freedom. God, if you only knew the times I’ve wanted to run for it: make up for the years I’ve missed. Now you, of all people, come back and treat me like a whore.”
“A man can teach another man to do good—believe me.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Yes, I know what you mean. You taught me to do good for the cause of what I like to think of as freedom: democracy. I believe you, Herbie. But do I deserve all this?”
Herbie did not go for it. Something about her could not convince him. Yet the reactions appeared genuine. If she was the Moscow-trained double then she was very, very good, and now he had lost her. There was one more card he might play; though it would have to be left to others.
He slumped into the chair, glancing at his watch, realising time was running out. Slowly, the weariness pervading his voice, Herbie told her that she was blown, then ran the dance steps for her escape. He spun it out, going through her route -making her repeat it to him—asking where she had cached her dismantle identity papers; if she could get to them quickly?
During all this, he went over to the window and opened it, giving the sign that Schnabeln could come in with Priam. He then locked the door of the main room, in which they sat: taking these precautions without explanation, trying not to draw attention to them.
“The man I sent away will be back,” he explained. “I want him to help you get out.”
She said he need not put anyone else at risk.
“He won’t be at risk. I just want to make sure nobody’s on your back when you hit the street. He’ll pull off as soon as he’s certain. Okay?”
She agreed, and Herbie went through the money routine. He had only just closed the briefcase when he heard Schnabeln returning with Priam; Schnabeln t
rying the handle of the door; then knocking.
Herbie shouted for him to wait, telling Schnabeln to send his subject back to the car. It was insecure as hell, but the uncertainty about Hecuba meant taking fast, possibly unwise decisions. When he called out to Schnabeln Herbie even tried to disguise his voice—for Priam’s benefit. There was always Priam; he could not altogether rule out that possibility.
The front door closed. Herbie motioned Martha Adler to wait, while he let himself out into the small hallway.
Schnabeln’s face was creased with anxiety, relaxing a shade as Herbie told him what to do. It should only take a few minutes. Christoph Schnabeln nodded and left, murmuring he hoped Priam had not been scared off. Herbie shrugged. “Get it done fast. Wait until she’s out; then bring Priam in.”
Curry Shepherd looked at his watch. He was distinctly uneasy. Schnabeln had taken the woman into the house. In due course he had left; the normal run of events. Then the come-in sign had gone up, even though the woman had not gone from the house. Perhaps she had left by the back. That was the only reasonable explanation, because he saw Schnabeln arrive with a roly-poly, scruffy man who looked almost down at heel, in spite of what seemed, even at this distance, quite good clothes for East Berlin.
Curry was on his third coffee. Really time for him to change venue. Then he saw the scruff come out and run a loitering act, tying his shoelace. Schnabeln followed a few seconds later and the pair walked back the way they had come.
In fact, Schnabeln was taking no chances with Priam. He returned him to the car, telling his subject to stay put: that he was being watched. This was a serious business, and Schnabeln’s friends would collar Priam very fast if he took so much as a step out of the car.
Peter Sensel, well-rested, having spent most of the day in bed, was not going anywhere. He made that quite plain to his handler.
Curry signalled to the waiter, paid his bill, and was just about to leave—he would walk a bit, with the house in view, then go to one of the other cafés—when he saw Schnabeln coming up the pavement towards him, giving a friendly smile.
Shepherd left the café, sauntering towards Schnabeln, shaking hands, making it look very good: laughing occasionally, nodding away while Schnabeln talked.
The girl was still in the house, Schnabeln told him. But the big fellow was not happy. In a minute she would leave. Curry was to put his hooks on her, but be careful. Quickly Schnabeln recited the number of the safe house telephone, making Curry say it back. If the girl made contact with anyone suspicious he was to telephone and do a bit of double-talk.
In his drawling English-German Curry said it was so nice—to have seen him again, but he really should get going. As they shook hands Schnabeln recited what the woman’s movements should be. If she was clean she would go back to her apartment in Pankow, stay for about five minutes, then leave for the Ostbahnhof.
Curry waved cheerfully and set off along the sidewalk, eventually crossing the street, bringing himself on to a reverse track down the far pavement; lingering as he waited for the woman to leave.
His timing was slightly out, forcing him to start the tail from the front; for he had passed the house by the time the woman emerged. She walked fast, though, and Curry had no difficulty in letting her overtake. Within minutes he was in no doubt she was heading for the nearest S-Bahn station that would take her to the Pankow district. He tried to look happy, though Curry was now even more sure than before that the opposition had their surveillance people crawling all over the place.
Big Herbie’s rage stemmed basically from suspecting Martha Adler yet not pinning her down. The schedule was so tight that it was impossible to leave Priam alone for long. He also had to set the record straight with Ursula, and that should be done here. Just a few questions, in case anything went wrong.
Schnabeln gave him the nod as he ushered Priam into the room. Curry was leeching Hecuba. Then the whole business started again with Priam. By now Herbie was really into his role. Priam looked more disturbed and shocked than any of the others when Herbie gave him the brusque treatment.
By God, Herbie thought, I’m going to sweat blood from this one. If the Adler woman was clean—despite his reservations, that was how Herbie had to think—Priam was now on the rack. Here was his man.
He started by the roughest treatment yet—making Schnabeln go over Priam, doing a heavy body search.
“But Herbie,” Sensel almost whined. “It’s been so long. For God’s sake, haven’t you got even the hand of friendship for an old comrade?”
Schnabeln said Priam was clean.
“Then sit down there and answer my questions. I know the truth, so I want the truth back from you. This is not a picnic with one of your boyfriends.” Herbie started with that: the sexual aspect. How many affairs had Priam experienced with Russians?
From there he moved on to the question of loyalty during the time when handling was bad. How had Priam managed? Then down to specifics: the detailed raw information: Herbie harsh, uncompromising, almost brutal in the way he pounded questions at Sensel.
By the time Schnabeln was ordered out, Herbie had the subject almost in tears, claiming he had done everything possible. “You cannot fault me on any of the material, Herbie. Nor on the way I got it over. Even during the bad times. Are you accusing me of something? Tell me if you are, so that I can prove …”
“Prove what? That you are one of our biggest risks in the East? A man constantly in sexual contact with Russian males. Ripe for blackmail.”
Peter Sensel shook his head wildly. Nothing like that. No. Nothing like that had ever happened. He was careful. His work for the British had been immaculate.
Schnabeln had gone by this time, but Herbie still kept up the pressure: refusing to lapse into the mellow attitude. As it happened, Peter Sensel’s work had not always been immaculate, as he claimed. On three occasions Priam had put in reports concerning his target’s movements (the target being the Commander-in-Chief, General Soviet Forces in Germany) which had turned out not only to be inaccurate but highly misleading.
Herbie knew this could happen—particularly with surveillance from within a military base where rumour was rife and dummies often thrown: especially when it came to the movements of important personnel. It did not stop him hammering at these three reports until he had taken Priam to the outer limit. Time for the change of course.
The stern visage turned into the more friendly, smiling Herbie, whom Peter Sensel recognised of old.
At the window—having made his peace with Sensel—Herbie Kruger tensed. It was the moment. If he was wrong, it meant the Adler woman had duped him, or … ? But he could not even think of that possibility.
“A man can teach another man to do good—believe me,” he said slowly, gritting his teeth.
“Jesus,” breathed Peter Sensel from behind him.
For a second, Herbie hardly realised what had happened. He had been through it, acted the part to no effect, too many times already. He turned, smiling, saying the now-familiar words, “You are surprised it’s me, Peter?”
“Just say it again,” Sensel now relaxed completely; smirking as if he recognised what had been going on.
“A man can teach another man to do good—believe me.”
“Jail doesn’t teach anyone to do good, nor Siberia, but a man—yes!” Sensel said. Mistochenkov had mentioned nothing about an answer; but this was typical Russian method—the contact giving the second section of the whole quotation.
“My God,” Sensel smiled, rising: walking towards Herbie. “My God, I’m so glad it’s you. I’ve waited.”
“Since when?” Herbie wanted it over quickly. Never in his life had he really desired to kill, but as he looked at the overripe, mincing Sensel the whole ghastly betrayal exploded in his head.
“Since Trapeze sent me the message from Vascovsky—sorry, I should have said Auguste. Sloppy.”
“Good for Trapeze,” Herbie forced a smile. Sensel came even closer. “You know who Trapeze is?”
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br /> “Vascovsky’s girl—sorry, Auguste’s girl—wasn’t she? Until Auguste … My God, Herbie, you’re a clever old bugger.” He actually reached forward to embrace Herbie. It was at that moment Kruger hit him for the first time, a great roar rising from his soul—“You’re blown, you little bastard.”
Herbie’s fist took Sensel in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and, by the force, probably doing internal damage. Sensel jack-knifed, and Herbie brought a fist up under his chin.
Sensel had breath enough left to scream Herbie’s name, then the next punch took most of his teeth away; and another broke his nose. The man whom the Service had trusted as Priam landed, sprawled in one corner of the room. Herbie leaped on him like a huge bear, lifting him bodily, slamming another punch into the face. Knee to the groin. Punch to the face—to the stomach—to the ribs—the ribs again; and again—he felt the bone crack under his fist. Then the face—again; the face—now a pulp of blood—yet again.
Sensel was probably dead long before that last blow; and Herbie would certainly have gone on beating away at him had it not been for the ringing of the telephone.
Through the wild mist of rage and hatred, red, clouding his head, choking the emotions, Herbie became conscious of the bell. Slowly he released the thing he had been punching and striking, in that terrible moment of uncontrolled anger. Why? Why go berserk and blood mad? His mind threw back the questions, and the answers—sounding hollow now. Because this man had betrayed; because he had removed the truth that was the heart of Herbie Kruger’s whole life. From what appeared to be a long way back in his life, Herbie seemed to hear somebody quoting a poem to him: We are the hollow men; we are the stuffed men.
Panting, amazed at the awful loss of restraint which had driven him to the madness, Herbie stumbled over to the telephone. There was blood on his knuckles, he noticed. They hurt: stinging and throbbing.
“Ja?” he asked, looking with a lack of comprehension at the obscene, red-splashed doll crumpled in the corner.