November Man

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘West German government,’ he identified, lowering his voice as if he were entering into a conspiracy. ‘They like to indicate they believe in Ostpolitik and are not perturbed by trade with East Germany. So they fly all the way from Bonn. Back in a moment.’

  Hollis watched him wobble away. Burke would be a much more professional ambassador, he judged.

  ‘A pleasant party.’

  Hollis turned, instinctively smiling to the man at his side. They had not met before, the millionaire knew.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. The query tinged his voice and the newcomer smiled.

  ‘Altmann,’ he introduced himself. ‘Hugo Altmann. I hardly need to be told who you are.’

  Hollis continued smiling, pleased at the recognition.

  ‘Did you attend the Fair, Mr Altmann?’

  The other man shrugged. ‘Only briefly.’

  ‘It might be a worthwhile visit,’ said Hollis carelessly.

  ‘It could be very worth while,’ emphasized the man.

  Hollis frowned at him, curious at the remark.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘You travel quite extensively in Eastern Europe,’ said Altmann positively.

  Hollis was intrigued by the oddness of the man’s conversation; he felt vaguely uneasy.

  ‘I’m an international businessman,’ returned the millionaire, wondering about the inconspicuous little man veering upon impudence.

  ‘An enviable position,’ said Altmann.

  Hollis continued to look at him pointedly, completely discarding the patronizing attitude.

  ‘I’m constantly surprised’, went on Altmann, ‘that the British government have not properly recognized someone who has done what you have for the country.’

  This wasn’t a spontaneous encounter, Hollis realized, fascinated.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he replied, the practised response. He was curious what would happen.

  ‘Oh come!’ said Altmann, almost irritably. ‘Don’t you think it is quite remarkable that all you’ve done has gone without recognition from successive governments?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ said Hollis. This was dangerous, he thought, like a child playing with matches.

  ‘I don’t think I believe you, Mr Hollis,’ said Altmann, abruptly, chancing the shock. If Hollis just walked away, he’d lost, thought the Austrian.

  Hollis turned, deciding to back off and looking for support. Ellidge was still on the far side of the room, and no one from the Fair contingent apart from his personal assistant had accompanied him. The ambassador was gradually approaching with the West German officials, but was still too far away.

  ‘You’re alone,’ mocked Altmann, building upon the reaction.

  Hollis broke into laughter, the sound just too high to be genuine. He was sorry now he had encouraged the other man.

  ‘I’m content to wait for recognition,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘I don’t accept that,’ insisted Altmann. There would eventually be another file in Zurich, he thought. And more destruction. All his life, reflected Altmann, he had inhabited an abattoir of one sort or another, always running to keep the blood off his shoes.

  ‘I’m not really concerned whether you believe me or not,’ rejected Hollis. The words came too fast, glueing together. He’d been very stupid, accepted the millionaire.

  ‘Oh, I think you are,’ resumed Altmann, remembering the psychological assessment provided by the Russians. ‘I believe you are concerned with everyone’s reaction towards you.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded Hollis, letting his temper slide.

  Altmann hesitated, momentarily uncertain. The change of demeanour was amazingly sharp, he thought. Hollis could be a violent man.

  Instinctively he felt he had made the approach too quickly, leaving him insufficient time to manoeuvre. It would have been better to have prepared over two or three meetings, gradually leading the man on. But Turgonev had emphasized the need for quick results, which had annoyed him. Altmann preferred working at his own pace.

  ‘There are so many different ways of having one’s efforts rewarded by one’s country,’ replied Altmann, avoiding the question.

  The millionaire experienced a strange sensation permeating his body, a numbness almost. There had never been such an approach before, he thought, realizing the direction of the conversation.

  ‘I asked you who you were,’ he insisted, still fascinated. It would make a marvellous anecdote the following night in Paris.

  There was a discarding shrug from the man. He was constantly self-effacing, thought Hollis.

  ‘A man who makes it easier for countries to understand each other,’ said the Austrian.

  Round them the reception murmured on, forgotten. Such an ordinary-looking person, thought the millionaire.

  ‘There must be a reason for this conversation,’ tried Hollis. He was like a rabbit knowing it is about to be swallowed but unable to flee from the snake before it.

  ‘And you must know it,’ came back Altmann immediately.

  Hollis frowned, momentarily unsure of a reply. The Austrian saw the growing advantage and took it.

  ‘There must be many interesting things that an international business-man learns,’ he suggested.

  Hollis still hesitated, thinking of the details available from the meeting with Kodes. Far more than could be assessed by a Western analyst, he decided.

  As the millionaire moved to make a response, the Austrian enlarged: ‘… Many interesting things, to learn which a government would be properly grateful.’

  It was ridiculous, thought Hollis. Yet, like a man with a happy sex-life who looks at cinema photographs advertising pornographic movies, he still did not turn away.

  The Russians were right, decided Altmann. He found it inexplicable that someone should be so stupid. But then, he rationalized, too often apparently intelligent, sensible men behaved like idiots. For which, he supposed, he should be grateful. It was time to increase the pressure, determined the Austrian, confident now.

  Hollis was moving uncomfortably. ‘I could have you thrown out of here,’ he said, at last.

  ‘For what?’

  Hollis paused, embarrassed at himself.

  ‘Annoying me,’ he blurted, without proper thought.

  ‘And make yourself a joke?’ jabbed Altmann accurately.

  He waited, challenging a reaction. Hollis stared back emptily. The stranger was right, thought the millionaire. He had spoken like a fool.

  ‘You don’t want to be laughed at, do you, Mr Hollis?’

  ‘The man was slightly overemphasizing the ‘Mister’, Hollis realized, mocking the absence of any other title.

  ‘I don’t see any point in carrying this facile conversation any further,’ said Hollis, trying to recover.

  ‘Don’t you?’ said Altmann. He felt like an angler playing a prize-winning fish, knowing the line was strong enough to prevent an escape.

  ‘No,’ said the millionaire weakly.

  Altmann just stared at him, waiting. Hollis shifted his feet nervously.

  ‘You’re staying at the Am Zoo,’ said Altmann, at last. ‘I’ll call you there tomorrow.’

  Hollis laughed again, with conviction this time.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Altmann,’ he threw back.

  There was movement to his right, and he turned gratefully. Burke stood there, his professional diplomat’s smile in place. Just behind him was Ellidge, and Hollis turned fully to them, eager for rescue. He was surprised at the sensations within himself.

  ‘Just learning about the Fair,’ opened Burke, nodding towards the personal assistant. ‘Whitehall is keen to know everything.’

  The predictable pause. Then the diplomat finished. ‘You must be very happy …’

  Hollis recalled the ambassador’s earlier remark and glanced at Ellidge questioningly. The man’s face was expressionless, but Hollis knew from his attitude that Burke had only been given the most general outline. A
lmost immediately the ambassador arrived, and there was a flurry of introductions.

  Twice Hollis tried to turn back to Altmann, but each time was prevented by the need for politeness. It was almost fifteen minutes before he could disengage himself sufficiently to get to Burke. He gestured across the room to where Altmann was now in conversation with a business-man whom Hollis vaguely recalled seeing at Leipzig.

  ‘That man,’ he identified. ‘The man in the grey suit. Who is he?’

  Burke followed the direction of Hollins’s look.

  ‘Altmann?’ he queried. He looked back, smiling knowingly, a quiz contestant posed a question to which he knows the answer and is guaranteed a prize. ‘Quite a mystery man is our Mr Altmann.’

  Why couldn’t the bloody man answer a direct question without play-acting, thought Hollis angrily.

  ‘You mean he’s a spy?’

  Burke pulled back, offended by the directness and the smile slipped away. Anticipating criticism that such a person should be at a British embassy reception, Burke began, ‘… There are many things we have to do that we don’t particularly like, but …’

  ‘So he’s a spy,’ confirmed Hollis, unwilling to permit the other man his diplomatic niceties.

  He looked back across the room. Altmann was talking to the ambassador now. Walton was laughing, cheeks wobbling, leading the West Germans in the amusement.

  ‘How important is he?’ demanded the millionaire, coming back to Burke. It was an oddly phrased question, he accepted, seized by the wording. Burke was very serious now, curious at the tone in Hollis’s voice.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to know,’ snapped Hollis, careless of his usual courtesy.

  ‘Very important,’ replied Burke, stiffly, offended by the peremptory manner. ‘I understand he’s most highly regarded by the British government for what he does. It doesn’t come within my orbit, you understand … neither do I approve …’

  Time for further defence. ‘… These things are necessary …’

  Hollis nodded, looking away. He should have walked away immediately the reason for the man’s approach had become clear to him, he thought, too late. He looked at his watch, a rehearsed gesture.

  ‘You wanted me to remind you of the meeting scheduled for tonight,’ responded Ellidge, on cue.

  ‘Oh,’ came in Burke, disappointed. ‘I think the ambassador had rather hoped for a small meal …’

  Hollis smiled the refusal.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, the rejection easy. ‘Perhaps if you’d mentioned it earlier, but I set up a work session for this evening.’

  Burke accepted the defeat, nodding.

  ‘I understand,’ said the diplomat, moving them towards the ambassador and starting the apology on Hollis’s behalf. ‘There must be so little time …’

  The farewells were brief. Before he left the room, Hollis tried to locate Altmann, but the Austrian no longer appeared to be there. A great mistake, recriminated Hollis, as he left.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ asked Ellidge, as their car moved off towards the hotel.

  It was several minutes before Hollis replied and then he seemed confused.

  ‘What?’ he asked distantly.

  ‘I asked if anything were wrong,’ repeated Ellidge. ‘I got the impression that you were upset.’

  There was a further pause from the millionaire. Then he said, ‘No, nothing’s wrong …’

  Doubt infused the words. ‘I don’t think there is, anyway,’ he concluded.

  Ellidge frowned at his employer across the car, but said nothing. Sometimes, he thought, Hollis acted very strangely.

  Altmann snapped off the tape-recorder into which he had dictated what would eventually become part of the latest Zurich file, and sat back, stretching. He felt tired, he realized. More so than he would have expected from the activity of the day.

  He poured some wine that room service had just delivered and sat thinking of his encounter with Hollis.

  Certainly arrogant, he agreed. But hardly more than he would have expected from someone so successful. Probably, he thought, a reasonably nice man.

  He shrugged, his mind moving inevitably to his preoccupation. That meeting in Vienna with Turgonev, so soon after the attack, troubled him.

  The Russian approach was inexplicable, he decided. Unless it had been rehearsed in preparation for an expected reaction. And why should the Russians imagine they could predict his response? Unless …? He shook his head positively. No, he decided. That was ridiculous. And illogical. Why should they attack him?

  He went to the window, staring out into the darkness. It was good to know that somewhere out there was a group of men whose job it was to keep him alive.

  Who the hell could the attackers have been in Vienna? he wondered. He’d know very soon, he thought. It wouldn’t take the K.G.B. very long to find out. They were very good.

  The President was drinking too much, decided Dennison, sitting uneasily in the Executive Office den. It would have been impossible for any critic to fault the man on his public performance, but in private moments like these there was a tendency for the top to remain off the bourbon bottle. There was still too far to go to start relaxing prematurely, the Secretary felt.

  ‘Didn’t I predict the reaction?’ boasted Bell expansively. Despite his intake, the words came out crisply, with no slur.

  ‘You certainly did, Mr President,’ replied the Secretary of State.

  ‘There isn’t a farmer in the Middle West who won’t be behind us now,’ enlarged the President, adding to his tumbler.

  ‘What about the convention reaction to Murray?’ asked Dennison guardedly. ‘It’s a pretty unusual plan you’re trying here. One or two States might create problems with their Favourite Sons.’

  Bell patted his pocket, a man sure of its contents.

  ‘Just ten short of a majority,’ he said. ‘And that’s nothing. When the others see which way the vote is going they’ll fall into line. I’ve had every State committee canvassed. All the right promises have been made.’

  The man was a superb politician, conceded Dennison.

  ‘How do you think you’ll like working with Murray?’ demanded Bell, changing direction.

  ‘I’m unsure,’ Dennison hedged, treading delicately. ‘I think he’s a difficult man to know.’

  ‘He’ll run a tight game,’ agreed Bell, predictably calling upon a football analogy. He paused, looking up from his glass. ‘It’ll be just like Kennedy and Camelot, all over again. You see.’

  Kennedy got shot down, thought Dennison cynically.

  They met in the Lubyanka complex again, so that Turgonev could maintain the pressure.

  ‘It went well,’ praised the Russian.

  Junkers smiled, constantly grateful, but Kodes gave no response.

  ‘If the contracts come to fruition, it will mean massive trade for both your countries.’

  ‘The details I was instructed to disclose not only reflect badly upon my own country, but indicated criticism of the Soviet Union,’ reminded Kodes. He felt like a swimmer being swept out to sea by a current he could not fight against.

  ‘The man has got to have something to pass on to the British authorities,’ stressed Turgonev. ‘They’d immediately detect false information.’

  ‘That makes me an informer against my country for a foreign power,’ said Kodes.

  ‘I’ve told you both,’ stressed Turgonev, smiling. ‘There is nothing for either of you to be worried about, providing you follow instructions.’

  Only Junkers nodded at the reassurance.

  Turgonev dismissed them impatiently, anxious to conclude the research he’d commenced two months before. Very soon now, he thought, as the two men left the room, I’ll know who the spy is.

  (8)

  There had been numerous other calls into the suite before Ellidge instructed the switchboard to suspend contact during their meeting, but when the telephone rang at eleven o’clock Hollis knew intuitively who it would be. Th
ere was a hollowness in his stomach and had he been standing his legs would have felt weak, he knew. He’d refuse to accept the call, he thought, staring towards the sound. Whatever was said, he would disdain any conversation. The stupidity had to stop.

  The final meeting examining the over-all success of the Leipzig Fair for Hollis Industries had already been going on for thirty minutes, and his suite was crowded. His German chairman continued talking, unbothered by the interruption, but Hollis’s eyes followed the secretary who moved to answer.

  The German paused and Ellidge, misinterpreting Hollis’s attention, reminded the room. ‘I gave the strictest instructions that all calls should not be put through, just logged for answering later. I’m sorry.’

  Hollis shrugged, using the mistake of the man in the room. He nodded to the German to continue, straining to hear the muffled conversation on the other side of the suite.

  ‘What do you think, sir?’

  The question penetrated, and Hollis concentrated suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  Ellidge resisted the frown. ‘Do you think we should supply a letter of intent upon the landing-system or see about the export problem first?’

  ‘See about any difficulties,’ responded Hollis, immediately. Ellidge had saved him, giving him so much information in the question, he realized. ‘If we indicate intent, we might create legal snags,’ he added, anxious to appear in control.

  The Germans bent over notebooks, writing copiously.

  ‘Send vague letters,’ ordered Hollis. ‘But fulsome ones. I don’t want to lose it. I just want to avoid committing ourselves too heavily.’

  The secretary stood haplessly at the far side of the room, the receiver loosely held in his hand as if he were displaying evidence of an accident.

  ‘What?’ snapped Hollis, looking directly at the man. He made a helpless movement and then walked to where Hollis sat.

  ‘A man,’ he stumbled, embarrassed. ‘He won’t give his name, but he says you were expecting a call from him. I know it’s ridiculous, but …’

  Hollis jerked from his chair, impatiently, ahead of Ellidge who had started to move. The millionaire grabbed the receiver, feeling a poseur.