November Man

by Brian Freemantle

  Marion’s reaction baffled him. She bubbled with excitement, making no reference to their argument the previous week, demanding he be home before eight o’clock and refusing to disclose the reason.

  ‘A secret,’ she laughed happily. ‘A big secret.’

  It was a dinner party, he determined, sitting back in the car as the chauffeur headed northwards from London. She regretted what had happened and had prepared a meal, probably for the two of them, so that she could apologize, he decided. It would be a gesture typical of her, he thought. She always had been impulsive, blurting things out, then embarrassed to find a way to show her remorse. That was the cause of all the rows, her inability to think before she spoke. He’d dismiss the whole episode, he decided; tell her to erase it from her mind, like he had done. Everything was forgotten, like all the other quarrels. And they’d make love, he decided, stirring at the thought They were good at sex, he knew, with no inhibitions, each enjoying what pleased the other.

  The butler indicated the drawing-room, and he hurried forward expectantly. She would have drinks prepared, he guessed.

  The room was in semi-darkness, just lit by two standard lamps, and he squinted, trying to locate her.

  ‘Here, Jocelyn.’

  She sounded distracted, he thought. He went forward and found her in one of the high-backed chairs facing the television set.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he said softly, reaching out.

  Irritably, she waved him to silence without looking at him, gesturing to the television.

  ‘Look,’ she commanded. ‘It’s a recording of the nomination. Daddy phoned me. It’s fantastic. Watch.’

  Hollis stood stiffly, gazing at the ceremony which always reminded him of grown men pretending to be Roman legionaries. They emerged shiny with sweat and embarrassment in their second of glory, from beneath the banners designating their States, to identify the man they would support for the Presidency. The choice was overwhelming, and then the camera closed in upon James, hands clasped aloft in a boxer’s pose, being embraced first by the incumbent President and then by his family. Several times he tried to shout over the trumpet cacophony, hands thrown high to quell the noise.

  At last a reluctant silence settled, broken every few minutes by yells or bugle blasts. Still shouting to make himself heard, James stood on the huge rostrum, protected behind the bullet-proofed glass, and made the announcement that created American election history.

  Negotiations were under way, he explained, to bring peace to the world, negotiations in which he was playing a vital role.

  ‘This will be an election like no other, because I will take less part in the campaign than any other prospective candidate ever before. Or probably ever again. Ours is the party of peace. I intend to be the man who brings about that peace … a lasting peace. That is the choice for this country. Not just between Republican or Democrat. But for peace and the man who can bring it.’

  Hollis looked away from the recording. Marion sat hunched forward, elbows on her knees, face cupped in her hands, engrossed in the ritual that was unfolding before her. She was completely hypnotized, he saw, oblivious to anything round her.

  ‘… Too early for detailed disclosures …’, James was intoning. ‘My trust is in God. I ask you to put your trust in Him too. And in me … I pledge to you and to America that I will not fail you …’

  The hall was in tumult, banners waving and ecstatic delegates dancing and parading in the aisles of the Chicago convention centre. The picture faded, to be replaced on the screen by a panel of American political analysts attempting to assess what Murray had meant by the announcement. Marion remained motionless, following every word, nodding as if she were actually involved in the debate.

  Finally, it was over. Hollis shifted. He felt hollow, sick almost. Reluctantly, Marion looked away, turning to him. She had been openly crying, he saw.

  ‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’ she demanded. She spoke in an urgent, hushed voice, like a teenager talking of an idolized pop singer. He said nothing, but the woman failed to notice the lack of response.

  ‘He’s going to do it,’ she insisted, as if Hollis needed convincing. ‘He’s going to get back in November with the biggest damned majority ever. Think, Jocelyn. James – President of the United States of America.’

  He moved to the wall, turning up the lighting, then switched off the television. She blinked at the light. Her eyes still had an empty look, he saw.

  ‘Would you like to have a drink?’ he asked, automatically needing some activity.

  She frowned at him uncomprehendingly.

  ‘A drink?’ he repeated.

  Impatiently, she shook her head.

  ‘Are we eating here tonight?’ he asked.

  She got up from the chair, moving quickly.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jocelyn, how can you think of food? I’m going to call the family. And try to get through to James, too.’

  She hurried from the room, leaving him alone.

  He began following, then stopped. There was nowhere in the house he wanted to go, he realized.

  The C.I.A. station in Vienna is an important listening-post into Eastern Europe, their shipment in the diplomatic bag from the United States embassy there daily occupying three wallets.

  So it was mid-day at the C.I.A. headquarters in Langley, Virginia, before the Austrian station director’s report on Altmann’s request to defect, coupled with the hints of the enormous amount of material embarrassing to the Soviet Union, was processed through the filing system.

  And it was early evening before it reached the C.I.A. Director’s desk. He sat for a long while, considering it. demanded a computer print-out on all the conceivable information promised, and then requested an immediate meeting with Dennison. Convinced of the urgency, the Secretary of State delayed the dinner engagement with the Harvard governors whom he was beginning to cultivate, and saw the Director immediately.

  Sitting in a haze of tobacco smoke, Dennison examined the Austrian report, then the computer assessments that had been assembled on what Altmann could possibly possess.

  The Secretary of State sought space in his ashtray, failed and emptied the entire contents into his waste-paper basket, apparently engrossed in the exercise.

  ‘Do we use him?’ demanded Dennison.

  ‘Yes. A great operator,’ said the Director.

  ‘But a double?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ agreed the agency chief. He waited for the criticism, but Dennison ignored him, staring down at his desk.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked the Director impatiently.

  ‘A bombshell,’ agreed Dennison.

  ‘So what do we do?’

  Dennison lit another cigarette before replying.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said emphatically. ‘The last thing we want now is some bloody spy opening up a can of worms this big.’

  ‘But we’ve got to give him some reply,’ insisted the Director.

  ‘Stall him,’ instructed Dennison, standing up. If he hurried, he’d only be thirty minutes late for the meeting with the Harvard board.

  ‘After all,’ continued the diplomat, ‘he’s not important, is he? He’s only a bloody spy.’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed the Director. ‘He’s not important.’

  (12)

  It was six years since he’d been to Moscow, realized Altmann, looking out as the Zil picked up the road from Sheremetyevo airport for the journey to the capital. Last time it had been to be honoured. Today, he knew, would be different. There could be only one inference from the curt, demanding summons: recrimination.

  Turgonev had sounded irritated during the telephone-call, as if there were other people in the room prompting his conversation. Altmann realized he was very frightened.

  He couldn’t understand the delay in the response from Washington: he’d almost gone too far in outlining the material he had to offer.

  This was more than just fear, he thought. He felt ill, too. It was a feeling of perpetual tiredne
ss. The lightheadedness – he refused to think of it as a tendency towards fainting – was almost a daily occurrence now, and that tightness frequently developed in his chest, even though he had reduced his smoking so much that his nerves were fraying.

  Would Hannah be able to travel, he wondered. He’d convinced himself that he would not abandon her. Instead he’d insist she was flown in a special hospital plane to the United States. It would be easy for the C.I.A. – they even had their own airline. It would be a small demand for the amount of information he had to offer.

  He’d be quite firm about it, he decided, seeking self-assurance. He’d divulge nothing until he knew Hannah was safe. But what if the doctors said she was too ill to leave Zurich? Would he stay? Or run? He pushed the question away, frightened at the decision which kept presenting itself.

  The car began negotiating the suburbs, and gradually the square, granite buildings grew larger. Very little had changed, thought Altmann. People still walked without smiling. And from his arrival at the airport, he knew the place still carried with it that indefinable smell.

  Through the gaps in the building he located the monolithic architecture of the Kremlin. Two blocks past the Kremlin, the car drove into Dzerzhinsky Square. The grey stone headquarters of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti. before the Revolution owned by the All-Russian Insurance Co., reared up starkly at the far junction. The car turned into the underground car-park, the driver confident of his priority, and Altmann got stiffly out, following the official who stood waiting for him by the lift. A definite odour, decided the Austrian, as the elevator moved upwards. Perhaps it was the spice in the food.

  Turgonev sat alone in his office and did not stand when Altmann entered. The Austrian walked calmly into the huge room, selected what appeared to be the most comfortable chair and sat down.

  On the far side of the square, visible through the window, he could see the outline of Lubyanka. I could still end up in there, thought Altmann. Or in one of the anonymous squares which honeycombed the complex, before a firing squad.

  ‘We’re not satisfied, Hugo,’ announced the Russian, without greeting.

  Why so harsh, wondered Altmann. He was speaking for the benefit of someone else, the Jew realized immediately.

  ‘What more do you expect?’ he asked.

  ‘Results,’ said Turgonev. His voice was loud enough to carry to the adjoining rooms. Altmann glanced around. Two of the three doors leading into the office were ajar sufficiently for anyone on the far side to hear.

  Purposely reducing his voice, Altmann said. ‘The scheme had an element of great uncertainty about it from the beginning.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ rejected the Russian instantly.

  So one of the listeners had devised the operation, Altmann judged. The concern had to be very real if a member of the Praesidium were lurking in an ante-room. And it had to be someone in the Praesidium, he knew. Fear, that ever-present sensation, swept through him. It was important not to be overwhelmed, decided Altmann. He would make mistakes and they would become suspicious. He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the half-opened doors.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more comfortable if everyone were in the same room?’

  Turgonev flushed, confused. The meeting momentarily balanced in his terms, decided the Austrian.

  The farthest door swung wider and Altmann half turned, seeing Melkovsky. Turgonev immediately rose, respectfully. But Altmann moved more slowly, only just preventing the lack of respect being rudeness.

  ‘Comrade Melkovsky,’ greeted the Austrian, bending his body in an apology for a bow.

  ‘Herr Altmann,’ replied the minister. He nodded permission and the men sat down again. As he did, Altmann saw the second figure, managing to avoid the surprised reaction. Konrad Bauer stared at him expectantly. He should have guessed, realized Altmann, that they would have introduced someone else to monitor the assignment: he felt no annoyance.

  ‘You’re remarkably well controlled,’ praised Melkovsky, jerking his head towards the East German. ‘I expected my presence and that of Bauer to be unsettling.’

  ‘I survive by not being shocked,’ said Altmann, aware of Turgonev and Bauer tensing at his disrespectful tone. The minister appeared unoffended.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve heard a great deal from Comrade Turgonev about your ability to survive.’

  Turgonev moved from his desk, making room for the minister. The K.G.B. colonel came into the room, sitting alertly beside Bauer. Altmann intercepted the look that Turgonev directed at the East German escort and frowned, curiously. It had been an expression of apprehension, he thought.

  Melkovsky was staring down at the desk, so that only the top of his head was visible to the room as he assembled his words. Finally he looked up and smiled, showing remarkably white teeth. Very staged, judged Altmann, disappointed. Melkovsky was one of the truly important people, the manipulator who forged the politics of his country. He could decide the fate of thousands by the snap of his fingers, the Austrian knew. The man was welcome to such power, he thought. It would be good to escape.

  ‘I’m afraid Comrade Turgonev is right,’ began Melkovsky. ‘We’re distressed at the slow progress of this project.’

  Altmann sighed loudly.

  ‘I did not devise this operation,’ he defended strongly. ‘Nor even put it into being. By the time I was brought in, the entrapment of Jocelyn Hollis had already commenced. I was given a set of circumstances and had imposed upon me people whom I would not have personally selected, and was then told to make work a plan created by somebody else …’

  ‘… Quite so,’ agreed Melkovsky. Warningly, he added, ‘My plan.’

  ‘And one of great limitations,’ criticized Altmann.

  A slight tightening around the mouth was Melkovsky’s only response.

  ‘It assumed too many reactions,’ continued Altmann. ‘Certainly Hollis is vain. But he doesn’t appear to be foolish enough to behave as you expected.’

  Melkovsky sat back, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘It is vital he does perform as we expect,’ said the minister. ‘It’s too late now to evolve anything that would be as effective as this.’

  It must be almost three months since Murray’s hysterical adoption in America, estimated Altmann. The Russians were obviously being forced to make enormous concessions, he decided, recalling the presidential candidate’s promise for peace.

  ‘Minister,’ stressed Altmann, selecting his words with care. ‘The man failed to respond. Too long has elapsed now for him to behave as we would like. Another scheme has to be devised.’

  Melkovsky looked away from the ceiling.

  ‘I’ve personally assured the Praesidium that this one will be successful,’ he rebutted positively.

  ‘Then how?’ demanded Altmann. ‘For it to have any chance of success, Hollis must make an approach, so that there has to be an admission from the British government, even if only by their refusal to comment after he had been arrested, that Hollis volunteered information.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Turgonev abruptly.

  ‘Because the whole concept was to ensure that every part of the trap withstood the closest examination,’ argued Altmann. ‘Don’t forget this would be probed by the C.I.A. to determine whether it was a smear against a Presidential candidate. All the trade-deals are genuine. There’s got to be a voluntary approach to the British Foreign Office, otherwise anything we attempt can be dismissed as clumsy stage management. What we’ve got so far won’t be sufficient to create the rift you want.’

  ‘I don’t really see that we’ve got a choice,’ said Turgonev. The reaction seemed almost rehearsed, thought Altmann, like that abusive initial approach all those months ago in Vienna.

  ‘But surely anything less will reduce the effectiveness,’ repeated the Austrian, annoyed by the man’s obtuseness.

  Melkovsky nodded and Altmann felt he had scored a point.

  ‘What do we have?’ demanded the minister. He spoke to Turgo
nev, but it was Altmann who answered.

  ‘Merely a framework,’ insisted the Austrian. ‘There are pictures of Junkers and Hollis in the hotel, showing an exchange of sensitive documents, and recorded conversation which could be construed as infringing upon security.’

  ‘What about Czechoslovakia?’ cut in the minister, who had originally intended the Prague involvement to have an important side-effect, warning the government there that it still took its instructions from Moscow.

  ‘Again, pictures and recordings that could be interpreted as criticism of Russia cutting back on oil shipments … figures that could indicate to a foreign intelligence assessor that the Soviet Union has internal energy problems …’

  ‘Enough for a show trial,’ asserted Turgonev, adamantly. ‘We’ve moved with less. And succeeded.’

  ‘But too little for the original aims of this operation,’ repeated Altmann. ‘Murray would discard it like a man waving away a mosquito on a summer’s day.’

  He was hot with annoyance at their refusal to accept his argument, and for the briefest moment the room shimmered in his vision. He fought against the sensation.

  ‘You said a few moments ago something else had to be devised,’ argued Turgonev. ‘Isn’t it time to improvise upon what we’ve got already?’

  Altmann shook his head determinedly.

  ‘It’ll misfire,’ he asserted positively.

  ‘I can see the sense of both arguments,’ meditated Melkovsky, a man unable to choose. ‘And I don’t like either.’

  ‘There is, of course, one factor we haven’t explored,’ said Bauer, choosing the moment. ‘There is another man who could help.’

  Melkovsky smiled at the East German. From the look, Altmann judged Bauer was the minister’s protégé. Turgonev appeared disconcerted, he thought.

  ‘Exactly the man I was beginning to think about,’ Melkovsky said, looking inquiringly at Altmann for response.