“You bitch!” He squeezed her wrists more tightly, taking evil pleasure from the sight of her teeth clenched in pain. “David’s dead, you hear me?”
Anna’s eyes widened still further. “No,” she whispered.
“Yes. And if you don’t take more care over how you behave from now on, you’ll join him.”
She stopped struggling. He felt the power drain out of her, she went limp in his grasp, and after a few moments he let her go. She fell into the nearest chair, where she sat staring at Barzel through eyes that no longer glowed.
“Why did you have to do that?” Gerhard demanded.
“Shut up.”
“You don’t understand. She’s sick. You think that was any way to handle her?”
“Handling her is your problem.”
Gerhard shook his head and sighed. “Jürgen,” he said quietly, “I need to talk to you.” He used German, not wanting Anna to understand. “We have to find some way of getting through the next few hours. Come next door, let’s talk.”
Barzel hesitated. Anna seemed to have lost the will to fight, but he distrusted her silence. There was something ominous about it. He called for Stange and told him to keep an eye on their prisoner while he talked with Kleist.
The two men went out onto the tenace, where Gerhard rested his back against the balustrade and folded his arms. “Listen,” he said. “I want to get some things into the open.”
Barzel regarded him coldly, saying nothing.
“When we arrive in Berlin, if we do, there’ll be questions for me to answer. I panicked, ran away with the woman, took the file. All things I shouldn’t have done. I’m going to have a hard time of it, we both know that.”
Barzel had begun to study him curiously. Kleist appeared perfectly in control of himself. He was talking sense and he made no attempt to defend Anna or promote her interests. Here was the old Gerhard, the one Barzel had recruited and trained.
It was a dangerously seductive moment for him. He needed another ally.
Notwithstanding his outward command of himself, Barzel found himself in the grip of a disabling tenor. Colonel Huper’s orders were to bring Anna to Berlin, with the file, in one piece and ready to talk if possible.
Barzel was desperate to save his own neck, along with his books and comfortable life-style. He knew that his chances would be vastly enhanced by getting Anna back to base. But he’d been given the option of killing her, once that turned out to be the only way of ensuring the safety of the Krysalis file. If it came to a choice between Anna and the file, the file won every time.
She was unstable.
Barzel had to make a decision about Anna. His inclination was to kill her now, before she could cause any more trouble. But oh! what a prize it would be if he could thrust her in front of Colonel Huper and say, “Here, look, I fought and I won.”
Then there was Kleist.
Barzel didn’t know what was going on inside that clever mind of his. He couldn’t be trusted … yet he played a central role, the role, in the management of Anna Lescombe.
Gerhard was speaking again.
“Her mental state is poor, Jürgen. Telling her about her husband like that, so brutally, was the worst thing you could have done. It’ll set her back years.”
“Does it affect our journey?” Barzel rubbed his neck in an effort to ease the tension. He knew this would tell Gerhard how worried he was, but that no longer seemed important. He had to seek a way through the maze of decisions, great and small, that shrouded his only hope of salvation.
“It certainly could,” Gerhard replied. “You’re concerned about the submarine?”
“Concerned,” Barzel thought savagely, is not the word. Suppose it doesn’t come? Or if conditions were rough that night, they might miss the rendezvous anyway. And NATO was bound to be on the prowl by then; what if the Soviet commander decided not to risk his craft for a bunch of East German subhumans? Why did it have to be a Russian submarine?
“It’s hardly my idea of fun,” he admitted sourly. “And with a madwoman to control as well …”
“She’s not mad. But if you continue to persecute her, she may go over the edge. Have you any idea what it would be like, in a confined space, locked in for days on end, trying to keep her sedated? I don’t know what drugs a typical naval medic carries, but I doubt if they’d do her any good.”
Naval medics … Barzel’s mind kept looping back to the submarine. They wouldn’t know until the last minute if the Soviet commander was prepared to honor the rendezvous. They’d be on the small island to the south, exposed, without any protection other than small arms, with nowhere to run if the sub didn’t surface. And if at that point they couldn’t control Anna, be absolutely confident of keeping her quiet …
“So what are you suggesting?” he asked, his voice harsh.
“I’m asking you to trust me.”
Barzel smiled glacially. “Of course I trust you, Gerhard, what nonsense.”
“That’s a lie. But somehow we have to make our way home. I can help you do that. It will stand me in good stead when we reach Berlin, I did my duty when help was needed most. Do you see what’s going through my mind?”
No, Barzel thought savagely. And I’d give anything, anything in the world, to know what you’re really thinking, my friend.
“Controlling the woman …” he said casually. “Do you have a gun here, Gerhard?”
“No, I don’t.”
Barzel nodded, pretending to accept the answer, but inwardly he wasn’t sure. He’d told Kleist always to keep a gun handy. He had to concede, however, that there were difficulties about bringing a firearm to a place like this: customs might open his bags, the police could search Gerhard before he got on the plane, any one of a dozen nightmares might become reality. It wasn’t as if HVA had been given the job of arming Kleist on this island, their couriers’ methods were relatively foolproof. But Paxos had been kept secret from HVA. Despite what he’d said on the day of his arrival, the first Barzel had known of Gerhard’s hideaway was when Iannis talked.
If Kleist did have a gun here, it altered the picture, radically and for the worse. That was assuming he’d fallen in love with Anna again. Of course, if he hadn’t … Barzel stole a glance at Gerhard. His face was impassive, concerned. But he must have realized the point of the question about the gun.
He’d always been a convincing liar, one of the qualities that had attracted HVA to him in the first place. He possessed, in greater measure than any other spy Barzel had known, the magical gift of knowing when to depart from reality and when to keep the story firmly anchored in the actual world.
What am I to do? he asked himself. How can I save my beautiful apartment, with its irreplaceable collection of books? Save myself, everything I’ve earned, worked for….
“What do you want me to do?” he said wearily.
“Accept that in medical matters I know what I’m talking about. When I tell you to go easy on Anna, it’s for a practical reason. Think in terms of crisis management, that’s all I’m asking. The rest—recriminations, interrogations—can wait.”
“All right.”
“Keep off the subject of David.”
Barzel nodded.
“Try to avoid her as much as possible. That goes for Stange, too.”
“I’m not letting her out of my sight again.”
“Then don’t make it obvious.”
Barzel stared at Gerhard. Either he meant what he said, or he was putting on the performance of a lifetime. “Tell me something,” he said.
“Well?”
“Do you love her?”
Gerhard laughed, ever so gently. “Yes. You know that.”
And for a second, Barzel actually trusted Kleist.
“So … you want her to escape?”
“No,” Gerhard replied. “I want her to come with us. Very much.”
“And you’ll help me keep control of her?” Barzel asked anxiously.
“Yes.”
Barzel st
ared down at the tenace. Perhaps he should change his mind about killing Anna? If Kleist was genuine … if the submarine came …
But before he could find his way through the next stretch of maze, they were interrupted by a scream from inside the house.
They ran back to find Anna howling, rocking back and forth, banging her fists down on the table, while Stange looked on in amazement. Barzel needed only a moment to appraise the situation.
“She’s hysterical,” he snapped. “Sedate her.”
Gerhard went quickly to his bedroom and came back carrying the black leather case in which he kept his syringe and ampules. Barzel and Stange held Anna down. She tried to bite Barzel but he was savage, rendering her semiconscious almost before the needle entered the vein. Only when her eyes were shut and she lay still did he release her. “Make sure she stays that way,” he said.
“You think I have a factory for this stuff?” Gerhard’s voice was a mixture of anger and fear. “Look!” He held out the case for Barzel to see. “One left!”
“How long will that hold her for?”
“God knows. So much depends on her general health, her resistance.” He remained lost in thought for a moment. “Now’s Sunday … tomorrow lunchtime, I think. When are we leaving?”
“Eleven o’clock Monday night. Have you got any rope?”
“Rope?”
“To tie her up if she wakes, idiot!”
“There should be some in the kitchen.”
“Well, find it! Is this your idea of keeping control?”
“It’s the best I can do,” Gerhard hurled back defiantly.
Barzel wagged a forefinger under his nose. “You’ve got one more chance,” he muttered. “One. Screw up again, and she’s dead.”
The three men alternated periodic watches after that, never leaving Anna alone. She first showed signs of life on Sunday night, during Barzel’s shift. When she was fully conscious but still unable to move, he summoned Gerhard and ordered him to put her into hypnosis. It didn’t work. So Gerhard reluctantly administered the second and final shot of sedative instead, praying he had guessed right.
For despite what he had told Barzel earlier, if he had calculated correctly, Anna would surface not at midday but at dawn.
THE LAST DAY
CHAPTER
37
Albert had endured an eventful night since fleeing Hampstead: first the MI5 clinic, anesthesia, stitches, then, since the crack of dawn, he’d frantically been trying to find someone prepared to caretake Montgomery while he was away. The old lady in the downstairs flat, who usually attended to the job, had chosen this of all times to visit her daughter. As a last resort born of desperation, he’d managed to saddle a deeply reluctant Fox, his chauffeur to the airport, with responsibility; and that, thought Albert, was only just, bearing in mind how he let me down yesterday evening.
What with one thing and another, he was feeling at a low ebb. His reaction on boarding the plane to find Bill Hayes in the next seat was therefore one of profound irritation. “Babysitting?” he inquired sarcastically.
“My role is designated a PAE one.”
“A what?”
“‘Provide advice and encouragement.’ But me, I’m way too old to play word games. I like babysitting just fine.”
Albert stared at him. “Why should I need advice and encouragement from you?”
“Because last night Bonn issued an ultimatum.” Hayes lowered his voice to a whisper. “Find Krysalis or we’ll blow the whole thing. Tell the world that in the event of nuclear war the United States intends to sacrifice a West German corridor five hundred miles across, total civilian population three and a—”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Better believe it. The West Germans say you British lost the fucking file, which you did, and allies like that they don’t need. And the Pentagon doesn’t exactly esteem your efforts up until now to find it again. I’m deleting some expletives in there, incidentally. What happened to your hand?”
Albert grimaced. “I caught it in a door.”
“Yeah?” Hayes treated the bandage to critical inspection. “My sympathy’s with the door,” he concluded.
Their plane reached the end of the runway and accelerated to take-off speed. Albert gazed out the window, seeing only a bleak prospect that owed nothing to Heathrow Airport. If West Germany carried out its threat, it could put an end to NATO, simple as that. Yet he understood the logic of their position, for Krysalis’ principal message was that if war came, they would be expendable. In which case NATO ceased to have relevance for them anyway.
Reluctantly he went back to his study of Anna’s case notes, now typed.
“You got the lady there?”
Albert nodded.
“I couldn’t understand a quarter of that shit.”
“It gives us a fairly comprehensive picture of who we’re dealing with, I’d have thought.”
I know what you’re going to do, madam. I know the way you think, feel, love. Now I am Anna Lescombe, née Elwell, oh yes …
“Does it by any chance tell us where she is?”
“We should know that when her husband arrives in Corfu.”
“I thought your police were holding him for questioning.”
“That Concorde business, you mean? Lescombe’s not a suspect, although he may have been the intended victim. Either way, we arranged for him to be processed very quickly. The last thing we want is to see him put out of the game.”
“That’s the very thing we do want! Did the other guy die?”
“Which other guy?”
“The man Burroughs stabbed, or whatever.”
“Yes, he died very quickly. I thought you might mean Burroughs. He’s dead, too.”
“What?”
“Hanged himself in his cell last night.”
“Jeesus!” Hayes shook his head. “Who do you reckon he was working for?”
Albert eyed him suspiciously. “Not you?”
“Oh, come on!”
“Kleist, maybe. HVA.”
“Damn right. It’s got HVA scrawled all over it. When does Lescombe get to Corfu?”
“If Olympic Airways’ reservations computer is to be believed, in about five hours’ time.”
They were over the Channel by now. Albert gazed stonily at the seat in front of him, not wanting to see the placid stretch of blue water below. Funny, when he was flying, the prospect of crashing on mountain or tundra never troubled him. But he could not contemplate ditching without a clench of the guts.
“Do you believe in this submarine thing?” Hayes asked.
The submarine. In the course of his panic-stricken telephone call to Albert on Sunday evening, Fox had let slip that there was some unspecified “connection” between Moscow’s sudden burst of activity and the need for early penetration of Kleist’s house, but … “I’m worried by the coincidence,” said Albert.
“So tell me.”
“One. H.M.S. Danae is on her way to maneuvers off Crete when her sonar picks up a sub. Engine signature and wave configurations tell her officer of the watch it’s a Russian Tango patrol class—old, noisy, identifiable. Pure chance?”
Hayes shrugged. “Okay, Danae was lucky. So?”
“So second, Russian submarines do cruise the Med, and they normally manage to do it without causing the Admiralty’s officer of the day to have hysterics.”
“Not while Krysalis is off and running, they don’t,” Hayes said. “The course the sub was on would have taken it straight toward Kithira, ready for a turn into the Ionian.”
“If it did not change course. And since we’ve lost contact with her—”
“Yeah, I get the picture. But it’s all we’ve got, isn’t it? Eastern Europe’s one big yawnsville. Everyone’s gone for the summer, except the crew of that submarine. Now if she is heading for an r.d. near Corfu, she’ll be there tonight. And that gives us maybe twelve hours, maybe less. So what do you plan to do?”
“The Greek navy has agree
d—”
Hayes rolled his eyes. “Oh, Jesus, tell me you’re kidding.”
“No joke. I am to be the guest of the Greek navy, which is cooperating on the orders of its government. I imagine you’re in the same … boat.” Albert raised an eyebrow, awaiting a reaction, but none came. “It would help, of course, if this woman lawyer, this Robyn with the unpronounceable surname, would come clean about Kleist and his villa.”
“We tried everything. She genuinely does not know the name of that house.”
“Surely she must remember how to get to it?”
“She says not. Can’t even remember the island’s name, there are so many around those parts.”
No, that was wrong. There were very few, as Hayes would have realized if he’d taken the trouble to scan a map. Albert could imagine himself falling in love with a lady psychotherapist and spending an idyllic month or so at her villa on a Greek island. He could not imagine failing to find out the island’s name. But the woman whose grandfather had walked off the boat from Poland and run slap into one of the few immigration officers able to spell, she wasn’t talking.
David knew where Anna had gone, Albert felt sure. His eyes strayed to the briefcase under the seat in front of him. He had the measure of Anna Lescombe, now, but her husband could yet prove tiresome….
Albert liked Corfu on sight: dry sunshine that was truly hot, whiteness that without exaggeration could be called brilliant, scents that he nearly knew, not quite. He had only two items of luggage, the briefcase and a long metal box, but his left hand still stung, his body was full of antibiotics, and he was pleased when somebody came to smooth a path through customs.
Their host was waiting for them in the car park. The vehicle looked like a typical camping trailer, slightly larger than the norm; but as Albert approached he noticed an aerial on the roof and saw that the windows of the back cabin had been screened with newspaper. Although the occupants might have been trying to protect themselves from the heat while they took a siesta, he doubted whether that was really so.
Inside the trailer there seemed to be hordes of people and only one electric fan, which was troublesome, especially since the phalanx of wall-to-wall radio equipment gave out a lot of heat and everybody smoked. But as Albert and Hayes entered, a number of men went out to make room for them. In the end, only one was left. He half rose from his folding seat behind a table cluttered with maps, and extended his hand.
Krysalis: Krysalis Page 34