Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘I too have my friends. I was tipped off this morning, at four o’clock. They are flying in from Moscow today. Around noon I will be relieved of my command, placed under arrest, and taken back to Moscow.’

  ‘You? But why? That message last night?’

  ‘No, that is something quite different. More important. We will come to it in a minute.’ A clearer light returned to the General’s eyes and with it a smile circling the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I told you that our legal system is strict. My big chance against Gorilka is the fact that one of the two men who signed confessions concerning the Iris liquidation last night died under pressure. Gorilka was in charge of the interrogation, and in our criminal code he is most vulnerable.’

  ‘Then why are they—?’ started Boysie.

  ‘Getting rid of me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Another painful sigh from Khavichev. ‘A long story. I’ve kept it quiet for many years.’ The eyes glazed over as though he were speaking to someone beyond Boysie, some person from the past. ‘I got my present appointment on February 20th, 1956. Five days later, if you know your history, Khrushchev made his six-hour speech denouncing Stalin.’ He was back with Boysie again. ‘Since that moment, since the beginning of my appointment, I have never felt safe. My tracks were covered, but I never felt safe. You see, Khavichev has not always been my name.’

  Khavichev lowered his head. ‘Some of the things,’ he said, agony winding between the words, ‘some of the things we did. I did. I have done. Stalin taught me the trade. Security, intrigue, espionage, intelligence. I served directly under him when he was appointed Commissar of Nationalities, when we had control of all the security organisations. And now’—a cynical lilt, once more the hands lifting and dropping in defeat—‘and now they have found out. And you know what happens to Stalinists, even today. There is documentary evidence. Letters. Papers. My assumed names.’

  ‘And you’re willing to get me away from Gorilka?’ Hope raging in Boysie’s voice.

  Khavichev smiled to himself. He had still not lost the knack of grinning like a predatory monster. ‘Oh no, not without something in return. Gorilka cannot last long, but I am a true Communist. I believe in the way, the truth, and the life of Communism. I believe that it must spread and engulf the entire world. Inevitable.’ He hesitated, his timing like an actor’s, letting the words sink home. ‘But, Boysie Oakes, I do not believe in the sacrifice of mankind. Russia, America, and Britain could be closer now than they have ever been at any time. The danger lies in China, in her way of spreading the gospel—the leveller through annihilation. Do you really understand the situation between China and Russia?’

  Boysie looked perplexed. ‘Well, I know old Criss-Cross-Cruisechoff and Cosy Gin didn’t see eye to eye with Mousy Tongue.’

  Even Khavichev got the gag line. ‘If it were only as simple as that,’ he said. ‘China is determined to be the number-one nation. The progress of their nuclear research and their power rise goes on. Their aim is a takeover bid for the entire world. China may be a little disoriented—or may seem so. The Orient has always seemed disoriented. But the power is there, being tapped, and the organisation is growing.’

  ‘The old Yellow Peril.’

  ‘The new Yellow Peril. They already have a security network and espionage system that at least equals our own. The Jen Chia, the police apparatus. The Am Chuan Jen Chia, that is the central apparatus for the Party, with a European HQ in Albania. Then there is the Pi Mi Jen Chia, the government-controlled apparatus, not to mention the People’s Liberation Army’s Jen Chia. And they intermingle, Boysie, they overlap. Just think of a simple illustration: all those Chinese restaurants in the world’s major cities.’ He paused again, this time to light a cigarette.

  Boysie began to find the room unbearably hot.

  ‘Take your own country,’ continued Khavichev. ‘There are six Chinese restaurants in the city of Oxford, fifteen in Liverpool, and twelve in Manchester—they are the licensed ones. God knows how many in London and other cities. I am not suggesting that any of these have a connection with the Chinese People’s Republic Security Services, but they could. It could happen. There are Chinese everywhere. Intrigue everywhere. And don’t forget that from the nuclear point of view they are still working on the level of Nunn May and Fuchs. Still after atomic secrets.’

  Boysie could feel the big bang coming any minute.

  Khavichev continued. ‘They are shrewd, cunning, clever. And one of their major operations is aimed at your own country.’ The General leaned closer. ‘That is why we gave Warren back. Your poor old Rabbit Warren.’

  He clenched his right fist and thumped a knee, hard. ‘My fault. The stuff Warren was taking over the Wall from us was of little consequence. Even he knew that. But he did have specialised information about the Chinese situation, information we could not get. Information about a major Chinese action aimed at England. Something already in operation. We were naturally anxious that he should get that information back to your people. It would have been easy. We should have just let him walk out.’ Another snort of laughter. ‘But I was too clever.’ Bitter. Cynical. ‘The all-seeing Khavichev. Huh. Thought I could kill two birds with one stone. If we offered to exchange Warren for Iris there was a chance that we might get her back. But it was obvious that some attempt would be made on her life. So we also considered the chance of getting you, Boysie—and my palms have been itching for you. It has been a long while.’ A drawn-out hiss from between clenched teeth. ‘But I have failed. Your colleague Warren has not got through.’

  Boysie felt nothing. ‘Dead?’ he asked. It was a dream. Chinese restaurants and the Yellow Peril. Untrue. Unreal.

  ‘I do not think so.’ Khavichev tomblike. ‘I do not think they have killed him. Not yet.’ His hand extracted a slim, folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. ‘The cable I received last night was from KGB HQ in Moscow. I had it translated for you.’ He passed the paper to Boysie. ‘Take no notice of the Russian heading. It is only the KGB HQ address and code number.’

  ‘All Greek to me,’ said Boysie, concentrating on the translation.

  DRAGONS NETTED RABBIT CONTACT IMMEDIATE FOR DETAILS AND ACTION

  AUTHORITY K2

  Boysie read the cable aloud. ‘Dragons?’ he repeated.

  ‘Obvious.’ Khavichev in a Sherlock Holmes voice. ‘Our code reference for the Jen Chia apparatus.’

  Boysie looked down at the cable again. Contact immediate for details and action, he read. ‘So what’s happened to Rabbit?’

  ‘Your disorganised military and intelligence services happened.’ Khavichev itchily critical. ‘If your wretched government were not so stingy, Rabbit would probably be in London now. They could easily have had an RAF aircraft waiting to take him straight home. That information about Chinese action against England would have been in the right hands now. But in the spring British European Airways has only one aircraft out of Tempelhof each day, a Viscount Flight 685 leaving at fifteen hours. He was scheduled to go this afternoon. In the meantime they were putting him up at the Hilton. Your man was waiting for Warren at Checkpoint Charlie —a Merc, the lot. Three more of your operatives followed the Merc in a Volkswagen, and two of our operatives tailed them. Rabbit was taken to his room at the Hilton. Your man left him for half an hour—a little less—so he could bathe and clean up.’

  ‘He was alone? They deserted him in the Hilton?’

  ‘For thirty minutes or so.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He disappeared.’

  ‘Did a Houdini.’ Fast. Dry as a martini.

  ‘Your men had the hotel under surveillance. Our men had your men under surveillance. No one saw a thing.’

  ‘Disappeared into thin air?’

  ‘Not quite. A waiter has reported seeing him leaving the building through the servants’ entrance. Three men with him. The waiter says they were Japanese or Chinese, not Caucasian.’

  ‘So they led us up the Yangtze without paddles.’r />
  ‘There has been more information since then. At midnight four Chinese diplomats and a European boarded a special flight and left for Tiranë.’

  ‘Where the hell’s Tiranë?’ A mechanical Boysie incompetence. Then, with a quick lift of his hands in a shoving motion, ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Albania?’

  ‘The capital of Albania.’

  ‘And the bloody Ham Chew and Jen whatsit have their European headquarters in Albania.’

  ‘The Am Chuan Jen Chia, China’s main security organisation. The European answered Warren’s description, carried a British passport, Number 56718, and was supposed to be part of a cultural diplomatic mission. He was not well and had to be driven out to the aircraft on the tarmac. They said he had been drinking and wanted to avoid scandal.’

  ‘So Rabbit’s in Albania.’

  ‘For the time being.’ Khavichev’s eyes, still sunken, bored into Boysie’s face, a hard electric drill. ‘I am going to be realistic. By noon I will have no authority. Before then it is possible that certain things can be put into operation. Things that could be of value to my beliefs. If I choose to leave you here, Gorilka will dispose of you. The shooting, the feet, legs, and upwards. A long death.’

  A skeleton hand closed painfully round Boysie’s bowels.

  ‘I have already convinced you,’ continued Khavichev, ‘that the Department of Special Security doesn’t want to know. Except to see you as a corpse.’ He continued to bore his eyes into Boysie’s face. ‘I am offering you a job.’ Spoken slowly and with force.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘As I see it, you have no choice.’ Khavichev’s hand went into his pocket once more. A passport spun across the bed, landing on Boysie’s lap.

  He picked it up. An American passport. He flicked through the pages. Brian Ian Oshiemer from Toledo, Ohio. The rear pages were crammed with valid visas. Iron Curtain countries predominated, all stamped with dates going back to 1963. The photograph and description were Boysie’s. It looked like a masterpiece, the real thing.

  ‘That’s you, Oshiemer.’ Pointing towards the open passport. ‘Executive Sales Manager of Steel-Thru Bullet-Resistant Glass Incorporated. You do a lot of business in Europe. A lot behind the curtain.’

  Boysie glanced up from a vanity-case viewing of the passport photograph. By now Khavichev had a stack of documents on his lap. Light began to dawn in Boysie’s slow brain as another passport sailed over the bed, settling the right way up. A document he knew.

  ‘There’s your own passport.’ Khavichev lifted his head. The black-circled eyes dimly reflected scorn. ‘Herr Oldcorn.’ More of smear than sneer. ‘Colonel Mostyn’s sense of humour is slightly childish. Old Corn.’

  Boysie did not have time to reply. A slim, thickly stuffed envelope followed the second passport.

  ‘Ten thousand dollars, in fives, tens, and hundreds,’ said the General. ‘Easily convertible currency. Happy money. Expenses.’

  ‘Look.’ There was no bite to Boysie’s reaction. ‘I do read you? You’re asking me to go double? Do a Blake?’

  Khavichev made a jeering noise, a rasp of odium from the back of the larynx. ‘If you are getting technical, a double agent, or counterspy as officialdom calls them, is a person posing as a spy for one side in order to learn their secrets.’ He gave the jeering noise again. ‘Secrets? What secrets? A double agent—what the hell, you know this already—often works for two sides, sometimes three. Sells to the highest bidder. One week a job against some country, and in the same week he undertakes a spot of subversion on behalf of the country against which he is contracted, my dear Boysie—I may call you Boysie?’ He stopped, politely waiting for an answer.

  ‘Of course.’ Stunned that Khavichev should take this turn of courtesy.

  ‘Good. I feel I have known you long.’ Smile from the heart, a true smile. ‘Boysie, you realise that you cannot be a double agent. It is not possible because you do not work for anybody. The Department of British Special Security, I presume, imagines you are already dead or awaiting trial. They are probably puzzled, waiting for news of you. But they cannot do anything. They sent you out here to get caught. I lose my rank, authority, position. You cannot work for me. So you work for nobody.’

  Boysie gave the matter some full-fathom-five thought. If one accepted Khavichev’s original premise regarding Soviet Security having been given the squeak, Iris’s death by poisoning, and the dummy ammunition laid out for him at the firing point above the Friedrichstrasse, the whole thing was logical. After an era of silence he spoke. ‘It’s all very well, but I’m still under the erotic bloody Official Secrets Act. In dead lumber with them if I work for you.’

  A cynical twist of the lips from Khavichev. ‘You have probably heard this many times before from your old masters. But you are on your own, working for the good of humanity, Boysie. You will certainly not be working for me because, as I have said, I suppose I will cease to exist within a month or so. Apart from the political machinations of the gruesome Dr. Gorilka, my removal from office does not come as a great surprise. I had a slight heart attack last year and I was bound for retirement—retirement can mean different things under our regime.’

  ‘I heard about that. The heart attack.’

  ‘It is all inevitable, like life and death,’ said Khavichev quietly, his face set into an autumnal sadness. Then the manner changed with the speed and force of a racing driver doing a change-up on the straight. The sharpness of authority returned. The heavy thump of the executioner’s axe on the block. ‘I am concerned that the total facts of China’s operation against Britain reach the right quarters as soon as possible. The Am Chuan Jen Chia will undoubtedly be interrogating Warren to see how much he really knows, where he got his information and how accurate it is. They know we, the Soviet Government, are deeply concerned. But the Am Chuan Jen Chia will expect a unit of our organisation to be taking action. I doubt if they will be bargaining for you.’

  ‘So I go to Albania and get Warren out?’

  ‘Or procure the information from him and get it back to Whitehall.’ The General glanced at his watch. ‘You must make up your mind quickly so that I can arrange suitable remuneration through our British and Swiss cells. You have the dollars. For undertaking the operation the sum of twenty thousand pounds sterling will be paid into a numbered account. In Switzerland, of course. If you succeed, a further fifty thousand pounds will be paid. This will automatically go through whether I am in power or not. If I arrange it now, today, nobody can trace it for at least six months. What do you say, Boysie? Slow death under Gorilka, or a chance for freedom and cracking the dragon men. Eh?’

  Money, big money, was involved—always a magnet to Boysie. There was also the chance that he could welsh on everyone. At least he would get into the West again.

  It was as though. Khavichev could read his thoughts.

  ‘And no pulling a fast one, friend. I still have good contacts. If you cross me on this, somebody will get you soon and quickly. I promise you that. I am taking as much of a risk as yourself. You have already proved to be notoriously unreliable.’ He spoke with point. Reminiscent of a gangster in an old movie.

  ‘It’s bloody suicide,’ said Boysie aloud. ‘Chop suicide.’ But he had no real option. He nodded a painful affirmative. ‘All right. How do I get to—where is it in Albania?’

  ‘Tiranë.’

  ‘Tiranë.’

  ‘Your car is waiting outside. Nice motor, that Jensen. You can be across the Wall and into the West quite quickly.’ He sucked his teeth thoughtfully. Mild concern. ‘Unfortunately we cannot get you out to Tiranë from here. Too much risk. You will have to go from the West. From Tempelhof.’

  ‘Fly?’ The words came out in a strangle of panic. Boysie had a natural aversion to taking airplane rides. It was a state bordering on the pathological. He was sick in aircraft and usually in a state of slight shock from take-off to touch down. ‘I have to fly?’ he questioned, voice quavering on the frontier of near terror.

  ‘Y
ou cannot very well walk or drive to Albania.’ An inkling of Boysie’s problem showed in Khavichev’s eyes and the creased lines of his forehead. ‘There is another point,’ he continued. ‘You are going to have to be very careful in the West. The situation is like Rabbit Warren’s. I must get you out of here today. Out of the East. Today is Tuesday, and you cannot start your journey to Tiranë until tomorrow. At eleven.’

  Another envelope changed hands.

  ‘Tickets. Itinerary. A difficult journey. You do not arrive in Tiranë until Thursday.’

  ‘If I’m lucky.’

  ‘Then on, you play it by ear. I want Warren, or the full details of this Chinese business, passed to your Department at speed. Within hours. At least within four days.’

  ‘Where the hell do I start?’

  Khavichev shrugged. ‘The Am Chuan Jen Chia head-quarters are housed in the basement of the University Research Library. I should start there.’

  ‘I can’t do it.’ Boysie suddenly brimming with panic.

  ‘All right.’ Khavichev unmoved. ‘Stay here and let Gorilka shoot you. A piece at a time.’ He gave a thin-lipped smile.

  ’Strewth, he looks grey, thought Boysie.

  Khavichev, slowly and with feeling, said, ‘Think of all that lovely money.’

  Boysie thought, and moved his head in assent.

  ‘Good.’ Khavichev withdrew a silver snake of keychain from his pocket. ‘You will want to freshen up while I deal with the money in Switzerland.’

  He began to cross the room and, for the first time, Boysie noticed there was a door, hardly visible, set into the gleaming white wall at the far end. Khavichev inserted a key. ‘Go ahead. You will find all you need in there.’

  Boysie looked terrible, gazing at himself in the long mirror. Suit crumpled, unshaven, dark-ringed eyes. A shower, followed by a session at one of the three wash-basins. Glass shelves were neatly laid out with male and female cosmetics. Mainly American. Boysie chose Waldorf Astoria Shaving Lotion (the best in the world), a Gillette Aristocrat Razor with Super Silver blades, and English Leather Aftershave. While he shaved, his suit hung on a British Corby electric trouser press. In twenty minutes he looked, and felt, a different man. Clean, neat and tidy, and with shoes polished on an automatic machine.