by Adam Hall
Ignatov wasn’t moving. He was watching Schrenk, trying to understand what he was saying. Misha stood rocking on her black strapped shoes, her hands to her face, waiting, watching the man she adored and ready to claw my eyes out if I tried to hurt him.
‘You’re perfectly safe in my hands,’ I said, ‘till they start work on me again and break me and ask me to tell them where you are, as they did before. This time I’ll have the answer and I’ll have to give it to them.’
He said immediately: ‘That’s all right. I won’t be here.’
We watched each other. We weren’t telling each other anything we didn’t already know: each wanted the other to know :hat he knew. The scene going on in this tawdry little room in a Moscow suburb was the exact epitome of the cold war:
the war that is kept cold by the ceaseless efforts of intelligence force;; to assure the opposition that nothing can be done in secret, that no attack can be made without an immediate counter-attack. The danger cannot be contained simply by finding out what the opposition is doing: the opposition must be informed that it is known.
We knew this, and we had to go through the situation point by point in an attempt to contain the danger. We also knew we had to fail. It was going to be his life or mine. He wasn’t going to have me picked up: he’d only wanted to know my thinking, and I’d told him. He couldn’t risk making a phone call when I left here because it wouldn’t give him time to get out when the KGB closed in and found him in the same net.
He couldn’t afford to let me leave here alive.
‘Give yourself a bit of time,’ I said, ‘to think.’
‘I’ve done all the thinking.’
‘There’s no special hurry.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is.’
The clock ticked, with a rhythm that was slightly off balance: it needed a wad of paper a sixteenth of an inch thinner, or a sixteenth of an inch thicker, to equalize the swing of the pendulum. Perhaps it worried him sometimes in the night, disturbing his sense of mechanical precision. Perhaps, every morning, he added a thickness of paper to the wad, or removed a thickness, to equalize the rhythm; it would be like him to do that; I could see him doing it, with his thin body twisted as he crouched at the base of the grandfather clock with Misha watching him, as a mother watches a small boy. I knew him quite well, and this made it so much worse for me to do what I would have to do.
If I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t leave here alive.
What happens if I find him but can’t get him out?
The lamplight sending the rain pattern creeping in rivulets down Croder’s face, his dark hooded eyes glancing away as he instructed me, bestowing on me the powers of an executioner.
That would make it easier for you. All we want is his silence.
There was, then, no impediment. I had sanction from on high and there would be no record made of the incident. The file on Scorpion would simply note: Mission accomplished as per instructions. Physically there was no problem offered: I could reach him in three steps and use a sword-hand to the larynx with killing power and there would be nothing he could do because he didn’t have enough speed left, enough strength left, to defend himself. It would occupy perhaps four seconds of my time.
Then I could go home, get out of this bloody place and try to forget. Mission accomplished, good for you, old horse, you did it again, and two months’ leave on the Sussex coast with Helena, a dozen gardenias, you shouldn’t be so extravagant, two months to forget the twisted thing on the floor with the black bruise on the throat and the sound of a girl screaming, the comfortable smell of boiled cabbage.
God damn their eyes. This man had done good work for them time and again, put his life in hazard for them time and again, stood up to that hellish assault on his psyche in Lubyanka without breaking, without exposing Leningrad or London, and now they were asking me to leave him on the floor like a bit of rubbish we’d thrown out, God damn their eyes.
Mine not to reason why, of course. The ferret in the field obeys orders and goes down the hole and comes up again if he’s lucky, leaving behind him those unnameable things in the dark that he had to deal with. Dear God, how long ago was it when they’d said to me: if you decide to go into the field you’ll have to bear in mind the fact that you’ll be asked to do things you’ll find it hard to do, we don’t mean dangerous things, you seem all right on that score, we mean dirty things, rotten things that may well give you nightmares afterwards… We’re just giving you fair warning, you understand, so that you’ll know what you’re going into, if that’s what you finally decide…
Mine but to do or die, yes, quite. If I didn’t kill Schrenk he would have to kill me, I knew that. Things can get very basic in the end phase of a mission. Croder would probably laugh if he knew my thoughts, his rat’s teeth nibbling with secret amusement, my dear fellow, the issue is cut and dried, surely you see that. It’s impossible for you to get this man out of Russia if he refuses to go, and if he stays here he’ll get picked up again and this time they’ll get everything out of him, you’ve said so yourself. Are you really saying that one man’s life is worth the entire Leningrad cell and possibly the security of the Bureau as well? You must be indulging in some sort of sentimentality, and that can be highly dangerous. The rat’s teeth nibbling and the hooded eyes looking away. Besides, the man’s a complete wreck now: we could never put him into the field again.
Good reason. Good logic. But Lord, hear my prayer, and damn their eyes.
He was watching me, squinting through the smoke of his cigarette with an expression I couldn’t quite read. He was looking at me almost as if he’d never seen me before, though it wasn’t exactly that. Got it, yes: as if he were never going to see me again.
How would he try to kill? He couldn’t do it himself, and Ignatov was no use to him. He probably had a dozen people not far away, a clique of fanatical dissidents lying low in readiness for a coup. He’d set the whole pack on me once I was outside there in the dark. He seemed very confident So I’d have to get in first Give him a last chance.
‘I was sent out here to find you,’ I told him, and the tightness in my throat distorted the words slightly. ‘I was told to pull you out.’
‘I understand that.’
‘And you understand why.’
‘Of course.’ He began pacing again, one thin leg swinging an inch farther than the other, like the pendulum of the clock. That must worry him too, but he couldn’t do anything about it. They don’t want me to be put under interrogation again, because next time I might have to blow the whole works. I understand that’
I A bit too loudly I said, ‘Then for Christ’s sake give it a minute’s thought, will you? Think out the implications.’
He looked at me sharply and away again, and went on with his pacing. I wanted him to think this out for himself. I didn’t want to have to tell him, the instant before I had to do it.
Final considerations: reluctance to do it in front of the girl, because she adored him. Possibility of getting her to leave the room, ask her to fetch something, tell Schrenk to send her away for a moment. Other thought intruding: For sale, Jensen Interceptor, only 27,000 miles, fitted anti-radar unit, all refinements. Also 200 classic jazz records (15 Harry fames, 12 Duke Ellington) and player. The plastic chess set would remain in the Caff and the other things like tennis racquets and skis and karate swords would be offered up and down the corridors in off-duty hours: there’s usually a jumble sale when someone fails to come back, because we’re loners, most of us, and not the kind of people who have relations to leave things to; we’re born alone and we die alone and no one really notices. At the Bureau a prerequisite of our service is that we agree not to exist.
‘I’ve told you,’ Schrenk said, ‘I’ve done all the thinking.’ He brought his pacing to a clumsy halt between the window and the small Victorian writing-desk in the corner. ‘But what you mean is, if you can’t pull me out of Moscow you’ve got instructions to do the other thing. That right?’
‘Yes.
’
He nodded. ‘Perfectly logical.’
I moved at once but the inertia cost me time and he was much closer to the writing-desk than I was and his lunge for the top drawer was accurate and he had the gun in his hand and the safety catch off before I was anywhere near.
‘Careful,’ he said.
I looked at his face and stopped dead. The desk was still rocking on its thin varnished legs and the drawer was sticking out at a slight angle with its brass handle swinging to stillness. There was something else in the drawer but I couldn’t see it dearly from this distance; it was just one of a hundred items of data that were bombarding the consciousness and there wasn’t enough time to examine it In addition to this the emotional block was inhibiting reason: I’d lost.
‘Back off a bit,’ Schrenk said, ‘you’re too close.’
I did what he told me.
‘Never carry a gun, do you?’ His hand was absolutely steady. ‘That’s a mistake.’
Peripheral vision: Ignatov had moved away from the wall where he’d been standing with a handkerchief pressed to his temple; he was looking at Schrenk and waiting for instructions. Misha hadn’t moved but I could hear her tremulous breathing: she was a country girl and not used to the big city with its tall concrete towers and the grinding underground trains and men who were ready to kill each other in the warmth of a ground-floor apartment with the comfortable smell of boiled cabbage in the air.
‘Sweetheart,’ Schrenk said, ‘would you get me another cigarette?’ He didn’t take his eyes off me.
The girl moved out of my sight and then came back, lighting a cigarette from the crumpled paper packet and handing it to him, taking away the butt of the old one and dropping it into the ashtray. ‘Will everything be all right?’ she asked him, close to tears.
‘Everything will be all right, sweetheart, yes. Don’t worry.’
My left eyelid had begun flickering and without thinking about it I was breathing more deeply. There wasn’t going to be any action because things had passed beyond that stage: you can’t rush a gun and I wasn’t going to try. The only conceivable chance was in getting behind Ignatov and using him as a shield but there was Schrenk behind that thing, Shapiro, not some half-trained amateur. And he wanted me out of his way.
‘Had some good times, didn’t we?’ He drew deeply on the cigarette. ‘Remember Rosita?’
I didn’t say anything. He wasn’t making sense.
Tenerife? Tell you something. I took her out the night before old Templer flew in. What a gal!’ He began wheezing with quiet laughter, his thin body shaking with it But his gun hand remained perfectly steady. ‘Poor old Templer. He was going to take her out that night, but of course those bastards …’ He began coughing but managed to control it: the range was fifteen feet and he knew I could move very fast. ‘Remember that bloody bomb in the consulate in Cairo? Got the motto out, didn’t we?’ He giggled again. ‘Good times. We had some good times.’ Then he straightened up as far as he could and his tone was serious. ‘We could do a deal if you like.’
I began listening carefully. ‘What deal?’
I think Ignatov must have moved at this point, though he was outside my vision field. Schrenk said to him sharply: ‘Pyotr, stay where you are. If you move any closer he’ll try to use you as a shield, can’t you see that? Stay exactly where you are.’
In English he asked me: ‘Are you interested?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Pretty simple. If you agree to abort the mission I’ll let you go home.’
‘It’s not on.’
‘Always so bloody obstinate,’ he said in annoyance. ‘Don’t you know the alternative?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think there’s a chance?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not going to have you picked up again, you know that It’s too risky - you might get away as you did before. You know what I’ve got to do.’
He was losing his colour, and there was a certain stiffness coming into his body, as if he were readying himself to do something that would need a lot of effort on his part, a lot of determination. I could feel my eyelid flickering again and wondered if it showed: it’s always been an embarrassment.
‘Spell it out for me,’ I told Schrenk. ‘We don’t want any misunderstandings.’
‘You’re so right. All I want you to do is to go back to London without telling them where I am, or even that you found me. I want to be left alone.’ In a moment I said: ‘You’d take my word?’
He looked surprised. ‘Of course.’
‘You think you know me that well?’
‘Oh yes. I’m not risking anything.’
I thought about it. ‘Yes, you are. They could pick me up again and grill me, and I know where to find you.’
Concerned, he asked quickly - ‘Haven’t you got a capsule?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’d have to use it. That would be part of the deal.’ He waited impatiently.
I watched him, trying to read the truth in his eyes, in his face, in the set of his angular body, in the steadiness of the hand that held the gun. I believed he meant what he was saying. I was certain he did.
‘You know what I’m offering you,’ he said quietly.
‘My life.’
‘Yes.’ His face was bloodless now. At least it was going to mean something to him when he finally had to pump that thing and watch my body go reeling back in a series of jerks. I’d at least have an epitaph to go out with: Someone cared.
But that didn’t have to happen. I could take him at his word and walk out of here and report to Bracken and have the cell move in: there were six of them, fully trained, and they could take Schrenk and get him out of the country and put him back into a clinic and go on working on him, the best specialists, the best attention, until one fine day he could walk without hobbling and stand up straight and go and see that girl in Brighton again, take her out in his Jensen Interceptor and then one day, one day say to me, you broke your word to me that time in Moscow and it’s a bloody good thing you did or I wouldn’t be here now.
He was half out of his mind and needed protecting from himself: he was mixed up with a bunch of wildcat dissidents planning some kind of protest that was going to land him inside Lubyanka again or flat on his back in the street with his head in the gutter and the young po-faced militia men standing arrogantly over him, kicking him idly with their polished boots until the transport arrived. You have to use every means to complete a mission and the object of Scorpion was to get this man out of Moscow and I could do it without any problem, without lifting a finger, yes I accept the deal and you’ve got my word on it. The rest would be up to Bracken and his team and they wouldn’t have any problem either, once Schrenk was subdued and in their care; Croder had lined up support facilities that would get them across the frontier at an hour’s notice: Bracken had told me so.
‘The thinking,’ Schrenk said heavily, ‘is for you to do, not me. But I haven’t got a lot of time, quite frankly. I’m going to give you another minute. Sixty seconds. I think that’s fair.’
The gun was aimed at my forehead. He was a first class shot and could drop me where I stood without any pain. He was a humane man. Sixty seconds. That was a long time, more time than I really needed. A generous man.
I heard the tick of the clock. We all heard it. The other two hadn’t understood anything of what we’d been saying but they could sense what this silence meant: we’d both stopped talking and he was holding the gun perfectly still. I looked at it carefully; it was a 9 mm. Smith and Wesson and would carry eight shots in the magazine. Schrenk would only use one.
Tick… took The idea occurred to me that if I remained staring into the barrel of that thing I would perhaps see the nose of the bullet travelling towards me in the final microsecond of life, as young Chepstow had possibly seen it when he’d been sitting at the cafe table drinking his last cup of coffee in Phnom Penh a couple of years ago, thinking perhaps it was a bee.
Tick… tock.
Schrenk was very pale now, and there was something coming into his eves, a kind of blankness. I suppose he was having to blank out his mind and leave it clear of any philosophical considerations that might finally get in the way of what he had to do, which was to squeeze the first nicotine-stained finger of his right hand by a simple command to the motor nerves.
Tick… tock.
How long had he said? Sixty seconds. But he wouldn’t fire without some kind of warning. He wouldn’t expect me to know when the sixty seconds were up. Perhaps he was counting. Was I expected to count, as well? Schrenk. Do you want me to count?
Because it was no go. If I gave him my word I would have to keep it. It didn’t matter if he were half out of his mind and needed protecting from himself, so forth: those arguments were rational but not admissible. It wasn’t for me to judge him now. He’d worked damned hard for our people and kept us safe, all of us, Leningrad and London, all of us, while they’d been trying to break him in Lubyanka, and he’d earned our trust, my trust Tick… tock.
I really do wish you’d get that bloody thing. What I was not going to do was walk out of here and tell Bracken I was aborting the mission and ask him to give me safe passage back to London with my tail between my legs. Wish you’d get that bloody thing to tick evenly. It’s getting on my nerves. Call it pride, would you, not enough guts to face the fact that for the first time in my life I’m failing a mission, I don’t give a damn what you call it, it’s none of your bloody business. Must I suppose be up by now, sixty seconds aren’t long.
Tick…
Flickering. Left eyelid flickering. Sweat running down, wet on the palms. The face wound throbbing, the pulse rate high. Small round barrel and I suppose, I suppose that if in point of fact I finally glimpse the pointed lead nose of the bullet it’s going to look quite large, two inches from the centre of my forehead, large enough to blot his whole face out of sight.
Tock.