The Quiet Dogs: 3 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Jacob Vascovsky stepped forward, holding out his hand to Oleg Zapad. “I’m sorry, Comrade General.” He smiled: the charm of a practised diplomat, combined with that more sinister, bewitching, disarming, manner which Stentor had seen many times in his long career. Some claimed that he himself possessed this same kind of magic: the ability to gain confidence, to attract, as a Venus Flytrap entices. Stentor’s well-maintained antennae now picked up the vibrations of danger from this new arrival.

  Vascovsky lifted his head, looking at each member of the committee in turn, “I must apologise to all of you, comrades. I expect to be the unwelcome guest at your monthly feasts, but I ask you to bear with me. The Chairman has personally appointed me, and one does not argue with our Chairman.” He turned to Mironov and Striganov, “I think you have done your duty, comrades. You have been good nursemaids, but I can manage on my own now. Thank you.”

  The unexpected arrival, accompanied by the unanticipated appointment of an extra, new, member of the Standing Committee, took the small group a short time to assimilate. The first hour of the session was now concerned with introductions, and the business of Vascovsky getting to know his new colleagues.

  Two of the four he already knew by reputation within the Service, and the dossiers of all four men were—as the Chairman had told him—at his disposal. In the car, the General had just managed to riffle through them. Starting at the back of each thick folder, Vascovsky memorised the latest photographs of the subjects, so he would have no trouble putting names to faces, to jobs, at this first meeting. The dossiers had gone back to Dzerzhinsky Square with Mironov.

  As a man who had spent the bulk of his career in the field—mainly working the clandestine labyrinths of Europe—Jacob Vascovsky could only be impressed by these now elderly men, whose backgrounds provided an encyclopaedic picture of the Russian Service; its operations over at least the last three—in some cases, four—decades; and the current techniques of political, economic, military, and strategic intelligence-gathering, analysis, and manipulation.

  As he sat with them, Vascovsky found himself amazed at the lucid agility of their minds, and the more prosaic fact that any single one of the men could be taken for fifty-five years of age, not the late sixties, or even seventy. All looked to be in their prime, displaying exemplary physical condition.

  The man who was the current month’s chairman, Oleg Zapad, for instance, though only of medium build, had the look of someone who could hold his own against trained men half his age. Though basically a physicist, his general demeanour was that of a jester, with the ability to both laugh at himself, and score amusing points off others. His wit ranged from the pithy one-line joke, to that kind of humour which scourged the recipient. Zapad would—Jacob Vascovsky considered—have made an excellent field agent. Maybe he had done a spell out there in the winter—as KGB argot had it. In spite of the humour, Zapad’s face was like a blank wall. Anything that showed could be seen only in the eyes.

  This, then, was the head of Directorate T—responsible for the theft of all data concerning nuclear weapons, missiles, the strategic sciences, space research, industrial processing, and cybernetics, in the West. The department worked in close conjunction, and was heavily represented, with the GNKT—The State Scientific and Technical Committee.

  The tall, and fine-looking, Nikolai Aleksandrovich Severov was overlord of Directorate S, which dealt with the selection, training, and tactical disposal, of KGB operatives living in foreign countries under false papers, and, often, fictitious identities. Even at his age he sported a mane of white hair, smooth as an ermine’s pelt; while his looks were enhanced by a very straight, classic, nose.

  Vascovsky knew Severov by sight. What concerned him was the obvious conclusion that Severov—because of the position he held—almost certainly knew Vascovsky very well indeed. At least, he would be conversant with Vascovsky’s record. If any man in the room was aware of the recent blunder with the British spymaster, Kruger, in East Berlin it would be Severov.

  Vladimir Glubodkin: bronzed, as though he spent an hour a day under a sun lamp, was another who had kept his hair—though it was cut short in the military manner—and, from what Vascovsky could see, his teeth were also intact. Glubodkin was fond of flashing pleasant smiles at his colleagues, and seemed to be a bit of a dandy. A ladies’ man in his day, the General assessed; or, by the look of him, probably still a ladies’ man.

  Glubodkin, Head of Special Service I—responsible for the distribution of all intelligence gathered by the First Chief Directorate (his department would issue the daily digests, for instance). Special Service I also undertook specially instigated studies for on-going projects, operating right from the heart of things. A very important man for this particular committee.

  Vascovsky casually remarked to Special Service I’s chief that he had noticed, in the day’s digest, a paragraph concerning the arrest of the poet, Svobodny.

  Glubodkin looked surprised. “Really?” he answered in a somewhat effete and disinterested tone. “I rarely read the thing myself. Anyway, that’s Second Directorate stuff—Russian subject, Svobodny.”

  “It’s true, though, Volodya,” Oleg Zapad interposed from the end of the table. “I hear they’ve incarcerated him in the Bolshoi Ballet School. He’ll be out in a year as an Honoured Artist of the Soviet Union.”

  The dry, almost coughing laugh, came from Andrei Tserkov whose pleasant, almost avuncular, manner; friendly, weather-beaten face, and chain-smoking habit, made him—to Vascovsky—the most chilling member of the group. For Andrei Tserkov fronted Department V—as in Viktor—thereby elevating him to the status of one of the more dangerous men in the Service: head of the black and sinister heart of the KGB.

  Department V is probably the most secret of all sections, developed from the original organisation popularly known as Smyert Shpionam (Smersh), in the 1940s; and briefed to deal with political—or intelligence—murders, kidnappings, dirty tricks, and the covertly violent aspects of the trade they all plied.

  As Zapad brought the meeting to order—welcoming their new member as the Chairman’s direct representative—Vascovsky clearly saw, seeing these men in the flesh, what a truly bizarre situation faced him. Just to be in the presence of these four men was to touch the KGB’s history, and be aware of their combined intellect and knowledge. Together this group was a powerhouse within the world of secrets.

  Vascovsky, though brought up in a tradition of atheism, was vividly aware of that intense, and shining, example engendered by men and women who are believers in some form of faith. In the murky world of secrets, men of faith were needed. These four men were like people called to the religious life, but within the arcane society. You could feel the strength, just by being with them. Now, if one—only one—led a double-sided life; if one had, in another context, sold his soul to the devil, and dedicated it to God, at one and the same time, then the damage, over the years, could be impossible to assess. The General was a firm believer in his own faith and work. The Chairman had given him the job of unmasking the truth. Detective work, he called it. Vascovsky thought of it differently, almost fanatically. Looking around the table, he hoped, with all sincerity, that the tiny pieces of information—certainly leaked from one of these men—had arrived in Herbie Kruger’s ear by accident, or through unguarded talk, and not by design. Whatever the truth, though, he would hunt it down, and tear it out, as a wolf would tear the throat from its prey.

  Stentor guardedly watched Vascovsky throughout the long day’s meeting. He even talked with him, during their usual break for lunch. The agenda was not of a high standard this month. Only three possibilities, about which they talked, bringing the collective mind to bear on values and viability. There was a suggestion regarding the already well-infiltrated Trade Unions of the West; another concerning a senior NATO officer (they were always popping out of the woodwork); and a final possibility—a follow-up over the question of an American senator who had placed himself in a situation which might well be exp
loited to advantage.

  At the end of the meeting, only this last point was voted as a viable proposition, to be forwarded to the Chairman.

  Through the day, Stentor watched, listened and spoke. Mostly, he watched. Stentor knew his own powers of intuition, just as he knew of his own secret involvement with the operation which this man, Vascovsky, had pulled off, and then bungled, in East Berlin. Stentor’s own warnings had been too late to be of help to the British; but the final result of the business was a stalemate, with a slight advantage to the General.

  Stentor therefore did not require second sight to know there was a special reason for Vascovsky being appointed to the committee. The knowledge was strengthened when, as they were concluding for the day, he heard Vascovsky invite one of the committee members to dine with him. “I must come to know you all a little better,” the Chairman’s nominee said casually. “In due course I trust you’ll all visit my home.”

  When the meeting broke up, Stentor went over to his own office and worked for a couple of hours. It was only when he was in the car on his way back to Kutuzovsky Prospekt that he started to feel deep concern. Throughout his lengthy double life, almost from the first moment—long ago—when he met the man called Trofimov, Stentor had rarely allowed himself the indulgence of worrying about his personal safety. He had a rare confidence in both his own facility for survival and the precautions taken by his masters. There had been tricky situations before. But this time? He was only too conscious of Vascovsky’s reputation. If anything had leaked in East Berlin, then the whole weight of authority, together with its technology, surveillance, double-checks, and searches into the past, would come into play. Vascovsky was but the tip of the iceberg—a nasty and dangerous tip, below which lay unpleasant horrors.

  Once back in the apartment, Stentor behaved normally. Not that this was difficult. A wife who is left to her own devices all day wishes to talk when her partner returns. Stentor’s wife had, over the years, developed the idea that conversation meant monologue for a couple of hours. True, later in the evening, they would talk; but, by the time the evening meal was eaten, Stentor had not been required to contribute a great deal.

  There was a television programme his wife wished to see, so Stentor excused himself, retiring to his study. Once there, he made a telephone call. Certainly it was tapped, but it was a call he made often—to his ‘niece’ who lived, with her husband and two children, in Leningrad. The conversation was pleasant—How was Ivan? How were the children?—of no consequence to any of the listeners, or to Vascovsky who, if Stentor was correct, would most certainly be listening to the tapes.

  He could only risk one call through his ‘niece’. If Vascovsky decided everything had to be covered, she would be under surveillance very quickly. Doing it now, and in this way, Stentor would be assured of a drop and pick-up within the next few hours. The ‘niece’ would be out of her apartment, and making the contact he needed within seconds of the call ending. After that, Stentor would turn to his remaining four methods. Then silence. It was not worth the risk of using one of the methods twice.

  The call finished with a particular phrase—“Take care of the little ones.” On some occasions, it was “Look after the children,” or “Give the children a kiss from me.” Each had its own special meaning; innocuous enough not to raise suspicion. “Look after the children” meant that the ‘niece’ had to make contact with a third party, in Moscow, and end her conversation with yet another cipher phrase. “Look after the children,” for instance, meant her conversation would end with, “Everyone sends greetings.” All this ensured that the right person would be in the right place, at the right time.

  Stentor now sat down to begin work on his message. Short, to the point, and operated by a book code. The book changed every three days, and the cipher was not easy—even if you knew which book was in use.

  When Stentor had completed the cipher he copied the groups of numbers on to a two-by-four piece of flimsy, which he folded neatly, and locked in the metal filing cabinet that stood in the corner. Years ago, in the late 1920s, when his friends in England had taken him out—to a secluded house in France—in order to give him elementary training, and some idea of what he could do for them, one of the prime rules they dinned into him was, “Trust nobody. If you want to be absolutely certain, always do the job yourself.”

  So it was that when the car arrived on the following morning to take Stentor to the Yasenevo Complex, the small flimsy paper had been inserted into a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes—his favourite brand, obtainable easily enough, at duty free prices, by the privileged classes. There was one cigarette in the packet.

  Just before the black Volga pulled away from the kerb, Stentor told the driver to take them to Granovskaya Street—a couple of blocks from the Kremlin. The driver nodded, smiling to himself. At this time in the morning, Number Two Granovskaya Street would be open for people like his boss. In the afternoon, wives and families of Central Committee staff, senior KGB officers, and the like, would have the run of the place. A visit to Granovskaya Street always meant a small luxury for the driver and bodyguard.

  Number Two Granovskaya Street has one claim to historical fame. A plaque near the door commemorates the fact that In this building on April 19, 1919, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin spoke before the commanders of the Red Army headed for the front. The front was, of course, that of the Civil War. Even at his advanced age, Stentor still remembered the Civil War with the clarity of yesterday’s events. As a child he had been ripped apart from the safety of his parents, and was still living in a state of terror six years later when the Englishman, they called Trofimov, discovered him.

  Apart from the plaque, the building is nondescript: drab, with the windows painted over, and a sign which denotes it as The Bureau of Passes.

  Stentor told his men he would only be a few minutes. One other car was parked in front of them. Apart from that, the street remained almost deserted.

  Passing through the doors, Stentor felt in his inside pocket for the clear, plastic-covered, identification which allowed him entry to this small Aladdin’s cave. Here, and in many other hidden places like it, those with the necessary rank, appointment, or position, could buy items ranging from vegetables to Japanese stereo equipment—all unobtainable in ordinary stores.

  Stentor bought four 200 packs of Lucky Strikes, and a flask of Chanel for his wife. He took time over the small transaction, lingering, as though trying to make up his mind. Finally, as the purchases were being loaded into a thick paper sack, he glanced at his gold digital watch—another status symbol. The timing was right, and the only other customer had left. By this afternoon the place would be crowded with women and children, and you might have to wait for up to an hour for service.

  Outside again, he paused, taking the Lucky Strike packet from his pocket, removing the last cigarette, and lighting it as the bodyguard came over to help with the paper sack.

  Crumpling the empty packet in his hand, Stentor set off towards the car. The few people on the street studiously took no notice—particularly those who had spotted the Volga’s number plates, which identified it as an official vehicle.

  As he climbed into the car, Stentor dropped the crumpled packet into the gutter, among the remnants of hard snow which still fingered there. Inside, he delved into the paper sack, tossing two of the packages of cigarettes to the bodyguard and driver. They thanked him almost casually. He was a good boss, but, over the past few years, the driver, at least, had come to know he disliked any effusive gratitude for small gifts such as these.

  Nobody noticed the young man, approaching the building on foot, from the Kremlin end of Granovskaya Street. Almost opposite The Bureau of Passes, the young man hesitated, bending to adjust the zip on his short leather boots.

  When he straightened up, the Lucky Strike packet was safely inside the pocket of his greatcoat. Fifteen minutes later, Stentor’s flimsy ciphered message lay on the desk of a room deep within the British Embassy. The Ambassador, and his ma
in staff, would know nothing about it; but, within the hour, the series of numbers were flashed to a clandestine receiving point in Finland. From there they continued their journey to GCHQ—the Government Communications Headquarters—near Cheltenham. Finally they reached the building near Westminster Bridge. All these journeys through the airwaves were made at high speed, and intermingled with other messages.

  Allowing for the time difference, Stentor’s message was on the Director’s desk, in London, ready for deciphering, at nine o’clock in the morning—Thursday morning.

  Deciphered, Stentor’s message read:

  WARNING POINTER TOWARDS QUIET DOGS/OLD FRIEND JACOB FROM BERLIN GIVEN MEMBERSHIP/SUSPECT OFFICIAL INVESTIGATION/POSSIBLE LINK WITH THE BIG MAN/ STENTOR

  This message, combined with information concerning the death of a man called Gold in a street accident, tipped the scales. For some time, men in secret places of power had prevaricated over making a decision. Now there had to be action, and so it was that Tubby Fincher—ADC to the Director General of the British Secret Intelligence Service—received orders to bring Big Herbie Kruger, the Big Man, back from Warminster.

  3

  IN THE FIRM, THEY always spoke of the house as Warminster; though, to be accurate, it stands—a Georgian pile with some ugly Victorian additions—well back from the road, between the army camp at Knook and the village of Chitterne, some seven miles from the Wiltshire garrison town of Warminster.