by John Gardner
They had even gone to the trouble of filling his fridge-freezer—probably to discourage him from going out—while the bottles on the drinks’ trolley, in the main room, were all full: unopened. Herbie gave another of his heaving shrugs and started to build himself a mammoth vodka-soda.
With a large hand cupped around the glass, he turned, walking towards the window, glancing at his bookshelves as he went. Everything seemed in place, the classics of English history, mingled with studies of British statesmen, world leaders, and occasional rare books sought out during those more prosaic periods of peace in Herbie’s burrowing active life.
At the window, the view suddenly became its old familiar self, the flat taking on its former perspective. It was as if he had wakened from a dream to find nothing had changed; that he was safe. Only the active sensors, in the back of Herbie Kruger’s brain, told him nothing could ever be the same again.
Looking down on to the road below, his professional mind sought for the obvious: a closed van, an estate with blacked out windows—anything that might conceal the watchers he knew were there, adjusting their tuners to get better sound or picture as they rifled his present privacy.
Then he remembered the mail. At Warminster they had brought up his mail each evening, with the Commandant’s daily box of papers. The mail had been impeccably opened and resealed. To the normal eye there would have been no trace. When Tubby brought him back into the flat, Herbie had been vaguely conscious of a small pile of post on the glass table. He crossed to it now—four letters. Two of the letters had window envelopes, and were not sealed. Circulars. The remaining pair had none of the usual marks. The same team—probably a day and a night man—had done all Herbie’s letters while he was at Warminster, and it had not taken long to spot individual trademarks. One man always left a minute tear—a brushing of the fingernail almost—on the right side of the envelope flap, high up: as if he was impatient, and never quite allowed the glue-softener to complete its work, before he started on the flap.
The other searcher had a habit of leaving a small fragment slightly loose, at the point of the flap. Again minute, but Herbie had spent most of his life watching for trademarks.
Neither of the two envelopes before him now bore the traces. Either a new team had taken over, or they had pulled off the dogs. Taking a long draught of the vodka, Herbie opened the first envelope with deliberate care.
The letter was on government paper: typewritten with a neat signature.
Dear Herbie,
They have just told me you are coming back on Monday, and asked if I still wish to work with you. Why they should ask must remain one of life’s mysteries. Of course I want to work with you, if you will have me. No hint of what the job is to be, but I expect they have briefed you. Need I say how thrilled and relieved I am to know you are coming back. Welcome home. It will be so good to see you again, and nobody could be more pleased than I that all has turned out so well. See you soon.
As Ever,
Yours,
Tony Worboys
Big Herbie smiled. At least there was young Worboys. Green perhaps, but untainted, as yet, by the deeds of treachery that went on within the world he had chosen. Herbie closed his eyes, remembering that it was young Worboys who had been there on his return over the Berlin Wall: bouncing around him like a puppy.
“You made it, Herbie.” With his eyes tightly closed, Herbie could still hear Worboys’ greeting. “Thank God. You made it... they had you, and you got away... At least you’ve come back a sort of hero.”
Aloud, he laughed. A sort of hero? That’s what Worboys imagined. Tubby Fincher, and heaven knew who else in the Firm, thought of him as the villain of the piece. Crawford knew more than was good for him. The Director General probably knew it all. Hallet and Birdseed? Why Hallet and Birdseed? Would they ever tell him? Was it right he should know?
The second letter was handwritten in violet ink. A woman’s hand which, oddly, made Herbie’s heart give a sudden lurch. This time his fingers fumbled with the flap, and he ripped at the envelope. Inside, a few lines of neat, Germanic script:
Herbie dear,
I am probably breaking all the rules, but they have not told me that I am forbidden to write. At least I am not including an address. Maybe they have told you they traded me for some wretched little KGB man. I am pensioned off and playing the lonely German widow without much success. They tell me you have been cleared of all responsibility. It would be nice to see you, and I am usually at this number (0590) 73637.
Fondest love and many memories!
Martha
The sun crossed the pitted, lumpy face as it gashed into a beaming smile. So? So one more at least was saved. He had condemned her by his folly, but she had been reprieved. Martha. Martha Adler, who had been arrested just after Herbie had seen her in East Berlin. Martha, who he had recruited so long ago, in the agile days of his youth.
When he had seen her in Berlin, before the axe fell, she was still lithe, with a wonderful figure and hair the same shade of ash blonde it had been when they first met. Then she had screwed Russian officers, diplomats, and politicians of the DDR, just for the tidbits of information. She had even had an affair with Herbie before he recruited her. So long ago now. Martha Adler, from whom sex bubbled like a hot spring. Good. He would call her; see her. At least she would make him laugh, as he was nearly laughing now. Not from here though. He would go out. Make the watchers work for a living. Phone from a call box. Maybe they would even ... Herbie started to laugh aloud. The thought, after all these years. At least he was absolved from one crime if Martha was back. Perhaps her testimony had helped the Director General make up his mind.
At that moment, as though on cue, the direct line telephone began its urgent bleeping. Herbie lumbered across to pick up the instrument. His hand shook, but his voice was strong as he answered. The Director General was on the line.
“Welcome home, Herbie,” the Director’s voice flat and without emotion, but not unfriendly.
Herbie muttered his thanks, Vascovsky’s voice still an echo in his head.
“I’m afraid I have some news for you. Possibly bad news.” The Director paused as Herbie grunted. The past year had been all bad news so what could be worse?
“A friend of yours has been killed, I fear. An accident. A real accident. Nothing sinister. You know a man called Gold?”
“Alexander Gold?” Herbie did not react immediately.
“The same. He was killed crossing the Strand. Walked in front of a taxi.”
“Walked?”
“Definitely. There are witnesses. He stepped off the pavement without looking. I’m sorry.”
Herbie remained silent for a second. He could see Alex clearly: at their last meeting, in the little house in Catford; full of life, a little drunk. Shit, he said silently. Getting careless in his old age. Dropping Alex’s name like that had been a test. Nobody...
“I thought you should know. Exiled Russian, wasn’t he, Herbie? We’ve nothing on file.” A mild hint of admonition? A query?
“It was private,” Herbie did not say it too quickly. “A friend outside. There’s nothing that connects. No return ticket to us.”
When he answered, a more definite shade of accusation had crept into the Director’s voice. “Herbie, he carried your name and address, openly ...”
“So?”
“Together with your Firm address—the Annexe—and its private number, reversed, in his book.”
Herbie counted to ten. “You want to talk about this now? On the phone?”
“Bare essentials, I think, yes.”
“Okay. It was private. Goes a long way back. Back to the camps—you know my life story ...”
“Most of us know a lot of it, Herbie.”
“Well, it was in the camps. I’ve known Alex since I was fourteen, fifteen. He is—was—about four years older than me. I knew his wife also. Yes, I gave him numbers. Not so very long ago, the private number. That was because of his son.”
“Michael?”
Herbie grunted an affirmative. “Recruits, Director. You always say we should keep our eyes peeled. I watch like anyone. Michael has a first class honours degree in modern languages: speaks Russian, lives Russian—old Russian, but Russian. A good, possible, bet. Not yet, though. In time a possible. Too young yet. That enough? We talk properly when I see you?” There was no percentage in revealing the shameless way he had used Alex—without making any written reports, except to call him ‘a source’. Nobody was going to ask; it was the same way they worked in the Branch; the CID; journalists.
“Right, Herbie, we’ll talk on Monday. Nine sharp.”
“On the third stroke,” Herbie chuckled. “I look forward to it.”
“It’ll be good to have you back.” The Director closed the line.
Herbie realised the glass was still in his hand so he drained it, felt the bite of the liquor on the back of his throat, and saw, in the bookshelf, a copy of Halliday’s Shakespeare Companion. A line, stunningly apt, came into his head. Henry IV—offhand he could not remember which Part. The tottering Mr. Justice Shallow, the trembling Mr. Justice Swallow, reminiscing about their youth: feeling their own mortality through the death of contemporaries, “And is old Double dead?” A hollow irony now. Double dead. Poor Alex; and is old Alex dead?
“And is old Double dead?” Herbie said aloud, smashing his glass towards the imitation fireplace, so that the splinters flew back in a sunburst shower.
So they thought him a fool, a traitor, a Judas. Okay, God help them now. The Director’s voice on the telephone, and the news of Alex Gold’s death, had been like a drench of icy water.
Too long, living with self-pity. No, he would not see Martha Adler this weekend. That could wait. He would plan a new campaign. Then, on Monday morning, he would place himself, like some kind of monk, under the Director’s obedience. Whatever the job, though, Herbie Kruger would play a second game. An end game. Pride in his sordid profession was all he had left; the swamped lands of his career now needed draining, and the crops sewn anew.
With Shakespeare still in his mind, and no thought for the men who listened through their electronic ears, he raised his arms and voice, shouting, his bull-like head tilted back. “Herbie’s himself again.”
5
THE DIRECTOR GENERAL PUT down the telephone, turning to the men assembled in his office. Crawford, like a pleasant farmer; Tubby Fincher; Tony Worboys; and, sprawled in a leather armchair, his manner so casual as to make him almost invisible, Curry Shepherd.
“Private friendship, he says.” The Director looked at each of them, like a good actor sweeping the house with his eyes, letting each member of the audience think he was aware of them as separate individuals. “Private friendship, from way back in the camps. No connection, except that he had an eye on the son. Possible material.”
Fincher gave a short, brassy laugh. “Haven’t we all? Spotted by our tame Cambridge Don. Michael Gold’s been on our private probable list for two years.”
“It’s plausible, Tubby. On the cards,” the Director spoke gently. “I know you aren’t convinced, but...”
“I’ve been with him.” Sharp, efficient Tubby. “I’ve seen the man. He’s come through the best part of a year’s interrogation, and I still consider a few more months would have broken him.”
“Oh come on ...” From young Worboys.
Fincher gave the junior a cold stare. “You’re really going through with it, Director?”
The Director, behind his desk again, asked why he should not go through with it? Because the shadow of doubt still remained. Tubby snapped back. “The man’s a walking land mine...”
The fact that no case had been proved against Kruger, made it more likely that last year’s Berlin disaster was simply an act of passionate frustration, the Director parried Fincher. “Out of character with the rest of his known professional life, I admit. But you will recall that he pressed constantly for permission to put matters right in East Berlin, on his own. We all had warning about that. I’m personally ninety-nine per cent sure that Big Herbie’s one of ours and always has been.”
With his eyes, the Director tested his audience. “Crawford?”
“Like you. Ninety-nine per cent certain, Director. Yet I’ve a sneaking suspicion that it matters little whether it’s my one per cent or yours. The rule of thumb is that when there’s a jot of doubt you suspend. Neither Milmo nor Bill Skardon could break Philby...”
“And look what happened there ...” Tubby began.
The Director nodded. “Exactly the argument the PM put. But permission was granted: mainly because of the way I intend to use him. If Herbie is ours, then he’s given them those two small pieces of silver in error. That is quite possible, as we all know. One of the few evils of the need-to-know principle.”
Curry Shepherd stirred. “Sound as a bell, old Herb,” he murmured. “Don’t forget, I saw him in action. You heard what Martha Adler had to say. He went over to save, not to kill. Five-to-four-on favourite, Herbie Kruger.”
Fincher remained unmoved, asking if they would get twice-daily reports on Kruger’s behaviour and movements.
Since his own cover was blown, as the Firm’s Berlin troubleshooter, Curry Shepherd had been appointed head of what was known, in trade circles, as the Watch Committee—training and operational surveillance: the leeches, who worked on foot, or in cars; and the privacy-thieves with their electronics, mikes and cameras. All were under Curry’s control.
“So what’s he been up to since I got him back?”
Curry uncurled himself and wandered towards the door. “Get you a news flash,” he muttered.
The Director, anxious to convince his trusted adviser, began the argument again; directing it solely at Tubby Fincher. “You see, whichever way this goes we’ll know. Also there’s no harm done. After all, Stentor is expendable. We’re trying to keep a promise, that’s all. If it fails ... well,” he raised his hands in a signal that, in a priest, would mean God’s will be done. “Truth is, Tubby, we’re in error. Planning should be finished by now; and someone without a face ought to have completed training. We’re buck-passing, whichever way you look at it.”
Fincher remarked that young Worboys should not really be with them. Patiently the Director agreed, nodding at Tony Worboys: signalling he should leave.
But Worboys wanted a say. “Sir, the first time I worked with Herbie was on the Nostradamus business. I surely don’t have to remind anybody that it was Herbie Kruger who unearthed what, we hope, was the last of the long-term penetration agents in the Firm. If it hadn’t been for Herbie, that man might still be working here.”
Tubby Fincher gave a frustrated chuckle, “And may I remind you, young Worboys, that when push came to shove, it was Herbie Kruger’s gun that jammed; and it was Mr. Kruger who failed to put a tap on the wife’s house phone, so allowing the gentleman in question to get away; and so causing us the trouble of arranging a search party, followed by an unpleasant accident. Techniques we try to avoid.” He went on to say that this was the line he’d pursued from the start. He expanded. Herbie Kruger had come to them as a mere lad; refused by the Americans. There was some evidence he had already worked, as a boy, in the German anti-Nazi resistance. “And you know what they were—Communist Party members to a man, woman, and child. With the information we have now—since Berlin—Herbie’s entire career with us is revealed as a sham: the great reputation built on sand. You only have to go down the list—agents blown, networks folded, and, finally, Herbie taken back after throwing all his people on to a dungheap. One got out, right. One man; then we did a deal for the Adler woman ...”
“And she stakes her life on him,” the Director murmured.
“Par for the course. He’s a natural. I take my hat off to him. I still cannot trust him.”
The Director told Worboys he had better be going, and Worboys had the distinct feeling that the Director General had to control himself from saying “Cut along, old chap.” He cut al
ong anyway, unhappy in the knowledge that he would have to play the subversive with Herbie Kruger. He passed Curry Shepherd in the passage, Curry looking, as usual, like a slightly seedy, cashiered officer. Worboys presumed it was the fading looks, the slightly worn blazer, and the suede brothel-creepers that did it.
Back in the Director’s office, Curry launched into a quick resume of Herbie’s words, and actions, following Tubby’s departure from the St. John’s Wood flat. In silence, they heard him through to the end.
“Out of his tree,” sneered Fincher. “Breaking glasses. ‘Herbie’s himself again’...”
“Parody of Richard III, Tubby.” The Director coughed, “Refurbished by a Mr. Cibber, I believe. ‘Conscience avaunt, Richard’s himself again.’ Curry?”
“The letters? What did they contain?”
Curry’s tired, almost dissipated, good looks underwent a small convulsion, as one hand raked through the thinning blond hair. “Oh Christ.”
The Director showed no anger. It was too late for fury. He baldly stated that Curry had called off the mail surveillance. Shepherd nodded.
“Then get it on again fast. If he does go out, put a man in to go through those letters.” His head snapped towards Tubby Fincher. “You see, Tubby, even if I am ninety-nine per cent certain of Herbie, I’m damned if I’m going to get caught out. In the meantime, avaunt, gentlemen, I wish to examine the Stentor File in order to talk with Mr. Kruger on Monday—and, Curry, don’t lose him over the weekend, will you?”
Curry managed a smile. “Not even if he defects to Bognor Regis, sir.”
Quoting the supposed deathbed words of King George V, the Director grinned sourly. “Bugger Bognor,” he said.
6
BIG HERBIE TOWERED OVER the Director General, hands awkward at his sides. “Just remember it was not my idea to come back here.” He gave no hint of a smile. “That is first. Second, you should know that I am aware Martha Adler is in England on part of the Firm’s wonderful exchange programme. She wrote to me: telephone number but no address. I am not a mind reader so did not know how you felt about things, so I refrained from calling her over the weekend.” The old grin appeared for a second time. “It would be nice to have your okay to visit her, yes?”