by John Gardner
Herbie glanced out of the streaming window again, as the train rocked and twisted its way back to Charing Cross. It had been a melancholy afternoon, even without the rain. Alex Gold’s funeral had been almost as quick as his death. “He wanted no religious ceremony,” the widow, Nataly, told Herbie. So there had been no prayers, no cleric—not even an Orthodox priest. Just the rain, the undertaker, and Alex, in a box, at the crematorium. The BBC was represented by a young man in a grubby raincoat, who refused Nataly’s invitation to come back to the house. Apart from him, there was only the widow; Michael, the son—with a plain girl friend who cried—and Big Herbie.
Herbie returned to the house with Nataly, while young Michael took his girl home. Her name was Cynthia Perkins, and Michael promised to be back before Herbie left.
As the young man walked away, Herbie thought of the possibilities: and the irony. Alex had always sworn that neither Nataly nor the son knew about his other work. Big Herbie was inclined to believe him. Herbie would not have trusted Nataly with a minor confidence, let alone the important discipline of secrecy. As for Michael? No, Alex was dedicated to giving the boy a first class education—seeing him grow into a successful professional man. Neither would know of Alex Gold’s dirty secret; and Michael now spoke German, French and Russian. Russian with his parents’ Ukrainian accent. Perhaps. Herbie tucked the thought away, as he guided Nataly back to the little house. Perhaps, but certainly not yet. Yes, he had started at the age of fourteen, but that was a different world. Young Michael Gold really was too young, callow and inexperienced in life. Maybe, one day.
Desperately, he tried to see Nataly as she had been when they first met: but the picture was gone—changed to a phantom, like the ghost image you get on a faulty TV. He knew she had been a natural blonde and very thin. Now the blonde streaks in her hair remained only with the aid of chemicals; and the most charitable would call her buxom at least.
He also wondered at the fact that he had never known her maiden name. But why should he? They were all little more than children on that first meeting; and he thought of her, even then, as Alex’s wife.
In the house, she expressed her grief to Kruger in great gouts of effusive thanks. “If it hadn’t been for you, Herbie, we would both have perished years ago. Instead, you’ve given us a happy life together. Alex would want me to thank you in whatever way was best. You are welcome here at any time. You know that; you do know and understand what I mean?”
Big Herbie tried not to believe what he heard. There was only one construction he could put on her words, for they were accompanied by coy movements of her body and eyelids.
He sighed with silent relief when Michael came back, seating himself in the old horsehair easy chair that had been his father’s favourite. It was as though Michael had consciously taken over the throne in this overfurnished room which, Herbie thought, had altered little since he had first seen it in the late 1960s.
Nataly constantly referred to the room as ‘the lunge’, which Herbie translated into ‘lounge’—a word he detested. The only decent thing in the place was a little icon of the Virgin of Vladimir—a reproduction of the much larger work; but a good one: old and crafted. Herbie had not seen it in the DP camp, but Alex would almost certainly have had it there.
They took weak Russian tea, and very English cake—which Nataly called gateaux. There was sentiment, and many tears, before Herbie left. Michael drove him to the station, so there was opportunity for a short talk with the boy. Boy? You’re getting old, Herbie: the boy was now in his early twenties. Yes, but young, romantic and immature for his age.
On the train, Herbie concluded that Nataly had never known her husband. From the very start of it all, she had not known him. For Nataly, Alex was simply a passport from hell. Now he was gone she probably felt relief: there had been much talk of how well Alex had done; how high he had risen in his field. Fantasy. The little house, and the old cheap furniture had become a mansion crammed with taste and wealth. Nataly lived in a world of fantasy, just as her late husband had lived in a world of double fantasy, and Herbie had come to despise it all, because Alex did what he did for money; not out of conscience. Had Alex ever been blessed with a conscience?
Strange, whenever Herbie had made contact and met Alex in recent years he was always able to see the original man—the boy—he knew for the first time all those years before.
Young Big Herbie was sorting the wheat from the chaff—for the Americans—in the DP camps, when Alexei and Nataly came into his life. Now he could not immediately recall which of the many camps they were in; but the memory, that it was Alexei who had made the first move, remained strong. He introduced himself as Alexei Zolotoy, and just hung around, with the girl; staying close to Herbie, for a few days, before making the real pitch.
It was the usual horror story. They had originally come from the same Ukrainian village, near Kiev. The village had been slap in the path of the Nazi advance, with its attendant scorched earth policy.
Some of the older men tried to put up a fight. In the end they had been stripped, led out naked on to the common ground, and burned alive, with a flame-thrower, in front of the other villagers.
There followed the usual mass slaughter, except for some of the younger men and women—including Alex and Nataly, who claimed they would never forget the sight of the village in flames as they were driven away.
Young Herbie had heard many such stories. “All over now,” he told them. “This is a pleasant camp. Your cases will be sorted out. You will go home, and rebuild the village.”
Nataly began to cry, and Alexei shook his head. “We were children, but they brought us to Germany. We were worked like little horses. Slave labour. Others came from Russia also, and we know what will happen if they send us back.”
“What will happen?”
“You know.” Alex, three years his senior, looked ready to spit at Herbie. “You’re well in with them. I’ve watched you. You know the State has decreed that any Russian who worked for the Nazis has been declared a traitor to the Party. There are no excuses. We should have given our lives, rather than work for them. If we are sent back we will surely die; or serve long prison sentences. Mostly we shall die.”
“Then you ask not to be sent back.” It appeared to be reasonable logic.
“This is what worries us. We hear, in the camp, that the Americans have been ordered to hand us over to the British. The British have agreed, with Stalin, that all Russian-born DPs will be returned to their homeland. We know what this means.”
It so happened that Big Herbie had done well in that camp: flushing out several former SS officers and NCOs. His American case officer was pleased with him, so Herbie felt he could ask a favour. He made a plea for Alexei and Nataly, after asking the American if the story was true—about the deportation of Russians, and what would happen to them.
It was all too true, the American said. In fact the British detachment was already in the camp. The Russians would be sent back within a few days. “The British officer doesn’t care for it at all,” he told Herbie. “None of us do. But that’s the order.”
Big Herbie put in a further plea and, because of his good work, the American promised to see what he could do. In the end they were all lucky. The British officer had agreed to get Alexei and Nataly out, and into England, before the main party left. Herbie’s case officer reckoned it was the Britisher’s way of salving his conscience, and the couple were taken out a couple of nights later. Herbie recalled having to ask the American what ‘salving his conscience’ meant.
Six months passed, and Herbie had almost forgotten the couple, when he received a letter, which had gone halfway around France and Germany to get to him. Alexei and Nataly were safe in London. They were married, and there was a good chance of them being given British citizenship. Their name was now changed to Gold. They both had good jobs.
The next time Herbie Kruger saw Alex was in Berlin, in the late 1950s: when Herbie was working in the West, and agent-running in
the East. The work in the West was, of course, concerned with debriefings, and operational orders. It was relatively easy then; before the building of the Wall.
All Alex wanted was to talk and drink. He invited Herbie to London. He could stay with them. Nataly would love to see him, for Alex Gold was now a responsible journalist: doing well, being sent on assignments all over Europe. Within an hour of their meeting, Herbie knew. Perhaps it was Alex’s manner, or a hint in something he said. Maybe it was simply intuition, but Big Herbie knew he must keep his guard up, for Alex was working for the Soviets.
Once Big Herbie was back in London—between engagements, so to speak—before going out to Bonn, there was a full reunion. Since then the meetings had been mainly with Alex, with an occasional visit to Catford, just to keep up appearances. So, it was not long before Herbie realised the full state of play. Alex had been either coerced into working for the Soviets, or was doing small jobs for them—not for any ideology, just for the extra money. By this time his great success story had been exploded. Certainly Alex went on business trips, but his assignments all over Europe were mainly as a translator. It was the same with his work for the Soviets. Alex was no master spy; only an occasional courier.
But Alex liked to boast and hint, so Herbie eventually called his bluff, put an arm lock on, and turned him—all nice and private: nothing on paper, and no reports. All it meant was occasional claims for payments—information from a special source. In turn, that meant Herbie got first look at whatever Alex was couriering into some part of Europe. Over a few years Alex just about earned his keep; though Herbie was never able to get any headline material. Nobody in their right mind would have trusted scoop information to Alex. Not that he would have talked. It was more likely that, in fear or panic, the man would simply destroy the stuff to save his own skin.
He had been useful though, and, in spite of the terms of their trade, Herbie had a tiny soft spot for the man, hidden away in some far corner of his contempt.
As the train pulled into Charing Cross, Herbie Kruger spotted Curry Shepherd loitering with intent. He was to escort Herbie back to Headquarters. The Director General wished to see him immediately.
The two men sat, alone, in the Director’s office, high above Westminster Bridge. Quietly, the DG went through the situation again for Herbie’s sake—very conscious that he was setting the big man an invidious task.
“It’s obvious that our go-between with Stentor has to be a mystery.” The Director paused, waiting for the affirmative which came as a grunt.
“Sure, so we use a clean journalist, or some new sales rep, yes?”
“No.” The DG leaned back in his chair. “Herbie, you remember when I broke the news about Alex Gold’s death?”
A very wary affirmative this time.
“Well, you told me that you had an eye on the boy—Michael—for future use.”
“The accent is on future use, yes.”
“No.” Fast, like a gunslinger in a Western movie, from the hip. “No, Herbie. Michael Gold’s time has come...”
“That’s...”
The Director raised a hand. “Just listen, Herbie. We need somebody really clean and with the right qualifications. Michael Gold has the qualifications. What is it? Speaks, thinks, lives Russian...”
“Has never been there,” snapped Herbie. “Never been there, and he’s still only a kid...”
“And you were only a kid when you ...”
“Different. War makes people grow.”
“It’s no different. We’ve talked here. Sorry, Herbie, you were his father’s friend, but the decision is that we use Michael Gold, if he’s clean—and I don’t see that being a problem.”
Herbie’s stomach turned over. Deep within him, gathered in the centre of his vast experience, he knew the choice was wrong. Aloud, he said it was insane; stupid; even criminal. “The boy lacks guile. Yes, with a few years’ training, the fact of his Russian background, and command of language, could be of help. But something like this—madness.”
“Nevertheless, Herbie. He’s to be your mystery.”
“That an order?”
The Director General said it was very definitely an order.
“Then I resign.”
The longest silence ever between the men. “No way on this one, Herbie. Win back trust and you can do as you like. But resign now and we’ll have you locked up for ever and a day. I’ve set you the impossible, but you’re under my orders. Michael Gold gets vetted, and then you net him—and I will not have spanners thrown in the works. You’ll do it properly.”
Big Herbie reflected for a moment. There were no doors or windows through which he could escape: only an impossible operation to be run from a distance; and now they wanted him to recruit Michael Gold who would hash it up.
“You understand? No spanners; no refusals from Gold because you tip him the wink?”
No options either, thought Big Herbie. He gave a deep sigh. “Okay. Okay so we try for him. We go for Gold, yes?”
The Director gave a tiny smirk of approval before Herbie continued, “But I make two things clear. One, I personally do not like it, am not happy with it...”
“But you’ll give of your all?”
“Naturally.” It was a weary, beaten voice. “Two, the vetting. I want Curry. Curry personally, because he’s good, and just in case there’s buried horror among the gold. I run it, okay. I give of my all, but only if Curry turns him inside out. Curry’s very good, yes?”
“The best,” the Director acknowledged.
“You tell Curry, then; and I’ll brief him. That way we all know who’s rowing the boat. I also want it on record that I do not approve.”
The DG gave a sombre nod. He would get Curry Shepherd over to the Annexe as quickly as possible.
“He’ll find me in Registry.” Herbie gave one of his daft grins. “The dossier—Stentor’s dossier—is very thick. Takes a lot of reading, and you won’t let me do it at home.”
“I should bloody well think not,” the Director snapped.
8
THE DIRECTOR WAS CORRECT. The Stentor File should not be allowed out of Registry. Eventually, Herbie presumed, when it was all over, with the loose ends neatly tied, the File would be put into cold storage for the requisite number of years. After that, the Press and historians would have field days galore.
To an amateur historian, the three great folders which made up the Stentor File were fascinating: living history; complete with the original written reports; letters under seal; and decoded information.
Big Herbie had already spent a number of hours hunched over the books, his ham hands touching the older papers—repaired and covered in clear plastic—with caution. Few would have believed those great hands and stubby fingers could be so gentle.
Whenever he signed the file out, Herbie Kruger found himself under the eagle eye of Ambrose Hill, the aging Head of Registry. Hill also knew the value of original documents. Stentor’s file was both history and dynamite.
Since his return from Warminster, and assignment to the impossible task, Herbie had—almost overnight—truly become himself again. He did not even notice the snubs from people like Tubby Fincher—who flatly refused to deal with him. He just got on with the job, oblivious of time, food or the requirements of others. All his old expertise returned, like a man who has not swum for many years, taking to the water again.
More—apart from this new concern over using Michael Gold—Herbie found himself laughing; the legendary good humour bubbling, as a driving power began to force him into the logistics—the nuts and bolts—of getting Stentor out of Moscow, and into England. He even found himself forming an affinity with the man, as he plunged on through the pages of the dossier.
His first worry had been about the identity, and nature, of Lockhart’s agent, Trofimov. During the period of the Revolution, and through the Civil War—well into the twenties—Herbie knew the Service had employed some odd people. This was always necessary—he was an odd person himse
lf, as were the ‘psychos’ they brought in on occasions.
Herbie’s long secret career had seen him working with thieves, forgers, and professional criminals, as well as rogues of all kinds. Nowadays, there were techniques of control. But in the twenties—as during what used to be called the Great War—the Firm took on both casual labour, and full-time people, who would turn coat at the twitch of a five pound note. There were no devious methods of restraint in the old days—particularly in Russia.
He need not have worried about Trofimov. The cross-refs were all there, and it took only an initial hour to establish the man’s bona fides. His real name meant little—the product of a Russian father and English mother, having been born in the heartland of British respectability, Surrey.
Like many before—and since—Trofimov was a university graduate who failed entrance to the Diplomatic Service. In 1918, Lockhart took him to Moscow on his staff. The staff was constantly changing; soon coming under suspicion as a nest of spies: to the extent that, after the attempt on Lenin’s life in the summer of 1919, Lockhart himself, and some of the staff, were placed under arrest. A diplomatic incident followed—the British Government responding by arresting the Soviet representative in London and not releasing him until Lockhart was freed.
The continual changes of staff, however, were exceptionally useful. Men and women, suspected by the new régime—because of their former position, or for more sinister reasons—could be got out by substitution. Papers and passports were doctored; the real original member of the special mission staff dropping out of sight, still in Russia, once his duplicate was safely in England.
Papers were readily available, and Trofimov was soon living as a genuine Russian, under the cover of being a former clerk. He quickly found himself lodgings, and reported to his local Bolshevist Commissar. For the next three years, Trofimov was in the thick of the bloody confrontation—the Civil War—which was to end in victory for the Communists, and the birth pangs of the new Soviet nation. By 1923, he had a job with the growing bureaucracy: Inspector of Rural Areas; a title which sounded very grand, but meant that he was required to tramp around an area of some hundred square miles, in order to register the peasant workers, and report on numbers of men and women who could be. shifted from traditional farming to the more urgent work in newly-planned factories. It was a job he did not relish. Inspectors of Rural Areas had a habit of being found drowned, or in ditches with their brains distributed in some nearby field.