by John Gardner
They talked together for a time. Zapad had come with a small problem which needed sorting. He also required the advice of Special Section I’s Chief regarding suspect documents on the US Space Programme.
When the Head of Department T finally left, Stentor got back to his own work, heavy in the ‘In’ tray—there were two reports to write, and three dossiers to examine. Within the next few days, General Glubodkin would be briefing three officers posted out of Russia—one to London and two to Washington. It was a part of his routine duties to personally brief officers leaving the country, and, in his role as Stentor, this became a work of major importance.
When the jobs were completed, Stentor’s fingers strayed along the row of buttons on his desk console. Finally, as though making a great decision, he pressed firmly on the end button. A few moments later, a tap on the door heralded the arrival of a short dark-haired girl of around twenty-five. She was just starting to get a little plump around the waist, but Stentor rather liked that.
“Is there something I can do for you, Comrade General?” The girl was dressed in uniform shirt and skirt; a notebook and pencil were carried in her right hand, and she wore no jewellery.
Stentor smiled—a grin of great charm, which made him look more of a forty year old than his seventy-odd years. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
She smiled back and walked across the office, towards the door at the rear which led to his night quarters. As she passed through the door, the girl was already unbuttoning her shirt. Stentor followed, almost lazily, closing and locking the door behind them.
It was almost nine in the evening by the time the black Volga got him back to the apartment block. As soon as he opened the door, Stentor knew there was a visitor. His wife called out, as he went down the short hallway into the main room.
Vascovsky sat there, a glass of vodka in his hand, a self-confident smile of greeting on his lips.
“See who’s come to visit,” Stentor’s wife gushed. “The General took me quite by surprise. If I’d known he was coming...”
“You would have baked a cake.” Stentor grinned mischievously.
“Chto?”
“An old American song.” Stentor slipped out of his coat. “Comrade General, you mind if I join you in a vodka? You seem to be haunting me these days.”
“Just passing by.”
“Like at my office this afternoon?”
“He brought me chocolates, see.” Stentor’s wife held up a massive box of Lindt. “Swiss. They make the best chocolates in the world.”
“They once made the best wristwatches.” Stentor poured himself four fingers and a thumb of vodka, and tossed it back, relishing the fire bursting in his throat. “Until the Japanese digitalised them almost overnight. It was like Hiroshima for the Swiss watchmakers.”
“But, my dear General”—Vascovsky raised his glass—“you know, my friend, that we have always made the best watches—just as everything we do is best. It’s what the proletariat believes.” His chest heaved with a silent laugh.
Stentor grunted, walking over to take Vascovsky’s glass. “So, twice in one day, General. You are seeking us out...”
“And why not?” snapped Stentor’s wife. “Jacob is a good friend. They are both good friends, Jacob and Yekaterina.”
“Ah, so we are to be comrades and friends...” Stentor first filled Vascovsky’s glass, and then topped up his own, despite his wife’s outstretched arm and tapping foot.
“When you hear what he’s done for you, you’ll dance another kind of jig.”
Stentor was pleased to notice his hand did not even tremble. Passing Vascovsky his vodka, he finally took his wife’s glass, and asked what the General—Jacob—had done for them?”
“You’re to have a visitor. He’s asked what you’d never ask, because you’ll ask no favour of anyone.”
Stentor raised an eyebrow, in query at Vascovsky, who smoothed his already sleek grey hair and nodded. “Your niece is coming to visit,” he announced.
“There.” From Stentor’s wife. “Your little Glasha from Leningrad.”
Stentor tried to put on an air of surprise. “Is this true?”
Vascovsky gave a tiny nod. “Aglaya Mikhailovna Morozova.”
Even down to the patronymic, Stentor thought. Aloud he asked if Ivan and the children were also coming?
Vascovsky made a helpless gesture. Alas, Ivan could not take time from his work; and the children should not come out of school. But his niece would arrive—probably in a couple of days, maybe three. She would stay for a week.
“Then I’ll know for sure.” Stentor’s wife pouted.
“Know what, woman?”
“If she’s a niece, or a mistress.”
Stentor was truly angry. “You stupid woman. You old idiot. My niece. God knows it took me long enough to find her.”
“Ah.”
Vascovsky stirred. “There’s something else. I should visit the shops. Get plenty of food and drink in store.”
“Something else? Oh?” From both Stentor and his wife.
“Your nephew. You know, General: the one who works in the Urals. The mining engineer: Piotr Kashvar?”
Stentor put on an inquisitive face. Inside his body, he could feel the heart pounding; blood sweeping to his head. God, he thought. Heaven save me. For a moment he was convinced a heart attack was imminent.
Vascovsky continued to talk, and Stentor heard him as though through some kind of barrier: like a fog of the ears—red fog. “I told you I’d do what I could. You should see your relatives. Happily, your nephew seems to have had the same idea. I traced him, and telephoned his superior. Piotr applied for leave a couple of days ago. Apparently I just missed him. He left the camp early this evening. He had leave due in any case. Rejoice, my friend; he told his colleagues that he was going to visit his uncle in Moscow. So, your nephew, Piotr, should be here tomorrow night.”
“Why ... ?” Stentor began. In his head the thoughts whirled, fragmented, and came together in a tangible pattern, like a kaleidoscope. So, they had done it. Tomorrow night, the nephew would come; and Vascovsky was waiting. He would dangle them; then haul on the line. It was a matter of agility now. Speed, when the nephew arrived. Great speed.
“Is this really true?” Surprising how training would out. Not a trace of the agitation he felt inside. “I’m going to see them?”
“I’m glad you’re pleased.” Vascovsky sounded genuinely happy—and why should he not be? “Yes, you should see your nephew by tomorrow night; and your little Glasha within a couple of days.” He tossed back his vodka. “Now, having broken the good news, I had better go to my Katya. She does not like to be kept waiting.”
At the door he said, “I’d also like to have the chance of meeting your relatives while they’re here. Please invite me, my friend.”
Stentor told him that he was welcome any time. “Invite yourself, General; and, thank you. As my wife says, I would never have pressed either of them to come.”
“I didn’t have to push the nephew,” Vascovsky snapped, and was gone, striding down the passage towards the elevator.
At about the same time as Big Herbie Kruger was driving through the New Forest, Scandinavian Airlines Flight SK528 made its final turn, lining up with the main runway of Stockholm’s Arlanda Airport. The giant A300 Airbus wheeled its way over the flat, thick, forests and lakes; touching down gently, then turning from the runway to taxi down the ramp into the disembarkation bay.
Among the 190 passengers who walked through the quiet, and orderly, modern airport building, nobody queried the four British businessmen—travelling in separate pairs. Certainly, for men who carried passports stating they were sales managers, or executives, of two British-based concerns, these men looked exceptionally fit and well built.
Within the hour, all four were registered, and booked into rooms at the Grand Hotel, overlooking the harbour. Only one of these visitors made a telephone call. It was to a London number, and the line was open fo
r less than two minutes.
In the Secret Intelligence Service Headquarters at Century House, near Westminster Bridge, the Duty Officer took a call, on the secure line, from the Special Air Service HQ in Herefordshire.
When the Director General arrived at his office on the following morning there would be a flimsy lying among the other signals in his tray. One word—TIVOLI—would tell him that the two pairs of men, from the Special Air Service, were in place; ready, when needed, to make their dash, to cover the lifting of Stentor.
It was like slaking a thirst that had built up over a long period. Martha gave Herbie a light supper—melon, which she remembered he liked; followed by a dish of scrambled eggs, liberally laced with chopped smoked salmon and onion. They drank champagne—“A treat,” she said. “After all, I suppose it’s some kind of celebration: a visit in the night from the great Big Herbie.”
Herbie forked a mouthful of the eggs, took a sip of the champagne, and gave her a tired grin. Throughout the meal he remained oddly silent, to the extent that Martha Adler twice asked him if anything was wrong.
“Just the usual, Matti. Long day. Hard decisions. Tension and stress. Like the old days, remember?”
She remembered all too well. The odd paradox was that she had banished Herbie from her bed then. It was best that way. He often admitted it later; for she was more use to him, in the old days, when her lovers were either ranking Russians, or government officials close to the heart of the Communist Democratic Republic of East Berlin. It had only been when Herbie began to get serious with the other woman that Martha Adler had recognised the symptoms of jealousy within herself.
She stretched an arm across the table, and took his hand. “It’s funny, Herbie. There I was, screwing around, working for you; yet I always resented her.”
Again, Herbie said nothing. He merely smiled. The ways of women were far too complex for him. All he knew was that he needed comfort now.
As though sensing it, Martha’s hand tightened on his. “Is it bad? A really difficult one?”
He nodded.
“You want to talk?”
Yes, of course he wanted to talk, though he could never say it aloud; or give her the facts. In honesty, Big Herbie longed to tell her everything—Stentor, the old man; and the young, inexperienced one, he was sending off, in the morning, to do the impossible. Michael Gold—Troilus—had become his agent. The rules, and all the years of field experience, told him never to become emotionally involved with those you controlled. Experience had also taught Big Herbie that, for him at least, this was asking the impossible.
The Director General could go on all night to Gold—telling him they would not let him down; that he was different; if anything went wrong they would not deny him. But Herbie knew, again from the deep well of experience, that, if it went wrong, they would abandon Michael like a sinking ship. He had always found this particular hypocrisy difficult to live with.
But now, Martha made him feel young again. He was the old Herbie of the late 1950s and early ’60s—and, heaven knew, she had the ability to work the magic. Martha Adler’s memory had always been a strong point. However many lovers she had taken, since that short period with Herbie, she could still recall his tastes.
They took to each other’s bodies as though nothing had ever separated them—time, other lovers, age, or circumstance. Perhaps it was a trick of memory—or of the light, as the Firm would have had it—but Herbie sensed that Martha Adler was the very best physical experience of his life.
On her part, Martha appeared to feel, and react, in the same way. Their loving was tender, caring, and then wildly passionate; subsiding, at length, into the caress of a satisfied aftermath.
They lay close, and naked, afterwards; smoking and not looking at one another. They talked, but not about what had just happened. They spoke of the long past, and of the even longer future. Then silence. It was comfort; a feeling of stability for Herbie; sleep for Martha, cuddled close to his warm and fleshy chest.
But sleep would not come for Big Herbie. Martha moaned, dreaming, then started to cry out, to mutter—“No... no... no... I can’t do it to him...” Silence again. This time Herbie floated into dreams. He was on board an aircraft, with Michael Gold; yet not with him, for he could see the pattern of the skies, and their aircraft persisting on its course towards another plane—silver and bright in the sun. Behind them a swarm of black snarling fighters. Their aircraft, the silver plane, and the fighters all on a collision course, and no way in which the ultimate horror could be avoided.
Herbie woke with a start, aware of what was going on in his subconscious; and of other noise: Martha weeping, clawing at his shoulder.
“Matti, what is it? What’s wrong?” For a few moments he thought she was crying in her sleep; but now Herbie saw she was awake, looking at him, her face a mixture of concern and pain. Herbie repeated the question, but she simply bit her lip, shaking her head wildly. He had the same sensation as before. There was something very wrong with Martha Adler. He should prise it from her now. Force out the truth. So many times, Herbie had seen that look—the moment before a subject let go; into the darkness of disclosing everything.
He propped himself on one elbow. “Martha, tell me.” Their need had been mutual: for him an escape, burying himself in a woman who happened to be an old and trusted colleague. For Martha, another kind of escape. Both of them wanting to be lost in the act of loving sexual relief.
“Tell me. God in heaven, Martha, it’s me. Schnitzer. Blunder. Herbie. What is it?”
And again, as if on cue, the telephone started to ring—it seemed to be shouting with great urgency.
“Sorry, Herbie.” He knew it was Curry Shepherd before even hearing the voice. “I’ve asked the car to come for you now. Monitoring your mail. You’d have picked it up last night, at the flat if you’d gone in. My boys collected it this morning.”
“You got the keys as well, Curry?” Herbie heard his own voice become very harsh.
“Sorry Herbie. Rules of the game. Whoever your postman was he came personally. You’ve got another tape, and it seems the DG feels this one’s very important.”
Rage boiled up; then reduced to a simmer. They still could not trust him. The mail, telephones, personal surveillance, even stealing the private moments here. “Go to hell, Curry. I’ll be ready. Ten minutes.” He slammed the receiver down with a violence that made even Martha Adler jump, as she stood in the bedroom door, naked, the tears still damp on her cheeks, and her eyes an angry red.
“I got to go, Matti. Stay in. Stay here, please. I get back quick. You don’t have to tell anyone else. I come back and talk. It’ll be okay, I promise. Whatever, it’ll be okay. You promise me, yes?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Herbie.”
He dressed, cursing; shaved, cursing even more; keeping up a flow of talk, as though Martha could store it and hold on while she was left alone.
The car was outside, waiting. At the door, Martha finally spoke, “Herbie, thank you. Thanks for everything—for the whole thing. Berlin. Everything.”
“You okay?”
“I’ve told you—I’m not going anywhere.”
It left a sour sense in Herbie’s mind. Now he was certain. There was something there, in Martha, with which she could not cope alone.
To his surprise, the driver pulled up at the Crown Hotel, in Lyndhurst, on the London edge of the New Forest.
“Came down specially, cocker. Brief you before you see the DG.”
Herbie waved him aside as he settled into the car. Curry leaned forward, pulling the soundproof partition closed.
“You keeping a twenty-four hour watch on that woman?” Herbie looked at Curry, his face vacant; dull.
“Again, sorry, Herbie; but yes. You did ask...”
“I’m asking again; You trust your people there?”
Yes, Curry had good people on the spot.
“Then tell them to be extra careful. Tell them to watch her. She mustn’t leave until I’ve see
n her again.”
“No sweat. I’ll get a message off now.” He re-opened the partition, telling the driver to stop at the first public phone booth he saw. When it was done, Curry came back into the car. “Tight as the proverbial drum. You expecting trouble?”
“I’m cautious, Curry. You know that. Well—cautious most of the time.”
Curry gave a sage nod, producing a headset, and Sony miniature stereo from his briefcase. “The tape’s in. All ready for you. As I said, you were meant to get this last night. The boys picked it up this morning. DG says ‘Listen, mark and inwardly digest.’ Then he wants to do a King Arthur—old round table conference.”
It was the ‘Resurrection’—Mahler’s Second Symphony. Four bars only, before Vascovsky’s voice purred through the headphones.
“Herbie, my friend. It is time for me to put all the cards on the table—as the English say. My superiors know I am in touch with you. They do not know how; nor do they know what I am really proposing. As far as they’re concerned, I’m trying to lure you—which, in a way, is true. I know your own situation must be precarious—I’ve already spoken about that: the lack of trust, which will dog you for all your days now.
“In some ways I am in a similar situation. Yes, they’ve promoted me, and given me a job to do. That work is almost completed. In fact I should have it tied up before the week’s out. After that? Who knows? They may decide I’ve served my purpose. My feeling is that I shall be posted to some backwater; and that does not suit my style, any more than the lack of trust, from your own superiors, can suit you.
“I have some ideas about this. Enemies can become closer than old friends. You remember Ursula, Herbie?” There was a small, humourless laugh on the tape. “Of course. How could you ever forget her? She could be with us. You, Ursula, myself, and my own love—Yekaterina—who you’ve yet to meet.