The Quiet Dogs: 3 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Michael wished he could stay. The room was certainly better than the one waiting for him, on the other side of Red Square, at the National. As Stentor had explained, they would almost certainly give him a ‘clean’ room, by which he meant one that was not wired. Also, the Metropole was only a short distance from the National.

  Contrary to popular opinion, and the grossly exaggerated accounts in both Western popular Press, and television programmes, not every hotel room in the Soviet Union is either bugged, or has its telephone tapped. Stentor banked on this; as did Michael Gold.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, re-thinking the final ten minutes he had spent with Stentor. During that time Michael had asked questions regarding Vascovsky’s personal life: surprised when Stentor could tell him very little, as he had only visited the General at home on one occasion. There was, however, a bit of gossip, and a good description of the apartment above Kalinin Prospekt.

  Michael made certain he had those facts straight, then took out his small notebook and began to work out a ciphered signal. It had to be kept brief; just as he had to make the telephone call as short as possible.

  Finally, when he had copied the rows of numbers neatly onto a page of the notebook, he picked up the telephone and dialled out. The number was unlisted in any Moscow directory, belonging, as it did, to the clandestine SIS control in the Russian capital.

  This man—a Russian born—had access to the British Embassy, and the resident SIS officer there. It was the clandestine controller who did much of the message-taking, and even Stentor did not have the number just dialled by Michael Gold. An ingenious electronics expert had managed to tap this particular telephone into the system, without the knowledge of anyone connected with the Moscow telephone authorities. The clandestine SIS controller also had a normal number, and an exceptional cover: for he was by trade a journalist—the music critic for one of the leading Russian newspapers; a most unlikely candidate for the real post he had held over the past six years.

  When his telephone rang, the music critic picked it up, but did not answer until he heard the word cello in Russian.

  “Secure?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Michael lied. He could not be certain, but this was as secure as he would ever get.

  “Okay.”

  Michael quickly read off the groups of numbers, adding the urgent word, “Flash”.

  “Serious?” asked the music critic.

  “Most.”

  “Straight away then.” The line closed.

  The Floor Lady who looked after the keys, on the first storey of the Metropole, had been dozing when the porter brought Michael up. He could only hope she was still nodding off.

  With the same speed he had used at the National, Michael Gold transformed himself back into the guise of an English tourist. The glasses and cap came off; the plastic zip bag folded into its small square, and went inside his shirt. Overcoat and fur cap on; and, last, the page from his notebook burned, then flushed, in tiny black specks, down the lavatory.

  Vascovsky’s surveillance team had the hotel surrounded. They even had a couple of men in the lobby. But they watched for one Piotr Kashvar. All of them had managed to glimpse him as he left the apartment block—a man in a short, thin raincoat, denim cap and glasses. They took scant notice of the foreigner, dressed in a heavy coat, and fur hat, who walked slowly through the lobby and out into the street.

  It took Michael Gold five minutes to reach Sverdlov Square underground station, and a further three to walk through the underpass to the Marx Prospekt exit. In all, he was entering the National Hotel within fifteen minutes.

  The first person he saw, on walking into the vast lobby, was the beautiful blonde Intourist girl, wrapped in a military style greatcoat, a leather shoulder bag swinging casually by her side. Her black boots made a martial click-clack as she headed towards the main exit.

  Gold went into another of his smiling trances, and she looked up, seeing him, returning the smile and pausing. “You are one of my tour?” she asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m one of your tour.” Gold felt a sudden lack of confidence. Heaven knew why his stomach turned over, and his head reeled. Usually he was most efficient with young women. But this girl? Crikey, he thought, she really is something.

  “You have had food? Your room is comfortable?” She still smiled, the large blue eyes swallowing him.

  “The room’s fine, but I haven’t eaten yet. Went for a walk.”

  “Ah,” she wagged a finger. “You must get something to eat. It is late, but there is a small cafeteria on the second floor. I would advise...”

  “Will you join me?” Thank God; his voice had steadied.

  The Intourist girl shrugged, making a sad face. “I am so sorry. I would like to do that. Really I would,” her leather-gloved hand rested, for a second, on his arm, and she repeated that she would like to join him, but she still had work to do. “I have to go to my office.” Moving a little closer, eyes scanning his face. “Tomorrow? After the tour. Tomorrow you would like ... ?”

  “That would be wonderful.” Tomorrow he would not be there, but maybe they would let him return. He could feel the static between them. There was something—he had experienced enough of women, in his young life, to know that: sense it; and feel it. They stood looking at each other, neither knowing the other’s name, yet both loath to leave. Finally she squeezed his arm. “Tomorrow.” She gave a little smile, dragging her eyes from his. “I must go. Sorry.” And click-clack, her boots sounded on the marble as she walked quickly to the exit and disappeared.

  Michael Gold stood, rooted, for a moment; then slowly headed for his room.

  By the time he arrived, the music critic, who was clandestine SIS officer in Moscow, had danced a complicated, and fast, choreography to get the message to his resident at the British Embassy, with its magnificent view of the Kremlin walls across the Moskva River.

  The high-speed transmission went out less than an hour later—slipped into the middle of some routine trade signals which would, normally, have been left until the morning.

  The department at Moscow Centre responsible for monitoring all radio traffic from foreign embassies, made a note of both the signal and time. The tapes went immediately to the Centre cipher section who reported, the following morning, that an unfamiliar sequence had been transmitted among the normal trade ciphers.

  That unfamiliar cipher travelled, by the usual route, to GCHQ at Cheltenham. It was the signal that reached the Director General while he was in late conference with Fincher, Curry Shepherd, young Worboys, and Big Herbie Kruger.

  16

  THE DIRECTOR READ the deciphered message aloud:

  SUBJECT ADAMANT/REFUSES COME OUT/ASKS IF BUGBEAR SUITABLE FOR COMPROMISE/ TROILUS

  Bugbear was the cryptonym given to General Jacob Vascovsky.

  “It looks very much like Paris.” The Director still wore his grave face. “You want to go down and see if the Adler woman’ll talk now, Herbie?”

  Big Herbie indicated an affirmative with his large head. “She’ll talk once they have her conscious.”

  “Well, she’s the message-carrier. Point is we don’t know if she can simply lay it on by telephone, or whether she has to do it on her feet.”

  Herbie cut in, his voice sharp. “If it can only be done on her feet, she’ll do it,” he said with unusual conviction. “Will somebody call Lymington, and see what the situation is?”

  Worboys took the hint, sliding from the room, unobtrusive as a chameleon.

  “And Paris, Curry?” The DG slid his stocky body to one side, leaning towards Shepherd.

  “Whenever you say. Take an hour or so to clear it with the SDECE.” He spoke of the French Secret Service: Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage.

  “Do it myself,” the Director snapped, turning to Tubby Fincher. “Tub, activate the Aunty Amy death, for Michael Gold. Three days out of his holiday. I want that Paris meeting set for tomorrow. Lunchtime if possible. It’s now, what... ?�
�� Squinting at his watch.

  “One o’clock,” supplied Curry. “Little after. Three in the morning, Moscow. Have to put your skates on, Herbie. What’s the sequence for date and time? The day before the day you really want. Time, two hours in advance of real time. Can’t be done. You’d have to give today as the date. Today, Wednesday, for a Thursday meeting. Have to advance, sir. Thursday for a Friday meeting.”

  “Not if we make it an evening meeting.” Herbie’s voice had taken on a throaty urgency that worried the Director.

  “Tonight for Thursday night. Right?” The DG regarded Big Herbie with suspicion. “Why the speed, Herbie?”

  “Same reason as yourself. I wish for Vascovsky out of Moscow. Off their backs.”

  “No funny stuff, Herbie, or Curry’ll have you. We’re breaking the strict rules anyway, as far as you’re concerned. A night meet okay for you, Curry?”

  “Prefer daylight, but we’ve got cameras that’ll do it. Herbie, can you arrange a public place? But somewhere we can get good snaps.”

  “I give you everything, Curry. Don’t worry.” He turned to the Director. “While we’re at it—the tapes ...”

  “What about the tapes?”

  “Have you not got wizards who can do some doctoring? Splice them up, and give me a message: a message with some real meat in it.”

  The Director smiled for the first time. “We’ll doctor the tapes, and a few other bits and pieces. You sort out Adler; liaise with Curry; and we should be able to send Gold back to Stentor on Saturday—at the latest—with a real bag of goodies.”

  Worboys returned with the news that Martha Adler had regained consciousness. “They’ve put her to sleep again, though. Should be ready to talk around eight this morning.”

  “You’re going to have your work cut out, Herbie ...” the Director started.

  “Let me worry about that, sir. Can we formulate a plan of meeting; type of compromise, and forward action, before I leave for Lymington?” It was the professional speaking, and everyone in the room knew it.

  Tubby was dispatched to get the Aunt Amy death message off to Michael Gold, while the rest of them drew in around the desk. Already, Tubby had unlocked one of the filing cabinets and removed the Paris plan. With care, the Director started to unfold a large-scale street map, while Herbie leafed through drawings of public buildings and parks.

  There was the usual muttering and pointing; odd looks; shakes of the head; fingers tracing the paper streets; but Big Herbie remained aloof, quietly going through the file on his lap.

  At last he looked up, speaking loudly across the general buzz of conversation. “I think, gentlemen,” he said “the Gare de Lyon.”

  Curry’s jaw dropped. “Christ, Herbie. Not a bloody railway station. You should know better than that. Railway stations’re murder. You have to use teams of a hundred a time. No way.”

  The DG shrugged, scowling, throwing Herbie the kind of glance he usually reserved for the criminally insane.

  Big Herbie took no notice. “Will you listen—please.” This time, like the good actor he was, Kruger dropped his voice to gain attention. “I have reasons, and—Curry—I don’t mean the main concourse. I am talking about the restaurant...”

  “Oh God.” Again from Curry.

  The Director leaned back from his desk. “Tell us, Herbie. Then we’ll have done with it.”

  Herbie thanked the Director, without a trace of sarcasm. “I do not speak of your British Rail sandwich bar.” For once he did not give them the benefit of his stupid grin. “The main restaurant at the Gare de Lyon is, as our American buddies would say, a classy joint...”

  “Only in old Howard Hawks films, Herbie.” It was the first time young Worboys had talked back.

  “Hawks, doves, who cares? But it’s not British Rail, with the spilt tea, and the sausage and mash. The restaurant at the Gare de Lyon is what, here, you call a protected building. It is also very good. Not Maxims, or Fouquets, I grant you; but they call it Le Train Bleu, after that famous express. The decor is old railway—tables like in the Victorian trains, the metal signs, and plenty of room. There is space—take a look. I know it already.” He passed the necessary section of the file over to the Director. Curry stood at his elbow.

  After a few minutes they started to nod. “We can, presumably, book tables, and there seem to be only two entrances and exits.” Curry sounded more enthusiastic.

  “One from the station itself—up a stairway; the other is an elevator on the street side—the station forecourt.”

  They talked for about an hour, going through the available drawings and photographs. Curry agreed that, once he had the go-ahead, his people would make the trip over and set things up. Herbie was right, this place had perfect cover. In the meantime, the Vascovsky tapes would go to the Director’s wizards; and another team would begin work on what the DG called “A few little surprises from the past”.

  The Aunt Amy death message had already gone off. “Telephoned the Embassy myself—so Tubby Fincher. “Make it more personal that way. Sank a few ideas into their heads.”

  It was six in the morning when Big Herbie—now shaved and bathed, in the executive washroom near the Director General’s suite of offices—left to talk with Martha Adler.

  “Move it, old son, won’t you,” Curry called to him as he reached the door.

  “I go as quick as possible. No quicker.” Herbie sounded determined and tough. Herbie was more than just anxious and nervous about the meeting with Martha Adler. The Director General had ruled that he was not to see her, or interrogate her, alone. Fincher was to be with him on this trip. Still there was a lack of trust, which meant they remained suspicious of both Martha and himself.

  At the door, Tubby Fincher turned back to the DG—“Better recall the SAS boys, and that part of the operation, okay?”

  Herbie leaned back into the room. “At your peril, Tubby. Please change nothing. I may need them even yet. Life has taught me optimism. That alright, sir?” to the Director.

  “We’ll talk when you get back from Lymington, Herbie.” The Director did not even look up. “In the meantime, everything stands.”

  She would not meet Big Herbie’s eyes when he went into the small private room, off the larger ward. One of Curry’s ladies, who had been sitting with her, gave him a nod and left quietly.

  Tubby Fincher stood well away. “When we get down to the heavy stuff you sit next to me,” Herbie had told him sharply on the way down. “Just don’t crowd me, Tubby, eh?”

  Surprisingly, Fincher was good about it. He had probably listened to the tapes of their pillow talk, Herbie considered. Even so, there was still bitterness in his mind. It all boiled down to trust in the long run. Trust and lack of trust. Everything was hand-stitched with suspicion. When they reached the hospital, Herbie had decided, ‘To hell with them. I go my own way with Martha. They would listen in any case.’

  Martha Adler lay, propped up by pillows, looking like death itself—her face drawn, the cheeks hollow, and skin like a transparent parchment.

  Herbie carefully took off his coat, drew a chair up to the bedside, and gently sat down, reaching out to take her hand. She turned her head away.

  “Martha, my dear, why? You could have trusted me; you should know that.” He glanced to where Tubby Fincher stood, and whispered, “Don’t worry about him. Just minding me. Why Martha? Please why?”

  Martha merely shook her head slightly. He knew she was crying. Through a sob came the words, “Why couldn’t you have just let me die?”

  “Because you’re important. You are important to me, and to a lot of people.” He spoke very quietly. “Martha, we haven’t got much time, and I have to know—one way or another. You are weak, and please don’t think I threaten you. But there are others who can be most unpleasant. If I do not come out of here with answers, pretty damned quick, they’ll have you in an ambulance on the way to London.”

  He told her there was a clinic the Firm kept especially for the purpose, “Also for any
one who gets hurt in the line of duty. They have a doctor there who the boys call Mengele. It’s a sick joke. His real name’s Harvester, and he’ll put you through hell and back. He will also do it at speed—like today. You’re weak enough already, and I don’t suppose any of that lot would care if you came out of the clinic in a box.”

  “Good.” She snuffled.

  “Martha.” Big Herbie remained unruffled, speaking softly, choosing words as though his life depended on them: knowing the lives of others did hang on what happened in this hospital room, “I would care.”

  For the first time she turned to look at him. “Balls.” She choked. “All men’re the same. You get what you want—money, sex, piece of cake—then you care no more. Well, they’ve got what they want. I now wish to die, because there’s nothing more for me.”

  “Do you remember the first time we made love, Martha? A long while ago. Before you came to work for me in East Berlin.”

  Sullenly she said she recalled they did it, but not the details. “You went off with the Zunder woman soon after.”

  “Soon after you told me you’d got yourself somebody permanent, from whom you could screw information,” Herbie reminded her. “I tell you something, Martha. I remember all details about that first time with you. All details. That’s in spite of what happened later. You wore a black dress—almost twenty years old you were. Almost. A black dress, and black underwear. Silk, I remember. We had a joke about it. When I made love to you, I remember what you said.”

  She looked at him, puzzled; then a tiny flicker of light showed behind the dullness of her eyes.

  “In the middle of it all, you clung on to me. Dug your nails in my back. You said, ‘Lie to me. Lie to me, please. Tell me you love me, and that there’s never been anyone else. Please, Herbie, tell me!’”

  “You remember that?” Her voice breaking. Oblivious to Tubby Fincher who now moved closer.

  “Remember? I’ve always remembered. I also deduced. Martha, you need to be loved. You require to be needed...”

  “And now I’ve been needed too often; loved too often.”