The Quiet Dogs: 3 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Fincher, himself, volunteered to fix a telephone, leaving them alone, moving fast to speak with Curry’s people. When he had gone, Martha asked what the message would be.

  “You tell them who you are—Lara. Then you say that Kolya will be alone, to meet Yuri, tonight at six o’clock, at Le Train Bleu Restaurant, Gare de Lyon, Paris.”

  “You’re going to be there?”

  “Oh yes. Nothing’ll stop that pleasure.”

  “He’ll try to snatch you, Herbie. Vascovsky’s never forgiven you. He’ll lift you.”

  “Eventually he’ll try. But not on this run. On this run I’ll snatch him; and the beauty is that he won’t even know.”

  Curry’s people—together with Tubby Fincher—had a word with the infirmary’s Powers, and arranged a telephone for Martha’s room. They also saw the doctor, and Herbie made a fast call to London. After she had made one telephone call from the bed, they would see that she slept. While she slept, a plain ambulance would take her to London.

  He sat beside the bed as she made the call—taping it with a pocket recorder and suction mike.

  Tubby took the telephone away himself, before the doctor arrived. Herbie told her that he would see her in London. “By then it will be all over and we can talk.” He bent to kiss her, and she clung to him, but with no power in her arms.

  “Herbie,” she whispered, the tears starting again. “Lie to me. Lie to me, please. Tell me you love me, and that there’s never been anyone else. Please, Herbie, tell me.”

  He kissed her once more. “I cannot say there’s never been anyone else. But I don’t need to lie to you, my dear girl. I love you.” For what she had given him that day, he was not lying. Further than that, Big Herbie Kruger could not say what was truth, or what were lies. He had lived too many lives; existed too many lies; warped too many truths. The only thing of which he was certain at the moment, was that, tomorrow night, he would be at Le Train Bleu in Paris.

  There, he would set up General Jacob Vascovsky once and for all. The rest could be silence, as far as he was concerned.

  “It’s all fixed,” Herbie told the Director. He had gone straight to the Firm’s headquarters on getting back to London. “Tomorrow at eight.”

  Curry Shepherd was there—“Just passing through, cocker. Off to gay Paree as soon as I can get out. Ten chaps there already. I’ll dine at the wretched station place myself tonight.”

  “Before you go, Curry.” The Director indicated the portable tape machine on his desk. “Like you both to hear the first piece the wizards’ve put together, from the Vascovsky tapes. Just listen.” He switched on the machine. Vascovsky’s voice filled the room. The tape and recording experts had done a brilliant job: extracting words, matching them, and rearranging sentences. Their prototype was short and ingenious.

  “Herbie, my old friend. It’s finished, and they’re on to me, I’m certain. We have had a good run. Now I have to get out. Can you please do something quickly. I’ll wait for your message as usual.”

  There would be others like it—“and the documentation, of course. I’m not even starting them on that until Michael Gold’s back. Young Worboys is going out to pick him up at Heathrow.”

  Curry cheerfully said his farewells, quickly going through the routines they had arranged previously—in the small hours—for tomorrow night’s meeting.

  “Vascovsky has the signal by now. He’ll also be casing the place for sure,” Herbie cautioned.

  “Don’t worry; none of his lads are going to see mine—and, for Christ’s sake, Herbie, be early tomorrow. I want you seated well ahead of schedule. My photo boys’re like prima donnas when it comes to candid camera. Lad called Pat will mike you up, and nobody’ll suss you. The stuff’s well shielded. All the latest equipment at bargain prices.”

  When he had gone, the Director started to talk. There were things he had to say before Michael Gold—their Troilus—arrived.

  At around noon, Moscow time, Stentor telephoned his wife from the Yasenevo Complex, to ask if Piotr Kashvar had been in touch. When she said he had not, Stentor made some remark about the boy probably sleeping late. He then put down the telephone and dialled the Metropole Hotel, giving his name and rank, before asking for his nephew, Piotr Kashvar.

  The girl at the switchboard was respectful, requesting him to hold on for a moment. There was no reply from Comrade Kashvar’s room. Would the Comrade General like someone to try and locate his nephew?

  Stentor hung on for nearly ten minutes. Then he was put through to the hotel manager’s office. The man to whom he now spoke was plainly distressed: Stentor could detect, not only anxiety in the voice, but also a touch of fear. He felt it best to speak personally with the Comrade General. Comrade General Glubodkin’s nephew, Comrade Kashvar, had not spent the night in his room. There was no sign of him; no clothes; the bed still made up, and unused.

  Stentor murmured thanks, asked his name, and said he would be in touch. He then dialled the Moscow Militia Headquarters, on Petrovka Street, asking to speak with Chief Investigator Genik.

  Misha Genik of the People’s Militia—the MVD—was an old friend. He would know the best man to deal with a possible missing person case.

  Stentor smiled to himself. It was natural for him to telephone the MVD. Of course. How could he possibly know that anyone from the Committee for State Security had an interest in his nephew Piotr?—particularly anyone like his colleague and friend Jacob Vascovsky.

  Stentor did not, of course, know that only a few moments before his call to the Metropole Hotel, Vascovsky had also received a message of great urgency. So urgent that he immediately instructed Major Badim to hold a watching brief on the matter of Stentor’s nephew; and the niece who would be arriving from Leningrad.

  At this very moment, Vascovsky was on his way to the apartment on Kalinin Prospekt. From there he would, eventually, go to the airport, leaving no instructions regarding his whereabouts—apart from a curt message to the Chairman, saying that he would be out of Moscow for about two to three days, as he had predicted during an earlier conversation.

  Even Yekaterina Vascovsky would not know the General was on his way to Paris—via East Berlin.

  17

  IT HAD BECOME MOST apparent that the Director was not taking any chances with Herbie Kruger. The outburst, when Kruger had spoken of leaving the Service—going private—once this job was done, had not furthered his cause. The admission that, under certain circumstances—and if Vascovsky could be trusted—Herbie might seriously consider dropping out of sight, with the KGB man, had not endeared him to his chief.

  Alone now, in the office high above Westminster Bridge, the Director General read the riot act: probing into the action Herbie eventually proposed to take against Vascovsky.

  To discredit the KGB General, on his home ground, was one thing. Herbie’s part in it, however, which would mean him being on the loose in Paris, and, perhaps, elsewhere, was contrary to the initial findings of the enquiry into Big Herbie’s outrageous actions during the East Berlin affair of the previous year.

  “I’ve had you pull strokes on me before, Herbie.” There was no give, or glitter, about the Director. “It’s not going to happen again.”

  “It may be the only way of saving Stentor.” Big Herbie opened his hands, after the manner of a magician showing he had nothing up his sleeve.

  “Maybe. But, in the end, Stentor is expendable. If the whole thing gets tricky, I’m not risking diplomatic incidents.”

  Big Herbie went through the several possibilities: presenting at least three different scenarios of what could happen. “You’d have me covered all the time,” he said, the ingenuous, open and stupid look blank on his face.

  “We’ll see.” Big Herbie Kruger did not, for a moment, convince the DG.

  So they talked: going over the fine brush strokes of the operation to discredit Vascovsky, again and again—modifying here, pruning there, adjusting timings to possible events. They were still at it when Worboys arrived, from H
eathrow, with a tired Michael Gold.

  Then the talking began in earnest—the Director General himself probing Michael, firing question after question, while Tubby Fincher made notes. Eventually Fincher left them, to type up the fine print of what Michael had learned from Stentor—particularly what he had discovered about Vascovsky: the General’s habits, lifestyle, and, above all, Stentor’s description of the apartment on Kalinin Prospekt.

  For a quickly-trained tyro in the trade, Michael Gold had done a good job. Particularly returning with such a clear picture from Stentor. “We knew about Vascovsky’s wife, of course,” the Director acknowledged. “Done very well for himself there.” Nobody missed the smile playing, for a second, over his lips.

  Then Worboys—prompted by the mention of Yekaterina—asked if their present situation had been cleared with the SDECE. He was worried about the current political climate in France; and, from the outset, feared they would get a rejection—disallowing them an operation on French soil.

  It was all taken care of, the DG said. “You should know I don’t leave things like that to chance, young fellow-me-lad.” There were still some secret and subtle pressures the Firm could bring to bear on the French Service, though they were never the most co-operative when it came to exchanging information.

  During this highly tense council of war, the Director also took calls from Curry’s second-in-command, regarding the run-through they were to have at Le Train Bleu that night. (“Curry thinks of everything,” he nodded approvingly. “They’re even using Russian film and tape.”)

  While Big Herbie was still present, word came through that Martha Adler had been moved to the safety of the clinic in London. “She’s comfortable, a shade fretful, and asking for you,” the Director General gave Big Herbie a quizzing look.

  When he finally left, complete with tickets and other travel documents, Herbie became even more conscious of Curry’s teams working around him. It had ceased to worry him by now; in many ways there was comfort from the fact. With Jacob Vascovsky on the rampage, who knew what devious methods were being used to watch his progress? If any mystery teams showed up, they would almost certainly abort the operation, switch plans, or drop Herbie out of sight. He reflected on the Director’s ruthlessness—‘Stentor is expendable’—shocked at himself agreeing; but still firm in his resolution towards Vascovsky.

  Big Herbie took a taxi to the clinic, which looks like a normal, unmarked, block of flats in New Cavendish Street—off Marylebone High Street. There he spent half-an-hour with Martha, who was tearful, but obviously pleased to see him. She had thought he would be in Paris: particularly after the message she passed on to Moscow from Lymington. “Double-talk.” Herbie grinned. “But I’ll be away for a couple of days.”

  She asked him—pleading—to come and see her the minute he returned.

  “Try and stop me.” He winked, kissed her, and left—his mind humming a snatch from the Mahler Ninth. Why the Ninth? he asked himself, in the taxi on his return to St. John’s Wood.

  So, they continued their lengthy discussion with Michael Gold, who was now in an advanced state of fatigue. At the moment, if everything went to plan, Gold would be called upon to return to Moscow on Saturday and make one highly important drop to Stentor. It was possible that the headiness of one very fast clandestine job would quickly wear off. Gold now knew the dangers. Both the Director and Fincher had to make certain the young man was in a fit psychological state, while still retaining the confidence, and momentum, to bring off a second go.

  “I’m sorry.” Michael felt a little stupid, fuzzy-headed, and jet-lagged. “A night’s sleep and I’ll be okay. But, yes, I’m quite determined. It may sound foolish, but the short time I spent with the old man was an eye-opener. He’s incredible. If I can do anything to help ...” In the back of his mind, the blonde and blue-eyed Intourist girl twirled in his arms.

  They told him to take a rest. A day off. They would talk again—on Friday. So, with Worboys as nurse-maid, Gold was removed to a quiet hotel in Knightsbridge.

  In Moscow it was not until quite late in the evening that Major Badim’s surveillance teams became anxious. All exits to the Hotel Metropole were covered; watching teams had been changed, and Badim saw to it that only the best personnel were on the job. Everyone was familiar with the likeness of Piotr Kashvar; yet, as far as they could discover, the man had not left the hotel.

  Even Badim began to feel uneasy by the early evening; but, when darkness fell, and there was still no sign, he knew it was time to make some gentle enquiries. The last thing he wanted was to stir up the waters, and produce mud—the Comrade General played things very close to his chest; even the Chairman himself might not know what was going on. Badim suffered from that most pernicious of Russian diseases—passing the buck. He would hang on for as long as possible. If anything went wrong, on his account, while the General was away, it would be him—Vitali Gregorovich Badim—who would carry the blame, by way of a drop in the promotion scale, or the removal of some coveted privilege.

  However, it would do no harm to check the day’s reports. He went through the two pages of typed messages with more than usual care. There it was: standing out like the blush on a bride’s wedding night. Time: 14.23. Arrival at main entrance. One plain Volga with MVD plates. Four plainclothes officers, including the driver. Senior officer identified as Chief Investigator Fedyanin.

  Then, a little further down the page: Time: 15.45. MVD party, headed by Fedyanin, left hotel. One officer remaining in place.

  Great Lenin’s balls, Badim thought, hastily picking up his telephone to dial the People’s Militia Headquarters. Two minutes later he was in possession of the knowledge that Chief Investigator Fedyanin was an expert on missing persons—not just an expert, but head of the Moscow area department for missing persons. A minute or so after this, Vitali Badim had Fedyanin on the line.

  It is no secret that love is not lost between the Committee for Security, and the People’s Militia; but, on this occasion, Badim knew he trod on particularly thin ice. He went out of his way to be precise, cordial, and co-operative.

  Fedyanin was prickly, and, obviously, very busy. Badim respectfully suggested that he had been carrying out an investigation at the Metropole Hotel that afternoon.

  “There is no new thing under the sun,” the Chief Investigator growled unpleasantly.

  “No.” Badim was stuck.

  “So, I was carrying out an investigation at the Metropole? What has that to do with the KGB, Comrade Major?”

  “We are also carrying out an investigation at the Metropole. I wished to make certain no toes were being crushed.”

  “I doubt it. My instructions came from the Senior Chief Investigator—M. A. Genik. I understand he was tipped by your people.”

  “My people?” At heart, Vitali Badim was a simple, home-loving man.

  “Not yours in particular, but a very senior KGB General. Very senior.”

  “Ah. Just to make certain, Comrade Investigator, is it a missing person?”

  “Why? Did your Yetis bundle him into a car? Is he at this moment, e’en now, undergoing a quiz at that nice hotel you run behind Two Dzerzhinsky Square? The Lubianka?”

  “No ... No ... NO. It may not be the same person. I just enquire, that’s all. The missing man would not be a Piotr Kashvar by any chance?”

  “Who said it was a man? and who’s your superior?” Fedyanin asked sharply. From Badim’s end of the line it sounded as though the investigator had been jabbed with a sharp instrument.

  “General Jacob Vascovsky ... But he’s out of touch; out of Moscow.”

  “And he’s interested in Kashvar?”

  “There is a surveillance on him.”

  “You know he is the nephew of a most senior KGB officer?” The Chief Investigator was loath to name the General concerned.

  “It is probably a security matter,” Badim said sadly, wishing he had not opened this particular can of worms. Heaven knew what would be at the end of the road.


  “Well, he’s missing, and that’s all there is to it. His uncle thinks as I do. Kashvar’s been working hard in the Urals—a mining engineer of some talent. He visited his uncle last night, but insisted on staying at an hotel. Like his uncle, I believe he’s gone off on a vodka binge, with some local talent thrown in. He’s probably sleeping it off in a Komsomol Square whore’s rabbit hutch. Don’t worry. The MVD’ll do your work for you. Give me your number.”

  Against his better judgment, Badim gave the number, his extension number, and name.

  “I’ll get back to you.” Fedyanin put down his telephone in Petrovka Street then immediately picked it up again, asking the switchboard if Investigator Genik was still in the building. He was, and they spoke for a few moments.

  Within the hour, Genik had telephoned Stentor with the news that one of Stentor’s colleagues—Vascovsky—had eyes out for the General’s nephew. Stentor thanked him. After all, what were friends for?

  In his deep sleep, Michael Gold dreamed. It was not usual for him to dream of women. Even his closest friends said he had no real feelings as far as girls were concerned, and he knew that was near to the truth.

  Yet now he dreamed, most vividly, of the Intourist girl. Her name was Irena: he had discovered that much, and in the dream they were together, blissfully happy in some warm climate and it was roses all the way. Gold’s subconscious appeared to have collected every detail concerning Irena for he saw her face with the clarity of an accurate photograph—every pore; the bright blue eyes; the way one eyebrow was a fraction higher than the other; the tiny creases—laughter lines—on each side of her lips and around the eyes; even the minute scar below her right ear.

  The dream changed, and Gold saw her as he imagined, unclothed—and he had thought about that enough times as he watched her move through the tourist group during that one day in Moscow.