by John Gardner
He woke with a start and a great physical longing. Yet it was not only physical. He lay there in the early morning gloom, feeling the immense distance between them: wanting her close and longing to talk to her, to get into her mind as well as her body.
In a word, for the first time in his life, Michael Gold was besotted. He sighed, like some lovesick boy in a cheap romance, then dropped gently into sleep again.
Curry Shepherd’s man, called Pat, turned up very late at the St. John’s Wood flat, giving a prearranged telephone signal.
The wiring was easy enough—quite standard in fact: gold cufflinks with highly sensitive inlaid microphones, but tuned only to pick up the human voice. They were very sophisticated, Pat said. They were also real gold, and needed no wires trailing to back pockets. Curry would give him the receiver in Paris, if he thought it necessary. Otherwise they would pick up his signal from some nearby source. Pat did not know any details, but his orders also included fitting a homer in one of Big Herbie’s shoes.
Kruger smiled—he’d had trouble with homers before. This time he was forced to play it clean. For Paris, he would wear his business suit, which was hell, for Herbie did not like to be restricted by collars, ties, or heavy smart suits; you could never give Kruger a best-dressed man award.
He waited until the expert neatly fitted the homer, and replaced the heel of the black shoe, using tools from a small briefcase. The job done, Pat wished him good luck and left.
Somewhere, out in the dark, Big Herbie was certain that Curry’s watchmen would have noted the times of entrance and exit. Unless he was superlatively ingenious there was no way in which Big Herbie could slip the leash unofficially. Well, he considered, if it has to be done, then it must be with official, or semi-official backing. There were ways. Already his mind leaped ahead.
Pouring himself a king-sized vodka, Big Herbie Kruger stretched himself out in his favourite chair and listened to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony, with all its obsessions of farewell, death and transfiguration. He did not feel morbid: the notes of death and last goodbyes were not for himself; this time it would be Jacob Vascovsky. Already the moves were in an advanced stage. Paris first, with a face-to-face meeting, then a further arrangement at which Big Herbie would be present.
If anyone was going to say their final farewell it would be Vascovsky and not Herbie Kruger. But not yet; not just yet.
Part Three
The Main Event
18
THE FIRM STILL. KEPT TWO safe houses in Paris, as well as an external resident—who worked the covert side, directly to their man in the Embassy. They took Big Herbie to the house near the Place Voltaire, as it was the most convenient for the Gare de Lyon: all very discreet. Curry had always done a nice line in locals. The driver was French, and the taxi real. The house was, in fact, a four-room apartment on the second storey. There Curry waited for him.
“Nice trip, Herbie? Good. We’ve had a run-through. No problems. Got you fixed up with the right table, and I defy the good Comrade General to mark our people—mixed bag: some local labour, and a few of my own boys.”
As far as Curry could tell, Vascovsky had not yet arrived in Paris. “But you never can be sure. I’m not exactly blanketing the place. Calls for about two hundred bodies this one. I’m using fifty. That way I keep control—I mean, we don’t need to know where he’s off to after the meet, do we? As long as they don’t try to snatch you: and there’s no evidence of the dreaded red menace on the ground as yet.”
Curry had a sidekick at the safe house—a lion tamer, as the trade has it—called Perce: as tall as Herbie, but less flabby. “Where I have fat, this one has muscles, yes?” Herbie laughed, and Perce gave a quiet, good-natured smirk. He would be at Big Herbie’s back once they were on the street, or at the Gare de Lyon.
Now, he brought drinks and a light snack on a tray for Herbie, while Curry went over the scheme. He wanted Kruger in the restaurant by six that evening, “You can sip the odd glass; tell them you think your friends might be delayed; anything like that.”
“And we just pray Vascovsky hasn’t decided on the same.”
Curry gave a sly smile, running a hand over the thin blond hair. “They’re taking no bookings for tonight—except ours of course. Our friends here saw to that. They’re also watching the airports, stations, and ports for us. I think we’ll at least know when the General arrives. In operational matters our Gallic brothers are unpredictable—won’t play ball often as not. This time they’ve really come up trumps. Gives me the feeling they’ve got a hidden interest: card up their sleeves and all that.”
Spreading out a plan of the restaurant, Curry explained the seating. With his usual eye to both detail and the unexpected, Shepherd really had managed to get them boxed in. He went on to explain the equipment. Later they would tune Herbie’s cufflinks to the correct frequency. His conversation would be picked up by three separate receiver/recorders—one at the table behind where he would sit; another in a suitcase deposited in the cloakroom, and a third carried in a watcher’s shopping basket below Le Train Bleu, on the station’s main concourse.
That took care of the sound. Photographs and film would come from the table immediately adjacent. “We’re going to get the initial meeting, when he arrives, from across the room. I don’t want the main team there when the Comrade General walks in,” Curry explained. “He’ll be edgy enough as it is. Better they should get there just afterwards.”
The previous night’s test had proved, “Ninety per cent perfect,” Curry claimed. One small case held a miniaturised video camera with self-adjusting focus; while a briefcase was fitted with a more conventional camera; again with self-adjusting focus for light variations. Both were equipped with fibre-optic lens attachments, so no aperture showed in either of the cases—the fibre-optic end being no thicker than a pencil.
“They’ve got their marks on the floor, and the cameras will run for three hours—that’s three hours of constant video that can be reprocessed on to film; and four stills a minute, for three hours, on the other one—bloody great magazine fitted on the side. All you do is sit back and lead him into whatever little trap you’re planning.”
Herbie nodded with the ghost of a smile which made Curry slightly uneasy.
The one thing they did not discuss was how the evening would end. Herbie had his own ideas about what Vascovsky would propose. His plans would, undoubtedly, be dictated to him by the heavy and muscular Perce; and nothing, at this moment, would tempt Big Herbie Kruger to even dream of tangling with Perce.
Big Herbie had an abiding memory of the main restaurant at the Gare de Lyon. In 1937, when he was only six years old, his father and mother had taken him on a holiday from Berlin. It was the only holiday Herbie spent out of Germany with his, now long dead, parents. Doubtless, his old mental pictures were warped by the erosion of time; but there was no doubt that it had been a golden and exciting three weeks.
They had stayed in Paris for a few days, and then took the famous express—The Blue Train—to the Côte d’Azur: to Nice. When Herbie thought of childhood, he held on to those days of endless sun, splashing in the water, eating ice creams; feeling free and happy, with the big, tanned, energetic man whom he loved so much—playing with little Herbie; carrying him on his shoulders; laughing and teaching the child to swim.
There were other retained pictures. The railway station in Paris, at what seemed an unearthly time of night to the little boy; a great metal staircase—two staircases, like a pyramid—rising to a huge restaurant, with zinc tables, and paintings covering the ornate wall. Most of all, he remembered the Spanish omelette and fried potatoes, and those murals, in vivid colours, executed within plaster ovals, and depicting, his father told him, scenes of Southern France and Italy.
Then there was the exciting train ride through the night; waking, at dawn, to see the sun rise along the coast.
There must be many people who carried similar memories from both before, and after, the Second World War. Though it still r
uns, the Blue Train is not what it used to be. Air travel has decapitated the glamour from that great thundering beast, just as it has reduced so many other famous European expresses. Yet the memories were always there: the old Blue Train which raced across France, down to Marseilles, following the coastline as the early sun rose to reveal the deep blue Mediterranean—Toulon; St. Tropez; Frejus; St. Raphael; Cannes; Antibes; Nice; Villefranche; Monaco; Monte Carlo—that small station bright with bougainvillaea—Menton; then over the border, at Ventimiglia, and up the Italian Riviera dei Fiori—Bordighera; San Remo and so on, to Genoa where it turned north to plough towards Milan.
As Big Herbie came out on to the main concourse of the Gare de Lyon, he could almost smell the station as it had been in those old days—the mixture of heavy smoke, from the steam engines, mixing with wine, garlic, French cigarettes and people.
There it was, the twin staircase of wrought iron, just as it had been all those years ago; smarter now, and the restaurant marked with a new sign—Le Train Bleu.
Big Herbie stood, among the bustle and chatter, the soft loudspeaker voices giving platform locations, and the shouts of travellers, as though he was completely alone in the huge throng, building up at this time of the evening—just before six o’clock. The commuters; passengers for long distance trains; and those just disembarking—jostling their way through, to find the vast taxi queues outside—eddied around Big Herbie, in a surging sea. Lovers entwined, and made their way past this hulk of a man; men in vociferous argument, sounding as though they would come to blows at any moment; quiet debaters; and people just going about their own business of getting home, or on holiday, or to friends, or lovers. For a few seconds, Big Herbie Kruger was an island in the middle of all this.
From his perch in one of the SNCF offices—thoughtfully provided by the Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage—Curry Shepherd whispered to himself: “Come on, Herbie. You stand out like the proverbial spare organ at a wedding. Don’t doze out on me now.”
With relief, he saw Herbie hunch his shoulders against the crowd, and start to move towards one of the exits, which would take him to the large station frontage.
“He is good, your man?” The French liaison officer, who was known to Curry only as Marcel (“As in wave, old cocker,” to Herbie before they left the safe house) raised his eyebrows.
“Best there is,” Curry spoke fluent French. “Made a gaffe last year that’s put him off his stride, but when he’s good he’s very good—old English nursery rhyme.” The Frenchman nodded. He didn’t understand the English, and made no bones about it. “Except that rhyme’s about a girl,” Curry added, confusing Marcel even more.
“He’d better be. We don’t want any foul up.” Marcel used the French colloquial expression.
The French officer had arrived at the Place Voltaire apartment ten minutes before Herbie Kruger was due to leave. He brought news that the Russian General had arrived, just after four, on a flight from West Berlin. “A roving commission,” Herbie murmured.
There was nobody with him. “Not even his wife,” Marcel added.
“Doubt she’d risk a trip here, eh?” Curry laughed, referring to Vascovsky’s wife.
In Marcel’s car, discreetly driven on a different route from the taxi Big Herbie had taken, the Frenchman opened up to Curry, this time in English. “We have money resting on this operation also,” he began.
“Oh?” Feigning surprise, as his suspicions seemed to carry weight.
“There is the faint possibility that I might be able to give you some useful hints before you leave. We also have sources; and when the cat’s away the mouse...”
“Yes?” Curry gave him a sidelong glance.
“Just wait. In the meantime, I said nothing in front of your friend, but the Russian, Vascovsky, appears to have come into the country clean. None of my people have spotted known faces for the last twenty-four hours; and none since his arrival. On the last count, there was no activity in the Gare de Lyon area. Nobody is watching his behind, as you say.”
“Back,” Curry prompted, and they switched the conversation to French.
In the little office, that afforded a good view of the main concourse, Curry checked his own teams. The watchers—thin on the ground—were strategically placed, both in front of the station, and on the concourse itself. The three man, one woman, team which made up the camera unit, was scattered around: the woman, with one man, drank inside the Tour de Lyon, on the corner of the Boulevard Diderot and Rue de Lyon; the two other men were separated—one sitting, reading Paris Soir on the concourse, the other loitering around the bookstalls.
The three sound teams—made up of two pairs and a singleton, all kitted out as passengers—had started their various journeys, timed to arrive at the station within minutes of each other.
Apart from the watchers, on and around the station, Curry had three cars, circling the area, on radio control; while the seven other assorted men and women, who would use Le Train Bleu restaurant to complete the boxing-in of Herbie’s table, were also passing the time in various bars nearby; or around the concourse itself.
There remained Perce, who had three burly assistants—two watching Perce’s back, the other doing an arse-end-Charlie for the team. Perce was alone, in a souped-up VW which he had parked illegally in the forecourt, after doing a watching tail on Big Herbie’s journey to the railway station.
Perce was the most vulnerable, and he knew it. If anyone was to be spotted by Vascovsky as Herbie’s back-watcher, it would be Perce—though they had taken elaborate precautions to avoid the contingency. Large and muscular as he was, Perce wore a conservatively striped suit. He could have been a businessman from any EEC country.
Now, as Big Herbie moved, Curry surreptitiously crossed his fingers. The hands on the clocks of Paris were all moving closer to six. Herbie plodded around the front of the Gare de Lyon, to enter the small hallway and elevator that was the outer entrance to Le Train Bleu.
Even though he was aware of the tremendous refurbishing of the restaurant, Big Herbie’s mind had been so dominated by the memory of a six-year-old child—from a different world and life—that the impact of the new interior came as a distinct surprise when he stepped from the elevator.
He found himself in an entrance foyer, heavily panelled, and leading into the first of what were now two large dining areas. The ambience was distinctly 1930s. Already a few people were seated, and enjoying dinner. Herbie paused, unbuttoning his overcoat as a happily-grinning black page boy, in livery, and a pill-box hat, approached to greet him.
Herbie’s French came complete with German accent. “Kruger. I have to meet a friend here; though he may be late.”
The page boy was followed by the Maître d’hôtel who recognised the name. Monsieur Kruger, ah yes. There was a table. He called to another waiter, saying it was Mr. Kruger. The page boy took Herbie’s coat, signifying that the cloakroom was at the far end of the first room: situated in a wide passageway which led to the second dining room.
Herbie was ushered to a table on the left-hand side of the first room—against the wall, and with a good view through to a section of the other dining room. The tables were well spaced, and, while not made into booths as such, each table was enclosed by a framework made up of hatstand, brass work, luggage rack, and wooden half-wall. The impression was of being in one of the old Wagon-Lits restaurant cars.
Herbie took a seat nearest the wall, so that he could see, through the wide passage, into the station side of the second room. At least that covered the station entrance. By shifting his body slightly, he had a good view of the path he had taken, from the outside, elevator end. He sat, glanced around, vaguely registering that a couple had followed him in, and were being placed in the far corner to his right; almost certainly the first camera crew, who would be shooting the initial stills, before the main crews arrived. He quickly took in the pattern which Curry had gone through, at the safe house, with the aid of a table plan. The main camera
crews would, eventually, take their places at the adjacent table. This left four other tables: behind, and in front, of him; and behind, and in front, of the camera table.
He knew Perce would be around; but Herbie did not look for him. The waiter approached, asking if he wanted to order. Herbie explained he would simply take a carafe of house wine. “The friend I am meeting—I think he must be delayed. I shall have to be patient.” He grinned.
Of course. A carafe of wine. Wait as long as you like. You will enjoy your meal when your friend arrives. The waiter disappeared, his long white apron flapping against the black trousers.
In their eyrie over the concourse, Curry and Marcel watched, and listened out. One of the observers at the front of the station came through the powerful walkie-talkie: clipped and laconic. “He’s going in. Gone.” A few moments later—“First lumière team going in. Gone.”
Curry, his eyes fixed on the double iron staircase, saw Perce emerge from the crowd and begin his climb. “Just to be on the safe side,” he muttered; then, pressing the button on his set, spoke quietly—“First ‘sound’ in please.”
They waited for a few moments, then saw a middle-aged couple, both carrying baggage, begin the ascent. In one of their smaller cases, padded in foam rubber, lay a receiver. This case would go into the cloakroom, on one side of the passageway between the dining rooms. Curry wanted at least one receiver there, just in case of early arrivals.
Perce was shown to a table in the second dining room, set near to the passageway, and facing the first dining room. This had been chosen as his vantage point because of a mirror, which ran the length of the wall between the two doors leading to the washrooms—opposite the cloakroom. From his place, Perce had a clear mirror-view into the area of the first dining room in which Big Herbie was now seated. He picked up the menu, ordering a dry vermouth, and saw the elderly couple quietly arguing about whether to tip the cloakroom attendant before, or after, their meal. They argued with American accents, and Perce gave the waiter an amused look, raising an eyebrow. The waiter, being of the old French school, did not react. The couple decided, a little louder, that they would tip later. Curry had described them as one of his ‘speciality acts’.