by John Gardner
They traversed a banistered first floor galleried landing, then climbed again; turned along yet another gallery, and started the final ascent, up a gently spiralling stairway, which led to a small landing, and a pair of heavy oak doors, which General Tserkov opened to reveal the dome at the top of the house.
It was a plain work room, with windows set at intervals, commanding a sensational view of Andrei Tserkov’s estate—woods, lawns, a walled garden, and a great ornate lake. Between the window, there were rows of books, and electronic equipment. In the centre of the room, a circular modern table-cum-console for television, stereophonic sound, and video. The chairs were steel and leather—soft and comfortable. Stentor dropped into one of them, while Tserkov seated himself behind the console. “I come here to play and to work: the two can be interchangeable, I find.”
“Indeed. You have everything for both.”
The two men smiled at each other, silent for a matter of seconds. Then, Tserkov broke the silence, asking what he could do for his old friend.
“You may not have heard yet,” Stentor began. “Tomorrow morning I am retired; honourably and on full pay. By the end of the week I cease to be on the active list.”
Tserkov was unmoved. Yes, he knew. Congratulations; his brother comrade had earned a time of peace for his old age.
“Then, today—and a few other days, I imagine—has to be spent putting the house in order.” Stentor paused again, pulling the briefcase towards him. “Andrei, in this strange and secluded world of ours, we do not always share each other’s secrets. It may well be that I have quietly trodden on someone else’s territory; walked where others are also walking. I have some highly delicate material here, and, after the remarks made at our special meeting, it was in my mind to pass this over to you in any case.”
“So?” Tserkov motioned for him to continue.
“General Jacob Vascovsky, our Chairman’s representative. He is not all he seems. I was, in fact, more than surprised when the Comrade Chairman appointed him; for I have had people keeping an eye on the General for some years. It was not until yesterday afternoon that I personally went through the entire dossier, and collected certain items. Even I had no idea how serious things were.”
Tserkov smiled. “Really? I’m surprised—as I was also surprised at our Chairman’s gullibility. I was preparing to speak with him tomorrow. Vascovsky works for the British, of course.”
Stentor said that was so.
“Perhaps you realise he is about to defect?”
“As close as that?”
The Head of Department V said that, after the last meeting, he had ordered Vascovsky’s telephones to be immediately put on a twenty-four hour monitor. “He has received one message, in clear language, from a woman in England. I should also tell you that his wife—Yekaterina—still works for the French, as was suggested at our last meeting. It’s only a matter of time for her. But Vascovsky, himself, has—as I say—received a message since we began listening.”
Stentor laughed. He had received more than that. Would the Comrade General like to see the present he had brought for him?
Tserkov became very grave as he glanced through the documents and photographs; and even more silent as he listened, attentively, to the tapes. It was quite a hoard, he announced. “Why have you not made this public within the Service, Vladimir?”
Stentor shrugged. Vascovsky was safely tucked away for some time. One waits often. Perhaps he had waited too long. Now that he was retiring he felt this material should fall into only the right hands.
“It’s a bombshell,” Tserkov’s eyes gleamed. “A major coup. A—what do they call it?—a coup de main.”
“Quite; and I am retiring. My people have gathered this over a number of years. Yes, I agree, I should have placed it in other hands before this. Already I’ve said, it amazed me when I found what was here: the sheer volume of it. But I want no glory from this, Andrei. I simply need peace, quiet, and a rest. If I release this information now, they’ll keep me on for years. So, my good old friend, I thought of you. It is you who now monitors Vascovsky. Here is the information to bring about a full justice.”
“You mean...?” The greed showed through that avuncular exterior.
Stentor nodded, “I mean it is yours; all of it. You take the full credit. You can have the sole responsibility, on the understanding that I am kept well out of it all. Are we, as they say, in business?”
The signal from the Moscow Embassy did not come until late on the Sunday afternoon. There was absolutely no doubt that the Englishman, Michael Gold, was dead—hit by a truck while trying to escape arrest. It was not clear, however, that he was responsible for the rape of a young Russian woman. There was not a hint of other charges; but the so-called rape smelled of a fit-up.
Big Herbie went off to Catford, to break the news to Nataly, and did not get back to the St. John’s Wood flat until near midnight. He found Curry Shepherd snoozing peacefully, in one of his easy chairs.
“Thought I might as well stick close from now on, cocker.” Curry watched Big Herbie’s face, drawn with strain. Never had Curry seen him like this. “You okay, Herbie?”
“Nothing a vodka won’t fix. A vodka and a good blubbing—isn’t that what your English public schoolboys say? You do a blubbing?”
“You blub, mate; or you are blubbing. The verb to blub; to weep; to cry. I blub; you blub; he, she or it blubs. I am blubbing; you are blubbing; he, she or it is blubbing. Cry, Herbie. Yes, have a good blub, right?”
Herbie said yes, he understood. Nataly Gold had taken it very badly, and Big Herbie found the whole thing unnerving.
“Can’t be helped, old Herb. One of those things. We erred, and to err is ...”
“Human.”
“Yes. Not losing the old bottle, are we, Herbie?”
“You mean am I frightened?”
Curry cocked his head in an affirmative. “Terrified,” admitted Herbie. “Let’s not err tomorrow, Curry. Or in the small hours of Tuesday. Okay?”
They woke Martha Adler early. Her friend was coming, they said. Everything was ready for her to make a telephone call.
She wore a towelling robe, when Herbie arrived. He kissed her, cradled her; and she hung on to him. The telephone stood, alone, on the table—like another person in the room, coming between them. She asked when he would return? “You said a day or two, but I know about these things. Really a day or two?”
Herbie’s large head nodded. Really a day or two. Then it would be over.
“Will you see me: when you get back, I mean?”
“Straight away. I see you the minute I get into London. Come straight here.”
Her eyes were a whole mélange of doubt “Promise, Herbie.”
Big Herbie took her gently in his arms again. He spoke quietly, gently, smoothing her hair with his big hand as he spoke—“Martha, my dear. You are a lonely woman. When I return I will also be lonely. We live only with past lives, crowding our real selves from our bodies. We’ve known each other a long time; we know things that should not be said. Long ago we shared a bed; then, recently—when we both needed comfort. If ... no, when, I come back, can we try to share more?”
“You mean it? You mean ...?”
Herbie looked away, feeling clumsy, and too large a physical man for the slim woman, whose bones he could feel through the robe. “Look, I cannot say I love you. Not at the moment. But in some ways I have always cared: you know that—okay, if you wish to play with words, loved you. Can we try?”
“Please.”
Herbie nodded, smiling in a way which embraced her more than his arms or body could ever embrace. He disengaged from her, taking out the paper, and placing it next to the telephone. “I’m sorry. You have to do this now; quickly. No hold-ups.”
She gave thumbs up; radiant, changed by a few words.
It was eight o’clock in the morning, London time. Eleven, in Moscow. Martha dialled the code for Moscow, then the number for the Yasenevo Complex. In Russian she ask
ed for Vascovsky’s private extension, recognising his voice as he came on.
“Lara,” she said.
“Yes? It’s Yuri. Go ahead.”
“Kolya will be there for a pick-up at four o’clock tomorrow morning, your time. Reference number ...” she went on reading, clipping off the map reference numbers.
There was a slight pause. When Vascovsky spoke, Martha could almost see the engaging smile playing around his mouth. “Good,” he said. “Tell Kolya that Yuri will be there on time.”
“Fall-back, every twenty-four hours for two days only,” she read, parrot fashion.
“I understand. Thank you, Lara.” The line closed.
Within ten minutes of the call being made from London, General Andrei Tserkov was listening to the tape. Since the previous morning, he had spent a lot of time going through the documents and photographs; and listening to taped conversations between Jacob Vascovsky and the man called Kruger—the one they spoke of as Big Herbie.
So, he considered, we have him on a meat hook. With luck I might even have both of them on meat hooks. Yuri equals Vascovsky; and Kolya is Big Herbie Kruger, his long-time British control.
General Tserkov rang for his ADC, whom he sent for certain charts and maps. Within the hour Tserkov pinpointed the reference on the Latvian coast: a small inlet, with a bay, almost halfway between Ventspils and Lyserort, in the incorporated Soviet Socialist Republic of Latvia.
With the familiar confidence of a man used to making fast decisions, General Tserkov gave a series of orders. A fast helicopter would be needed, from one of the military bases. He chose four of his best men; then made a long-distance call to one of the bases in Latvia. He would be there that night.
Jacob Vascovsky departed from the Complex within an hour of receiving the call. As usual, his instructions were explicit, and cloaked in secrecy. Major Badim was left to carry the weight of the day’s work. It went with the job, so Vitali Badim complied. One of Vascovsky’s previous ADCs—it was said—ran a railway station in Siberia.
Vascovsky also made arrangements with speed. By the time he drove from the Complex, there was an aircraft waiting for him; while Badim had telephoned ahead.
On arrival, the General would require an armoured Command Car. He would be working alone, and planned to drive the car himself.
On that same Monday morning, General Vladimir Glubodkin, who was Stentor, still refrained from telling his wife about the retirement. In fact he did exactly the opposite. There had been a message for him while she slept. He would be away for a few days: urgent work of national importance. His wife could not have cared if he was to be away for a whole week. She felt too ill to move from her bed, and had sworn that, never again, would she allow herself to be pressed into drinking so much. A two-day hangover was not natural.
Stentor, dressed in full uniform—his boots, belt and holster gleaming with polish—stood in the bedroom door. It was a moment of ruthlessness. For a fraction of a second he hesitated, then, with dignity, performed his final act of deception. “I shall telephone you if it is to be more than, say, three days.”
“Whatever you say,” she groaned, turning her face into the pillow.
Stentor went down to the lobby and asked one of the day guards to get a taxi for him. The car would not be coming today.
He carried only a small briefcase, and waited until he was in the taxi, out of earshot of the guards, before ordering the driver to take him to the airport. Yes, he would telephone his wife in a few days. With luck it would be from England. After that, he consciously hardened his heart, refusing to think about the action he was now taking. He was old enough to know his mind; and if things went wrong, the revolver in his holster was loaded.
At the airport nobody questioned the authority of a full General—particularly one wearing the sword and shield badge of the KGB.
Stentor easily got himself a seat on the next flight to Leningrad. From Leningrad he would double back—there were scheduled stopping flights to his final destination: Riga, in the incorporated State of Latvia.
Before the flight to Leningrad, Stentor made another telephone call, organising a car at Riga. It was quite a long drive, but there would be time—just.
Herbie Kruger and Curry Shepherd left Heathrow on the Scandinavian Air Services morning flight—SK526—to Stockholm. They carried only hand baggage, and travelled separately: each watching the other’s back. They would be there in plenty of time for the small cocktail party, being given on board the British Island class patrol-craft Jersey. The four somewhat burly business men—who had been staying at the Grand Hotel—were also invited.
At about three in the afternoon, the merchant ship, Artemis, making her way along the coastal route for Stockholm hove to, and sent out a message that she would be underway again later that night, having stopped to make some engine repairs before heading for harbour.
The small party, on board the British patrol-craft, was due to begin at six in the evening.
23
THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER RN, Captain of the Jersey, sat in the command chair, anchored to the bridge deck. The bridge was small, and very cramped with both Big Herbie and Curry Shepherd standing nearby.
Below decks, the four SAS men found it equally crowded in the tiny wardroom.
Before leaving England, the Captain had been given classified instructions. The sealed orders were to be opened only on a given series of verbal exchanges, made to him personally.
On the previous day, he had received a signal ordering him to invite certain people, for a cocktail party, on board at six in the evening. He was to expect others; and now he sat with this strange pair—the huge, dumb-looking, German; and the jaded, shabby, old-school Englishman—who had just gone through the verbal codes.
He read the sealed orders twice, and considered it all very odd—but this was the first time he had come into contact with men like Herbie Kruger and Curry Shepherd. He did not care for it much. The whole business did not seem to be true to naval form. However, their lordships, who ruled his life, had so ordered matters. He could only obey.
“Going to have to get a shift on, gentlemen.” He looked at Herbie and Curry. “You know what’s in these orders?”
Curry said they had a rough idea; and Big Herbie gave a small nod. The patrol-craft was to leave Stockholm, and make a rendezvous with the merchant ship Artemis. She would be lying some fifty miles off the coast, at a designated point, north-east of where they were at anchor.
From the Artemis they would pick up certain equipment—notably a required number of Gemini inflatables with outboard motors; plus arms.
The craft was then expected to head towards the Latvian coast, staying well outside the three mile limit, but making all possible speed. They had to arrive, on station—some four miles offshore—before two in the morning. The whole trip covered around one hundred and seventy-three nautical miles, and the flat-out speed of the patrol-craft was in the region of twenty knots. It did not take immense wisdom to work out that the entire journey would take around their maximum time limit. So the Captain had cause to show irritation and concern.
“Two o’clock, give or take some,” Big Herbie grinned. “As long as I can start the run into shore about three—maybe three-fifteen—we’ll be on time.”
At that point, the Captain did not ask for more details. If he was to make the rendezvous with Artemis, and get to the point on the Latvian coast, within an hour of the given time, they had to leave now. With as much courtesy as he could muster, the naval officer requested his two passengers to leave the bridge.
General Tserkov had ordered full surveillance on Jacob Vascovsky from the moment of complete revelation regarding Madame Vascovsky’s past. He was pleased to see that the wife remained in Moscow—seemingly unaware of both the teams watching her, and the fact that her husband was about to make a last dash to the West, via the Baltic coast.
As soon as Vascovsky’s departure was announced, Tserkov set off in pursuit. Already he had lodge
d the mass of evidence with his ADC—to be handed to the Chairman without delay if anything went wrong.
In the meantime, he sat, with his four chosen men, in the big, relatively fast and comfortable Mi-24 helicopter, that would put them down within a mile or so of the predicted pick-up point on the Latvian coast. They would be there in plenty of time. In position and waiting, long before Vascovsky completed his journey.
Andrei Tserkov was not worried about his old friend, General Glubodkin, who had provided most of the evidence against Vascovsky. His own turn for retirement would come soon enough, he knew. But at least he would be remembered for more than merely the ruthless manner in which he ran his Department. They would speak of Andrei Tserkov as the man who caught Britain’s most dangerous, long-term traitor, implanted within the security apparatus itself.
In fact it was Stentor, making his journey in full uniform, and by the most public of means—Aeroflot, and the hiring of a good motor car—who first reached the jumping-off point.
For years, it had been Stentor’s maxim that, if you wished to hide your movements, do everything in an open and straightforward manner. It had paid off before, as it did now.
In that part of the Baltic the nights are very long for most of the year; so, when Stentor arrived within a mile of the coastal point, it was already getting dark—the day having stretched itself to around seven hours.
He parked the car, well off a small track running down towards the sea; checked bearings, with map and pocket compass; then set off on foot.
The inlet, or cove, chosen by Herbie Kruger for the operation, could not have been better. The terrain was wooded, with thick pine and fir, the ground sloping slowly towards the sea; then, quite suddenly, descending through a wide gully of rock—a great cleft which rose on either side of the woods, finally petering out to a sandy bay. The trees here grew down to within a couple of hundred metres of the sea; and the bay itself stretched in a crescent, covering just over a kilometre. Yet still the rocks towered over trees, sand and sea.