by John Gardner
Against the sky, Stentor caught sight of a small pile of ruins—an old tower, or what was left of some ancient castle: dead stone making a sinister pattern against the darkening sky. Castles, and fortress ruins littered this part of the coast, so this one was not unusual. They were regarded as romantic tourist attractions.
Taking his last look at the rocks—and the silhouetted castle—Stentor chose his vantage point, among the trees to the far right of the bay. He quietly sank out of sight, preparing for the long and silent wait—hoping that Jacob Vascovsky might not also choose this place. He doubted that, for Vascovsky would, in his arrogance, be prepared to show himself. After all, he expected to meet someone on the beach, so had no reason to come with stealth.
Andrei Tserkov, and his men, came with silence and speed. They had the resources and techniques. Yet Stentor was conscious of the helicopter, circling in the distance, just before eleven at night. Then, it seemed to rise again, chopping off into the far distance.
Indeed, the Mi-24 had gone for the time being; dropping its human cargo as near to the inlet as safety permitted, then—remaining in radio contact—moving several miles away: waiting, ready to be called up when the moment came.
Tserkov, and his group, never once broke cover; coming down the steep, sometimes rocky, slope on the far side from where Stentor lay; then fanning out across the central reserve of trees. Tserkov himself stayed as near to the middle of the bay as he thought fit; while his men faced, alternately, outwards and inwards, at regular intervals.
The Head of Department V also imagined that, when he came, General Jacob Vascovsky would walk on to the sand, from the centre of the trees—not concerned with noise or disturbance. This was a dark, secret, and rather beautifully desolate place. It would hold no fears for the excited Vascovsky, waiting—oblivious of other watchers—for his ship to come in, and carry him to some just reward.
They took on two of the Geminis, with their powerful outboard motors, and some small arms—Ingram submachine-guns, and Browning automatics: the Ingrams to the disgust of the four SAS men, who said they felt naked without their beloved Heckler & Koch weapons. After all, the SAS had already discarded the Ingram MAC II in favour of the H & K after assisting at the hijack storming at Mogadishu.
It was after leaving Artemis, while they settled down for the long, fast, run in to the pinpoint drop, that Curry Shepherd and Big Herbie Kruger went through a last ritual.
The Director had virtually told them he did not want to know who did what. By rights, Herbie should not have been there at all. He had already argued long with Curry. “It will be me, Curry, that he expects to see coming into that inlet. Me riding into the bay. So it should be me.”
Curry agreed in principle. In practice, however, he maintained that, as Herbie was not supposed to be there at all, they would decide, on the toss of a coin, who should be in the leading Gemini.
It mattered little, in the end, for Herbie won, and would not listen to Curry’s pleas of it really being a ‘two out of three’ contest. Big Herbie was to have his way, and show himself—like a tethered goat—to his old enemy.
Having made the decision they went, first, to the four SAS men; then to the Captain, explaining what they could about the method, and reason, behind what would happen in a few hours.
The naval officer was appalled; the SAS men resigned to anything. Only Herbie and Curry were happy, in their complete understanding of the ramifications of the strange charade. The two men sat, smoking and occasionally talking; though spending most of their time wrapped in personal thoughts.
For Herbie, it was a time of almost physical climax. At long range, and by devious—almost disastrous—means, he had brought the Firm to a situation which would probably save Stentor’s life; certainly allow him several more operating years within the Soviet Union—for there was no way in which he could know of the man’s retirement.
Herbie had also gone one better. Whatever had happened to him in the past; however many failures, or successes, lay behind him, the bulky German-born intelligence expert had manoeuvred things so that—in these final hours of a long flight—his personal enemy, over the years, would come to grief. In Curry Shepherd’s language, Herbie had stitched up Vascovsky, good and proper.
If all worked smoothly, Herbie Kruger had planted the irrefutable lie of all time on Jacob Vascovsky. Though even Big Herbie could not yet believe that the planning, and tactics, would work.
Curry brought him out of his reverie. “The boss man says you’re taking a walk after this.”
In the dim light, Herbie saw Curry’s eyes fixed on him. Curry was like an owl in the dark.
“True.”
“After all this time, cocker? Any plans?”
Herbie dipped his head, so that Curry could not see his ace, and the smile which lit it. “I get married, Curry. Go private, and go public at the same time. Orange blossom and champagne. Bridal beds, and a steady life.”
“Believe it when I see it. Adler?”
Herbie grunted a yes, then added—“You believe it, Curry. It’s all going to happen. We all pay some time, you know.”
Unaccosted by any Soviet patrol, the British craft arrived at its point—four miles offshore: exactly in line with the inlet—at twenty minutes past three in the black morning.
The sea was smooth as a silk-screen print; the night still as the old ruins, topping the rocks above the bay.
In the silence, with ears attuned, Stentor heard the patrol-craft’s engines, coming from over the water; then dying, as the ship hove to. Like a night animal, Stentor could see clearly across the bay. His senses had never been so alert.
General Tserkov also heard the engines, and knew the moment would soon arrive. He lay, smelling the sweet mixture of pine, fir, sand, and sea; stiff with waiting; but ready for the inevitable.
Then—from across the water—all who waited in secret heard the distant rumble of small outboard motors; rising, then dying to an almost friendly throb.
As the motors began to close over the stretch of sea, so the noise grew louder—thrown into the cleft of rock, and reverberating against the rising stone.
At this moment, both Stentor and Tserkov saw Vascovsky rise, as if from the ground, right at the furthest corner of the curve of trees.
They watched, each with his own particular thoughts, as General Jacob Vascovsky walked, unperturbed, to the centre of the beach. He then turned to make his unhurried way down, almost to the water’s edge.
His eyes strained out over the sea, hoping to catch an early glimpse of his prize. After years of waiting, endless months of silent battle, Herbie Kruger was almost in the net again. In a matter of moments—Vascovsky thought—Kruger will step on to the beach; trusting as a dog about to be put down.
In three completely different ways, the main protagonists on the beach waited for their personal spotlight of triumph.
Vascovsky, and his capture of Kruger.
General Tserkov, and the unmasking of a Soviet traitor, together with the taking of that traitor’s British control.
Stentor, and his own escape from suspicion and Vascovsky’s knowledge—together with a chance at making his own leap for freedom, after a lifetime of duplicity.
Then, with an almost shocking suddenness, they all saw the two craft appearing, as though from the bottom of the sea, pluming great white feathers of spray; riding, one in front, the other behind and slightly to port.
Big Herbie Kruger sat for’ard in the first Gemini: an SAS coxswain at the back, steering the boat in at speed; while another SAS man held a central position, midships. This second trooper carried an Ingram under one arm, and a cylindrical starshell in his left hand, the right poised over the ring which, when pulled, would shoot the light high and illuminate the entire beach—rocks, ruins, trees, everything.
The second boat was there for cover: in case things turned nasty. Everyone had been warned there was to be no exchange of fire, unless absolutely necessary; but the second Gemini was more heavily
armed.
Curry crouched for’ard, with the SAS coxswain at the rear, and the remaining SAS man midships. All three were armed. Ingrams, Brownings, and stun grenades.
The ride was exhilarating in itself: a bucketing, bouncing, sliding scream over the placid water—not unlike a ride in a bobsleigh.
Herbie craned almost out of the Gemini, his eyes straining to catch the first glimpse of the beach. Then he saw the small flash. Vascovsky had signalled. Herbie turned, moving his hand in sign for the coxswain to cut the power, and prepare for the turn.
As the light flashed from the beach, so both of the Geminis lost power—the engines dying, and the sturdy rubber boats lurching, sliding towards the edge of the sand under their own momentum.
This was it. The split second when Herbie’s timing had to be as accurate as that of an acrobat.
As Jacob Vascovsky pressed the button on his torch—to signal Herbie on to the beach—he realised what was wrong. In the coolness of his excitement, and moment of triumph, the General had acted automatically. Now, as he sent the little beam of light towards the speeding craft, he saw what was out of tune with everything else. Two boats. There were two boats. If Herbie was coming, it would have been one—and without power; without the sound of heavier engines further out to sea.
Vascovsky dropped the torch, glancing about him; instinctively sensing the danger—not only from the boats bearing down into the bay. There was hazard here. Near at hand.
The engines from the boats cut out. They were skimming in towards the sands. Vascovsky’s hand reached for his automatic, dragging it from the holster. Then, from the leading boat, a cry—Big Herbie Kruger’s voice echoing in the wake of the dead motors—“Jacob. No. Get back. They’re on to us. Get out. Get out.” Herbie was doing what Curry had called—at the briefing—the Larry Olivier bit.
From behind Herbie, the SAS trooper pulled the ring on his flare, lighting the beach—trees, the walls of rock towering above, and the pile of ruins high over all. The flare gave no shadows; just a clear light, embracing everything—including General Andrei Tserkov, as he stepped from the cover of the trees, shouting to his men as he came forward. Then, to Vascovsky—“Jacob. Stay where you are. It’s over for you. Finished.”
The words reached Vascovsky as the outboard motors of the two Gemini inflatables came to life again: each coxswain leaning on their tillers, and everyone praying they had not come in too far—that no rocks lurked beneath, ready to rip open the rubber bottoms of the boats.
The screws churned lather from the sea, the Geminis trembling; then taking up the power, starting to turn.
Vascovsky looked back—the boats so near, and Herbie Kruger clear, smiling, in the first craft. He turned to see Tserkov advancing on him, a pistol in his hand. Other men following.
In an instinctive gesture, Vascovsky’s hand came up. He was ready to turn back; to vent all his feeling, and frustrations, on the boats: but the action was mistaken. Andrei Tserkov shouted again, telling him to drop the weapon.
For too long, Vascovsky stood, uncertain: turning to Tserkov, then to the boats, in the middle of their sliding turn, still well inshore.
Tserkov dropped to one knee, his arms up, in the classic double grip. Well, he thought, maybe it’s better like this, squeezing the trigger twice; then twice more.
Vascovsky felt nothing: only the first thump, and the odd sensation of his heels dragging backwards, making twin furrows in the sand; then the dark, as his body hit the sea.
As though their General’s shots were a signal, the other men began firing—raking the water around the boats.
In the halved second, as General Tserkov fired, Stentor made his move. The turning boats had not picked up speed, and seemed to him, close enough, slow enough, for a gamble.
Launching himself from the trees, the elderly General ran to the water’s edge, splashing in, his legs fighting the strength of the sea, then his whole body immersed so that he could swim.
His head went under; then, within yards of the skidding first boat, he called out—“Kruger. Kruger, it’s me. It’s Stentor.”
Then the hail of bullets hit the water around him.
Herbie took it all in, in that camera-flash moment—the men on the beach; Vascovsky’s indecision; then the shots, and his enemy dragged back into the sea.
In the second Gemini, Curry Shepherd began to shout, “Hold your fire. For God’s sake don’t shoot.”
The boats had begun their turns, close to each other, the screws biting, and the craft lifting, picking up speed. Herbie’s Gemini was side on to the shore when General Tserkov’s men opened fire. Clearly, he heard the rip and thwack, as the metal tore and ripped at the rubber.
Herbie’s Gemini continued to skid, its outboard motor screaming, as the screws came out of the water. Then the nose went down. The coxswain and the other SAS trooper were thrown over the side. Herbie, at the front, felt a sudden agony, as a bullet ploughed into his calf. He coughed—dizzy with the shock, and pain—then fell forward, gulping water as he went.
Curry’s Gemini had already begun its run back, the speed starting to increase nicely; but the coxswain leaned on the tiller, bringing the rubber boat around in a sickening skid, before Curry could even shout the order.
The SAS man sitting midships, lifted his Ingram—and pointing high—fired two quick bursts, yelling that it would keep their heads down, on the beach. Like Curry, he was intent on saving the three men in Herbie’s Gemini.
They circled, the SAS coxswain and trooper, both conscious, reaching from the water to grab at the fast-moving boat. Another two bursts from the Ingram as Curry sighted Big Herbie, rolling, like a sick porpoise, in the foam.
Hands stretched out, heaving and hauling the dead weight into the Gemini. The other men from Herbie’s boat were in now, balancing the craft, trying to help by clinging on to Curry, and their comrade.
With one final immense pull, they hauled the massive man over the curved sides. The moment they had him in the boat, Curry yelled—“Out. Get out of here.” The coxswain piled on the power, the nose lifted, and the Gemini, swaying and off trim, spewed out its white feather and, slamming up and down over the sea, shot away from the beach.
Curry bent to examine his friend—now conscious, and throwing up the water swallowed when he went overboard.
“You’re okay, cocker. Nasty gash in the leg; but you’re okay.”
“Got him.” Big Herbie smiled up at Curry. “They got the bastard.” He winced with pain. “Leg hurts a bit.”
The bullet had chewed out a long runnel in the flesh, and there was a lot of blood. One of the SAS troopers passed over a field dressing, and Curry staunched the wound, as best he could in the swaying Gemini.
Herbie would be fine once they got him aboard the patrol-craft. “You’ll take that trip down the aisle yet, old Herb. Lucky Martha.”
“There’ll be people doing a blubbing that day.” Herbie smiled up at him. A hard smile, but one of triumph.
“I shouldn’t be surprised, old cocker. Shouldn’t be surprised at all.” Curry could see the patrol-craft, engines running, waiting to accept them aboard.
Stentor could not really understand it. They had not waited for him. They did not even seem to have seen him. He knew he was in the water, floating on his back. He also knew about the numbness. It had nothing to do with the cold. Somewhere—probably in his back—a bullet had ground its way through flesh and bone.
Yet he felt remarkably tranquil; just floating, and at peace with the world. He could even see the shape of the trees and cliffs. Then the ruin of the castle, like a cut-out in the theatre—at the Bolshoi. Was it the house, he wondered? The house in the Lear Song?
He was not conscious of his body at all now; everything appeared to be drifting away. The quiet dogs, Stentor thought, and tried to laugh, but could not. From a long way off—he thought it was in his head—he heard the Lear Ballad, and the ruin on the cliff came into focus for a moment—
Beyond the dark on a ro
ck
Stands a tall house.
Birds are nesting on the rock,
But the house is empty.
But the house is empty...
His very last sensation was that of a breeze, fanning over the sea, touching his cheek. The wind was getting up. Then the song again—
No voices are heard,
And only the wind, a wild guest,
Alarms the quiet dogs;
He has brought news from afar,
That the master... has... disappeared ...
On the beach they were dragging the late General Jacob Vascovsky’s body from the surf. Tserkov felt saddened: but all the evidence was there. He had witnesses; and the documents, and tapes. As he had thought at the moment he fired, perhaps it was better this way. Less of a mess. But a pity they had missed Kruger. He wondered about the two boats. One for cover, the General presumed. Giving a dry laugh, Tserkov lit a cigarette. They had certainly needed cover.
A shout came from the water’s edge. “General, sir. There’s something in the sea. I think we got one of them.”
Tserkov threw down his cigarette, grinding it under his heel, into the sand. By the time he reached the edge of the water, two of his men, waist deep in the sea, were floating the body in.
The other two held torches, to guide their comrades; and, as they brought the corpse ashore, Tserkov could see it was not one of those from the boats. The immaculate uniform was soaked, but the face looked at peace as they laid him on the sand.
Tserkov went down on one knee, his hand brushing the forehead of the old man. What was he doing here? Tserkov’s face contorted with pain. After all these years; and the retirement. Life played strange tricks. He presumed—could only presume—that Volodya could not bear to miss the last act. He had to be there—unannounced—to see his brave work come to its full fruition.
One of the men spoke. “Comrade General? It’s the Head of Special Service I, isn’t it? It’s General Glubodkin?”
Tserkov nodded. “Yes. People used to think he was a dandy.”