by John Gardner
“She appears to have had her reasons.” Gus waved at the smoke, dispersing it.
“She say anything about the standard of the intelligence received via Passau?” Art asked.
Keene nodded. “High quality. Patchy, she tells me, but in the main high quality intelligence. Mainly microfilm, some copied docs, reports, briefings, in-depth studies, state of readiness, order of battle. NATO and the U.S., both.”
“And what was she bringing in return?” Worboys this time.
“She says shopping lists plus watered-down intelligence. Moscow Center were very protective of the source. It seems they believed a lot of the information came directly from Passau: only hinted that he was possibly in cahoots with one other person at Langley.”
“So,” Kruger took the floor again. “So what was in it for Marty? Any ideas?”
Worboys shook his head. Gus Keene answered, “Marty, and three other highly placed CIA officers. If I read it correctly, he had a right to hire and fire by the early sixties. Marty handpicked the top brass for the Soviet Office, which means he selected people like Tony de Paul, Mike Alfoot, who is now in charge, and their tame roving reporter, Urquart Bains.”
“Why didn’t they just do it all through Bains?” Art stubbed out his cigarette, playing devil’s advocate. “Simple. Keep it in the family.”
“Too dangerous, Art.” Herbie opened his eyes wide, as though waking from a doze. “Much too dangerous. Sure, Bains slid in and out of countries like a specter. Original invisible man. But to carry film, documents even, on a regular basis would have been very compromising. Marty wanted to play safe. He made certain they used the most unlikely person in the entire United States. Could’ve used a Texas oilman, sure; anybody he could have scammed, but he chose the best man for the job.
“Point was that they needed a name, a go-between. Both sides required it. If anyone pinned Marty down and said ‘who’s the lucky guy?’ he could’ve told them—‘I’m using a source who doesn’t know what’s going on. I’ve a deep source in the Kremlin. Hands over the stuff to an old friend of mine: Louis Passau, great conductor. It’s him that does the business.’ They probably had a funny name for him, like the Soviets called him ‘Kingfisher.’ The Sovs had to believe it was this man Kingfisher who had nothing to do with the CIA. Marty knew damned well that he did not dare let the Ks know the information was coming straight out of Langley.
“One thing about Louis is that he’s a tiny bit of a snob. Deep down among all the foul language, and his womanizing, there’s a sense of wanting to alter history, to help his country—as long as it doesn’t interfere with his music. Also there was his guilt, and they played on that. Who in heaven would’ve fingered Maestro Louis Passau as a Soviet agent? Who would even have suspected he was having regular meetings with a courier from Dzerzhinsky Square? He was ideal, and handed to Marty on a plate.” He stopped and looked belligerently at Keene. “Didn’t finish answering my last question, Gus. What’s in it for Marty?”
Gus lifted an eyebrow. “I think you know that, Herb. Same as was in it for Philby, Maclean, the rest of them. Marty came from the streets, from a brick-poor Brooklyn family. We’ve all met him, some of you’ve worked with him. You know what he was like. Always defensive about his background. Used that streetwise talk rather as the old Maestro uses it. They must have connected exceptionally well. Marty’s very aware of his roots, maybe uncomfortable about them. As time went by he could well have started believing the United States was going the wrong way. Could’ve got religion—of the communist variety. Only one step from there—a seed in the mind—to doing something about it. Then, as a true believer, he would go out and proselytize the world. What better place to begin than Langley, and from what better power base to operate than the Soviet Office? We’ll have to ask him.”
Herbie’s large head nodded, like the head of one of those stupid dogs people put in the back of their cars. “So, we going to ask him?” His gaze fell on Young Worboys. “Tony, you have the final say about that.”
Worboys looked discomforted. “Well,” he began. “How … ?” Then Art cut across him—
“One more thing. More than one actually. Herbie, we haven’t yet heard what Louis Passau did this spring. What he talked about. What he said to those undesirables in the former Soviet Bloc.”
“Ah, sixty-five-thousand-dollar question. Sure. Why not? Why don’t I tell them about that, Pucky?”
Pucky gave a small sleepy twitch of the lips. “Knock their socks off, Herb.”
So Kroger told them. First, he enumerated the people Passau had actually met, covertly, in the old Eastern Bloc: in Bulgaria the head of the former notorious Department 6, Ministry of the Interior. “You all know about him anyway,” Herbie all businesslike. “He’s still there, moved to the National Security Service. Rose by any other name, all that jazz, eh?”
In Czecho, he had talked to the former head of the defunct secret service, the StB, together with a number of other outlawed officers of that organization.
In Hungary, Passau went to meet discredited members of a group of renegade secret service officers, outlawed in 1990, by the new democratically elected government.
In Poland, he carried the word to the Office for Defense of the State, which operates from the same building in Warsaw as the one that housed the old secret service. This “new” organization still employs over a hundred-thousand members of the supposedly discredited communist service.
“And we all know whom he met in Berlin.” He grinned at them. “Five members of the very old guard who’d give their all for the return of the good old days.”
“So what did they talk about, Herbie?” Quietly spoken from Gus Keene.
“As he tells it,” Kruger paused, to indicate that he believed every word Passau had said during that long wait at the Torquay hotel, when Worboys was dashing down with the Fifth Cavalry. “As he tells it, he gave them messages of greetings from their friends and colleagues in the CIA. That’s what he was told to say. I checked it most thoroughly, asked him time and again, cross-questioned, once, twice, three times, ask Puck. By then he knew what he was doing. Nobody was pretending anymore. They—Marty and Company—didn’t even wrap it up in chauvinistic terms. They told him to use the words, quote ‘colleagues in the CIA’ end quote.”
“Just greetings, Herb?” Art paused as he lit another cigarette.
“Greetings and a message. It is the message that’s really interesting. He told them to be ready for a new dawn. He told them the new dawn would come sometime in the summer, July or August. He told them that elements of the American CIA would back a return to the old order, and they should take their cue from Moscow. Now isn’t that interesting? Marty, and his people, already knew about the coming August coup. They knew and supported it. They were all for turning back the clock. Sure, we now hear Langley had been warning Gorby, but …”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Faraway, as though counter-pointing the news, the wail of an ambulance, or police siren, floated from the distance.
Gus chuckled. “Could be argued,” he said, with laughter in his voice, “could be argued they were trying to hang on to their jobs.”
There were general subdued laughs, but the mirth was uneasy, unconvincing. Nobody in the intelligence communities of the West needed to look after their jobs. When one enemy dies, another takes its place. They were all only too aware of the dangers that lurked out there, in Europe, the Middle East, within the uneasy, unsettled borders of the former Soviet Union itself. Were they not conversant with the way some Third World countries were racing ahead towards a nuclear goal? Did they close their eyes to the dangers of financial ruin brought ruthlessly to Europe and the U.S.A. from Japan, and other countries? Were their ears blocked to the firm communist line taken by China? The illegal arms sales? The drug wars? The terrorist conflict? Everyone in the room became nervous when the Western powers talked of military cuts and the scaling down of bases the world over. What was happening within the fragmented old orde
r of the Soviet Union, and what still went on in the rest of the world, posed a greater threat than the stable balance of superpowers which had existed throughout the Cold War. They trembled, and knew, to their extreme concern, that politicians and generals alike always tend to resist the advice of intelligence services, particularly when the man in the street wanted to hear the words peace and prosperity. Their biggest test was yet to come. A military, in Europe and the United States, with little bark and less bite, was something to lose sleep over.
“And Tel Aviv?” Art asked. “What did he tell them in Tel Aviv?”
Herbie gave a large shrug. “Didn’t get around to asking him about Tel Aviv.” The daft smile told all who knew him that Herbie Kruger had not got around to asking Passau the question, not because time had been short. He had not asked it because he wanted to put it to Maestro Passau at the right moment, and the right moment had yet to arrive.
“So, we going to ask Marty?” He looked at Worboys again.
“How can we? He’s out. Private. Retired to Florida. Living off his pension. Watching the pelicans, dabbling in the surf.”
“His lieutenants are still around.” This was Art, already ahead of Worboys. “And I suspect where his lieutenants are, Marty isn’t far behind. What’s on your mind, Herb?”
“What we got left in safe houses, Tony?”
“What … ?”
“They all sold, even on a depressed market? The old Firm swapped them for a pot of message, or whatever the term is? The Firm bankrupt, or have we a nice, lonely place left on the books?”
“Such as?” Worboys tried to stare him down and failed badly.
“Such as the Charlton house, Tony. That still on our books?”
Young Worboys knew exactly where the Charlton house was located; knew the where and the why. He even knew the reason Herbie asked about it now, for the so-called Charlton house had played a large part in the operation they all thought of as Herbie Kruger’s Passion and Resurrection. So many years ago, yet so near now with Ursula Zunder close confined in the guest quarters.
“Yes.” He locked eyes with Herbie, saw the stubborn glitter, the hint of blood, in his eyes and looked away again. “Yes, it’s still on the books. Just in time, Herb. It’s down to go on the market next year. We’re shedding a whole heap of flats and houses now the Ks aren’t active. Kept them on because of the Gulf War. The Ks sent people in with intelligence about the Iraqis. We took it down in safe houses, in shorthand and on tape to pass on to Langley and the Pentagon. Now, it’s either close down eighty percent of the flats and houses, or lose this place. And it’s unthinkable to close Warminster.”
“You open it up for me, Tony?”
“Let’s hear the story first.”
“Okay, simple. The old man has an emergency number. Worldwide. Fire, police, ambulance, emergency squad. Marty told him he only had to call, and they’d be there—or someone would be there—to take him out. Told him, within twenty-four hours. Bet Marty himself would come running if the Maestro gave it a whirl. We never shared Charlton with Langley, did we, Young Worboys?”
“Not to my knowledge. No.”
“Then let’s share it with them now.”
“You really think Marty’d compromise himself … ?”
“He’d compromise the whole shooting match if he thought he could take Passau out of the picture. Wouldn’t be surprised if they all came running.”
“You believe it, Herb? One hundred percent?”
“Sure. Tethered pig routine.”
“Goat, Herb,” said an excited Art Railton from the comfort of his chair.
“Whatever. You’re the boss, Tony Worboys. Chief gave it to you. Win a medal. Worboys victorious. New head of the school, what old sheep.”
“Yes.” Nobody could tell if Worboys was agreeing or just ruminating.
“Let’s go then.” Gus Keene winked broadly at Herbie. “Let’s plug the Langley leak once and for all.”
“Thirty years too late, but better than nothing.” Pucky Curtiss rose, walked over to Herbie and kissed him firmly on the forehead.
“Sure. In D.C. they’ve been living it up, saying the Cold War is over. We won.” Worboys had the bit between his teeth.
“You disappoint me, Tony.” Herbie sounded gloomy. “Nobody won. Nobody lost. And I’m not all that sure it’ll ever really be over. It’s just that people want it over, and they’re not yet counting the cost, or the danger, of the peace.”
(5)
THE VILLAGE OF CHARLTON lies almost on the Oxfordshire and Berkshire borders, about ten miles from the Atomic Research Establishment at Harwell, and easily accessible by road from both London and Oxford. The Berkshire Downs are only a twenty-minute car ride away, and the setting is delightful, if modest.
The house of which Big Herbie Kruger had spoken is situated a mile or so out of the village, standing back from the road, screened by trees and a weathered red brick wall dotted with electronic eyes.
From the outside, the place looked unassuming but pleasant: the same red brick as the wall, but with well-established Virginia creeper crawling around the windows of its facade: the leaves were just fading from the burning red of autumn, so the building glowed with color.
Inside was a different story for, over the years, the service had made structural changes. There was what people spoke of as a “grannie flat”—three rooms, including a small kitchen tacked onto the side, with its own entrance. The grannie flat was there for one of the Shop’s caretakers, usually someone who had retired from the trade, put out to pasture with a pension and a roof.
In the main house there were four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large, sunny kitchen and two further good-sized rooms—living and dining rooms—with windows that gave clear views through the trees. The main room had a pair of French windows leading out to the lawn, flower beds and bushes: its furniture was heavy, good-quality, though not quite antique.
Big Herbie Kruger wandered around the place, touching things, reminding himself of the past. He knew the house by heart, every brick, though it seemed longer than eleven years since he had been there. In the early eighties, Herbie had conducted a fast and brutal interrogation in this place and on the Berkshire Downs. He recalled every last memory of that time as he roamed through the rooms, like a ghost returning to haunt a place of sadness, while Young Worboys and the technician checked the hidden mikes and the tape machines.
Herbie remembered Passau telling him of Ursula’s one-line identification telephone codes. “A Man of Sorrows” had been one of them. Kruger felt like a man of sorrows for it was from this unlikely house that he had gone forth to cross the now-demolished Berlin Wall for the last time—the journey that had taken him to his own personal betrayal.
He needed to cauterize the wound, burn it completely from his mind. Martha, his wife, knew all about his dreams and nightmares; knew that she would not be with him for a lifetime.
Before they left Warminster, Pucky had begged to come, but they could not take the chance. Who knew if Marty would arrive mob-handed, as the term had it? There could well be foolishness, and Herb had suffered enough foolishness to last him a lifetime.
“You’ll come back with the slate clean?” Pucky asked as they stood together alone in one of the smaller Warminster rooms, looking out onto the gravel of the turning circle and the cars that waited patiently. It was early afternoon and they had awakened Passau, telling him of one final trip. She put her arms around Herbie’s big body. Hugged him and felt the hard butt of the automatic pistol lying against the small of his back.
She remembered a love poem from a different time and place. Did not know where it came from, but the words popped into her head like something she had not wanted to think about in years.
For the Chinese, this is the Year of the Monkey.
But, for me it will always be the Year of the Small of Your Back.
“Sure. Sure,” Herbie whispered. “Sure, I’ll come home clean, Puck. Then we’ll do the right thing.” He did not say w
hat the right thing was, and she did not ask him, frightened now that their feelings for one another had been a mirage, a dream, or maybe a nightmare. All Pucky knew was that a great sadness overtook her as she watched him climb into the car.
The technician drove, with Worboys in the front, while Herbie and Art flanked the old Maestro in the back, a tight squeeze. “Maestro sandwich,” Kruger muttered. He closed the door and the smoked glass of the windows blotted him from sight. The trail car, replete with thugs, followed them out of the driveway.
“You okay, Pucky?” Gus Keene had come into the room, silently. Identified first by the strong aroma of his pipe tobacco, then his voice.
“I’ll live, Gus. What’s going to happen?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Herb says the old boy has this emergency number. He’s convinced Marty will come by himself, talk and therefore spill the beans. Young Worboys is concerned, and so he should be. It’ll mean netting an American citizen, holding him against his will. Eventually we’ll have to tell the Yanks, and there’ll be all hell to pay. Langley can really do without the scandal.”
“Like we could have done without the scandal of Kim Philby all that time ago?”
“That was our sister service, but it had repercussions. Yes, there were those who wanted it buried, those who wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Made it worse in the long run. As for Marty, I personally favor simply handing over the tapes. Let Langley clean up its own mess.”
“There’s no danger though, is there?”
“Puck, there’s always danger.”
On the road to the Charlton house, Herbie Kruger talked to the Maestro about danger.
“The ride we took out of New York, Lou. That was dangerous.”
“All life is dangerous, Herbie. I want to go to sleep. At my age this shouldn’t be happening.”
“But New York was particularly dangerous. They shot at you outside Lincoln Center, and again in the tunnel.”