Shadow of Shadows

by Ted Allbeury

  It was on the second meeting that Sowa’s vanity overrode his training. Frenzel had accepted the reduction in his payments but he still lived expensively, and had taken a suite at the Hilton.

  They were waiting for the two girls to arrive and sat drinking champagne. Frenzel fished out a speck of cork from his drink with his finger.

  ‘Tell me, my friend. Why the hell did Georgi sometimes ask me for information about British Foreign Office policy communications with Bonn? Why should he be interested in what the British already knew?’

  ‘Did you ever ask him why?’

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Frenzel smiled. ‘Oh you know Georgi. Very obliquely, very diplomatically, he indicated that sometimes he liked to test my information against known facts.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I didn’t think all that much about it one way or another at the time. If that was what he wanted and it came to hand, so be it.’

  Sowa leaned back in his chair, balancing his glass on the rounded arm as he looked at Frenzel.

  ‘There was more to our friend than you knew.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He was an actual British intelligence officer, you know. Official authentic and recognized.’

  ‘I took that for granted.’

  ‘That wasn’t all that he was, of course.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He also worked for the Russians.’

  Frenzel looked shocked. His hand shook as he poured out more champagne.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘How did you find out? ’

  Sowa smiled. ‘That I can’t tell you. Just let me say that someone made a mistake. Let a cat out of a bag. Only a small cat, but enough for me.’

  There was a knock on the door and Frenzel stood up and walked over to open it. The two pretty teenagers stood there smiling. Frenzel stood aside and waved them in. Fie looked at the blonde one. ‘And what’s your name, sweetheart?’

  ‘Heidi, ’ she said, ‘and this is Renate. ’

  ‘Lovely names. You come and sit with me, Heidi, and Renate, you sit with my friend. ’

  As the girls settled themselves Frenzel said, ‘We must talk about that matter again some time.’

  They never did. But Frenzel hadn’t forgotten.

  18

  LONDON 1959

  Blake checked the train times on the indicator then walked over to the book-stall and bought an evening paper. Gillian Blake was back at home now after the birth of their second son. They had a pleasant flat in a semi-detached house in Bickley in Kent, and George Blake, in his sober blue suit, with black brief-case and umbrella. looked exactly what he was — a commuter.

  He was usually home by 7 p.m., catching the 6.24 train from Victoria to Bickley. But once or twice a week, generally Tuesdays and Fridays, he caught the 6.18 to Bromley South and changed trains there to get to the next station, Bickley. It seemed an unnecessary and inconvenient diversion to change trains when there was a direct service that took less time.

  At 6.14 George Blake walked through the ticket barrier. It was the office-leaving rush-hour and the collector barely glanced at his season ticket. Most of the seats were taken already and Blake joined the men lining the corridor. Exactly on time the train left, lurching over the complex points system that served the big terminus. A lot of the men in the corridor were regulars, reading their newspapers or chatting as they leaned back against the compartment doors. Blake was at the far end of the carriage in the space near the toilets. The man who was watching Blake s reflection in the dusty window of the train wore a dark-blue raincoat and a brown trilby hat. He had a solemn, still face, red complexion and gingery eyebrows. He neither chatted nor read a paper.

  When the train eventually stopped at Bromley South he was behind George Blake as he stepped down on to the platform. He followed Blake as he pushed his way through the crowds, saw him toss the folded evening paper into the wire wastepaper bin, and then join the crowds waiting for die next train, the train to Bickley.

  Blake got on the next train, but the man in the raincoat waited. The throng of commuters gradually cleared. It was nearly an hour before a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket stood by the wastepaper bin, turned casually to look at it and then picked out the folded Evening Standard; keeping it folded he slid it casually into his jacket pocket, looked at his wrist-watch and walked slowly to the exit steps. The man in the brown trilby made no move to follow him. He knew who he was. But he wondered why the pick-up was so circuitous. It would be micro-film, and that could surely have been passed through a dead letter box in central London. Or perhaps the elaborate precautions meant that Blake was more important than he had thought. It could, of course, be an SIS procedure, but if it were, surely MI5 would have been warned to avoid wasting Special Brancli s time. Since the defection of Burgess and Maclean the relationship between the two security services had gone from cold to icy, but tied kept it in his notes in case it was ever needed. In fact, he checked Blake s Tuesday and Friday diversions for two months. The pattern was always the same except that on one occasion an elderly woman was the pick-up.

  BEIRUT 1960

  Most Middle East countries referred to MECAS, the Middle East College for Arabic Studies, as the ‘spy-school’. In the days when it was based in Jerusalem it had trained many British security officers including men from SOE. In 1958, after Suez, the Foreign Office realized that in the decade to come it was going to need many more Arabic speakers. The fact that many of them would be employed on intelligence duties was coincidental. But when Britain relinquished the Palestine Mandate and the state of Israel was created, Jerusalem was no longer a tenable base for MECAS. Despite pressure from all the Arab States MECAS was made welcome in the Lebanon, and new buildings were constructed in Shemlam just north of Beirut.

  George Blake was entered as a student at MECAS in September 1960. He and his wife and two sons were not resident, but lived independently in a pleasant house at the edge of Shemlam village.

  The syllabus at MECAS in Arabic and Arab studies was the most concentrated in the world, and lasted eighteen months. Blake was a model student, and his ability to learn languages brought praise from the MECAS staff. He was due to stay for only nine months instead of the full eighteen. He had been told in London before he left that he was wanted for a special assignment when he had completed his training programme.

  Far away from the intrigues of Berlin and even the normal demands of his life in SIS London, Blake gradually relaxed. His months in Shemlam were undoubtedly the happiest days of his life. When not absorbed in his studies he spent all his time with his wife and children. London, Rotterdam, Berlin, Korea, and the rest of the world, seemed a long way away.

  WEST BERLIN 1960

  Horst Eitner saw the scarf out of the corner of his eye and walked over to the shop window. It was real silk with a hand-painted pattern of big red poppies. It looked either French or Italian, and it looked very expensive. There was no price tag on it. The luxury shops on the Kurfürstendamm were not for people who needed to ask the price. But Horst Eitner was doing well, he had never had so much money, and he had too much self-confidence to care about the customs and mannerisms of luxury shops. They were just shops, the same as any others. They merely charged more, and part of their appeal was that the goods they sold were recognizable as chic and expensive.

  The scarf was nearly three hundred marks, and after checking it carefully for flaws he paid, and wrote out a note to be enclosed in the fancy wrapping.

  He stood for a few moments in the sunshine on the wide pavement of the Kurfürstendamm. He looked at his watch. He was too early, she would still be sleeping, and she could be touchy when she didn’t have her sleep. He crossed the road and walked up to Kempinski’s. The cafe was crowded but his coffee and cakes came quickly. He left the table briefly and walked
outside to buy a paper and a copy of Playboy at the kiosk in the street.

  He had several coffees and he didn’t read either the newspaper or the magazine. He did look at the Playboy centrefold. He thought Ushi was both prettier and sexier, and she wasn’t out of focus either. At noon exactly, he phoned her. She was waiting for him already. He paid his bill and walked up to the cross-roads, turned right at Joachimstaller Strasse then across the street to Augsburger Strasse. He smiled to himself as he thought about Ushi Lange. She was seventeen, the prettiest girl he’d ever had, and there was nothing she wouldn’t let him do. There was nothing she wouldn’t let any man do, provided he paid her, but after the first two sessions Horst Eitner hadn’t had to pay. Not in straight cash anyway. He’d picked her up seven months earlier at a club on Kantstrasse, and he was with her most days in the afternoon and early evening. She had to be at the club at nine. In the early days he didn’t mind that on the back seats of cars, or the bombed buildings near the theatre, she opened her long legs for a series of GIs. He was the only man she took back to her place. He was special. She said so, and he believed her.

  When she opened the door she was smiling, and again he realized how pretty she was. Brigitte was pretty, but she was fifteen years older than this girl. If it wasn’t for Brigitte he’d be in clover. He could shack up with Ushi and between them they could make a fortune. His money from the Russians and the British, and Ushi’s earnings must be fantastic., Berlin was full of well-paid troops, three military governments and scores of black-market barons, and she must earn more in a night than he made in a month. They could get a bigger flat and she could give up the club. He could get her all the men she could take. She could get him dozens of tit-bits of information that he could sell one place or another. But Brigitte knew too much to take any risks.

  He watched as she unwrapped the present. She was delighted, and she wore it even when they got into her bed.

  It was nearly seven o’clock before they got dressed again, and as she poured him a schnapps she said, ‘Did you mean what you said?’

  ‘I always mean what I say, kid.’

  She handed him the drink and sat down facing him.

  ‘Did you mean it when you said you love me?’

  ‘You know I do, or I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I don’t mean that kind of loving.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘What about Brigitte?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Have you told her about us?’

  She saw the sudden fear in his eyes, and despite the warmth of the room and the schnapps she was suddenly cold. She had been stupid to imagine it could be more than it was. A guy who liked screwing her, who wanted to make it seem more. For his own sake, as well as hers.

  Eitner shifted in his chair. ‘I didn’t say anything about telling her, Ushi. I’d have to work out how to go about it. It wouldn’t be easy.’

  She smiled a tight little smile. ‘Forget it, Horst.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll have to get fixed for the club. Are you coming tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ He looked at her and she was so young and beautiful. ‘Let me think about it, kid. I just don’t know how she would react.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You didn’t ever say you’d tell her.’

  ‘Would you marry me, Ushi? If I got a divorce.’

  She sighed. ‘You know I would.’

  ‘I’d have to leave Berlin.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t explain. She knows things that could cause me trouble. I’d have to get out quickly.’

  ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘East Berlin.’

  ‘Why East Berlin, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Leave it to me, kid. I’ll work something out.’

  19

  Whenever they went to the park Petrov always took along his paper bag crammed with stale bread. He was an inveterate feeder of animals and birds. Notices at the Zoo not to feed certain animals he saw as man’s inhumanity to the beasts of the field. It was not that he was an animal lover, but to him ducks and bread, elephants and buns, polar bears and doughnuts went together like Laurel and Hardy.

  He sat now, tempting a couple of cantankerous drakes up to the bench. Eventually the bread was finished and Petrov crumpled up the paper bag and stuffed it into his pocket, as any good Muscovite would.

  The wind ruffled a hank of his light hair as he turned to look at Lawler.

  ‘Well, then?’

  And Lawler smiled at the phrase and the accent. Petrov was an avid watcher of Coronation Street and was beginning to acquire a Lancashire accent.

  ‘They’ve agreed, Tolya. No problems.’

  ‘Do you trust them about this?’

  ‘There’s nothing to trust, tovarich. It’s up to me. I’ve had permission to find her and bring her back. After that it’s up to the two of you.’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  Lawler smiled and put his hand on the Russian’s knee. ‘I’ve got to find her first. So I’ll need your help.’

  ‘You say what you want me to do and I’ll do it.’

  ‘Right. Her full name before she was married?’

  ‘Maria Grazyna Felinska.’

  Lawler took out his diary and wrote down the name. ‘Are you sure she went back to Warsaw?’

  ‘She was brought up in Krakow but the KGB insisted that she went back to Warsaw.’

  ‘How old is she now?’

  Petrov screwed up his eyes and counted out loud. ‘Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three.’ He grinned at Lawler. ‘Could be thirty-four.’

  ‘Did she have a family in Krakow?’

  ‘Some cousins or something. Her parents were dead long ago. But her father was mayor of Krakow at one time. The name will be known. It was a most respected family.’

  ‘What about relations in Warsaw?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she spoke of an uncle there.’

  ‘What kind of work do you think she will be doing for a job?’

  ‘She’ll get a small KGB pension. They agreed to that to keep me quiet.’

  ‘Would it be enough for her to live on?’

  ‘Not really, and she would have to work to get her ration cards.’

  ‘What was she doing when you met her?’

  ‘She had some little job with a film production company. Continuity girl — something like that.’

  ‘Have you got a photograph of her?’

  Petrov reached inside his jacket and took out his well-worn wallet. He searched through it, pulled out a photograph and passed it to Lawler.

  It was a half-length photograph of a girl, dark-haired with big eyes and a wide smile. It was a lively face, the face of a girl who knew she was pretty but didn’t dwell on it. The high Slav cheeks emphasized the amused look in her eyes, and the openness of the generous smile. There was some writing across the bottom right-hand corner.

  ‘What does it say, Tolya?’

  Petrov sighed and without looking at the photograph he said, ‘It says “Ja ciebie kocham”.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It’s Polish for “I love you”.’

  ‘She’s beautiful, Tolya. Very much alive.’

  Petrov shrugged. ‘Too alive for the bastards in Moscow.’

  ‘Let’s get back, and I’ll get the embassy in Warsaw seeing what they can find. Can I keep the photograph and get it copied?’

  ‘Sure. I never look at it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Like I don’t put my fingers in mincing machines.’

  And as they walked back Lawler was aware that Petrov was silent and withdrawn. He was aware too of the extraordinary likeness between the girl in the photograph and Siobhan Nolan. It explained a lot, and he wondered if Siobhan had ever seen the photograph.

  Lawler came out of Photographic with six damp prints of Maria Felinska and slid them into a buff envelope, marking it ‘urgent’ after he had addressed it to the Assistant Military Attache at the Warsaw embassy
. He passed the envelope to Admin for inclusion in the diplomatic bag.

  Back in Photographic he collected the original and three copies for himself.

  Two days later Silvester phoned. There had been a phone call for Lawler from Hooper at the Warsaw embassy. Would he return it.

  It meant going to Century House, and he took a taxi to Waterloo Station and walked the rest of the way. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, because by now every taxi-driver in London knew that Century House was the new HQ of various officially non-existent organizations.

  He booked a call for three o’clock, and waited in Silvester’s secretary’s office for it to come through. He was one of her favourites, or he’d have had strong hints that his own office was a more suitable waiting-room. But in his own office he wouldn’t have had fresh coffee with three sugars.

  Hooper came through at ten past three, and it was a good clear line.

  ‘Your query, sir. There are nineteen of that name in the Warsaw telephone directory, and twenty-seven in the Krakow one. I’ve got two people ploughing through them but no link so far. There’s one thin lead, and I’ll be dealing with that this evening. He’s a bit doddery. OK, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for the speed and the effort. I’ll be waiting for your call.’

  ‘You’ve thought of the possibility that that might not be the name now?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

  There was a pause and then Hooper’s voice wavered into the tune ‘Here Comes the Bride.’

  ‘Jesus. I wouldn’t like it to be that.’

  ‘It’s only an outside chance, but looking at the pretty picture you sent me I’d say it’s on the cards. Quite a doll.’

  ‘Time’s moved on since that was taken.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll call as soon as I’ve got reason to.’

  ‘Even nil reports could help me sleep.’

  ‘Right, sir. Cheerio.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Lawler had speculated on the possibility of the woman not wanting to see Petrov again. Or not wanting to leave because she was happy where she was. But it hadn’t crossed his mind that the woman he always called Petrov’s wife might now be somebody else’s wife. Complete with family.