Shadow of Shadows

by Ted Allbeury

  24

  Lawler was back at the house in Grunewald by two o’clock, and he spent half an hour talking to Petrov; putting over hope not certainty. And even the hope was made dependent on Petrov carrying out Lawler’s instructions to the letter.

  He talked to Siobhan very briefly, and she let him borrow her passport. In the basement rooms with the steel doors he explained to the technicians’ team exactly what he wanted. The walls of one room were lined with metal shelves divided off into small sections which held passports of every country in Europe and several in South America. In metal boxes were rubber stamps for visas, exits and entries, special facilities, and the other niceties that immigration authorities employ. Travel passes, transit documents, identity cards, oil, petrol and food vouchers, residence permits and security clearances were all available, with details of current practice, signatures and current stamps. The basic material was almost always genuine. The working details were up-dated every twenty-four hours and if an operation warranted it, the information could be no more than two hours old.

  It was five in the morning before he slept, and by then he had worked out the final details of his plan. There was a call from Silvester in London which he avoided, promising to phone back later. Barlow found him the girl he wanted, and he briefed her carefully and told her where she would be accommodated and how she would be brought back some time during the weekend.

  At ten-thirty he breakfasted with Petrov and went over the details yet again. Petrov’s part was simple, and involved no obvious dangers, but the Russian was already tense and apprehensive about the meeting with his wife. At eleven the guards changed at the gates, and as Lawler stopped the car the relief sergeant bent down, saw Lawler and said, “OK, sir. When will you be back?’

  ‘This evening, about nine or nine-thirty.’

  The sergeant glanced at Petrov and then waved the car through the open gates. Twenty minutes later he drove into the multi-storage car park near the entrance to the Zoo. Petrov was shivering despite the hot sunshine, and he was like a man in a dream as Lawler bought tickets for the Zoo. It was hard to believe that Petrov had once run the KGB networks in Berlin, but was so disturbed about the meeting with Maria. It really was as if the Russian felt that his life was in danger if it didn’t work out. It had become an obsession.

  Five minutes later they were at the ice-cream kiosk.

  ‘This is where you meet her, Tolya. Sit on one of the benches over there, and she’ll come to the kiosk.’

  ‘And I am to be here at one-thirty, yes?’

  ‘Yes. If she isn’t here by four-thirty phone this number. It’s the number of the house in Grunewald. Ask for Mr Barlow, and tell him you want to be picked up.’

  Petrov looked at the number on the paper and then back at Lawler’s face.

  ‘You could come even if she doesn’t come.’

  ‘Look, Tolya. She’s coming. There’s no doubt about that. But something could go wrong. Shell be coming through the checkpoint with me. If one of us is picked up, then well both get picked up. If it goes wrong Barlow will look after you.’

  ‘She doesn’t deserve risks like that, Jimmy.’

  ‘I know, but we have to take risks.’

  ‘If you are taken I’ll get you both out.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy, Tolya. Leave all that to me and the others. There’s nothing you could do.’

  ‘I could offer myself in exchange.’

  Lawler looked open-mouthed at the Russian. And suddenly he was cold himself, despite the heat. It was something he hadn’t thought of. And now it had been said it didn’t bear thinking about. He looked at the Russian’s pale, strained face. ‘If you tried playing games like that, Tolya, you wouldn’t last more than a couple of days. Both sides would have a vested interest in killing you. And just remember; I’d be far more valuable to the KGB than you would be. They’d only want you to discourage others, they would want me because of what I know. And you know who they’d choose.’

  ‘You’re taking big risks for me. Not just this, but not telling London about today.’

  ‘The only risk I’m taking is that you do something bloody stupid.’

  ‘And the checkpoint?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that we’re passing people in and out a dozen times a week. It’s only honest people who have problems at checkpoints.’

  Petrov nodded, his shoulders hunched, stamping his feet as if there was snow on the ground. Then he looked up at Lawler’s face. ‘Whatever happens today I co-operate with you. I start talking now if you want.’

  ‘Thanks. But I can’t stop now, Tolya. I need to be over in good time. But thanks for the offer. Don’t worry. And one more thing. Where did I say we should meet?’

  ‘In the new Gedachtnis Church any time after two-thirty.’

  ‘OK. I’ll be there, waiting for you.’ Lawler grinned and squeezed the Russian’s arm. ‘Be good, Tolya.’

  Petrov nodded without speaking, like a child being sent on an errand.

  Lawler watched as the Vopo checked slowly through his passport, his money declaration, his Ost-mark receipt, and his visa receipt. The policeman wrote down the passport details, its number and his name. Reluctantly the man handed his passport back and nodded him through. The girl had gone through before him.

  He walked slowly up Friedrich Strasse, gazing in the shop windows, his light raincoat over his arm. He looked up as the girl asked him the way to Unter den Linden, and as he turned to point the way she slid the passport into the pocket of his raincoat. He said softly, ‘Go to the bookshop and buy two Falk street-maps of Berlin. They’ll look after you.’

  She smiled, thanked him, and walked on as Lawler turned back to look again at the watches in the shop window. He stopped further on to look at a display of furs from the Soviet Union. He looked at his watch and then walked up to the crossing and turned right into the broad avenue of Unter den Linden. It was twelve-thirty when he went into the cafe. It was half-empty, and all the tables at the far end were empty. The waitress took his order for coffee and brought him a copy of the Berliner Zeitung.

  As he sipped his coffee he watched the street as shoppers and tourists walked slowly by, and in the distance he could hear, faintly, the band at the Brandenburger Tor. It was barely audible but it sounded vaguely like the waltz from Eugene Onegin.

  At ten to one he saw her, crossing from the other side of the broad avenue, walking under the trees, and at the centre kerb she stood looking each way before she crossed the rest of the street. She was wearing a black silk dress and a rope of pearls. She saw him as soon as she came through the door. She smiled and walked towards his table. He stood up and pulled out a chair. She was still smiling as she looked across the table, sliding her gloves from her hands.

  ‘Have we got time for a coffee together?’

  ‘Of course. And the pastries are very good here.’

  She smiled back at him. ‘Just a coffee.’

  After the waitress had brought them both coffees and cream he said softly, ‘Put your hands under the table. I’m going to give you a passport. Is your handbag on your lap or on the floor?’

  ‘On my lap.’

  ‘Open it first. And put the passport straight inside it.’

  ‘I’m ready when you are.’

  He felt her take the passport and was pleased that she had the sense to go on looking at him as she fiddled with her handbag.

  ‘We’ll leave here in a few minutes and walk down to hear the band. While we’re there I’d like you to look at the details in your passport. Just the name, and the date of birth, and the place of birth. I’ll check them over with you before we go through the checkpoint.’

  Do we go through the German one, or the one for foreigners?’

  ‘The one for foreigners. Checkpoint Charlie.’

  ‘Where do I meet my friend?’

  ‘We’ll talk about all that outside. Do you feel OK?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I feel very nervous. It’s foolish, but I
do.’

  ‘When I left your friend he was shaking like a leaf.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s not very romantic.’

  ‘It is actually. He’s afraid that his fairy castle could come crashing down.’

  She sighed. ‘Shall we go?’

  He paid his bill at the cash desk, and in the street she slid her arm under his as they walked to the end of the avenue. The benches were occupied so they sat together on the low stone wall, and the band was playing ‘Moscow Nights’ as she looked through the passport. Then she closed it, and slipped it back into her handbag.

  ‘You didn’t use my photograph?’

  ‘No. That passport’s totally genuine.’

  ‘Is that your girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We are very much alike but she’s much younger than I am.’

  ‘We’ve changed the birth date. The photograph is enough like you. They won’t query it.’

  ‘You sound so sure of everything.’

  He touched her hand where it lay on the wall. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all been done before. Hundreds of times.’

  She sighed. ‘I shall still be glad when it’s over.’

  ‘OK. Let’s go.’

  As they walked off slowly, her arm linked with his, he said, ‘Feel in my jacket pocket. There’s an American Express card and a Diners Club card in the same name. Slip them into your handbag and let the Vopo see them when he checks your passport.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Your name, fräulein?’

  ‘Siobhan Nolan.’

  He laughed softly. ‘No. You say it like Sha-von. Try it.’

  ‘Shavon.’

  ‘Can you manage simple English?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Most film people can. But I’ve probably got an American accent.’

  ‘There’s the queue, we’ll go in behind the two Japanese. You came through here about twelve o’clock. They’ll have your name and passport details on a list. And the time. It all corresponds. You came through just in front of me. I’ll go first this time and make clear that we’re together.’

  She frowned. ‘How on earth can those details be on their list?’

  ‘That’s a trade secret. They’re there all right.’

  Ten minutes later he handed over his passport. He declared his currency and his passport was stamped. He stood aside and Maria put down her passport. The man motioned to him to leave and Lawler smiled amiably as he said that he was waiting for his fiancee. The man turned sulkily back to the girl’s passport and the currency documents. He seemed to take hours with his hand poised before he finally applied the stamp, closed the passport and pushed it back to her as he nodded to the elderly American behind her.

  ‘OK?’ Lawler said, as he took her arm, and she nodded. He could feel her trembling. There was a line of taxis waiting on the stand and he asked for the Zoo as he opened the door for her.

  When they stood on the corner opposite the entrance to the Zoo he took her hand. ‘He’s waiting for you. When you go in you take the right-hand path past a kiosk selling postcards, then, over by the first pool there is a cafe. In front of the cafe is a kiosk selling ice-cream. That’s where he’s waiting for you. Whatever you both decide I shall stick by. There’ll be no persuasion and no pressure. A lot is hanging on all of this, but this is the two of you. On your own. Deciding what’s best for you both. I want you to remember that. All you need think about is your future and his. That’s all that matters this afternoon. I’m going now to the Gedachtnis Kirche, the new building. I’ll be in there, waiting for you both; He bent and gently kissed her cheek. He saw tears glistening in her eyes and she said softly, ‘It will seem strange seeing him, talking to him, after all these years.’

  ‘How long is it?’

  ‘Ten, nearly eleven years. Will you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘Tell me something nice that you know about Tolya that I don’t already know. Just some little thing. Nothing big.’

  ‘Why do you want that?’

  ‘I want to walk towards him smiling, knowing something about him that isn’t something from the past.’

  He hesitated, then he said, ‘Before I came for you today I told him what to do if you and I were caught. He insisted that he would give himself up to the Russians in exchange for you being released. Very stupid, but very nice. Good luck, Maria. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  He turned and walked to the car park and checked out his car. The Kurfurstendamm was crowded, and there was single-line traffic where the road was up for pipe-laying. The lights changed three times before he got over the crossroads. By the church a bus had broken down, and a policeman was letting only a trickle of cars edge their way past. They would have barely had time to find each other let alone talk, but he was impatient to get to the church. As if his being there could affect the issue. At the junction he took the right fork, missed a turn-out and cursed as the lights went red. He turned impatiently at the next outlet and went round the block at Willenberg Platz and on to the parking block at the .far end of Bayreuther Strasse. He stuffed the parking slip into his pocket and hurried back down to the street. There was a taxi at the far end of the street putting down a passenger and he waved frantically. The driver flashed his lights and cruised down towards him. It dropped him outside the bombed remains of the old Gedächtnis Kirche that a shrewd administration had left as a permanent reminder of World War II. Only tourists noticed it any longer, and Berliners did their best not to remember. It was part of what they wanted to forget.

  The architect of the new church, next to the ruin, had been asked for something different. More modern, even theatrical, to match the liveliness of the besieged city. Modern it certainly was, and despite its pagan exterior it had an elevation that commanded awe if not respect. It was an awesome building and its clusters of coloured windows gave out some kind of message. The message was undoubtedly defiant.

  He walked slowly up the wide steps, through the massive open doors and into the church. He had never been in it before, and he was immediately aware of its calmness and stillness. The soft light filtering through the stained-glass windows gave it the light you get in spring in northern Italy. A Canaletto light that was soft and pure. Somewhere an organ was playing a thin, wandering voluntary that further emphasized the church’s tranquillity.

  He sat in one of the modern chairs at the back of the church and tried not to look at his watch. Inside, the church seemed smaller than its exterior indicated. There were about twenty or so people in the church. Some with their heads bowed, some just sitting, inhaling its peace. There were two massive candles set in heavy brass pedestals but there were no flowers anywhere — unless a wreath in the shape of a cross at the foot of the altar could count as flowers. He looked at his watch. It was two-twenty-five. He wondered if it would be a bad sign if they came early. It was almost like waiting for a jury to come out. Wondering if the longer they took the more chance there was. They would hardly make their minds up quickly after ten years apart. Maybe she wouldn’t like his new face. Or perhaps the emotional beating he had had in the last two years would have so changed him that he was too different from the self-confident KGB major she had once fallen in love with.

  He heard a clock outside strike the half-hour, and he knew he needed to think of other things or the time would never pass. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the start of the Schubert Trio. His mind reached for the cello line but after a few bars it slid away into the opening theme of the Elgar concerto. And then it came back. From nowhere. Sixteen lush bars before he lost it again. He must concentrate harder. It just wouldn’t come, and he was wandering into some other theme. The Tchaikovsky variations. He must think of something else. Siobhan. She was naked, her beautiful breasts lifting and falling as she breathed, her long legs slightly apart, smiling as she . . . He cursed silently, and thereby added a second act of sacrilege to the one he had just committed. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was four mi
nutes past three. And for no reason he could understand he thought of young Sarah. It was always the same thought: who would be loving her, comforting her, cuddling her? He was in a church. He could pray for her.

  He bowed his head and clasped his hands. It was a long time since he had prayed, and all he could remember was the prayer routine of his childhood. Half-whispered, half in his mind, he slowly recited the Lord’s Prayer. But when he got to ‘Give us this day our daily bread’ he couldn’t remember what came next. He went back to the beginning and started again. But it was hopeless, and he shook his head as he went to the last few words. Then, in his ritual, you prayed for people. Parents. Uncles and aunts and friends. He prayed for his mother and father, for Siobhan, for Petrov and Maria. And finally for Sarah. A long, wandering prayer that made his eyes prick with tears. And if you were a Christian you prayed for the others. And that meant he prayed for Joanna. But he couldn’t find words that were not accusations, and as he struggled as if the words might be a legal commitment he rationalized and gave up. If God were really all-knowing he would know that the prayer was spurious. A hundred times he had visualized the messenger who announced her death and the news that Sarah was his to care for.

  Beads of perspiration lined his eyebrows, merged and slid down to sting his eyes. His head still bowed, he reached in his pocket for a tissue, and wiped his eyes and his forehead. Slowly he raised his head and the church was dark. And from a long way away a woman’s voice said in German, ‘What is it, Jimmy? What’s the matter?’

  They were both there. Standing in front of him, looking surprised and concerned at his face. He took a deep breath, then another, and then he said, Tell me. Just tell me.’ Maria sat down beside him and took his hand. Tell me what’s the matter.’

  ‘Nothing. I think I fell asleep,’ he said wearily.

  ‘It’s going to be fine, Jimmy. Where do we go for tonight?’

  25

  LONDON 1966

  ‘Plea-bargaining’ is almost unheard of in British courts, except where, in some very minor crime, the accused’s cooperation with the police deserves rewarding. The practice is never available to lawyers in normal criminal trials. However, in George Blake’s case there were pre-trial discussions between counsel on both sides. The main point was the defence plea of mitigation, which would involve the revelation in open court of what were still State secrets. It was agreed by both sides that if the evidence were given in open court it would definitely damage national security. Yet without those matters being put forward the mitigation pleas would be hopelessly weak. Agreement was reached that the evidence should be given, but in closed court. There was possibly an assumption by the defence side that the defendant’s co-operation and his plea of ‘Guilty’ would warrant consideration when sentence was passed. From previous spy cases it looked as if between ten and fourteen years would be the sentence pronounced.