The Garden of Weapons (The Herbie Kruger Novels) Read online

It was hot, but this did not stop the newcomer from staying in what was obviously his uniform. The suit was very Saville Row—dark and chalk-striped; set off with a white shirt and rough-silk, claret tie. A handkerchief, of the same colour and material, hung foppishly from his breast pocket.

  Max and Charles vied with one another to do the honours: introducing him as the famous ‘Tiptoes’ Corn.

  Tiptoes gave Herbie a dazzling smile. One might have known that his teeth would be perfect. He then spoke, destroying the outward illusion. “Brought me back from bleedin’ Benidorm,” he said. “This one had better be worth it, Guv’nor. I done me whack this year. They ’ad to convince me this was a special.”

  “Convince, or order you?” Herbie grinned, disguising his mistrust of Mr. Corn. Inclined towards lippiness, he thought, grasping the man’s hand, reflecting surprise at its strong grip.

  “Well, if you put it like that, Guv’nor. We never worked together before, ’ave we? You know the Service; yes, ‘ordered’ would be the better word.”

  Herbie decided that he would check on Tiptoes Corn’s record when he got back from Warminster. Aloud, he announced the obvious: that they were two people short—“My own lad, Worboys; and your partner, Tiptoes—er, Scoffer Grubb. I understand that is his name.”

  “His name? His name?” Tiptoes shook his head. “You bin with this firm long, Guv’nor?”

  Herbie gave an intimidating glower. “All my life, Tiptoes. Since twenty years old. Less. I started in the business when I was fifteen. You beat that?”

  Mr. Corn shook his head.

  “All right, then. It’s just I don’t get much chance to work with technicians.”

  Tiptoes, slightly subdued, said that would account for it; returning to his seat, chuckling and mumbling something unintelligible about Scoffer Grubb. “Him? Be pleased about that, bleedin’ Scoffer will.”

  Herbie announced there was no point in starting until they were all in. They waited some ten minutes before the doorbell rang, Max springing out to answer it. He returned, ushering a tall, decidedly elegant young woman into the room.

  “Whatcher Scoff, me old love,” effused Tiptoes.

  The girl gave the small man a haughty look before turning to Herbie with a mixture of deference and sexual interest, in equal parts, as she extended a soft hand. “You must be our boss. The legendary Big Herbie Kruger.” The voice was pitched low, devoid of regional accent or affectation.

  She was a looker: dazzling. Around thirty, Herbie thought. Medium height, but with a figure kept in trim, and all there for the eye and mind to see or imagine under the linen pants suit. The dark hair was cut short, and had that bouncy look which is the envy of girls with unmanageable locks in TV commercials. Behind the large gypsy-black eyes lay the watchful intelligence which Herbie usually noted only in the eyes of old trade hands. Born into it, he thought to himself, wondering what her real name might be. She certainly had the look of an instant professional.

  “Miss Grubb, sir.” Max introduced her, doing his butler-in-waiting act.

  Tiptoes laughed. “‘Scoffer’ to her mates, eh, Scoff?”

  “Miriam,” she looked steadily at Herbie. “Miriam Grubb. My last name has produced an unfortunate appellation. Hired help, like Tiptoes here, find it amusing.”

  “Thought you was a fella, did Mr. Kruger.” Corn gave out a burst of laughter.

  “Well, now he knows I’m a woman. Normal. Full of the joys and ready to work.” She gave Herbie another beautiful smile which twisted into a small, lopsided smirk as she turned to Corn. “Whatcher, Tiptoes, me old mate. Good to be workin’ wiv you.” Then, again to Herbie, her voice modulated once more. “Just to show that I can lower my standards once in a while.”

  “Long as that’s all you lower, girl,” Tiptoes leered.

  “Sod off,” she flung back. “In spite of appearances, Mr. Kruger, the little man and I work well together. I merely have to keep him in line.”

  Herbie remarked that he had been told they were a good team; at which moment Worboys arrived, making a great point of letting Herbie know he had particularly waited until everybody was in safely. “Tubby’s got minders outside,” he whispered, as though—following the trip to Camden Town—the pair of them were held together by the chain of some dark secret.

  There was only one telephone in the whole place. Herbie went to it, dialled a number and asked for Tubby by his work name. There followed a lot of double-talk, in the course of which Herbie was reassured that the apartment was clean, and the minders there merely to be on the safe side. When put into plain language Tubby was reinforcing the fact that Trepan was highly sensitive. He also reassured the big German that the whole team was cleared to a stratospheric level.

  Herbie returned, to find that Miriam Grubb had organised everybody. A table stood in the centre of the room, with six stand chairs around it, and a place for Herbie at its head. His five subordinates were already seated. They all had small notebooks at the ready.

  “No writing,” Herbie commanded. “Nothing on paper. You have been told this is sensitive?”

  They murmured affirmation.

  “The crypto for the op, and for ourselves, is Trepan.”

  They knew that also. “Okay, I brief you. Simple. Questions and planning later.”

  They sat, like students at a seminar: attentive and deferential. Herbie had already decided how much they should be told. Certainly no names, and only the cryptonyms that were absolutely necessary. He would not use the term Telegraph Boys, for instance.

  “Here beginneth the lesson,” he started. “It came to pass that, in those days, there was a clumsy Kraut who worked for the Service. They called him Big Herbie Kruger and he lived, like a gopher, looking after a nest of agents in East Germany: mainly in East Berlin. These were the days of the Cold War.

  “Then the Lord, in London, sayeth, ‘Herbie, we have a special job to give unto you. You are to go forth and multiply your agents, without the rest of your spies knowing. The number of your agents shall be six. Each will be trustworthy and well-placed. None shall be aware of the others. Each must be placed so they can view the comings and goings of those in high positions, with the Deutsche Demokratische Republik. For, lo, there are six people in East Berlin who will do certain things, if the Philistines of the Soviet Bloc prepare to move against us with their mighty weapons.’”

  Herbie had judged the Trepan team correctly. The sombre looks disappeared, their interest was roused.

  “So, God gave the order. ‘The six people shall guard, and watch over the comings and goings of these important men—who are both counsellors and warriors. They will report on the movements in the usual manner. Your people, already in the land, shall be their handlers. They shall have no knowledge, but they will take messages from letterboxes; they will pick up words by brushing against each other in the throng. The messages will be sent at all speed to our wise men, who shall ponder over them, and so have knowledge of war-like movements well in advance.’

  “So, the clumsy big Kraut went abroad: into the highways and byways; into the castles and council chambers of East Berlin; and he selected six persons to do these tasks.

  “His own agents went about their daily business; but, in addition, they handled the secret words of the six watchers. And it came to pass that Big Herbie Kruger’s nest of spies was smitten to the left and to the right. Many were killed, and only a few escaped in their socks.

  “The six watchers continued to do their work: yea, even under the difficult conditions which prevailed; for there were few to handle them. For many years the watchers laboured in the vineyard of East Berlin; and in their loneliness they often sat down and wept. Herbie also sat down and wept for them: by the waters of the Thames, and in the Lord’s council chambers. Until one day the Lord sayeth unto Herbie, ‘The watchers that you left in East Berlin are still able to give us warnings—Yea, even in advance of the giant celestial machines which whirl above the firmament. Go, choose four men and women. They shall be sent fort
h into East Berlin; but with cunning they shall be made to think they go as ordinary spies. To their duties you shall add the handling of those who have watched so long, as there will be a proper conduit for their intelligence.’

  “And so it was, brethren, that Herbie sent forth four spies, who brought back messages from the watchers; and who handled them like babies; even though they knew not what they did.

  “And the Lord in London was pleased, as were those from over the mighty ocean; and the warriors who call themselves NATO. For the warnings they received from the watchers still came many days in advance of those from the celestial bodies.

  “But lo, an enemy changed sides, being a turncoat, bringing news which made both the Lord and Herbie fearful. One of the watchers—set by the bungling Kraut, Herbie—had been treacherous and full of falsehood, from the moment of his, or her inception: and they knew not who this traitor was.

  “Neither did the turncoat know, but he passed words to Big Herbie. Words which, if used with guile, can reveal the maggot among those who watch.” He paused, looking around the faces.

  “There you are,” he grinned. “One of the handlers is coming into the West on Friday. I will see him and send him back, armed and primed. We need to track him. In turn he will track our mystery man; let us know the identity. We will then tell him what to do.” He made an expansive gesture—“All this in secret, with nobody—either military, or our Service in West Berlin—knowing.”

  “Search and destroy,” Miriam said.

  Herbie nodded, then asked for preliminary questions.

  The technicians immediately proved themselves high grade. Tiptoes asked if the handling was all done on the ground—by which he meant through dead-drops or clandestine passes. Herbie said yes, though recently those he called the watchers had been issued with micro-squawks—instruments no bigger than a matchbox which, if activated, would alert Berlin Station to a most immediate need for contact.

  “And the handlers?” Miriam Grubb leaned forward. “How do they get the stuff over?”

  The watchers, Herbie told her, had access to microdot facilities, and could also make screech tapes—small cassettes on which they recorded ciphered messages. The tapes could be played on fast-senders, small high-powered radios, tuned to particular frequencies, transmitting the screech tapes so quickly that they came out as a short squeak, or distortion, which could be recorded, then played back at a normal speed to produce the correct message.

  “The handlers have fast-senders?” From Tiptoes.

  “Two. Two of the handlers only.”

  “Frequencies?”

  “Automatic change of frequencies, on a random machine linked with West Berlin Station.”

  “Whom we wish to bypass?”

  “Exactly.” Herbie gave his most stupid look, as though all these technical matters were far beyond him. “Berlin Station has to be bypassed.”

  Miriam said they would need another fast-sender in the East. Herbie thought that was already being arranged. “Just tell my friend Worboys here. He will arrange for everything.”

  She immediately went into a huddle with Tiptoes, and they started to throw the names of technical equipment at Worboys who appealed to Herbie, asking permission to put it in writing. “Just to get the requisitions. I can’t carry all this in my head.”

  Herbie relented.

  “We’ll need a detailed chart of our own operating area.” Tiptoes was demanding, not telling. Herbie produced the chart already provided, and the technicians pored over it. They continued to throw technicalities at Worboys, who fielded them adroitly, repeating the part numbers and names as though he knew their exact purpose and use. Herbie raised his eyebrows.

  It was Miriam Grubb who brought up the question of the homing device. “We’re situated fairly high up in this place”—tapping the map—“but there’s still going to be the hell of a lot of interference. We can deal with the fast-sender—beam it directly in to us. No problem. There’s a new scrambler that’ll do the trick. Berlin Station won’t even hear it.”

  “I do want all this contained.” Herbie spoke softly.

  Miriam hardly paused. “It’ll be contained. But the homer’s going to be a bitch. To track your man properly we really need a bouncer.” She was talking about a homing unit which bounced signals back from one of the communication satellites. It was a small, battery-powered device: operational over a long range, but with a life of barely twenty-four hours.

  “Done.” Worboys looked pleased with himself. “Already organised. They’re clearing a frequency for it as from Saturday night.”

  “Then we can track him to Moscow and back.”

  Herbie coughed. As he would be making delivery of the homer he insisted on a pair. “We’ll test them on site. My man’s time is very limited. I don’t want to send him with a dud.”

  They agreed that a standby duplicate was in order. Herbie was certain Tubby Fincher would query it, but kept his fingers crossed. For what Herbie was about to do he needed at least two homers.

  Tiptoes then asked about the types of antennae they needed to monitor the whole operation. Had anyone thought about that? To Herbie’s surprise Worboys came out with a string of jargon, rattling it off parrot-fashion, which signalled to Herbie that his assistant had spent a number of hours under Tubby Fincher’s tutelage.

  The question and answer session, and cross-checking of the technicians’ needs, went on for nearly two hours. Max and Charles looked bored. Finally, when everybody was happy, Worboys read out their departure and arrival times, handing out the tickets. Both the lion-tamers and the technicians had worked in Berlin before. There were no language difficulties. They knew the city, so times and methods of arrival at the Mehring Platz apartment presented no problems. Herbie went through his own movements.

  Max already knew he was minding Herbie. “Have to behave yourself, old darling. Got eyes in the back of my head, I have. No footling around with the Fräuleins.”

  Herbie pretended to enjoy the joke at his own expense. He would arrive in Berlin, late on Thursday night. Max would be given the address of the house they would be using. “It’s a fair distance from our Trepan place; from the Mehring Platz.” He let them know about the crypto of their subject—Spendthrift. Herbie would be working with him all day on Friday, then would come over to see them at the Mehring Platz. On Saturday he would again work with Spendthrift, and see him off that evening. They should not expect to find Herbie taking up residence with them until Sunday morning at the earliest. “On Sundays I do not rise at dawn. I do not expect much action until late in the day.”

  Worboys was to tie up any loose ends. In the meantime Herbie had work to do. He would see them all in Berlin. “Except me,” Max reminded him archly. “I pick you up Thursday. Your place or mine?”

  He was told to follow Herbie out to the airport from the St. John’s Wood address. “Be ready for me at least two hours before departure time. I shall try not to keep you waiting.” The last order was curt and pointed.

  “Got a bark worse than his bite, that one,” Max said after Herbie left. Worboys suggested that Max take care.

  “He’s big, but slippery as an eel. Done it all. You’ve seen enough of him in action to know that, Max.” As he said it, Worboys realised the insecurity of his aside. Both the technicians—fascinated by Herbie—immediately plied Max for details.

  The lion-tamer was not to be drawn. “Did a job with him, that’s all. Young Tony’s right. Ruthless as they come. Beware the Krugerwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that snatch.”

  Out in the streets of London, Herbie walked slowly up to Piccadilly, where he used a pay ’phone to call his old friend in Camden Town. Yes, the clock was in good working order now. He could pick it up any time after five tomorrow. Herbie said he would be there.

  He took two different taxis back to St. John’s Wood, leaving the last one to walk the final half-mile back to his apartment building.

  Check. Double-check. He appeared to be clean.
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  Herbie arrived home feeling the vague onset of depression. No doubts were left in his mind. He was doing the right thing. The only thing. There might be some disciplinary action when it was all over, but that did not matter.

  His thoughts, at that precise moment, turned to Schnabeln, and the arranged meeting for Friday.

  2

  CHRISTOPH SCHNABELN’S CHEEKS GLOWED a bright rosy red. Someone had once likened them to English Red Delicious apples. But then no matter what ailed him Schnabeln always looked healthy. People would say how well he looked even when he was dropping with influenza.

  He had the same hale and hearty look now, early in the morning, sitting on his bed. Nobody would have dreamed that Schnabeln was unusually anxious.

  Though a decade younger than Herbie, Christoph Schnabeln had been in the business for a long time; he too had home-grown cover, and was German by birth.

  Of the four members of Kruger’s Quartet in East Berlin Schnabeln was undoubtedly the most comfortably placed. Walter Girren lived in two poky rooms above the Tauben Strasse; Anna Blatte had what the British called a bed-sitting room in one of the older blocks overlooking the Treptow Park; while Anton Mohr occupied two rooms in a crumbling villa on the outskirts of the Köpenick district—sharing a bathroom with an elderly, sick woman, her husband and a young pair of newly-weds: sombre convinced Party members.

  Christoph Schnabeln, however, lived in comparative luxury—a permanent resident of East Berlin’s newest and best hotel, the Metropol. The rooms were spacious, the furnishings and fitments excellent. The décor was pleasing to the eye: particularly the polished light-coloured wood which betrayed the hotel’s Swedish design. In fact, the Metropol was a jar of jam for the tourists who still came—out of morbid curiosity, Schnabeln felt—in good numbers from abroad, and the West. It was one of the many places in East Berlin where you could spend only foreign currency: desperately needed to keep the DDR’s foundering economy above water.

  The room, bathroom and restaurant facilities at the Metropol went with Schnabeln’s job. He worked in tourism, and had done so for the past ten years. In fact his recruitment to the British Service had almost coincided with the first appointment of any major importance by the Ministry concerned with tourism.