Maestro: 4 (The Herbie Kruger Novels) Read online

  “I would suggest”—the Chief did not look her in the eyes—“I would suggest you tell him the truth.”

  “Which is what, sir?” Her feet were planted apart, almost in a boxer’s stance, except that she looked very cool in the blue dress. Art Railton noticed you could see her body moving under the floating material.

  “That we are as much in the dark as he is. Kruger was last seen with Passau, and for all we know, they’ve both been abducted, which is a definite possibility.”

  “He’ll probe.”

  “So let him probe, Pucky,” from Young Worboys. “We’ve told them all we’re going to tell them. That’s it. As far as our relatives in the United States are concerned, we’ve given them everything. Right, Chief?”

  “Absolutely,” responded the Head of the Secret Intelligence Service without much conviction. “In any case, everyone here’s up to their eyes checking on the Kremlin, and the steady trickle of States out of the hole at the bottom of the old Soviet Union. Chaos, my dear. Chaos and the pestilence that walketh in darkness.”

  “He’s not going to believe us.” Pucky Curtiss bit her pretty lip. “He hasn’t believed us from the word go, and you know why.”

  “Tell us,” Arthur Railton said quietly from his chair in the corner. “Tell us why.”

  “Because we haven’t let him have access to Brightwater, which is his right. The agreement was always that we share the take from Brightwater.”

  “Haven’t finished drying him out, Pucky. Don’t want strangers loping around Warminster and making him nervous.” Worboys was fairly convincing.

  “Try it.” The Chief put on his commanding tone, which was not quite as convincing as that of Worboys.

  “I’ll do my best. But please don’t blame me if it backfires and we have the heavy mob from Langley breathing down our necks.” She stood for a moment, then turned towards the door. “I’d better go before I lose my nerve.”

  “Good girl,” said the Chief in an unfortunately patronizing tone.

  Ms. Curtiss’ face was storm-tossed as she left.

  “You really think he’ll bring Langley around our necks?” Neither Worboys nor Art Railton could tell which one of them was being addressed so they both answered.

  “Yes!” said Art.

  “No!” Worboys volleyed.

  A three-click pause, then—

  “No!” said Art.

  “Yes!” Worboys equally confident; and at that moment the red telephone screeched on the Chief’s desk.

  He picked it up automatically, then his eyes widened. Placing his hand over the mouthpiece he hissed, “It’s Kruger, on the secure international line.” He looked quite frightened.

  “You want me to talk with him, sir?” Worboys took a pace towards the desk. Arthur Railton did not attempt to move out of his chair.

  The Chief passed the telephone over to Young Worboys who muttered, “Deputy Chief, put him on. … Herbie? Where in hell are you and what the hell’re you up to?”

  At the distant end, some three thousand miles away, Herbie wished Worboys a “Good morning,” and then added, “What the hell you think I’m doing? Playing the trivial pursuing? I’m looking after our fellow. He’s one nice old man.”

  “I don’t care if he’s Santa Claus, Herb. Get him back to the Yanks, tout-bloody-suite.”

  “So he can get himself killed? Worboys, you’re a dummkopf. This man, twice yesterday, nearly got frozen, and for all I know the Yanks did it.”

  “He’s legally their man, Herb. You nicked him. …”

  “Ja, in the nick of time I nicked him. This man is Semtex. …”

  “Dynamite.”

  “Dynamite, Semtex who cares? He’ll make one hell of a bang. Even though Mikhail Sergeyevich has outlawed the Communist Party. Think of all those guys out of work: the thousands who’ve lived their whole lives for Marx and Lenin. Wasted lives if they stop believing now.”

  “You give him back, Herb, that’s an order. Where are you, by the way?”

  “Yes.”

  “What d’you mean, ‘yes’?”

  “I’m by the way, and that’s where I’m staying. You ask I should go through him like the Montezuma’s revenge through a chicken. I’m about to do that. You get the entire product when I’ve finished. You ask me to do it, then don’t beef about it. That right, beef?”

  “Yes, Herbie, full marks, a gold star and a green rabbit.” By now, Worboys was weary of Herbie’s games and his solo activity.

  “Good, just wanted to let you know I’m doing what you asked. ’Bye, old sheep.”

  “Herbie, wait … Herb. Oh shit … sorry, sir.” Worboys quietly replaced the instrument and said Herbie would not tell him a thing, only that he was doing the job they sent him out to do.

  “Well, then, we can’t really complain.” The Chief looked up and smiled benignly.

  “All sorts of hell’re going to break loose,” Worboys began, but Arthur Railton leaned forward in his chair and raised a hand.

  “I think I know where Herb would go with his prize,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “Where?”

  “He’d run to my father. After all, it was my father who inducted him; recruited him from the Americans all those years ago. You want me to call and see?”

  There was a good half-minute’s silence.

  “Not quite yet, I think.” The Chief leaned back. “That’s a connection the Americans will make. I think we should stay at a distance for the time being.”

  “If they catch him, they’ll lock him up and lose the key. Probably won’t even tell us about it. As for Sunray we can kiss him good-bye.” Arthur sounded as desperate as Mr. Hochella of Grosvenor Square. Worboys looked at the Chief with some awe. C was rarely as precise as this. Usually he needed propping up and helping across the streets of Whitehall, while he blustered and shouted. The awe fell away quickly.

  “Brightwater?” The Chief mulled the crypto over his tongue, as though it was something almost new to him. “Just for the record, would you put the entire Brightwater business into perspective for me.”

  Both Worboys and Arthur Railton inwardly groaned. “Brightwater” was the kingpin, the hub, the fount of all knowledge, and he had been in the debriefing center at Warminster for some time now.

  “But, sir, you’ve seen all the relevant …”

  “Oh, yes, Worboys, but you know me. I see my job here as strictly administrative. The cloak and dagger stuff’s your department. I don’t keep it all up here.” He tapped his forehead.

  Just for the record, they went through it all again. Last November had been what they all called the Time of Paradox. The time when every available body was out trawling in Eastern Europe and, at the same time, they were hanging out the “Not Hiring” sign in London.

  The “Not Hiring” sign was for the influx of would-be walk-ins. They came from all over Eastern Europe. Members of the East German Stasi—the secret police—and the HvA, the external branch of East German Intelligence; from the appalling Zomo goon squads in Poland; the Czech STB; and Bulgaria’s Darjavna Sugurnost, the DS.

  Low-grade informers and intelligence officers hurled themselves like lemmings into the arms of the British and American Services and, for the most part, were tossed back again.

  The thinking was that those who now ran for cover from the Eastern Bloc intelligence and security services would be the least employable. The good people had already slipped off to Moscow to continue work for the KGB which, in spite of some cosmetic surgery, went on in its own sweet way, a fact which had come into clear focus with the August coup. Now, the KGB chairman was under arrest, while others shoveled documents into the shredders as though there would be no tomorrow—as there probably would not be for many of them.

  During the early days of that time of change, there were exceptions to the rule. Erik Ring was one. For at least a year, the word had been out that Erik the Red, as he was known, was up for rent, and possibly for sale. Colonel Erik Ring, Head of Liaison between the East Ge
rman HvA and their masters in Moscow. For fifteen years, Ring had shuttled between Berlin and Moscow; sat in at conferences and briefings; seen the files; and had worked very close to the great Markus Wolf himself—unofficially code-named Karla, because a world-class espionage novelist had used him as a model for one of his major characters, in a trilogy.

  In October 1989, Erik Ring truly saw the writing on the wall, and it did not say “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.” Instead it said, “A United Germany is Coming—Possibly with overtones of Democracy.” His wavering ceased and he walked, with hundreds of East German day-trippers, across the broken Wall and did not return. Instead he turned himself in to the local SIS Supremo, one Sidney Swinefort. Ring and Swinefort knew each other by reputation and had fought in the nacht und nebel of the Cold War. Now they met as brother intelligence men and, within a dozen hours, Ring was in Britain, and on his way to Warminster and a very long debrief. The take from these sessions was to be made available to a Fellow of St. Anthony’s College, Oxford, and a long-term KGB defector who were collaborating on what were planned to be the ultimate in Cold War histories. A quartet of books had already been snapped up for undisclosed sums by publishers from all over the place. People in the business already referred to them as “The definitive truth emerging from a huge body of lies.”

  Even if a written pardon came straight from the Kremlin—with copies to everyone from the President of the U.S.A. to the Prime Minister, downwards, Ring would stay put. His benefactors, also, would under no circumstances admit to having him as their guest. His crypto was, almost obviously, Brightwater, and nobody could deny that the first week’s yield from their new asset was spectacular. It was shared, with honesty. All the initial stuff went straight to Langley, via Desperate Dan and the diplomatic pouch, as well as to St Anthony’s, Oxford.

  Before John Stretchfield’s book, Hitler’s Unknown Spies was published, the office had advance proofs—it was required reading for all senior officers and departmental heads. Young Worboys devoured his copy in one night and, purely by chance, took it with him to Warminster on his weekly visit to Erik the Red.

  That night, they hauled Worboys out of bed at two in the morning. The word was that Erik had gone berserk and was yelling for a senior man from the Office. He would talk with the confessors present, but someone from the Office had to be there: preferably the Chief. The Chief was away on one of his jaunts to Chequers to show off to the P.M., so Worboys was whipped down by car.

  Erik was still dressed, sitting in the one easy chair under the framed World War II “Careless Talk Costs Lives” poster, considered to be a little joke by the Warminster confessors. Stretchfield’s book was open on his lap and he had a demented look in his eyes.

  “What’s to do, Erik, getting me out of bed in the wee smalls?” Worboys could see it had to be something more than a normal defector’s tantrum. They could usually deal with those at Warminster without bothering the gentlemen from London.

  “Look,” Erik motioned for him to come close.

  The book was open at the twelve pages of photographs, in the middle of which was a glossy of Louis Passau on the box—as they call the podium in the orchestral trade.

  Erik stabbed at the picture with his forefinger. He stabbed as though trying to kill it, and he stabbed four times to coincide with his words—

  “This man is Kingfisher!” It was as though he had found the Holy Grail.

  “You want coffee, Erik, because I do?”

  Ring gave Worboys a look which said he was mad to talk about drinking coffee at this juncture. “This is historic moment,” he said quietly.

  “That’s when I usually drink coffee.” Worboys asked the confessors to get hold of someone who would make coffee at this hour in the morning. He then squatted down on the floor close to Erik. “So tell me about Kingfisher.”

  “I once saw a surveillance photograph. In Dzherzhinsky Square. The photograph was of this man, the man …” he squinted at the caption, “the man, Passau.”

  “So?”

  “So it was what they call at the Center, buried treasure. Kingfisher was a long-term asset. Untouchable because he was outside the military and the establishment. He was KGB’s prime source against the American target, because he had confidence of generals and politicians in United States. He passed on only stellar category information.”

  Worboys felt his heart turn over. Later, he swore that he stopped breathing. “If he was buried treasure, Erik, how can you finger this guy? He’s an orchestra conductor, for chrissake.”

  Erik the Red nodded with some vigor. “Okay,” he croaked. “Okay. I explain. When we did the update briefings in Moscow …”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Wolf, Mischa Wolf, and myself. Every six months we did four days, sometimes five. For years we were told that material had come from Kingfisher. Great material. Hearts and minds material, not how many tanks or the morale of U.S. Army. Nothing technical; just tremendous stuff: about the way the military and current establishment were thinking. It was as though Kingfisher was able to climb into people’s minds. Proved correct time and time again. Kingfisher was most successful asset against the U.S.A. on the political front. Like KGB had a crystal ball in Washington.”

  “For how long? How long had they run Kingfisher?”

  “They bought him—1959 … sixty. Bought him and paid for him. Never did Kingfisher let them down. In eighty-three, when KGB was misreading signals from Reagan, and we were near nuclear catastrophe, it was Kingfisher who shone true light on the situation.”

  “Okay.” The coffee arrived, but Worboys was interested only in what Erik the Red had to say. “Okay, Erik, but how did you put the face to the man, if he was such a buried treasure.”

  Erik nodded, as though he knew what Worboys was thinking. “Almost accident,” he said finally. “Mischa and I, we were with the Chairman. KGB Chairman. It was in Andropov’s time. We were in his office. Dzherzhinsky Square office. There were photographs on his desk. Grainy: you could tell they were surveillance because of the quality. There were four of this man.” He glanced down at the book again. “Four of Passau. I think Mischa recognized him because, now I remember, he said to Andropov, ‘Yuri Vladimirovich, why take pictures of a man who beats time for an orchestra?’ Andropov laughed, and said that this man beat in Soviet time. Then he tapped the picture”—Erik the Red touched the photograph in the book to demonstrate. “He tapped the picture and said, ‘Kingfisher, Mischa. This is our Kingfisher.’”

  “And you didn’t recognize Louis Passau, Erik?”

  Erik Ring gave a monstrous shrug. “Music I do not know. I was born with a defect. Tone deaf. Music deaf. I couldn’t tell a piano from a guitar, my friend. So I’ve never read about music or listened—except for one time in Moscow they make us go to Bolshoi. For me this is agony.” He looked hard at Worboys, and then back at the picture of Passau. “But I do know this is Kingfisher.”

  From that moment, the confessors at Warminster were put onto dragging all memories of Kingfisher from Brightwater, Colonel Ring, or Erik the Red, whichever you liked to call him. They first went over his story in detail, then, when they were satisfied, they began to bludgeon every trace of Kingfisher’s intelligence from their defector. They drew out details of Kingfisher’s work, the grades of intelligence he provided, the way in which the job was done. They searched through Brightwater’s mind, beckoning out things that their subject had forgotten he knew, for that is the special art of a skilled confessor. Within a month they had a list of close friends and acquaintances with whom Passau lunched, dined, invited to his concerts and spent free time.

  Next the list was checked against another, prepared by the Office’s Washington Resident. A couple of weeks after that they had just about all the names; generals, senators, men and women—and their wives and husbands—who held great power; people whose thoughts and ideas shaped their country’s policies.

  Here, in the present, refreshing the Chief’s memory, Worboys told him. “If Pass
au was a Soviet source, he was just the kind of source they needed now, at the bargaining time, at the hour of new birth.”

  “And we told our American friends exactly what?” The Chief did not look at either of his men.

  “Practically everything.” Arthur Railton was cagey, and his superior sensed it.

  “Let me put it another way.” This time he did look at them. “What did we hold back from our American allies?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence before Worboys spoke again. “We didn’t tell them what we know about Passau’s musical tour of the Eastern Bloc, for one thing.”

  “And what do we know? Remind me; humor me.”

  “That, under suspicious and clandestine circumstances, earlier this year, he met with former senior officers of the intelligence and security services of East Germany, Bulgaria, Czecho, Poland and Hungary. The hard-line people who appear to have gone underground. The guys who know where all the bodies are buried and who buried them.”

  The CSIS sucked his teeth. “Anything else?”

  “The Mossad, sir. We didn’t explain about the two days when he was supposed to be taking rehearsals in Tel Aviv. The couple of days he spent in a safe house. From long range it looks as though he’s playing both ends against the middle, if you follow me, sir?”

  “That it?” The zealot’s eyes bored into Worboys, and the silence stretched to breaking point. Then—

  “We didn’t tell them about the White House, sir. We didn’t tell them how close Passau was to White House sources.”

  “Well, does that really matter now?”

  “Probably does, sir. Yes, it probably does, if only for the history books, and we have people writing the books.”

  “But our brothers in Virginia must know he has friends in the White House.”