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

  Herbie also tried to make it difficult for Pavel to establish any pattern in the interrogation. He would question him for an hour or so about his life—schooldays, background, recruitment for the KGB—then suddenly switch to the days when Herbie was himself involved in the field; fighting in the dark with the Russian’s deceased boss.

  After a week, Herbie started to take Pavel off regularly to walk on the Berkshire Downs. They visited the Vale of the White Horse at Uffington—one of the atom spy Klaus Fuchs’s favourite spots—and occasionally they would watch as the trainers from Lambourn and other stables had their racehorses exercised. On one occasion they were questioned by men from a stable, who thought they might be rivals, or bookmakers’ spies, trying to gauge the condition of a particular horse. Herbie thought this very amusing. On each of these jaunts into the country they were accompanied, at a distance, by either Max or Charles. Both the lion-tamers carried hand guns, while there was always a folding-stock Uzi in the trail car. Herbie also went armed.

  The first signs of reliance came after ten days. Between the more serious question-and-answer conversations the two men would discuss matters of mutual interest concerning the old days of the Cold War—particularly Germany, and the split Berlin. They spoke of notorious people like Frenzel, the member of the Bonn Parliament who was a Czech spy; the Otto John ‘defection’ case; and the KGB killer-defector, Bogdan Stashinsky, expert in the cyanide pistol technique. “His handler, Alexandrovitch, slipped up,” was Pavel’s only comment.

  Softly, Herbie probed at Mistochenkov’s political sensitivities. What emerged concerned Kruger even more. Pavel was unwilling to admit his defection on wholly political grounds. He tried to give political reasons, but they were woolly and ill-founded. After lengthy monologues concerning the corrupt leadership of the USSR, with its double-standards, favours, special privileges and the like, Pavel would shatter the illusion by reverting to the question of his supposed new posting after Vascovsky’s death. At heart, Herbie deduced, the man was a convinced, unthinking Communist, merely dissatisfied with his lot: a KGB have-not, who, like a child, had taken to his heels out of spite.

  If that was the root cause of the defection, Herbie was not at all sure that it was the mainspring. Tapeworm felt deprived, there was no doubt about that. Now he had been accepted in England his conversation would often turn to the availability of the good life—by which he seemed to mean comfort, money, beautiful women, food, drink and the latest in luxury gadgets. More than once Kruger had to caution him not to expect too much. “Our own people, like those of the rest of the world, have been through recessions. Luxuries are still far too expensive for the majority,” he would claim.

  In spite of such admonishments, Mistochenkov appeared to change little. An easy life is what he came for. It was his right. Behind this, Herbie detected even more fear. The man had put himself at even greater risk than could be imagined. Herbie concluded that he had a very reluctant defector on his hands; a man who had run from some unmentionable crime. Pavel Mistochenkov would, he suspected, always be looking over his shoulder.

  On the sixteenth day Herbie decided the time was right. Pavel showed increasing signs of nervousness when left alone for long periods. He had also just about exhausted all his conscious—and possibly the greater part of his subconscious—knowledge. It was time to lay the truth on him.

  On the morning of the sixteenth day Herbie saw him for only an hour. After that he left the Russian alone, with Max and Charles in the far background. They did not even let him go into the garden. During the afternoon Herbie had long talks with both Tubby Fincher and the Director. In the evening he ate in his own room upstairs, while Pavel was waited upon in the dining room by an unspeaking Max.

  Like a monk preparing himself for some great devotion, Herbie Kruger stayed in his room for the whole of that night, planning his strategy. Then, on the seventeenth day, he briefed Max and Charles, did not see the Russian during the morning, and made his first appearance shortly before two in the afternoon.

  It was a day of light winds and drizzle, so Pavel—who was distinctly unnerved by the period of neglect—appeared surprised when Herbie told him they were going out.

  The two cars were in front of the house. Worboys was left in charge and—another departure from the norm—Charles drove Herbie and Pavel, while Max followed in the trail car.

  They drove through the market town of Wantage, and up a neighbouring hill on to the Downs, near a stone monument which was a local landmark.

  It was chilly, and the drizzle unpleasant; yet this did not seem to deter Herbie. He motioned Pavel to join him, and set a cracking pace, head down into the thin rain, arms swinging in his vaguely uncoordinated gait. Pavel almost had to run in order to keep up with him. Charles stayed with the cars. Max followed at a discreet distance.

  They padded on in silence for about two miles. Then, abruptly, Herbie turned. “That’s far enough. We’ll walk back to the cars now.”

  Max waited until they had passed him on the return leg. The wind was behind them now, making conversation easier. Half way back to the cars Herbie stopped, placing one firm hand on Mistochenkov’s shoulder. It had the tight grip of a man being put under arrest, and Pavel flinched, almost pulling away.

  Herbie spoke as quietly as conditions allowed. “Pavel Mistochenkov. We are now going back to the car. The boys will leave us alone. In the car you will talk to me. You will tell me the truth about two things. I know enough. Believe me. If you do not tell me the truth there is a wood down there”—he pointed to one of the many clumps of trees which dotted the slopes below. “In that little wood, there is a small well which has been bricked up for years. If you do not tell me the truth, Max and Charles will break into that well. They will then shoot you, deposit your remains in the well, and brick it up again. All documents concerning your defection will be destroyed. All those who have had contact with you—at the Berlin Consulate and over here—will suffer a severe loss of memory. Your body will never be found. It will be as though you did not exist.”

  Mistochenkov went white, the drizzle on his face like the sweat of fear, as Herbie continued. “You will tell me the truth about your former master—Jacob Vascovsky—and his suicide. Then you will tell me the real reasons for your defection. Is this understood?”

  The Russian looked as though he was ready to make a run for it. Then he saw Charles, standing by the cars, and Max only a few steps away from them. His head fell forward, shoulders slumping. His whole body gave a shudder, and he made a small nod. Then—“If I tell you …?”

  “We shall see. I shall personally make certain that they do not send you back.” It was the only note of conciliation Herbie was to sound during the following twenty-four hours.

  7

  FROM THE LONG SESSIONS—particularly concerning the Russian’s childhood, and service with Soviet intelligence in East Berlin—Herbie had already gained many clues to Pavel’s motivation.

  Mistochenkov was an orphan of World War Two. The State had been his sole parent. It had clothed, fed, cared for and educated him. He proved to have a good, if not brilliant intelligence. In return for the State’s good offices Mistochenkov had given his total loyalty: a loyalty as unthinking as it was unswerving. This unwavering allegiance to the faith made Pavel a natural candidate for many responsible jobs.

  When, in due time, the KGB saw scope for a man of Pavel’s talents, his parent, the State, recruited him. But then the State, in the infinite wisdom of all great bureaucracies, made a fatal mistake. The State’s error lay in young Pavel’s first posting: the youthful, inexperienced, energetic, zealous sergeant, assigned to be Jacob Vascovsky’s assistant.

  At that time Vascovsky was a rising major, proving himself to be, arguably, the best spy-taker in East Berlin. In his mind Herbie could see him now, as he had glimpsed him several times in the field: tall, slim, muscular; neat, with iron-grey hair, deceptively kind blue eyes, and a face blessed with delicate features. Vascovsky did not look like a Russia
n. Some said he had French blood. He was certainly elegant. A professional; a man of the world, with a distinguished war record.

  When he took up his first appointment Mistochenkov must have felt as bewildered as a man coming into an unrecognisable world after a long term in prison. Life would seem so different, and almost unbelievable, working close to the gallant, secret major. “He was the first of my teachers who showed any real interest in me as a human being, as a man,” Pavel had said, one evening.

  Up to that time the State had been father, mother, brother and lover. Now Vascovsky assumed pre-eminence in the young sergeant’s life.

  If the State made an error in assigning such an innocent to Vascovsky, that error was compounded by leaving him so assigned. But such things happen. Pavel was to spend over twenty years as Vascovsky’s aide.

  During that long passage of years it was natural for the hard core of Pavel’s duty, and belief, to polarise on the one human being closest to him. The State, which Pavel held so dear, eventually became synonymous with Vascovsky; and Vascovsky with the State.

  Formerly the State could do no wrong; the State and the Party were the protectors of Pavel, the individual. As the years went by, Vascovsky could do no wrong; Vascovsky was Pavel’s sole protector.

  Pavel Mistochenkov looked a broken man, lolling, damp, in the rear of the car. Max and Charles had turned the other car: sitting front and back; covering all possible angles. Kruger had planned the final breakdown of his patient out here, on high ground, in open spaces. Within the car, surrounded by countryside, Pavel might feel safer than in the constrictive confines of the Charlton house. Herbie was sure Pavel’s fear sprang from the thought of avenging KGB angels striking quickly. It was not their style any more, but Pavel’s imagination teemed with diabolical visions.

  The Russian shivered. He looked bleached white, and his hands trembled. Herbie took out cigarettes, put one in the man’s mouth and lit it, watching him drag deeply, then remove the tube with a hand akin to a geriatric suffering from Parkinson’s disease.

  “Was it you who found him?” Herbie asked quietly.

  Pavel gave a short nod. He had clammed up with shock. After another pull at the cigarette he asked how much Herbie knew. His voice was so low that Herbie gently had to persuade him to repeat the question. You tell me your version, he smiled, then he could match it against the facts in his own possession.

  The Russian clammed up again. Herbie, sharper now, said he should tell everything. “Start with finding him.”

  At first it came out in short bursts, as though Mistochenkov was searching for the words. The Colonel-General had an apartment near the Soviet Embassy, on the Behrenstrasse side. His wife and family were in Moscow. “It was not the best of marriages,” and Vascovsky used the apartment as part office, part living quarters. He had a mistress, called Lotte Krug, but she did not live in. “The Old Man kept that side of his life in a different compartment.”

  Pavel was used to working at odd times. “Aren’t we all?” smiled Herbie. The Colonel-General had left their office—near the Marx-Engels-Platz—early in the afternoon. Pavel’s voice broke. “His last words to me were, ‘Leave it until morning. Pick me up late—about ten will do. Use your key, but be discreet.’ I thought he meant Lotte might be there.” Pavel stumbled for words again. “So I went. About ten. Just before. I had my own key to his apartment. It was necessary with the kind of work we did. I knocked. No reply. Then I realised. It was horrible. In the bedroom.”

  Herbie asked why he had realised Vascovsky was dead by his own hand. “You mean you realised before you found him?”

  Pavel’s affirmative was hardly audible.

  “Then you expected it to happen?”

  “I feared it.”

  “What did you hope to find when you picked him up?”

  Pavel seemed not to understand; so Herbie rephrased his question. Pavel had feared his chief’s suicide. What was the alternative?

  “I hoped that he would be taking me to the West. That we would be going together.” Mistochenkov’s face became a bleak mask.

  “You had planned to go together?”

  Discussed it, Pavel told him. “There were papers, and cover stories. In the end I came alone. I couldn’t stay. The Old Man had implicated me.”

  “You were in trouble, then.” Herbie stated it baldly. It wasn’t a question, but Mistochenkov treated it as such.

  “He had confided in me. I had taken no action: made no reports.”

  Pavel was guilty by association, Herbie stated, again not asking; using the British legal phrase.

  Mistochenkov acknowledged that he was guilty because of his long association with Vascovsky; and because of the knowledge he had of his superior’s actions. “Or inactions,” he added.

  It took an hour to deal with the details of finding the decapitated corpse: Pavel going through the moves, step by step. Saying how he called the special KGB office, which they very rarely visited, at Karlshorst. The arrivals of the officers and the doctor. His own state of shock. The waiting until the special team came from Moscow—flown in by fast jet. The sympathetic initial interrogation, and his immediate posting to Karlshorst. The knowledge that they would soon come and take him: break him. His decision to run. “The Old Man always said I should come to you if he was taken. The team from Moscow were on the scene very quickly. I think they were probably on their way before I found the body.”

  “To arrest Vascovsky?” Herbie asked, as if he knew exactly why they would want to do that.

  Pavel repeated, yes, to arrest the Old Man. He would also have been taken before long.

  “Crimes against the State, perhaps?” Herbie gave him another cigarette.

  The Russian nodded. Crimes against the State; withholding vital intelligence; plotting against the State; planning to pass confidential information to the West. He went on, a list of sins which must have weighed like lead on his conscience.

  “You were guilty of all this?”

  “The Old Man was guilty. I knew, but did not speak up.” It was the apologia of a weak man: a man in confusion between loyalty to the State and to the man who was his guide and God. Tapeworm was a good cryptonym, Herbie considered. The worm was now being drawn, inch by inch, from the gutless body. Quickly, with his usual blend of compassion and understanding, Herbie corrected his thoughts. How could you say the man was gutless? Only the facts would prove it. At the moment, Pavel was using Vascovsky as the sacrificial scapegoat: the Russian being unable to accept the responsibility of his own sins.

  He asked when Pavel first discovered that the Old Man was guilty of these things.

  There was a pause, during which the Russian puffed quickly at his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the small ashtray, burning his fingers and cursing. When he spoke again he appeared to have more control; his voice stronger. This time he put a question—“You know why the Old Man was so furious about losing you, Herbie?”

  Herbie said he imagined it was because Vascovsky had successfully rolled up nearly all his agents, and was angry because he could not lay his hands on their link-man.

  Slowly Mistochenkov shook his head. “He wanted to talk with you. He wanted to do a deal: come over and work on your side of the fence. You slipped us, in—when?—1964?”

  “Five.”

  “That’s right. Five. Yes, April ’65. The Old Man knew all about your Telegraph Boys in March of sixty-five. That was when he really wanted to talk with you.”

  8

  THE DRIZZLE TURNED INTO a soaking mist outside the car windows. The wind, gusty, blew billows of the fine rain, like cloud, across the slopes, downwards towards the little market town in the far distance.

  Herbie fought to recover his composure, refusing to reach for his cigarettes. Really he wanted a drink; there was also that old need—the long desire to retreat into music.

  Many times, when he was in the field, that need had been so strong that the big man had curled up on his bed, in an almost foetal ball, allowing his mind
to be absorbed by the music. Usually Mahler, because he knew the works so well. It was the best cover in the world, the easiest escape, to let the mind hear the score: to listen, with the ear of memory, to the sounds of Mahler’s essays on life, death, the glories of nature and man’s relationship with the earth, sky and elements.

  Herbie thought back to an incident from early April, 1965. He had very little contact with the six Telegraph Boys: little personal contact, that was. He would respond to signals—the usual simple things, chalk marks, curtains. Electra had a special signal, a plant pot in the tiny window of her apartment. Occasionally he would clean out their dead-drops: the secret letterboxes. In the April of that year Herbie’s main task was to keep hidden, and try to get the rest of his other team out. The Schnitzer Group.

  Berlin Station had ordered him to clean everything; leave the Telegraph Boys in place, while they made arrangements for quick contact. He was blown, and the bulk of his agents with him.

  There had been a night towards the end—perhaps the billowing drizzle now reminded him of it—when he visited the Birkemanns. Andreas and Beatrix Birkemann both worked in the Ministry of the Interior, at the junction of Glinkastrasse and Mauerstrasse, near the apartment block where they lived. Their cover had been impeccable, and they had no idea that Electra also worked in the Ministry, holding down a responsible job. Herbie feared that, with the collapse of so many of his people, the Birkemanns were in grave danger. On top of this, there were the orders to clean up and get out. He had only about twenty-four hours left, and was seeing people in what he thought to be a correct order of priority.

  He circled the apartment house twice, to make sure there was no overt surveillance, knowing that you could not be certain. If the cry was really out for him—if they had his description—there was no way to be completely sure. If they were that close, the house superintendent at the Birkemanns’ apartment block would report his arrival soon enough. The house superintendents were hated, by many of the older people, with the same vehemence as they had loathed the Blockleiters of Nazi Germany. The house superintendents were unpaid informers. Spitzels.