Debut for a Spy (18 page)

We had another of those long pauses. I had said my piece, and I guess Hammond was looking for the right way to respond.

“His name was Karl Szrubek, at least that's what he called himself. He worked for Bulgaria's State Security Service, the
Darjavna
Sugurnost
or DS. The DS is completely dominated by the KGB, and the Soviets are smart enough to use DS agents for their dirtiest jobs. Szrubek's codename was Dragon.”

“
Have the Soviets or Bulgarians become officially involved because of what happened to Szrubek?”

“
Of course not. They're much too smart for that. Szrubek is like an orphan. There is nothing official to link him with either the Bulgarian or Soviet governments. No one came forward to identify the body or claim it. They've torn the page out of the book, so to speak. He didn't exist.”

“
How do you know this?”

“
Mainly from the French SDECE. They've got a file on him which goes back several years. They've never been able to pin anything definite on him in France. They couldn't make anything stick. He kept his nose quite clean there, but used it as the base of his not so nice activities in other countries.”

“
What sort of activities?”

“
Terrorism, assassinations, arms smuggling, drug trafficking – you name it, and Szrubek has been involved. SDECE says he was a master at torture and extracting information. If you hadn't put an end to him he would have gotten away with the murder of our agent in Paris – there was nothing to incriminate him.”

“
It doesn't affect my decision, sir. Sorry.”

“
Tell me the whole sequence, please, David.”

I poured it all out – the meeting, the walk, the Frenchman's body, the fall, the flight to Belgium – every facet I could recall. It took time, and Hammond didn't interrupt once. It was almost a catharsis, in fact, I felt better when it was out. I realized that keeping it inside me for the past day had caused it to fester. Hammond was pensive as I finished.

“Well done, David,” he said quietly. “I've been asked to state the appreciation of Her Majesty's Government for salvaging what could have been a disaster on an international scale. That is no word of a lie, please believe me. And the French government is thankful to be rid of a thorn over which they had no control – unofficially, of course.”

“
I still feel…” I began.

“
Before you say it again, let me tell you one more thing. Last Tuesday Karl Szrubek traveled to Gibraltar. On Wednesday he was seen in a cafe talking to a man we couldn't identify at the time, but in the follow-up to the Straitsair bombing we now know it was Naheed, the cargo handler who planted the bomb.

“
Szrubek paid him, gave him the assignment, and handed him the case with the bomb. David, you killed the man who murdered the Fletchers!”

My mind was in turmoil. I almost felt elated. The Fletchers' deaths had been avenged! My God! What was happening to me? Could I become so callous so quickly? If I continued, could this become second nature, until I didn't give it a second thought?

Hammond sensed my struggle.

“
David – it shouldn't have happened. I don't want you put in these situations – it was never my intention. I want you to provide information, but only the information you acquire by happenstance. From here on it's strictly observation. Could you live with that?”

I couldn't answer immediately. I had come here determined to get off the merry-go-round, and now I was faltering. 'The best laid plans,' rhymed Robbie Burns, and mine were
'gang
aft
aglae
.' I took a deep breath before I answered, still reluctantly.

“
Okay, colonel. I'll stick it out for now, at least until the end of the cruise.”

“
Thank you for that,” he said, softly. “But let me tell you something – you make a hell of a good agent.”

“
Funny, if that's an offer then it's the second one today.”

“
What? What do you mean?”

I told him of my confrontation with Tony Cippola.

“Most peculiar,” he mused. “We've wondered if there really were such a list, of course, but what on earth is going on at the American Embassy? It sounds like a faction row to me – maybe a power struggle between the CIA and NSA. Those things happen, unfortunately – we've had our share. That's one reason I want to keep you out of the mainstream. No one knows who you are, and that's the way I want it left. There's far less chance of being exposed by a casual remark, or even a deliberate remark.”

“
Deliberate?”

“
I'm sure you know about the Burgess-Maclean debacle, George Blake, who is in Wormwood Scrubs for forty-two years, and now Kim Philby. Some of us are not convinced that the cancer has been rooted out. I have some suspicions of my own. It forces many of us to keep our assets to ourselves. You are one asset that I don't intend to compromise.”

“
Let's hope you're right, sir. I think I've had my fill of the spy business as such. Information-gathering should be a lot easier on the nerves.”

I remembered the Facel Vega.

“Since I'm hanging in for another inning, sir, could you find out who owns a dark blue Facel Vega registration number MWE 473? It has diplomatic plates on it.”

“
Do you want to tell me about it, David?”

“
Not yet, sir. If it pans out gold I'll fill you in.”

He frowned at that one.

“Rather quaint colonial expression, that.”

Hammond stood to leave, then recalled something.

“By the way, the Templaars woman you asked about.”

My heart jumped. Steady, I thought.

“What have you heard, colonel?”

“
Not a lot. Seems hard to pick up anything. Almost as if she's been whitewashed from the records. But from the bit we've gleaned about her training in Russia, she's most definitely KGB. Does this help?”

He swept out. Yessir. Thank you sir. Three bags full, sir. That helps a bunch.

And the merry-go-round goes 'round.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Richmond
,
England
–
Sunday
,
June
17
,
1962

He'd been up for an hour, though it was only 7:00am. It was hard to sleep since Daphne's death. He looked out at the green, wondering if he should call this early. Making up his mind, he went to the phone.

“
Hello?” The voice was foggy. Obviously a wake-up call.

“
It's me. Did you get a name?”

“
Yeah, I got it. But I don't feel right about telling you. There were no charges laid. It wasn't his fault.”

“
I don't give a monkey's fuck whose fault the coppers say it was. The way I sees it, it were ‘is fault she went under that fucking bus. You owe me, you bastard! There's not a penny more coming your way if you don't give me that name. Now, last chance. 'Oo is 'e?”

“
His name is David Baird. He's a singer. He lives on St. John's Wood Road in a block of flats. Drives a green Jag.”

“
Thank you very much. Very wise of you.”

Smiling, he put the receiver down and got ready to go out.

*

London
,
England
–
the
same
morning

I awoke from a deep sleep with the sound of the door buzzer.

Stumbling to the intercom, I answered to hear Wicks' cheery voice.

“Mo'ning, Mr. Baird. I 'ope I didn't wike you up.”

“
It's all right, Wicks. It isn't Monday, is it? I couldn't have slept through. You're not usually here on week-ends.”

“
Naow, Mr. Baird,” he laughed, “me mite's a bit shovel an' pick, so I told 'im I'd tike 'is shift. There's been a delivery for you, sir. Do you want me to fetch it up the apples and pears?”

Wicks loved throwing Cockney rhyming slang at me, but at least he made it easy by leaving both words in. Cockneys can have a conversation which will leave you dumbfounded.

“Yerss,” I said as Mate from the Goons, “just run it up the apples, mite, while I get me titfer an' a bite of the 'Oly.”

Wicks rang off with a wicked laugh. I had barely got my robe before he was at the door. We exchanged a bit more repartee, and he went off chuckling.

The parcel was from British-Lion Export and Import, or so the label read, but I had a pretty good idea that such a company only existed on paper somewhere. I opened it partially, stopping when I saw khaki-colored clothing. I wasn't in any hurry to put a uniform on again.

Then I remembered. Marijke had said we might stay overnight. Now what? I was due at Dunsfold by 0700 tomorrow. Well, whatever happens, happens. I checked that the uniform was complete, packing it in my carry-all together with my Lotus Veldtschoen military-style shoes. I remembered braces for the trousers, threw in my flight suit, and set my trench coat out in case it rained.

I had plenty of time before I was to meet Marijke, so I got ready at my leisure. I knew I was blocking what Hammond had told me about her – in fact, I had shut down on everything connected to the world of espionage since last night. Probably why I had a good sleep. Now the uniform was bringing it back, and I resented the intrusion.

I stopped for coffee at a Kona Coffee House in Earl's Court, arriving at Kensington Square just before 11:00 o'clock. I knocked on the door, and it opened to the
object of my anticipation… and affection.

“
Good morning. How was your duty shift?”

“
Good morning, David. Oh, not so bad. Please come in. I am almost ready to go.”

I stepped in, closing the door, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. I wanted a sign or signal that things were the way I had thought when I left her last night. She caught the look in my eyes, shook her head in an imperceptible warning, then kissed me hard on the mouth.

“Don't say anything important,” she whispered, then hurried off to the kitchen.

“
Can you carry this to the car, please, David?”

I followed her to the kitchen where she was indicating a large hamper.

“What's this?”

“
Oh, just in case we get hungry later,” she laughed, heading back to the living room.

She picked up a navy blue cardigan, draped it around her shoulders, and turned to face me. With a navy and white summer skirt, crisp white blouse and white sandals, she looked like a model from Vanity Fair. The picture was breathtaking.

“Let us go, then,” she smiled, taking her white purse, a small case, and heading for the door.

Stowing the hamper and case in the boot, we climbed in and I started the engine. Then I just sat, looking at her with a smile.

“What are you doing, David? Are we not going?”

I laughed.
“This is your day, remember? I don't even know where to point the car.”

“
Oh, I forget. Can you drive to Brighton?”

“
Sure.”

I slipped the car into drive, then hesitated.

“I love you, Marijke,” I said softly.

“
And I love you, David Baird,” she responded, eyes sparkling.

Thus assured, I headed for Brighton.

I had turned the radio on to the BBC Light Programme, and we listened to David Jacobs playing records. Much to my surprise and Marijke's delight, he played one of mine –
Polka
Dots
and
Moonbeams
– and I sang along with it.

The conversation had been light, warm, friendly, and most pleasant, but I had been waiting for an explanation of her warning at the flat. When nothing came after half an hour, I couldn't contain my curiosity.

“Marijke, why did you warn me not to say anything important when we were in your flat?”

“
Because I know the flat has listening devices. It really belongs to the embassy – they lease it – and they have given it to me to use.”

“
Why is it bugged?”

“
For some time it was used as a safe-house by the KGB, and they planted hidden cameras and microphones. It is no longer used for this purpose, but the equipment is still there, and it is functional. I can never be sure if it is turned on or not.”

“
Doesn't this bother you?”

“
Not really. In the Soviet Union you expect they watch you. I am careful in the flat, and I don't invite personal friends in case something is said which is dangerous.”

No personal friends? What about Thursday night, when I'd stood outside to the sounds of music and laughter, but I caught myself just in time. Forget it, buddy, I admonished myself. I also wanted to query her about the KGB. In a way she had opened the door, but I sensed that this was neither the time nor place.

Passing through the Sussex Downs, we were nearing our destination.

“
Do you want to go right into Brighton?”

“
Oh, no, not immediately. Can you drive to a village called Rottingdean? It is outside Brighton.”

“
I know Rottingdean. The English writer Rudyard Kipling lived there. We'll have to go into Brighton first and then take the shore road east to Rottingdean. It won't take long.”

The view of the English Channel was quite unobstructed on the right, while on the left the mansions and gardens had continued unabated since we had left Brighton. The sun was occasionally peaking through a high overcast, and this added a luster of light and shade to the beauty of our surroundings. It was also a warm day, unusual for the south coast of England.

“Can you stop the car, David, just after this corner?”

I did as I was asked, then looked at her expectantly.

“Now we get out for a few minutes.”

We did, and Marijke indicated that we should walk back the way we had come. She was holding my arm, and she drew back on it, bringing us to a halt.

“You see this house on the right? The one with the stone fence and the iron bars on top?”

“
Yes. What about it?”

“
The Soviet government rents this house for the ambassador and senior government officials when they want to be out of London for talks or private meetings, or just to have a few days off.”

We stood looking at the building, or what we could see of it because of the fence and the shrubbery. I was perplexed.

“Why are you telling me this, Marijke?”

She looked at me with an enigmatic expression which left me bewildered. I didn't know how to read it.

“There are many things which I tell you today. This is only one. Now, I am hungry. Do you know where we can place a blanket and have what is called a picnic?”

I knew the very spot. We went back to the car, continuing east. In a short while I found a convenient lay-by, parked the car, and we got the food and the blanket from the trunk.

“It's a long walk, but it'll be worth it. Do you mind?” “No, I love to walk. The hamper is too heavy?”

“
No, it's not that big, and there is a shoulder strap. I won't even notice it.”

So saying, we started out, following the line of the Cuckmere River which had cut into the chalk of the cliff. Gradually the stream dropped farther and farther down, while we stayed on top of the promontory, leaving us a few hundred feet above sea level. It was a shear drop down, so we stayed well back of the edge.

Now, across the water of Cuckmere Haven on our left, was a succession of peaks, seven stark white chalk humps of varying heights stretching for about five miles toward Beachy Head. The cap of green vegetation right up to the chalk face and on the dipping vales between, sometimes right to the water's edge, enhanced the sharp contrast of texture and color.

“
Oh!” exclaimed Marijke. “This is wonderful! So beautiful!”

We walked as far as we could, then stopped about twenty feet from the edge of the cliff. Putting down the blanket and hamper, we stood and gazed across the mile of water which separated us from the start of the chalk cliffs. The sun was stronger now, and the water gleamed an iridescent blue, throwing back the sparkling reflections of the brilliant white peaks.

Marijke put her arm around me, leaning back into me. I kissed the top of her head and held her close.

“
Have they a name, David?” she whispered.

“
They're called the Seven Sisters, and each Sister has a name, though not a very feminine one. This little bay is called Cuckmere Haven, and starting from there they are called Haven Brow, Short Brow, Rough Brow, Bran Point, Flagstaff Point, Baily's Hill, and Went Hill Brow. Not very romantic, are they?”

“
Oh, I think they are. The names are real, not just made up. The Seven Sisters stand there for centuries, watching generations of people come and go. They are still there when we are gone. It takes my breath away. Do you feel it, too?”

“
Yes, very much. I sometimes think magnificent natural places have a personality – a presence that looks at us poor mortals with pity. We run around like fools, chasing the unattainable all our lives, sometimes causing wars and destruction, and they sit there serene, watching us in our frantic insanity.”

Marijke turned suddenly, her arms going around my neck, pulling me to her and kissing me passionately. I responded instantly, and the fire I had experienced on that first day at Virginia Water was rekindled with terrifying abandon. I fought myself, lest I lose control and become the animal I sensed within me. I was frightened of myself for the first time in my life.

Marijke pulled back. There was a wildness in her eyes.

“
Now, David! I want you now! Take me! I want you inside me!”

It was a cry of anguish, of longing, of pain.

I threw the blanket out, we fell on it, and virtually tore the clothes off each other. I grasped her breasts, biting her nipples, and she raked my back with her nails. I ran my hand down her body and she spread her legs wide. My fingers went inside to incredible heat and wetness. Grasping my erection, she guided it into her as I thrust forward hard. She cried out, but held me tightly, wrapping her legs around me, matching thrust for thrust.

In the frenzy I lost all sense of being. A white light approached me, blinding in its intensity. I was striving toward it. It was the meaning of life, and I reached for it, but I knew if I grasped it I would become part of it forever, that earthly life would end. Still I strove, and just as I was about to enter immortality I heard Marijke shout
“O Gott! O Gott! O Gott!” and the light exploded in my face, my body reacting in spasms as the rays danced about, and, gradually, oh, so gradually, ebbed away.

I regained my senses slowly, aware that I was still inside her, and that neither of us had moved. I was still hard, but I moved as though to pull out. She resisted, holding me in her with her heals on my buttocks. I kissed her, gently, and looked at her eyes, as full of wonder as my own.