Disorderly Elements (11 page)

“This contains a few other names. They are all detainees of one sort or another, and I would like to see their files.”

He leaned over and put out his cigarette in the wastepaper basket. The stub burned a small hole in the wickerwork.

“Will that be all, Herr Major?”

“Yes, Hauptman. Bring me all that information as soon as you receive it. Oh, and Hauptmann…”

“Yes, Herr Major?”

“I know that customs vary from country to country, but where I come from it is deemed advisable to have one's flies done up in the presence of a superior officer.”

The captain stared down in horror.

“Oh! I do beg the Major's pardon, I—”

“Not at all, Hauptmann. Thank you.”

The door closed and Bulgakov burst into laughter.

R
AWLS' AEROPLANE LANDED at Heathrow Airport at lunchtime on May 21. Unlike Bulgakov, Rawls had no car waiting for him. Having extricated his suitcase from Heathrow's peculiar baggage retrieval system, he caught a Piccadilly Line underground train which took him into central London.

At Green Park Station, Rawls alighted and hailed a taxi for Grosvenor Square. At the US Embassy, he introduced himself to the attaché responsible for intelligence liaison. He was told that a hotel room had been reserved for him in Beaufort Street, and that arrangements had been made for him to visit MI6 headquarters that afternoon. The attaché was unaware of the precise nature of Rawls' visit, but he did know that the true reason was being kept secret from the British.

Rawls left his suitcase with the attaché, and he was given a car to take him to MI6 headquarters. He was driven down Park Lane and Grosvenor Place, then through Victoria Street and into Parliament Square. After negotiating some heavy traffic, the driver took him over Westminster Bridge and stopped at County Hall, the headquarters of the Greater London Council.

Britain's intelligence-gathering organization has a variety of names. Publicly, it is known as MI6, or the SIS. Privately, it is known as the “Firm”, or simply “Six”. Its headquarters lie in the middle of a large roundabout connecting Lambeth Palace Road, York Road and Westminster Bridge Road. The building looks like a sawn-off step pyramid, and is known as the Ziggurat. It has been carefully elevated so that access from the roundabout is impossible. The only way in for visitors is by an enclosed walkway several floors up, linking the Ziggurat with the south block of County Hall.

Rawls entered County Hall and waved some impressive docu ments at the receptionist. He was taken upstairs and over into the Ziggurat, where he was introduced to an arid official.

“How do you do,” the man drawled. “My name's Parfitt.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Rawls said.

“I understand that you'd like to visit GCHQ.”

“Among other things. I'm with Anglo-US Liaison, as you know. At the moment, I'm involved with the preparations for the arms limitation talks. I've been sent over here to take soundings on how the British want us to handle the talks, and to find out what's been happening in the way of Warsaw Pact troop movements in Europe.”

Rawls was referring to the next round of arms talks between the Americans and the Russians, to be held in Geneva the following July. The Russians were claiming that current US policy was aggressive and uncooperative, and that major concessions would be required if any sort of progress was to be made.

The Americans were replying that the Russians were indulging in more than their fair share of aggression, and they backed their case with lengthy accounts of Warsaw Pact exercises, as well as the setting-up of a new batch of rocket installations in Eastern Europe. GCHQ in Cheltenham was monitoring many of these new developments, and Rawls ostensibly wished to see their findings at first hand.

“I see,” Parfitt said. “Well, that should provide no difficulties. We'll give you a permit to visit Cheltenham as from tomorrow. Is there anything else you would like?”

“Yeah, there's one more thing. We're particularly interested in what's happening in the DDR right now, especially in the southwest. I understand you've got a department here in London that specializes in DDR affairs, run by a guy called Owen.”

“That's right. In fact, the area you're talking about is the speciality of a chap called Wyman, who works for Owen. If you like, I'll ask Wyman to prepare a report on the area for you, and we'll have it ready for you by the time you've returned from Cheltenham.”

“No need, no need,” Rawls said affably. “If it's okay, I'll speak to Wyman myself. It shouldn't take long.”

“I don't see why not,” Parfitt said. “They don't often get house-calls, so it should make a pleasant change for them. I'll fix up an appointment with Owen.”

“Great,” Rawls said.

They chatted amicably for another twenty minutes, and Parfitt prepared Rawls' permit to visit Cheltenham. The American then left the Ziggurat and drove back to Grosvenor Square.

“L
UDICROUS,” said the Minister, “quite ludicrous.”

He sniffed the bouquet of his Armagnac appreciatively, and drew a long puff from his Havana cigar.

“I know,” Owen said. “But Wyman insists it's the only way.”

“The man's living in a fantasy world. He's got to get a grip. Two million pounds—why doesn't he ask for Threadneedle Street while he's about it?”

“I've told him,” Owen said. “But he's adamant that this chappie won't settle for less.”

“He'll bloody well have to. How the hell could I justify that sort of expense to the PM?”

“I don't know. I explained to Wyman that the money simply isn't there, but he says there's no alternative.”

“Nonsense,” snorted the Minister. “What about internal inquiries? There must be a way of winkling out the information at home. More brandy?”

“Yes please,” Owen said. “No, Wyman's right about that. The information we need is in East Germany, and we won't get it anywhere else.”

“Can't we send someone out?”

“Too risky. If we do have a ferret in the Department, our man would walk straight into the hands of the SSD. They'd be waiting for him.”

“And what if there isn't a ferret? We'd have paid out two million pounds for nothing.”

“I agree, it would be a gamble.”

“Gamble? It would be sheer folly.”

The Minister blew out a long stream of yellow smoke and gazed contentedly at his glass of brandy.

“So what are we going to do?” Owen asked.

“Do? Shelve the investigation, I suppose.”

“That could be very dangerous.”

“We have no choice,” said the Minister emphatically. “I can't justify forking out two million quid on this. As far as I'm concerned, if there's no other way of doing this, here endeth the lesson.”

Owen nodded.

“Let us hope, then, that there really is no ferret.”

The Minister settled back in his armchair.

“I'm sure there isn't, old chap,” he said. “There's probably a simple explanation for those arrests, and we'll all be kicking ourselves when we find out.”

“You're probably right,” Owen said.

“Can't afford two million,” said the Minister. “No way. There's a recession on, you know.”

B
ULGAKOV SAT BEHIND his large oak desk in Erfurt, reading some files. The SSD was being most helpful, and he now had virtually all the information he needed. Despite this, Bulgakov still regarded Captain Fichte with undisguised disdain. He found Fichte's enthusiasm as unpalatable as Fichte's acne. It was only when one was old enough to cultivate a healthy cynicism that one became proficient in this line of work, he reflected.

There was a hesitant tap on the door. “Come in,” Bulgakov said. Fichte walked in and smiled timidly.

“Prisoner Reichenbach, Herr Major.”

Bulgakov nodded solemnly.

“Bring him in, please.”

A thin little man was pushed into the office at gunpoint.

“Thank you, Hauptmann. You may go.”

Fichte shut the door behind him.

“Do sit down, Herr Reichenbach,” Bulgakov said, with reptilian courtesy.

Reichenbach sat down nervously. He did not like Russians.

“What do you do for a living, Herr Reichenbach?”

“I'm a printer,” Reichenbach said. “I've explained all this to the police…”

“Then you can explain it all again to me,” Bulgakov smiled. “I am not a policeman.”

He looked casually at Reichenbach's file and lit a Dunhill. “You were arrested on the eighteenth of December for illegal trading in foreign currency. Is that correct?”

Reichenbach nodded.

“And you were sentenced to five years' imprisonment.”

“Yes, Herr Major.”

“Did you make much profit out of these… activities?”

Reichenbach shrugged.

“A little. It's not as lucrative as you might suppose.”

“Isn't it? How interesting.”

Bulgakov blew smoke towards Reichenbach's face.

“I suppose you made a lot of contacts in this line of business.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I'm sure there is quite a fraternity of criminals in Erfurt. You must have known a number of them.”

“You're mistaken, Herr Major,” Reichenbach said. “I only did this occasionally, for my friends. I wasn't involved in anything, if that's what you mean.”

“No?” Bulgakov's eyes twinkled with amusement. “You must be aware that there are black-marketeers here in Erfurt.”

Reichenbach said nothing.

“These people,” Bulgakov continued, “would be very interested in obtaining foreign currency, wouldn't they?”

“I suppose they would. But I had nothing to do with them.”

“You only did it for your friends.”

“That's right.”

“How very noble of you.” Bulgakov flicked ash onto the carpet. “So if I mentioned the name Grünbaum to you—Josef Grünbaum—I suppose that would mean nothing to you.”

“No.” Reichenbach shook his head.

“You have never heard of him?”

“No.”

“Oh dear,” Bulgakov sighed. “How disappointing. I had hoped that you were going to tell me all about him.”

He ground out his cigarette.

“Some people,” he continued, “think that you are connected with Grünbaum. They think you have known him for a long time. Why should they think that?”

“I don't know, Herr Major.”

“These people think that you and Grünbaum were involved in more than just currency offences.”

“Do they?”

“Yes, they do. Why should they suppose that, do you think?”

“I've no idea.”

Bulgakov stood up and walked over to the window with his hands in his pockets. He looked out at a rainy spring morning.

“Does the name Gödel mean anything to you? It wouldn't, I suppose.”

“No,” said Reichenbach.

“Neumann? Kurt Neumann?”

“I'm afraid not, Herr Major. Who are these people?”

“Just…people.”

Bulgakov returned to his desk and sat on it, directly in front of Reichenbach. He stared the prisoner straight in the face, as if he were trying to find something there.

“Funny, isn't it,” Bulgakov said. “All these people think you know Grünbaum, and here you are, denying all knowledge of him.”

He smacked his fist into Reichenbach's face. The prisoner toppled backwards.

“Get up.”

Reichenbach got to his feet, shaking. Red syrup oozed down from his nostrils and onto his lips. He righted his chair and sat down.

“Let me ask you once more. What was your connection with Josef Grünbaum?”

“I've never heard of him,” Reichenbach protested.

“I think you have,” Bulgakov said. “Listen. Grünbaum is dead. He was shot while you were in prison. You will not betray him by telling me about him. Not now.”

The German shook his head.

“I had never heard of Josef Grünbaum before you mentioned him to me. Truly.”

Bulgakov hit him again. There was a muffled snap as Reichenbach's nose broke. Understandably, Reichenbach howled and clutched his face. He sobbed gently as Bulgakov lit another cigarette.

“When did they recruit you? Was it before 1958?”

“Nobody recruited me,” Reichenbach blubbed. “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just a printer—”

Bulgakov grabbed him by the throat and forced Reichenbach to stare into his eyes.

“If I wanted to,” he said evenly, “I could kill you. Now. All you have to do is tell me about Grünbaum. I've told you, he's dead. You can't hurt him.”

Reichenbach trembled like a beaten child.

“I swear I don't know what you're talking about. If I knew I'd tell you. Really. I don't—”

Bulgakov threw him against a wall and drove his fist into Reichenbach's groin. As the German sank to the floor, Bulgakov obligingly kneed him in the face.

“That's the price of loyalty,” Bulgakov explained. “That's what they paid you for, isn't it?”

Reichenbach spat out little red fragments of teeth and ran a sleeve across his mouth.

“You're mistaken,” he mumbled. “There's been a terrible mistake.”

“Has there?” Bulgakov asked softly. “Listen, Reichenbach. I can beat you until your head falls apart. I can grind you to powder. I can do exactly what I please with you. Spies aren't protected by any laws, you know.”

“Spies?” Reichenbach looked up in astonishment. “Are you saying I'm a spy?”

Bulgakov went behind his desk and sat down.

“You've been trained very well,” he said. “I can see that. But it makes no difference in the end.”

He looked at Reichenbach's broken face and red eyes. It always ends like this, he thought. They always die with that confused, incredulous look in their eyes. Presumably, no one ever dares to contemplate such a fate. Otherwise they would not do their work in the first place. They always think that it can't happen to them, and even when it does, they still refuse to believe it.