Disorderly Elements (12 page)

“It's going to be a long day,” Bulgakov sighed. He said it in German, but he was really talking to himself.

“P
LATO WILL HAVE TO BE DROPPED,” Owen said.

“Indeed,” Wyman said. “May I ask why?”

“The Minister gave a number of reasons, and I agreed with him.”

“I'm sure you did,” Wyman said.

“First and foremost, there is the question of expense. Two million pounds is an outrageous sum. Had this Plato been prepared to settle for a more sensible figure, we might have taken a different view. If you are certain that Plato will not negotiate, then there is little we can do.”

“Other than give him the money.”

“Other than ignore him altogether,” Owen snapped. “This leads on to the second point. How can we be certain of Plato's
bona fides
? You have given us no indication that Plato will fulfill his side of the bargain, apart from your belief in his honesty.”

“After thirty years in this occupation, I think my opinions about the integrity of a source are worth slightly more than you suggest.”

Owen shifted uncomfortably.

“I am not denigrating your abilities,” he said. “I simply maintain that you haven't proved that Plato is worth the absurdly high fee he's demanding. Two million pounds for one informant is an unprecedented figure.”

“As I recall,” Wyman said, “there was a time when we would gladly have paid that figure and more, had it meant Philby's exposure, or that of Burgess. Why is it that we are always wise after the event in these matters?”

“But in this case, what is the event? That's my third point: we are still not satisfied that there is an infiltrator here in the Department.”

“‘Satisfied' is a rather odd term to use, isn't it?” Wyman said. “Until you can provide a better explanation for how the Dovetail network has been systematically dismantled, you must accept that we have a KGB plant in the Department. Surely, elementary logic would dictate this view.”

“I am not talking about logic,” Owen said. “I'm discussing practicalities. The exposure of the Dovetail network can probably be explained by other means. Henceforth, I would like you to explore
all
the possibilities, not just that of having an infiltrator in the Department.”

Wyman sighed in frustration.

“As I explained to you, an investigation at this end would be an enormous task. It could take months, and I don't have months. You will recall that I am supposed to leave the Department at the end of June.”

“If you haven't sorted it out by then,” Owen said, “I shall find a replacement for you. If necessary, I'll do the work myself.”

The idea of Owen having to plough through twelve hundred dossiers gave Wyman much private amusement.

“I'm sure you'd find the work most agreeable,” he said.

“Of course I wouldn't,” Owen barked. “But at least it wouldn't mean giving absurd sums of money to some greedy German, with no guarantee of getting anything in return. In the meantime, you will start the investigation, and we'll see how you progress.”

“Very well,” Wyman said. “There appears to be no alternative. I only hope that the Minister won't have cause to regret his decision.”

“If you do your job properly,” Owen said acidly, “he'll have no cause to regret it. Will he?”

“M
R RAWLS? HOW DO YOU DO. I'm Michael Wyman.”

They shook hands, and Rawls was escorted into Wyman's office. He had just spent the last ten minutes convincing Mr Berkeley that he was not an American tourist, and he'd then been sent upstairs with a pamphlet entitled “Prepare To Meet Thy Maker”.

Rawls waved the pamphlet at Wyman.

“Does everyone get one of these?”

“Oh yes,” Wyman smiled. “Mr Berkeley's a very generous man. I say, I haven't seen that one before. May I take a look?”

“Sure,” Rawls said. He began to wonder what he had let himself in for.

“My word,” Wyman exclaimed, “this is good stuff. Mr Berkeley obviously doesn't worship the God of Mercy. Apparently, we're all sunk in the Pit of Depravity, and the Lord will smite us with everlasting boils and sores.”

“Is that a fact?” said Rawls.

He sat down and glanced swiftly at his surroundings. They confirmed his worst prejudices. Hundreds of documents, all of them classified material, were strewn casually about the desk and floor like Weimar banknotes. Several half-full cups of tea had penicillin mould floating in them, the ashtrays were overflowing, and according to the calendar on the wall it was still January.

Some books were heaped carelessly on a shelf above a rusty filing cabinet. Rawls read the titles:
Das Kontinuum
by Hermann Weil,
The Journal of Symbolic Logic 1962
, a book of Giles cartoons and
The Theory of Numbers
by R. Dedekind.

“I understand you're into logic,” Rawls said.

“I dabble,” Wyman said. “Quite interesting, once you've got into it.”

“Yeah, I'm sure. Well, I suppose you're wondering why I've come to see you.”

“I was rather surprised,” Wyman confessed.

“It's about these arms talks scheduled for July. You've heard about all that, I guess…”

“Very little, in fact.”

“Well, we'd like everyone to turn up in Geneva, but nobody's too sure about it at the moment. You see, Mr Wyman—sorry, I should have said ‘Doctor', shouldn't I?”

“‘Michael' will do fine.”

“Okay, Michael. The Russians claim we're jeopardizing the talks by manufacturing too many tactical missiles. They're right, but that isn't going to stop us making them.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“We're going to prove that the Russians are being as aggressive as anybody else, and that we're just taking defensive measures. So far, the case looks pretty good: we know they've been conducting a whole series of large-scale military manoeuvres throughout the Iron Curtain countries. We've also got reports of new rocket installations in East Germany.”

“And where do I fit in?”

“I understand you specialize in the southwest corner of the DDR.”

“That's right.”

“Well, I was wondering if you've heard anything that might be of help to us: troop movements, military convoys, that kind of thing.”

“I see. Offhand, I couldn't tell you. We do get reports on all that business, and we keep them upstairs. If you like, I could look through them to see if there's anything of interest to you.”

“I'd be very grateful if you could.”

“How soon do you need them? I could get a file completed in twenty-four hours, or if you're in a rush, I could do it now.”

“I'd appreciate getting them today, if that won't be too much trouble.”

“No, not at all,” Wyman said genially. “If you don't mind waiting here, I could run off photocopies in about fifteen minutes.”

“That'd be great.”

“Splendid,” Wyman beamed.

He stood up and opened the door. Mrs Hobbes was outside, emptying the dust-bag of her Hoover. Wyman turned to Rawls. “Care for a cup of tea, old man?”

“Prefer a coffee, if that's OK.”

“I say Mrs Hobbes, any chance of a coffee for my guest?”

“Of course, Dr Wyman. How does he like it?”

“How do you like it?”

“Black, no sugar,” Rawls said.

“Black, no sugar,” Wyman said.

“Right you are, love,” Mrs Hobbes said. “Oh, Dr Wyman? Can I do your office today? It really needs it. You haven't let me in for
weeks
.”

“Some other time, Mrs Hobbes. Things are rather busy at the moment. See you in a jiffy, old chap,” he said to Rawls.

Wyman went upstairs. Rawls waited for the leisurely footsteps to disappear before he got up and crossed the room.

“‘Old chap',” he grunted. “‘Old man'. Asshole.”

There were four filing cabinets in Wyman's office. One was labelled A-K, another L-Z. Carpet fluff poked out from under them, indicating that they had been there for some time. The third was a small table-top cabinet labelled “M.o.D. Code Compendia 1974-79”.

The fourth cabinet was more promising. It was simply labelled “Thuringia”, and it was locked. Rawls went over to Wyman's desk and opened the top drawer. It contained pens, writing paper and an assortment of elastic bands and paper-clips. He opened the top side-drawer and found a paperback entitled
How to Play the Flute
, by Arthur Schopenhauer, and a couple of spare ribbons for Wyman's battered old Olivetti typewriter.

The drawer below contained a box of matches, an invitation to a Fellows' Dinner, and a small bunch of keys. Rawls took the keys and returned to the filing cabinet marked “Thuringia”.

The third key opened the cabinet. The top drawer contained entries from A to F. He opened the drawer below and looked up “Grünbaum”. The file was lengthy, but Rawls saw what he needed in the opening lines of the first page:

“GRÜNBAUM, Josef 1930—(See also GÖDEL

Otto; NEUMANN, Kurt; REICHENBACH,

Gunther; HAHN, Friedrich; MENGER, Moritz)

Leader of network ERF1O6F.”

Rawls copied this into his pocket-diary and closed the filing cabinet. He returned to Wyman's desk and was just about to replace the keys when he heard a rattle behind him.

“Black, no sugar,” said Mrs Hobbes. Her blood-red lipstick curled in a benevolent smile.

“That's right,” Rawls said. “Thank you.”

“Don't get many visitors here, especially Americans.”

“So I hear.”

She looked around the office and frowned.

“Disgusting, isn't it? I'm sure Dr Wyman's a very clever man, but he still needs to learn about hygiene. Just look at those cups.”

“Yeah. Pretty bad, huh?”

“He never lets me in here, that's the trouble. Always says he's too busy. Only costs five minutes to have your office cleaned, that's what I tell him. He says it only takes four minutes to destroy the world. Funny man, our Dr Wyman.”

“Yeah. A real scream.”

“Well, I must be getting along. Nice talking to you, love.”

She shuffled out of the room. Rawls gazed at her bloated backside in horrified disbelief. Only the British, he reflected, could employ somebody so repugnant in their intelligence offices.

“Christ,” he muttered, “is this MI6 or London Zoo?” He put the keys back in Wyman's desk and was struck by a flash of inspiration. He took out one of Wyman's spare typewriter ribbons and exchanged it for one in Wyman's Olivetti. The used ribbon then went into Rawls' pocket.

He noticed Wyman's note-pad. There was nothing written on the top sheet, since Wyman tore pages out after writing them. But Rawls tore off the top two sheets anyway and consigned them to his pocket.

He was halfway through the worst cup of coffee he had ever tasted when Wyman returned, brandishing a wad of photo copies.

“Here you are, old boy,” Wyman said. “There's nothing terribly exciting here, but some of the activities in Mühlhausen last February might interest you.”

“Great. Thanks very much. I'd better be going now. I'm supposed to be meeting someone at the American Club at five.”

“Taxi or tube?”

“Which is quicker?”

“At this time of day, the tube. Take the Central Line west bound at Tottenham Court Road and change at Oxford Circus onto the Victoria Line southbound. It's just down the road from Green Park tube station.”

“Thanks. I'm much obliged.”

“Not at all. Cheerio.”

“Goodbye.”

Rawls walked out and hailed the first taxi he saw.

T
HE NIGHT WAS COOL, damp and slimy, and so was the Thames. Rawls strolled westwards along Chelsea Embankment and watched the leisurely slurp of the river some twenty feet below him. On the other side of the water huddled a dark amorphous jungle called Battersea Park.

His luminous watch read 2.17
A.M.
He quickened his pace as he passed Albert Bridge. About halfway down Cheyne Walk, he paused and turned around. There were footsteps about fifteen feet behind him. Someone was following him home.

He crossed the road onto the north side and broke into a run. The soft footsteps behind him also crossed the road. From the corner of his eye Rawls saw the silhouette of his pursuer. There were two courses open to Rawls: he could either make a straight run for home or he could tackle the other man. He took the latter option.

Rawls tore round the corner of Beaufort Street and saw two cars parked there. He crouched between the vehicles and waited for the muted footsteps to catch him up.

The other man turned the corner, saw no sign of Rawls, and slowed down apprehensively. Rawls waited for about two seconds while the pursuer passed the cars, and then he sprang at the man's back.

Rawls was good at unarmed combat. He held a black belt, second dan in ju-jitsu. He did not expect the other man to be more proficient than that. With practised skill, Rawls jabbed his left fist hard into the kidney of the unknown man. Understandably, the pursuer arched back in pain, and Rawls' right arm closed around his throat.

Unfortunately, the other man was also proficient in the martial arts. Despite his discomfort, he knew how to deal with such attacks. His right arm smashed a back elbow-jab deep into Rawls' solar plexus. Winded, Rawls crumpled forward and allowed his opponent's left arm to reach back and grab his hair. The pursuer flicked forward and pulled hard. Rawls flew over him and landed on his back, with both feet pointing towards the King's Road.

Just as Rawls hit the pavement, his opponent twisted round and pinned a knee across Rawls' throat.

“I think that's enough for one night, Mr Rawls,” Bulgakov said calmly. “Don't you? I only wanted to talk.”