What is there to lose? he thought. A bullet might be less painful anyway. In Korea, he had had a buddy who took three hours to die in a minefield.
“You’re a damn fool, Pech,” he said.
Pech smiled. “I shall count to five,” he said.
“It’s you they’re after,” said Verago.
Pech blinked. “Who’s they?”
“Your own people,” said Verago, like a chess player sacrificing his last pieces. “They don’t trust you anymore.”
“You’re just wasting time,” said Pech, but the second’s hesitation wasn’t lost on Verago. He made his final move.
“Don’t you realize you’ve been set up?”
“Who by?” said Pech, eyes glinting.
“Your own side,” Verago bluffed.
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“How do you know?” hissed Pech.
“That’s why I’m here,” said Verago, and wondered if it would do any good.
“You’re Iying,” snarled Pech.
The pistol wavered, and Verago jumped him. He grabbed Pech’s gun arm, and with his knee tried to ram him in the genitals, fear and panic giving him ferocity that he did not know he had in him. Pech struggled violently, and they were locked together, wrestling for the pistol, gasping, teeth bared, fighting savagely, brutally. Pech’s left hand scrabbled for his face, the fingers trying to claw at his eyes, and Verago desperately butted him with his knee again and then heard the shot.
He was still clinging on to Pech as the man slowly sank to the ground, his eyes wide with shock, still clutching the pistol where its bullet had plowedinto him.
Pech lay at Verago’s feet, the blood staining his shirt, and Verago did not have to feel his pulse to know he was dead. He was staring at the man with a mixture of relief and horror, and the sudden shock realisation that, for the first time in his life, he had killed a man.
He knelt by the body, breathless from the struggle, hurting, blood on his face, trying to think and to stop himself from shivering with panic.
Then he saw the feet. And he looked up, into the barrel of a Kalashnikov AKM, held by a steel-helmeted soldier with a Mongolian face. Slowly Verago stood up, and although not a ward was said, he raised his hands.
The three Red Army soldiers standing beside their jeep didn’t have to speak. Their guns, covering Verago, said it all.
Overhead hovered the helicopter with the red star, circling its prey.
London
The car cruising down Ducane Road came past Hammersmith Hospital and then, as it drew level with the ornate frontage of Wormwood Scrubs prison, slowed down momentarily
“That’s where he is,” said Deriabin, and Ivanov nodded glumly.
“It shouldn’t be that difficult,” Deriabin went on, increasing speed again. “He couldn’t be more central, could he? Ten minutes from the embassy. It’s almost as if they want us to get him out.”
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And he laughed at the thought.
Special instructions had come that morning from Central about the man inside the Scrubs. George Blake, exMI6 resident in West Berlin, had been in there now since May 3, serving his forty-two-year sentence for being a double agent.
Moscow wanted him sprung.
“I want you to work on it,” Deriabin told Ivanov. “I know what a heavy load you already have, and current operations must take precedence. But Blake has to be liberated. After all, we owe it to him.”
“It’s going to take a lot of preparation,” said Ivanov. He wasn’t overjoyed by the extra assignment. “It needs time to set up.”
“Of course,” agreed Deriabin. “But put it high on your list.”
He turned the car around and drove past the Victorian penitentiary again on their way back to Kensington.
“What about Molodny?” asked Ivanov. Molodny, dark, handsome, with a soft Canadian accent, had been a friend of Ivanov’s. Now, better known as Gordon Lonsdale, he was also an enforced guest of Her Majesty, sweating out twentyfive years for espionage.
“Don’t fret about the colonel,” Deriabin reassured him. “That is already in hand. It will be done through diplomatic channels. We will exchange him. But Blake we must break out. The British would never let him go. You understand?”
Ivanov chewed his lip.
Deriabin glanced sideways at him.
“Don’t worry,” he said, reading his thoughts, “The fieldwork will be executed by others. I just want you to do the planning. You have such an ingenious mind, Yevgenni, and I am sure you will come up with a cunning little blueprint.”
Deriabin’s praise usually left his subordinates uneasy. Ivanov was no exception.
“Blake is burned out,” he said. “Is it worth the risk?”
It was a mistake. Deriabin slammed on the brakes, and the car halted suddenly in Holland Park Avenue. He turned to Ivanov.
“I am surprised, comrade. What is the most important thing in our work? Loyaltyl”
Ivanov avoided his eyes. A lecture on loyalty from Deriabin was supreme irony.
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“Our agents in the field know that, no matter what happens, we will get them out. Never do we allow our people to rot, correct?” Deriabin was in full swing, as if he was lecturing tyro spies. “They know that even if they are caught, they will never be forgotten. No matter how savage the sentence, how deep the dungeon, how terrible the treatment, they will never serve out their punishment. It is an unbreakable contract That is why Blake must be got out. So that every other Soviet operative in the world can see we keep our word. Clear?”
“Clear,” said Ivanov. “But my other work?”
Deriabin started the car up again.
“Your other work must come first right now,” he declared. “That, of course, has supreme priority. The calendar dictates it. But Blake must not be forgotten.”
“All right.” Ivanov grunted. He was thinking that with luck Central might yet send somebody from Moscow to do the Blake job. He had more important things lined up.
Wansdort
“American,” said Verago, keeping his hands high. “Amerikanski.”
He wished, desperately, he could speak Russian. The soldiers were staring at him with unfriendly eyes.
“I am American,” Verago repeated to the uncomprehending Mongolian. One of the other soldiers came forward and bent over Pech’s body. He looked up and said something.
The others stared at Verago. One of them had a walkietalkie and started speaking into it rapidly. His companion kept Verago covered, while the Mongolian began searching him. He found the U.S. passport in the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to the walkietalkie man.
“Kamerad,” said Verago. He felt a fool, not being able to say anything they could understand. “Tovarich.”
The Mongolian gestured with his gun, indicating that Verago should move toward the jeep. He stepped forward warily. He didn’t want to make a mistake. Their faces were stony, unsmiling, and he sensed one false step would be fatal.
The Mongolian ordered him into the jeep and climbed in beside him, the gun aimed straight at his stomach. The walkietalkie man got behind the wheel, and, with a sudden jerk, the jeep raced off, leaving the third trooper standing by the body.
3W They drove rapidly along the country road until, in the distance, a crossroads appeared. Parked beside it were two tanks, their long gun barrels pointing across the fields.
The walkietalkie lay on the seat beside the driver. Suddenly it began crackling. The driver reached over, picked it up with one hand, and continued driving. He seemed to acknowledge some kind of message, and then he put the instrument down again.
At the crossroads the Mongolian waved to a couple of soldiers in the turrets of the tanks. The jeep swung right and drove into a wood, following what seemed to be a makeshift road.
It was bumpy, and Verago held onto the jeep. The Mongolian never took his eyes off him, and his finger on the trigger of the gun made Verago more nervous. He wondered what would happen if they bumped too much, and the finger jerked on the trigger….
Suddenly they entered a large clearing. Spread before them was a small military camp, with tents and a large radio mast jutting from some kind of communications truck. A couple of staff cars and some jeeps were parked in neat rows, and from somewhere behind the trees came the aroma of cooking. In front of one of the tents two sentries stood stiffly.
The jeep stopped, and the Mongolian prodded Verago to get out. Then he marched him over to the tent with the sentries. He gestured again, and Verago went inside.
It was a makeshift office with a trestle table and a couple of canvas chairs. There was a battery of field phones and a big board on Q tripod easel. Pinned to the board was a large-scale map, and an officer with a sheet of paper in his hand was sticking some pins into the map.
He looked around sharply as they entered, and the Mongolian snapped to attention and spoke tersely. As he made his report, the officer looked at Verago. He had a foxy face and blond eyelashes. His shoulder boards had a red stripe and two small stars: a lieutenant.
He listened to the Mongolian and then snapped his fingers. The Mongolian froze.
Pony Pace walked up close to Verago and nodded to him.
“You spion,” he said.
Verago didn’t need any Russian to know what that meant.
305
“I’m American …” Verago began as the Mongolian handed the lieutenant his passport. Foxy Face slowly turned the pages.
“You spion,” he repeated, with firm conviction.
He went over to the field phones and picked one up, cranking the handle. He spoke crisply in Russian. Then he read from the passport:
“Da. Verago. Anthony Verago. Da. Spion.”
He listened and nodded. Then he replaced the receiver. He walked to the door of the tent and shouted something
Three armed soldiers came into the tent. Two held Verago’s arms while the third bandaged his eyes.
Then they half dragged, half pushed him out of the tent.
What a hell of a way to go, thought Verago, stumbling between his guards. A firing squad in a wood.
The thing that hurt was Pech. The son of a bitch was going to have the last laugh.
Brieselang
Still blindfolded, he was shoved into a car. Guards sat on either side of him, and he heard the doors slam.
It was another bumpy ride, and not a word was said. The blindfold had been wound tight around his eyes, and it became increasingly uncomfortable.
He lost sense of both time and direction, but it wasn’t a long ride. Then they bundled him out of the car and into some kind of building. Footsteps resounded on wooden floorboards. He heard the ringing of telephones and the chatter of typewriters. And there were some sharp commands.
Somebody knocked on a door and a voice ordered them in. Then the blindfold was taken off.
Verago faced a burly officer sitting behind a desk. He was in his shirt sleeves, but this one had four stars on his shoulder epaulettes: a colonel. The shirt was crisply ironed and the neat tie held in place by a clip.
But it was the woman who took Verago’s attention. She too was in uniform, a beret with a Red Army badge perched on her curly blond hair. She wore thick hornrimmed glasses, and Verago wondered if, as in the movies, she would look a stunning blonde if she removed them. The heavy spectacles made her look severe.
She was only a lieutenant, but to his surprise it was she who spoke while the colonel just glowered at him.
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“I am Lieutenant 80risova,” she said, and her English was excellent. “I am the interpreter.”
“Thank God there’s somebody who speaks English,” said Verago. “You see “
“This is Colonel Machenko,” she went on, ignoring him. “You are in a very serious position. You are being held as a spy. And there is also a question of murder.”
She made the murder sound less heinous.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” began Verago. “I want you to contact the United States authorities and “
But again he was cut off. The colonel said something in Russian, and the blonde nodded.
“Colonel Machenko points out that you will be interrogated in due course by the appropriate authorities, and the less you say until then the better. That is in your own interest. Do you understand?”
She gave him a quick smile, as if to say don’t make life difficult.
Verago glanced around the room. He was flanked by two guards. Through the window he could see a courtyard.
“Where am I?” asked Verago.
‘“This is the field headquarters of” she stopped herself, and said instead “a Soviet army formation.”
“Where is Berlin?”
“You’re not far away,” she said. “But you were caught in a restricted zone. It is banned to all. Especially Americans in civilian clothes.”
Again the colonel said something.
“Colonel Machenko wants me to point out that you are in a very serious position. He hopes you realize it. The man you killed was a member of the Democratic People’s Republic security organs. You were evidently trying to es” cape to the West. You understand how grave your situation is?”
“Well,” said Verago, “tell the colonel I’ve got a good idea, that he’d be smart to get in touch with the American liaison people as fast as he can.”
&e pursed her lips. She used only faint lipstick and, as far as he could see behind those spectacles, very little mascara.
“Right now your status is in question,” she remarked. On the colonel’s desk lay his passport and beside it the ID card they had found inside it. “Your visa expired long
307
ago. You have an American offlcer’s identity card. You are dressed as a civilian. Need I say more?”
“So what do you intend to do right now?” demanded Verago, and the defiance in his tone made her raise her eyebrows slightly.
He heard a commotion outside. Through the window he could see some soldiers running across the courtyard. There was the roar of motorcycles, and he saw three staff cars with an escort sweep into the forecourt. At the same time the colonel’s phone shrilled. He picked it up and listened, rising to his feet as he heard what was being said.
Outside the suddenly, there were sharp commands, and the stamping of feet and rifle butts. Verago heard the march of boots come nearer. Then the door was flung open.
A short, squat man in a magnificent green uniform stood on the threshhold. Verago had seen plenty of offlcers in military finery, but never a man with so much gold braid.