Disorderly Elements (15 page)

“Right,” Nagel said. “I don't know how feasible this is, but we might be able to keep an eye on the bank. Put a camera outside, or something.”

“So?”

“So if Wyman walks into the bank, he'll be photographed and we'll know about it.”

“Okay. We've got pictures of Wyman already. Getting a camera hook-up shouldn't be any problem. So what do I do?”

Nagel grinned slyly.

“You, my boy, are going back to Europe. Go to East Germany and find out what happened to Grünbaum. Try and find out who this fucking ferret is.”

“I might need to know who Plato is, and right now there's only one way of doing that.”

“How?”

“Go to the bank in Geneva and get the name from the manager of the account. I know a way of doing that, but I'll need help.”

“What sort of help?”

“Some phony passports and ID.”

“ID?”

“I'll need to make out that I'm working for the IRS. The story will be that Plato's bank account contains illegal US dollars.”

“Will they believe that?”

“I think so. Do I get the ID?”

Nagel nodded.

“Yeah, why not. As and when Wyman shows up in Geneva, I'll put the word out to all the US embassies in Europe. As long as you stay tuned wherever you are, you'll know exactly what's happening. Okay?”

“Fine,” Rawls said.

“Wonderful. I can see you're going to have a great time on this one.”

Rawls gazed at him blankly.

“C
OME IN,” Owen said.

Wyman sat down in front of Owen's desk.

“I passed your memo on to the Minister,” Owen said.

“Indeed.”

“Yes.” Owen coughed. “In the light of these new developments, the Minister and I both feel that the Grünbaum case should be reopened.”

Wyman stifled a yawn.

“And…?”

“Well…damn it, we can't have the bloody Americans poking around. If there is a leak somewhere—and I'm not saying there is—it's better that we should know first.”

Wyman couldn't have agreed more.

“I couldn't agree more,” he said. “So what are we going to do?”

“This contact of yours in Germany. Are you absolutely sure that he's sound?”

“No. As I said before, he's a mercenary. He'll give information to whomever is waving the most money at him. That's why his price is so high.”

“Two million pounds isn't just high. It's outrageous.”

“Definitely,” Wyman said.

“Are you now absolutely certain there's no other way? I mean, what about our other networks?”

Owen was clutching at straws, and Wyman knew it.

“No one has the quality of contacts that Plato can boast. His intelligence comes straight from the central SED and the detention centres. I explained all this in my original submission.”

“Yes, yes.” Owen was not happy. “But two million pounds…”

“That two million won't merely buy the information we need. It will also buy Plato's silence. I don't need to tell you that if any of this became known outside the Firm, it would be the worst humiliation since Philby.”

“You're right; you don't need to tell me.”

Owen's testiness was a sign of capitulation.

“You realize,” he said, “that we're creating an appalling precedent.”

“It would be an even worse precedent to let a possible leak go unchecked.”

Owen sighed.

“You're right, of course. But there's one thing I insist upon. You said in your submission that Plato wanted the money in advance. I can't allow that: he'll get half in advance, and half upon receipt of the goods.”

Wyman shook his head.

“He won't accept that.”

“He'll have to.”

“I think not. I should guess that much of the money is destined to be used in bribes and backhanders for various officials. Plato will need the full sum to keep these officials happy and to cover himself at the same time. I can assure you that he won't be persuaded to take anything less than the full sum, cash in advance.”

Owen's face turned purple with rage and frustration.

“For God's sake, who is this man? Doesn't he realize who he's dealing with?”

“I'm afraid he does,” Wyman said. “That's why he wants advance payment. We have a very bad reputation about money, you know.”

“I must say, you don't seem very bothered by the whole thing.”

“I'm not an accountant,” Wyman said, “but two million pounds doesn't strike me as being too much to pay for the integrity of the Firm.”

Owen groaned in despair and took a couple of indigestion tablets.

“Very well. How does he want to be paid?”

“Via the Swiss bank account which I set up. As soon as the money is paid into it, he will begin his inquiries.”

Owen nodded gloomily. One could have been forgiven for supposing that Plato's two million pounds were coming straight from Owen's pocket.

W
YMAN SAT IN HIS MOST comfortable armchair and watched the nine o'clock news with total indifference. The newsreader's voice calmly and methodically announced the day's catalogue of disasters. Inflation was up by half of one percent, and unemployment was up by 300,000. The Director-General of the CBI expressed his confidence in the Government, and the General Secretary of the TUC reaffirmed his loathing for it.

“A plague on both your houses,” Wyman muttered. There was a knock on the door. Wyman got up and opened it. A well-built young man in a Savile Row suit smiled at him and said:

“Dr Wyman? My name is Yuri Tereschkov. May I come in?”

“By all means. Do sit down.”

Wyman turned off the television, heedless of the housewife from Bolton, Lancashire, who had just given birth to quintuplets.

“What can I do for you, Mr Tereschkov?”

“I work for the British-Soviet Chamber of Commerce—”

“No,” Wyman said genially. “I don't think so.”

“No?”

“No,” Wyman repeated. “Let me see…you are Captain Anatoli Bulgakov of the KGB. Your face is familiar.”

“So.” Bulgakov nodded, as if he were conceding a point of debate. “As a matter of fact, I'm a Major now. Your files must be out of date.”

“They usually are,” Wyman yawned. “Anyway, Major, what can I do for you?”

“It's more a question of what I can do for you. We have received some interesting reports from Rome. You were there recently, I believe.”

“That's right. It's very pleasant at this time of year.”

“I understand you were inquiring about someone called Josef Grünbaum.”

“Actually,” Wyman said, “I was in Rome to visit a sick relative in the Trastevere. But do carry on. You're most fascinating, old chap.”

“As you know, Grünbaum died recently in unfortunate circumstances.”

”Oh dear,” Wyman said sympathetically.

“It is rumoured that you have made some very drastic inferences from Grünbaum's death.”

“It's the neighbours,” Wyman explained. “They do love to gossip.”

Bulgakov took a deep breath and continued.

“I heard about your inquiries in Rome, also in Paris and Vienna, and apparently so did the CIA. They have put someone called Rawls onto the case. You know about this, I presume.”

“I do now, don't I?”

“I have seen Rawls recently. At our first meeting he tried to kill me—”

“Americans are like that,” Wyman observed.

“But we later managed to establish a rapport. He too is a little perplexed by your speculations. We are all anxious to avoid difficulties.”

“That's nice.”

“There are one or two things you ought to know,” Bulgakov said. “Firstly, we have known about Grünbaum for years. To be frank, we never considered him a problem. He did not have access to important information, so we let him carry on with his activities.”

“That hardly explains his death.”

“His death was a genuine accident. It had nothing to do with us, you must believe that. He had a fight in a bar. When the police arrived to stop the affray, he went berserk. He was shot in self-defence.”

“Most reassuring,” Wyman said. “May I ask why you are telling me all this?”

Bulgakov smiled.

“I suspect you are planning an investigation into Grünbaum's death. If that is so, you will no doubt send people into Erfurt, and the Americans are sure to follow. That will certainly lead to trouble.”

“Indeed. I never really saw the KGB as an organization of trouble-shooters. I will have to revise my opinion of you.”

Bulgakov shook his head.

“Naturally, there is more to it than that. There are the arms talks in July. My government is anxious to avoid any scandals that might interfere with the talks. You understand that, I hope.”

“I don't know what to understand, Major. Everybody seems to know what is going on in my department, and everybody thinks that it should be stopped. If you were in my position, Major—if you knew the truth of the matter—would you regard that as a deterrent or an incentive to proceed with your plans?”

Bulgakov shrugged.

“I think that you are wasting time and effort on a problem that does not exist. If you proceed, you will create real difficulties for everyone concerned. If operatives are sent into the DDR from your country and America, I will have no option but to stop them. That could be very ugly. Very ugly indeed.”

“I'm glad to hear that aesthetics play an important role in your decision-making process, Major.”

The smile left Bulgakov's face. He stared coldly at Wyman. “You are facetious, Dr Wyman. I do not think that is appropriate.”

“My dear fellow,” Wyman protested, “you seem to think you know what we intend to do. You assume that people will be sent into Germany to cause you much discomfort. What are your reasons for assuming that?”

“I have told you. A certain amount can be deduced from your inquiries in Rome. The misgivings of Rawls complete the picture.”

Wyman shook his head.

“Sorry old man, I can't buy that. If Rawls had serious doubts of any sort, he wouldn't tell you about them. He might be American, but he isn't that crass.”

“His very presence in London is a sign of what his people think. You have obviously worried them.”

“Why, I wonder?”

“You know that better than I do. It can only be because you have asked so many questions about Grünbaum. Worry breeds worry in our profession.”

“Yes. A bit like the stock exchange.”

“Exactly.” Bulgakov smiled again. “Believe me, Grünbaum is not worth worrying about. He was a petty criminal, a small-time gangster with pretensions to greater things. His death signifies nothing.”

“How did you find out about him?” Wyman asked. He offered a Rothman to Bulgakov.

“I prefer mine,” said Bulgakov. He lit a Dunhill. “Grünbaum? As I said, he was a petty criminal. The
Volkspolizei
found out about his black-market interests, and his other activities soon became known. He received stolen property, sold Western consumer goods at outrageous prices—the usual things. Eventually it became known that he sold information as well. I can't believe that he was of any real use to you. He never had access to interesting information.”

Wyman nodded.

“Fascinating,” he said. “So what do you suggest we do?”

“Forget about Grünbaum. Call off your investigation.”

“It sounds all very cosy,” Wyman said. “So all I have to do is say to my people: ‘Major Bulgakov dropped in last night. Awfully nice chap. He says we should forget about all this boring Erfurt business.' And if the KGB says everything's all right, it must be, mustn't it?” He smiled benignly.

“I'm sure you can think of something better than that,” Bulgakov said.

Wyman scratched his cranium in bewilderment.

“It's all a question of motive, Major. I mean, it's very nice of you to call round and all that, but I have to ask myself what your motives are. Unfortunately, I have to assume that they aren't what you say they are. Nothing personal, you understand.”

“Of course.”

“It all leads up to one question. You think we're pursuing inquiries in Erfurt. You're trying to dissuade us from doing so. I must therefore conclude that there's something you don't want us to find out. What is it, Major? If you told me that, I really would be persuaded.”

Bulgakov laughed quietly.

“I've told you: I don't want any trouble. I don't want to endanger the arms talks in July. That's all.”

“We seem to have reached an impasse, Major.”

“We do indeed. I have told you everything.”

“I rather doubt it,” Wyman said. “But you've certainly told me all you're going to tell.”

“Yes,” Bulgakov said. He put out his cigarette. “And on that note I must leave you, Dr Wyman. Take my advice: don't waste your time on Grünbaum. Good night.”

“Cheerio,” Wyman said. He showed the major out and returned to his armchair.

“Well, well,” he muttered. “How very peculiar.”

He poured himself a glass of wine and realized he hadn't offered any to the major. How uncivil of me, he thought.

“W
HAT DO WE KNOW about this Bulgakov fellow?” Owen said.

“Not as much as we'd like,” Wyman confessed. “I managed to prise loose the MI5 dossier on him. It's not very substantial, I'm afraid, but it will do for our purposes.”

He gave a little cough and consulted his notes.

“Anatoli Vasimovich Bulgakov was born in Minsk in 1947. His father was a war hero. The family moved to Moscow in 1962, and from 1966 to 1969 our friend studied Law at Moscow University. In 1969 Bulgakov was recruited by the First Directorate of the KGB.