Making Enemies (15 page)

‘I’m in the shit, Danny,’ he said. ‘Well and truly up to my neck, as you can imagine. That’s why I’m here. I need to talk to you. For God’s sake, I’m even being blamed for the present crisis.’

Crisis, I asked? What crisis?

‘Oh God, Danny,’ he said. ‘You don’t know anything stuck out here in this infested backwater, do you?’

Immediately after Krasov’s departure, he told me, they’d had a visit from an American political delegation led by Senator Shearing. There was a real expectation on both sides of the Atlantic that this might lead us to retie the knots that bound us to the Americans, revive our wartime collaboration, get all cosy about nuclear secrets again, all that. A lot of work had been done behind the scenes before the delegation left for Britain, especially by our people in
Washington, and there’d been a general feeling of optimism that something positive would come of this visit.

‘God knows, we need their know-how and their dollars if we’re not to bankrupt ourselves making our own bomb.’

But the Krasov business put a stop to that. It gave the anti-British brigade in the American camp all the ammunition they needed to say no to renewed collaboration. Because of foul-ups like Krasov, they wanted their nuclear secrets anywhere but near our slippery fingers. That argument won the day. No deal. No collaboration. We were on our own and likely to remain so. That was the worst news possible. We were going to have to build our own bomb now, and we were going to have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find the money for it.

‘Our relationship with the Americans is at an all-time low,’ Monty said. ‘Someone has to take the flak for that and it happens to be us. Our friends in high places appear to have vanished into thin air. The Department’s feeling very exposed.’

Two British Army lorries went by, their wheels throwing up slush from the melting snow on the roads.

‘In my bad moments I think the Russians and the Americans are conspiring against us. If it hadn’t been for Krasov, we’d probably have access to American know-how today. The Soviet timing was perfect. It scuppered any hope of us and the Yanks getting cosy again.’

‘Isn’t that your answer?’ I said. ‘The Russians learned about the American visit. They wanted to make life difficult for us. They took Krasov off the shelf, dusted him down, set you up nicely and you fell for it. Round one to the Soviets.’

Monty wasn’t listening. His mind was far away.

‘Krasov was the genuine article,’ he said. ‘An old-style communist who’d lost his faith and wanted out. I wasn’t wrong about that, Danny. He may have done as he was told, but I’m sure he was troubled by what he was asked to do.’

‘Why did he agree to do it then?’

‘He had to. They gave him no choice. I know his heart wasn’t in it.’

That was the Cambridge Monty, my lifelong friend, showing me how much the betrayal had hurt. But the Monty who had come to Berlin was the Monty who worked for a secret department somewhere in Whitehall. What had his presence here to do with me?
Why was he telling me all this? Did he just want my sympathy? I determined to keep my distance. I had to avoid taking sides.

‘It’s the self-recrimination that’s so painful,’ Monty said. ‘Reliving the times we spent together, remembering the conversations we had, wondering where I got it wrong.’

‘We all get things wrong sometimes,’ I said, not very helpfully.

Krasov had arrived in Moscow a bit of a hero, Monty was saying. They made a fuss of him, gave him a medal and a desk job. Nothing unexpected there, except no one in Horseferry Road believed he was being pensioned off. A few weeks go by when, out of the blue, there is uproar on the teleprinter. The wires are bristling with the news that Krasov’s made contact with our people in Moscow (someone called Martineau), says he has important information he wants to give to Monty.

‘After what happened in London, Martineau thinks this is a set-up and won’t touch him. Nor will anyone else. Our reply was not interested. Corless slammed the door well and truly shut.’

But Krasov had reopened the wound. All the old doubts surfaced. Monty was in trouble again.

‘You can’t blame Corless,’ I said. ‘Not after what happened before.’

‘What if we’re wrong, Danny? What if last time the Russians did stop him defecting? Suppose this time it’s genuine?’

‘For God’s sake, Monty. You have just said that Krasov is a Soviet intelligence officer. He works for the other side.’

‘Not every Russian is bad. Circumstances change. Something might have happened. That’s possible, isn’t it? Maybe he’s in some kind of danger and he’s asking for help.’

Don’t appeal to me, I wanted to say, only I didn’t know how to without hurting him further. I can’t help you. I can’t even advise you. Better to face the truth and get it over with. The man’s a communist and he’s paid to work against us. Krasov was enemy, not friend.

‘If you’re so keen to know the answer, go to Moscow and ask him yourself,’ I said impatiently. I wanted to bring him to his senses by making an absurd suggestion.

‘He isn’t in Moscow any more,’ Monty said.

‘Where is he?’

‘Finland.’

‘Go to Finland, then.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘The Finns won’t let me in.’

He wasn’t going to ask, I knew that, just as I knew he wouldn’t tell me why the Finns wouldn’t let him into their country. He would never say: I want you to go, it’s all arranged. Look, here’s the currency, the tickets, I’ve cleared it with your commanding officer, though I was sure he had currency and tickets in his pocket and that he had seen my commanding officer before he’d arrived in my office. I would have to offer. Why would he expect me to do that? This was the official Monty playing the Cambridge card. I would answer his call now because he had answered mine in the past. We walked on in silence, while the memory of my debt to Monty, whose home had been my childhood refuge, worked its way through my consciousness, as he had known it would.

‘Do your people know you’re talking to me?’

‘They told me to come to Berlin.’

‘So it’s official?’

‘We want you to find Krasov,’ he said, ‘but we don’t want you to tell the Finns that you’re in their country looking for a Soviet intelligence officer who’s on the run. It wouldn’t go down too well.’ He was silent for a while, lost in thought. ‘All you have to do is find Krasov, ask him what he wants, see if he’s the genuine article this time and bring the message back to me. Not too hard, is it?’

That was why I was sitting in Hanno Larsen’s flat in Stockholm (whoever Hanno Larsen was) looking at the snow falling, waiting to go to the icy north to find a missing Russian. Suddenly I hated Cambridge and all it stood for in my life, which seemed to be all the difficult things: my relationship with my father, my unfinished degree, the advantage Monty was taking of our friendship and now the Krasov business, in which I had gone from casual bystander to major player without even being consulted. Bloody Cambridge. Would I never be free of its chains?

*

Larsen returned just before five. He did not explain where he had been. ‘You are ready,’ he said. We collected my things and Larsen drove to the harbour. It was snowing harder than before.

‘It will be colder in Finland,’ he said in his mournful voice. ‘You will need this.’

He gave me a fur hat. As we got out of the car, the icy wind cut across the water and took my breath away.

‘A world on its own,’ Larsen said admiringly, looking up at the ferry. It was a mountainous ship, much larger than the surrounding buildings on the quayside, lit up brightly along the length of its hull. Through the portholes I could see the silhouettes of people moving.

‘I wish you good business on your trip,’ Larsen said. I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. We shook hands and I boarded the ferry.

I dropped my bag in my cabin and went to the dining room, drank some brandy to warm myself up, ate smoked fish and potatoes, had more brandy, this time with a group of Finns, some of whom could talk passable English. It was clearly their intention to spend the night in the bar.

A few brandies later, I went out on deck. The Baltic was iron-black, its surface thickening with ice. On either side we passed island after island, grey-black mounds, sometimes illuminated by lights, emerging like mysterious glistening creatures from the water. Clouds obscured the moon and stars and the night was very dark. The snow continued to fall, now driving furiously into our faces. The wind howled an accompaniment to the constant beat of the ship’s engine. I shivered and turned in.

I awoke at dawn. The vibrations had died down and we had slowed. When I went up on deck, it was still very dark. A man next to me spoke in Swedish and pointed at the lights ahead of us. ‘Helsinki,’ he said.

Journey’s end, I thought. Or nearly.

The ship was turning into the narrow entrance of the bay, navigating between two islands that stood like sentries guarding the city.

‘They had guns there in the war,’ my Swedish friend said. By now he had discovered I was English. ‘If they’ve got any sense, they still do.’

We crept slowly towards our berth.

‘A courtesy visit,’ the Swede said, pointing out a Russian warship moored in the harbour. ‘That’s what they call it. A show of strength to keep the Finns in order, more likely. Poor bastards.’

It was indeed very cold, just as Larsen had warned. We walked off the ship, through the customs sheds and out into the freezing morning. It was still dark. I pulled my overcoat around me, burying my face in the collar. Lights danced in front of my eyes as the icy wind swept across the bay.

I had only a short walk to the Palace Hotel, whose frontage faced the harbour. I booked in, had something to eat, slept for a while. My instructions were to wait until I was contacted, though by whom I had no idea. It was still dark when I went out for a walk and a bitter wind whistled down the streets. I went up the Esplanadie, towards the centre of Helsinki, but the cold soon got the better of me and I fled into a bar in the station. It was smoky, crowded and warm. I saw two Russian sailors drinking in a corner.

I was on my second brandy and thawing out when a voice said: ‘Long time no see.’

The American with whom I’d travelled from Berlin was smiling at me as he removed his fur hat, his gloves and scarf and laid them carefully on the floor under his chair.

‘Warm in here,’ he said. ‘Good place to be on a day like this.’ He extended his hand to me. ‘We’ve not introduced ourselves. My name’s Glenn Hammerson.’

‘Good God. What do you make of this, Monty?’

I caught the urgency in Adrian Gardner’s voice. I got up wearily and went over to his desk. He handed me the decrypt he had been studying.

The message from Peter was unequivocal. There had been a serious explosion in the laboratory where the Soviets carried out experiments on a number of the complex technical processes which had to be mastered if they were to make an atomic bomb. Something had gone badly wrong. The building had been destroyed and lives lost. Peter was unable to tell us what had caused the accident, but that didn’t matter. We had the news we needed. The Soviet nuclear programme had suffered a major setback.

Within twenty-four hours Martineau had verified that the laboratory was a wreck (he’d been out to see for himself) and was not likely to be back in service for many months. The early damage assessments from our SOVINT experts put the likely delay to the Soviet schedules at six months. Twenty-four hours later, when Corless reported to the Cabinet Committee, he was able to say that this estimate was too conservative. Closer examination of what Martineau was able to tell us about the devastation at D4 led to the view that the Soviets had probably suffered a catastrophic accident while experimenting with the casting of plutonium, a highly delicate and technical process. The revised view was that the setback could be as much as a year.

Morale in the Department soared. This was a much needed break in what had been a lean period. Corless re-established his own and Peter’s credibility. Corless’s luck turned once more. It was about this time that he became known as ‘Lucky Corless’, the man who could conjure victory out of defeat. It was an epithet that Adrian
Gardner and his faction found hard to oppose. Their star retreated. The Committee settled down once more. We were back at the centre of events.

As Corless reported at our next meeting: ‘Best news we’ve had for ages.’

‘I think we should minute that,’ Arthur Gurney said, loyally writing in his pad as he spoke.

Did I know about Senator Shearing’s visit to London? Hammerson asked.

I’d read about it in the papers, I said, revealing nothing of Monty’s briefing. But that was all.

I didn’t know what happened?

Not a thing, no.

‘Shearing was sent over to investigate your security. Washington is paranoid about these rumours that your people are betraying nuclear secrets to the Soviets. Up to the day he arrived, Shearing was giving you guys a clean bill of health. Then the Krasov business gave his opponents the chance they’d been waiting for and they made a meal of it. Shearing had no case after that and like a good politician he changed sides. Pro-Brit became anti-Brit. His report to the President was short and to the point. Don’t trust the Limeys. Their security’s full of holes.’

Everything he had said so far was consistent with Monty’s version.

The timing, he added, was too good for coincidence. We had to give the Soviets best on that. Somehow they’d got to know about Shearing’s visit (‘probably a fellow-traveller hiding out somewhere in the structure’). It had to be in their interests to maintain the split between the Americans and the British. So they activated Krasov. Made the whole thing as public as they dared.

‘What did they hope to gain by that?’ I asked. Monty had been vague (deliberately so?) on Soviet motives.

Hammerson smiled. ‘They wanted to show Shearing how easy it was to make fools of your security services. Our embassy gave Shearing the Krasov press cuttings on his arrival. The story they told was that you guys couldn’t be trusted to fry an egg. The Reds got a walkover. What could be simpler?’

Krasov killed off any hope of working with the Americans. From the British point of view, that had to be seen as an enormous setback, while the Soviets would regard this split as a success.

‘Some of us think Senator Shearing was wrong,’ Hammerson was saying. ‘We don’t agree the UK is a leaky boat. We believe we should be working together against the Soviet threat, building bombs together, the whole works. We didn’t like what the Soviets did to you guys in London. We think it was a fix, you got shafted and Shearing fell for it. We’re here to get the evidence so we can tell Shearing he’s dancing to a Soviet tune. That’ll shake him. Then we’ll get this freeze rescinded. Who better to tell us that but the man himself, Mr Krasov?’

‘I thought Krasov was in Moscow,’ I said. I was appalled that the Americans were on to Krasov. Had Monty told me everything he knew? Or only enough to get me to do what he wanted?

‘Your people know damn well he’s in Finland, and I guess you’re here because you want to see him too.’

I could have argued with him, denied it, played the innocent, and where would it have got me? He would have been on my heels, dogging me every step of the way. Hammerson read my thoughts.

‘Why don’t we work together on this one?’ he suggested. After all, he argued, we were both a long way from home, stuck out in hostile terrain, the enemy was everywhere around us and it made sense to employ the special relationship, otherwise we might both end up dead in the snow. He didn’t fancy that and he didn’t imagine I did either.

There didn’t seem to be much sense in arguing. I wasn’t sure that Monty would be pleased but there was nothing he could do about it. We shook hands and had another drink. Partners for as long as it took.

‘Time to go,’ Hammerson said, looking at his watch.

We set off down Mannerheimintie, the main street named after Finland’s national hero, and turned left into Salomankatu. We were now in a residential area, the stone buildings imposing in their strength against the elements. Hammerson found the house he was looking for and rang the bell. The door opened and we were ushered quickly into a basement flat. In the smoky gloom I could make out three men.

‘Mika?’ Hammerson said cautiously.

One of the men got to his feet.

‘Glenn.’ He threw his arms round Hammerson.

‘All well?’

‘The police were here earlier. They were looking for some Russian sailors who’d overstayed their leave. They were probably drunk. Or dead.’

Hammerson introduced me as an Englishman he was working with. Mika appeared to accept his explanation of my presence.

‘How is our Russian friend?’

‘Impatient and hungry,’ Mika said. ‘He has a big appetite for a small man but he does not like what we give him to eat.’

‘Let’s put an end to his impatience before he starves to death,’ Hammerson said. It was an order and Mika heard it as such.

‘Everything is ready.’

‘OK. Let’s go.’

Mika led us out into a courtyard at the back of the building. We climbed into an old Russian lorry; one of his silent companions was to drive.

‘Do they understand English?’ Hammerson asked, indicating the two men in the front of the lorry.

‘Not a word,’ Mika said. ‘It’s all right. I know them both.’

‘Have you had any problems?’ Hammerson asked.

‘There are too many Russians in our country at this moment. Security is tight. We have to be vigilant. I’ll be glad when we say goodbye to the little Russian.’

‘I brought you this.’ Hammerson pulled a parcel out of his coat pocket and handed it to Mika, who tore off one corner of the wrapping to reveal bundles of dollars. ‘A token of our appreciation.’

‘Hard currency. My friend, I thank you.’

‘Thank Uncle Sam, not me.’

‘You are his messenger. I thank you. You will thank your uncle for me.’

Mika opened a panel in the floor of the lorry and dropped the parcel into it.

‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

Mika shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sometimes I think yes, sometimes no. Nothing goes to plan in this crazy business. We both know that. This time, we have more problems than usual. Why? Bad luck? Bad timing? Bad people? If things go wrong it does not have to be a crisis.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was difficult crossing the border. Someone did not show when they should have done. Someone else did not follow instructions. The border guards became suspicious. We had dangerous moments. We were all right, nothing happened, but Krasov was scared. I was scared.’

‘Is the network blown?’

‘We don’t think so, no.’

I had the impression he was nowhere near as confident as he wanted to appear. I was sure Hammerson felt the same.

‘But you’re not certain?’

‘All we can be certain of is that if we are caught by the wrong people we will be shot, and if we are caught by the right people we will be imprisoned.’

It wasn’t hard to guess who was who.

‘Our network is for our people, Glenn, not yours. We lend it to you now because of what you have done for us. We are not mercenaries, working to the highest bidder.’

‘We both know that, Mika.’

We drove on in silence. We had left Helsinki now and were out in the country, rolling plains deep with snow on either side of us and in the distance the first sign of hills.

‘We go north first and then we go east,’ Mika said to me. ‘Towards the lakes. In the summer, this is where we sail. Now?’ He looked gloomy. ‘Now, it is a wilderness of snow and ice where we hide our Russian friend.’

‘How well do you know Krasov?’ I asked Hammerson.

‘No one knows Krasov,’ he said. ‘Not even Krasov knows Krasov. He’s a major in the Soviet military intelligence, at least we’ve established that now. He led you a dance in London because his cover was so good. He behaved like a journalist because that’s what he’s been for years. To his masters in Moscow, he was there as a one-task man: all he had to do was perform on the one occasion they told him to, and he did, with distinction. He’s a man with a lot of charm and no morality, a dangerous cocktail.’

‘What’s your interest in him?’ I asked.

Hammerson was surprised by the question. We may have agreed to work together, but did that mean he had to tell me everything?

‘He wants to come and live in America,’ he said with some reluctance. ‘That’s what he tells us, anyway.’

‘Hasn’t he sung that song before?’ I said.

‘I don’t have official sanction to be here,’ he said. ‘I guess it’s much the same for you too.’ Before I could say anything, he added: ‘Nobody wants to be seen in public holding hands with Krasov, but no one wants the other side to get him either. So they entrust him to people like you and me. Look for the written instruction sending us both here and you won’t find any. If things go wrong, the people we work for can disown us. Gives you a good warm feeling, doesn’t it, knowing that officially you don’t exist?’

‘He must have something special we all want,’ I said.

‘The ladies like him,’ Hammerson said. ‘And he plays the piano well. That should be enough for most people, shouldn’t it?’

It was early afternoon but already darkness had fallen and I could no longer make out our surroundings. Hammerson appeared to sleep. Mika smiled at me from time to time but said nothing. We drove on steadily through the frozen countryside. Some hours later, the lorry slowed as we drove over a wooden bridge, expanses of ice on either side. I guessed it was a causeway to an island. Then on to solid ground once more, through a small birch wood until we came to a halt outside what looked like a farmhouse.

Mika helped Hammerson and myself down. I was stiff with cold. Hammerson banged his hands together to get the circulation moving.

‘Come and meet our guest,’ Mika said, leading the way into the house.

I was unprepared for the contrast between the darkness and cold of the world through which we had travelled, and the warmth and light of the room in which we stood. Brightly varnished wooden floors, walls and ceilings, almost orange in colour, reflected chandeliers that threw a glistening light around the room; mirrors and pictures adorned the walls. At the centre of it all was a large ceramic stove, a basket of recently cut logs beside it. Sitting beside the stove was Krasov.

He looked up as we came into the room.

‘My friends,’ he said. ‘Here is man starving to death. Food in this country is uneatable. Be prepared not to live long.’