The Other Side of Silence (27 page)

Anne was still shaking her head. If she'd had a gun she'd probably have shot me.

“You'd thought it all out, hadn't you?” said the monk. “This scheme to sell us the idea that Hollis was a mole.”

“No,” I said loudly. “Wolf hated that word. Moles make molehills, he said. There is no subtlety in that. What Englishman doesn't notice molehills on his beautiful lawn? Wolf preferred to think of this as his cryptic egg scheme, which is something that
kuckucks
do. I'm sorry, cuckoos. A cuckoo is a brood parasite. It lays an egg that's just like all the rest in the host bird's nest, to persuade it to bring up the cuckoo chick as its own. Wolf's idea was that you could equally be persuaded that you had been bringing up a cuckoo chick all along.” I shrugged. “Well, now you know the truth. Hollis was your egg, not ours.”

“If what you say is true,” said the monk, “then perhaps you know of other cryptic eggs in our service.”

I lit my second cigarette with the butt of the first, which I stubbed out in a glass ashtray the monk had shoved in my direction. On purpose I didn't put it out very well and, to his irritation, the cigarette butt continued to smoke for several more minutes.

“The HVA is a new service,” I said evasively. “It takes time to lay an egg like Hollis. So far, only the GRU and the KGB
have had the opportunity to do this. I daresay Wolf is recruiting people in your service as we speak. But they won't hatch for a while.”

“How about Russian eggs,” said the monk. “Perhaps you heard a mention of someone's name when you were last at Karlshorst.”

I thought quickly, recalling the names of the two men I'd overheard Sinclair and Reilly mention while I'd been eavesdropping on their conversation on top of Maugham's roof, and wondering if the old man had told them about that. Perhaps not if he really had suffered a minor stroke. This was the moment I'd been hoping might come along—when the British, already paranoid about Soviet agents in their service, would ask me for names. But I had to play things carefully now. If I was too reluctant to give them any names, they might decide I knew nothing; but if I was too eager, they'd assume I was making it up.

“Perhaps,” I said carefully.

“Maybe you'd care to share a name with us now.”

“In return for what?”

“We could make a deal.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“The kind of immunity deal that gives you back your liberty, perhaps.”

“How do I know I can trust you to keep your word about something like that?”

“You don't. But we're holding all the cards here. Quite frankly, Gunther, I think your only chance is to come clean with us and hope for the best.” He paused. “The way I see it, you've got
nothing to lose. You're burned. Finished. Useless to the Stasi now. We might easily let you go on the basis that you probably won't last five minutes when they find out you've told us everything. Of course, you might survive. Stranger things have happened.”

“Yes, that might work, I suppose.” I nodded thoughtfully. “There is a name I can give you. Two names, actually. For a while they were the two most important Soviet agents in MI6. The question is, which of us is prepared to share them with you now? To some extent I'll only be confirming what you know since one of them is already in the public domain. But the other should prove I'm telling the truth, all right. Although once I've given you these names, I'll have effectively told you what this operation was really about. That this whole operation was set up by the HVA not only to blacken the name of Roger Hollis but more importantly, to salvage the reputation of someone else. Someone even more important, perhaps. Someone who might yet still make a comeback as the KGB's top man in MI6. Someone who was always a better spy than Roger Hollis.”

“I've already explained what this is about,” insisted Anne. “What are you talking about, Gunther? This is complete fantasy.”

“Herr Gunther, we both know you don't really have a choice here,” insisted the monk. “I'm sure you know the difficulty you are in. The difficulty we are both in. There is no legal process available to you, or for that matter to us. Then again, we can hardly let you go, can we? Unless and until we're convinced that you've told us everything, I'm afraid I can't answer for the consequences. Some of my more muscular colleagues favor taking
you out to sea and dropping you over the side with a weight around your ankles. Ever since the defections of Messrs. Burgess and Maclean, morale has been low in our service. I'm afraid that killing you and Herr Hennig would help to restore a sense that the balance has been redressed. I sincerely hope it doesn't come to that. For your own sake I urge you to cooperate fully.”

“All right,” I said. “But I have to say there's something I don't understand.”

“What's that?” asked the monk.

“Why hasn't she told you this? I don't understand you, Anne. Why are you trying to protect him? It's all over for me and you and Hennig. The best we can hope for is to try and cut some deal before they throw us all in jail.”

“This is fantasy,” Anne told the monk again. “Look, I've told you everything there is to know. The whole bloody operation. I'm not holding anything back. But for me, the deputy director of MI5 would probably be suspended pending an investigation. Wouldn't he? It's only because of me that you know anything at all. But for me, you'd be in the dark about all this.”

No one spoke. Anne looked furtive now, even a little desperate. The trouble was that everyone believed her lie, which meant she could hardly contradict mine without compromising her own.

“Why on earth would I hold something back now?” she said. “It makes absolutely no sense. He's making this up to try and make me look bad in your eyes and to save his own skin. That much is obvious.”

“Anne French is telling you she doesn't know this man's
name,” I said. “But I have to tell you now that she and I have had more than one lengthy conversation about him. While we were in bed. So I'm afraid she's lying when she tells you she doesn't know what I'm talking about.”

“What? That's a load of crap,” said Anne.

“Is it?” I asked smugly. “Look, the last time I saw her I had absolutely no sense that she was experiencing any crisis of conscience about her actions. None at all. She was cool and very collected. If I'd had even half an idea that she was going to betray Hennig and me I'd have put a bullet in her head without a moment's hesitation.” I frowned and wagged a finger in her direction. “When last I met with Anne French all of her questions were about Sir John Sinclair and MI6, not MI5. Was it possible that proving that Roger Hollis was a Russian spy would help to put our man in the clear again? That kind of thing.”

“Tell me you're not going to believe any of this Fascist bastard's nonsense,” said Anne.

“I don't know,” confessed the monk. “Really I don't. It's a most intriguing picture you paint, Herr Gunther. It is as if you really do have the names of two men who have spied for the Soviet Union in MI6. Do you? I wonder.”

“Look,” said Anne, “it's perfectly obvious he's just going to give you the name of Sir John Sinclair or Patrick Reilly. Or that other queer who was at the hotel. The art curator. Blunt. He's bluffing you, like this was a game of bridge. There is no Soviet agent in MI6, I tell you. At least none that we know of.”

“Look, we all know that there's an easy way to prove who's
telling the truth here,” I said. “We should both agree to write down two names at the same time. Then you can decide for yourself what her real intentions are here, gentlemen. To help, or to hinder. If these names are not under some suspicion in the British secret service, then I'll be the one facing a midnight boat trip, not her. I've already put up my hands to everything of which I've been accused. So, I've nothing at all to lose, have I? Can this beautiful lady honestly say the same?”

The monk handed me a pencil and a sheet of paper. “Very well,” he said. “I'm going to do what she's been urging me to do for several minutes. To call your bluff. Write it down, Gunther. Write down the names. But woe betide you if you're wrong, my German friend.”

“With pleasure.”

I tore the sheet of paper in half, wrote the name
JOHN CAIRNCROSS
, and handed it to the monk.

“This first man has already confessed to being a Soviet spy,” I said. “However, his name is not yet known outside of MI6. So I couldn't possibly have known about him unless someone in the HVA had told me. Agreed?”

The monk read the name and passed it to one of his colleagues.

I prepared to write the second name, uncertain now of how to spell it. English has such peculiar, idiosyncratic spellings. The Christian name was short and obvious. But the surname was something else, like a type of felt hat beloved of English gentlemen. If I made a muck of it I was a dead man, without question.
For a second or two I considered beginning the name with an “F” but changed my mind and, praying that Maugham had not mentioned to the spymasters my having listened to the conversation of Sinclair and Reilly while I was up on the roof, I wrote it with a “Ph,” like Philip. When I finished, I handed the paper back to the monk. On it was written the name
KIM PH
ILBY
.

“I suspect,” I said, “that restoring the reputation of this second man was, perhaps, what this operation was always all about.”

The monk looked at the name without betraying a flicker of recognition and then showed it to his two colleagues, whose reactions were equally gnomic.

“Now then, Miss French, I wonder if you'd mind doing the same as Herr Gunther,” said the monk, handing her the pencil and another piece of paper. “Take your time. But write down the names of anyone who was spying for the KGB in MI6, if you can.”

Anne stared at me for a moment with tight-lipped malevolence. Her early cool demeanor was gone; she'd even started biting her thumbnail.

“I already told you,” she said evenly. “Are you deaf? I don't know the name of any Soviet agents in MI6.” She tossed the pencil away and crushed the paper into a ball, which she now threw at me. “I can't tell you what I don't know, can I? He's lying. Neither of us knows the name of any Soviet agents in MI6.”

“Anne French ought to be the one person you people can trust because she's already betrayed the HVA's Hollis operation to you,” I said. “And, of course, it's perfectly understandable that you should trust her. Christ, I know I would. Anyone would. At
great personal risk she's told you everything about Othello and in considerable detail. That's undeniable. Did you hear me deny it for very long? No. I've confirmed it and so has Harold Hennig. Well, more or less. But if I have supplied the names of two men who've been Soviet agents in MI6 and she says she can't, then where does that leave your opinion of her? And of me? Clearly she's demonstrated her loyalty to her own country and to you, and yet she says she knows nothing at all about any Soviet agents in MI6. It's puzzling.” I looked at her and smiled kindly. “You might as well tell them, Anne. I really don't think that either one of those names is going to be such a surprise to them.”

“Fuck you,” she hissed.

“You already did, sweetheart. In bed. Several times. And then in here. But do let me know if I've forgotten somewhere else.”

T
he thugs from Portsmouth took me back to the red room, only this time they didn't chain my hand to the radiator, or leave the light on, or even hit me, for which I was grateful. So I wandered round the room for a while, for the exercise, stood at the window, opened it, and then pushed at the louvered shutters. I was glad of the fresh air, but the shutters themselves didn't shift a centimeter, not even with all my weight against the center gap. It was dark outside and I had no idea what time it was. I could hear and smell the sea and I longed to be outside. I felt sick and terribly tired. My jaw still ached and I was longing for a bath.

“Be careful what you wish for, Gunther,” I said to myself.
“They might take you for a bath in the sea. The kind of bath for which you won't need any soap. Just a pair of concrete overshoes.”

I went to the red room's door, held my breath, and listened. I could hear nothing but silence, but I didn't doubt that they were probably talking about me; I'd given the Englishmen a great deal to discuss. And even if they didn't believe a word of it, at least I'd managed to upset Anne French. That alone would have been worth the effort. After a while I lay down on the floor by the window and closed my sore eyes. I'm not sure how long I slept but it was still dark when I awoke and for several pleasant minutes I stayed there with no knowledge of who or where I was. According to
Betty Cornell's Popularity Guide
, you should always be yourself, but a lifetime's experience had taught me differently. With my background, being yourself can easily get you killed. Minutes passed and I got up and made a token effort to push the shutters again, but they were just as unyielding as they'd been before. So I walked back to the radiator and managed to find what was left of the water they'd given me earlier. I drank it and returned to the door and listened. This time something was different. The house remained silent but now I felt a cool draft of air on my feet and when I dropped down onto my stomach to peer under the doorway I felt it on my face, too. A door was wide open somewhere. The front door perhaps. And an old prisoner's instinct told me that if the front door was open then maybe another was, too. I stood up, grasped the brass handle, turned it gently, and pulled. The red room door was unlocked
and opened with barely a creak. At the end of a long, unlit corridor I'd paid little attention to earlier, the main door was standing wide open. I waited for several long, frigid moments to see if someone came in, but I had a strong feeling that no one would and that the British had gone. I walked to the front door as quietly as I could and stepped outside onto the terrace, into the overgrown front garden, still half expecting that someone would emerge from the shadows and hit me, or worse, put a bullet in me. But nothing happened except I learned where I was. The house was situated somewhere on the slopes of Mont Boron, just to the south of Villefranche and overlooking Nice, to the west. It was a typical three-story bastide with peeling yellow walls and blue shutters. There were no lights on in any of the windows and no cars parked on the drive. The place looked deserted, almost derelict. For a moment I considered making a run for it down the graveled drive. Instead, curiosity got the better of me and I went back inside the big house. The room with the cobwebbed chandelier was deserted now except that my shoes lay on the table, next to my watch, a packet of cigarettes and some matches, and a set of small keys on a ring. I put on my shoes, grabbed the keys, and started to explore. Gradually it became even more obvious that the house was empty. I even risked switching on some lights, and it wasn't long before I found Harold Hennig, chained to a radiator in one of the larger bedrooms up on the first floor like some forgotten prisoner in the Bastille. I decided that if I looked anything like him I was in bad
shape. He was unshaven and had a blue eye the size of a beetroot from when he'd been slugged.

“So this is where you've been hiding,” I said.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said, blinking uncomfortably at the light.

“I don't know. Maybe I'm supposed to be the caretaker. They're gone, you see. The English. And I don't think they're coming back. Dunkirk all over again. There's no one here but you and me and—for all I know—the man in the iron mask.”

“Are you sure?”

“The longer I stay here talking, the more sure of it I am.” I dangled the keys in front of his face. “I found these on the table in the room next door.”

“So?”

“Nothing. But I've an idea they might fit that bracelet you're wearing.”

“How come you weren't chained up?”

“Somebody had to release you, I suppose.”

“They obviously don't know us very well,” he said.

“It's best you don't remind me of that,” I said. “I'm just liable to change my mind about this.”

I tried the key on the handcuffs he was wearing. The lock opened.

“Why are you helping me?”

“I'm not sure anyone else would come and find you here. The place looks more or less disused. I guess I'm not the type
who can leave a man to die like that. Chained to a radiator like an abandoned dog. Even if it is what you probably deserve.”

“Thanks.”

“I'd be grateful if you didn't mention it.”

“If the English spies left you unchained they must have believed something of what you said.”

“Perhaps.” I thought about Kim Philby, the Soviet agent in MI6, and reflected that but for my remembering his name, the English wouldn't have believed a word of it.

“More than I did. I could see what you were up to, Gunther. And I congratulate you. That was quite a performance, the way you took the wind out of her sails with your story. I thought the best thing I could do—the only thing, to help your crazy story along, I mean, and fuck her up—was to try and hit you.” He moved his jaw in the palm of his hand. “I just didn't realize that English bastard would punch me so hard. He knocked me out cold.”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“But this has to be a trap,” said Hennig, rubbing his wrist and flexing his hand. “The English will probably shoot us when we try to walk out of the front door, don't you think?”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don't know. But why would they let us escape, either? It doesn't make sense.”

“Perhaps it makes more sense than you think,” I said. “As far as they're concerned, we're an embarrassment to them. And no
use to the Stasi. I doubt Comrade General Erich Mielke would ever believe that the British secret service just let you escape, would he?”

“No, he certainly wouldn't.”

“In which case the British think we're both burned. As good as dead. There's no need to kill us if they think that the Stasi will do it for them, in time. Presumably Hollis has been cleared of suspicion, and you and I are of no further use to them. So letting us escape is the simplest, least embarrassing, and most diplomatic solution. I wouldn't be at all surprised if that's what happened to Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean. That the Brits let them escape to Russia. To avoid a scandal. The British just hate scandals.”

“Any sign of Anne French?”

“Not so far.”

“That double-crossing bitch. I'd love to catch up with her again.”

“You were sleeping with her, too, then?”

“Of course. From way back. I'm afraid she was using you, old boy. I suppose we both were. Sorry about that. Comrade Mielke's orders.” He stood up and rubbed his jaw again. “You really think they're just going to let us walk out of here?”

“Yes, I do. But I still think we should get moving in case someone else shows up. The local police, perhaps. Or even the real caretaker.”

Hennig followed me out of the house, through the unkempt grounds and along a quiet main road that took us down Mont
Boron and toward Villefranche, with me glancing over my shoulder from time to time to make sure he wasn't carrying a rock with which to hit me on the head. I wouldn't have put it past him. By now Hennig and I knew the road we were on was going to lead us right by Anne's villa, but neither of us said anything about that. We didn't need to. It was almost dawn when we reached the place on Avenue des Hespérides, and although the front gates were locked with a heavy chain, neither of us hesitated for a moment; we climbed over the gates and walked up the drive, but it was soon apparent that the villa was empty. There was no sign of her car, either. Hennig insisted we make sure she was gone and even clambered up to peer through the windows of her bedroom to check that she wasn't hiding in there.

“The closets and drawers are all open,” he called down to me. “Looks like she packed in a hurry.”

“I'll bet she did.”

He dropped down onto the terrace beneath her window and let out a sigh. “Bitch,” he said. “To treat me like this after all we went through together. I can't understand it.”

“She must have left with the British,” I said, ignoring the pang of regret I felt at his casual mention of their earlier intimacy. “Perhaps she's gone with them to the Belle Aurore Hotel on the Cap.”

“Maybe,” said Hennig. “But my guess is that they're already on a boat to somewhere further along the coast. Or on a private plane back to London. Either way it doesn't look like she's coming back here soon.”

He knew where a key to the guesthouse was hidden in the garden and let us in through the front door. He switched on a light and found a cigarette in a drawer and then a bottle in a cabinet.

“You seem to know your way around,” I observed grimly.

“I've been staying here when I wasn't at either of the hotels on the Cap,” he explained. “I kept the tapes here. Want a cognac? I know I need one.”

I thought about the state I'd left my stomach in after two bottles of schnapps; I was only just over that particular hangover.

“Sure,” I said. “Make it a large one.”

“Is there any other kind for men like us?”

He handed me a fist-size tumbler like his own and we both downed the brandy in a couple of gulps. Meanwhile I glanced around the room, noticing first that Anne's portable typewriter was gone and then that the Hallicrafters radio had been put beyond use with a hammer that now lay on the stone-flagged floor like a murder weapon.

“Looks like someone has been in here, too,” I said.

“Looks like.”

“Her?”

“More likely the British. Just in case either of us felt like radioing Berlin.”

“I wouldn't know how.”

“No, but I would. As soon as they find out that she's betrayed this operation, she's dead anyway. They'll send a squad of killers after her.”

“Why?”

“Because that's what they do.”

I went into the bathroom for a pee and saw my forgotten jacket was still hanging on the back of the door where I'd left it on the night I'd come from Julia Rose's house in La Turbie. That seemed a long time ago now. Because the early morning air was cool, I put the jacket on. When I came out of the bathroom Hennig was pacing up and down like a neurotic bear, with another drink in his hand. There were even tears on his cheeks and I almost felt sorry for him, he looked so like the way I felt myself.

“It's a pity,” he said. “I really would have liked to get even with that damn woman myself. I feel really angry about it. Jesus, I think she affected me much more than I realized.”

I shrugged. “Get used to it. I have.”

“No, really.” He put down his tumbler, picked up the hammer, and hefted it meaningfully for a moment before tossing it onto the sofa. “I think bashing her brains in would make me feel so much better. I don't know how else a man is supposed to heal after something happens to him like that.”

“In this particular case, getting away alive is the best revenge, don't you think?”

“Says you. Me, I think I'd prefer to bash in her brains. But slowly, you know. I'd like to take the time to enjoy it. One blow a minute.”

“You're just saying that. And you think it will be sweet. But take it from one who knows. It isn't. It never is.”

“What are you? Hamlet? Look, Gunther, don't try to handle me. I know what I want, okay?”

“Then it's just as well she's not here, I guess.”

“It makes no difference,” he said. “One day I will catch up with her and I'll pay her back.”

“You mean that, don't you?”

“Of course I do. She'll walk into a hotel room and I'll be there, waiting behind the door, with a garrote in my hand.”

I shrugged. “Have it your own way.”

“You really don't feel the same? She betrayed you. She played you like a hand of cards. Believe me, if anyone should want to kill her, it's you, Gunther.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“Of course I'm right.”

“As a matter of interest, what were your orders, Hennig? Just to help discredit Roger Hollis, I suppose.”

“That's right. It was a good operation, too. And it would have worked but for Anne French. She's got a mad streak, don't you think? Either that or the woman is made of steel. Probably both.”

“Of course, it's perfectly conceivable that it wasn't Anne who betrayed you, but Mielke and Wolf. That the whole operation was really meant to put Roger Hollis back in good odor with his Whitehall masters. That she was told to do it from the outset.”

“I don't understand.”

“Don't you? I'm afraid I've formed the opinion that she was always meant to betray your operation. Yes, from the very beginning. That those were General Wolf's orders. I'm afraid I really
didn't buy all that stuff about falling out of love with the Communist Party. It would certainly explain why Wolf picked her and not someone with family back in the GDR, who could be threatened with reprisal. No one like that would ever have done what she did.”