The Secret Pilgrim (20 page)

“Which papers did you present at the Austrian border?”

“My Hungarian passport, Your Excellency. In Vienna I was given German papers.”

Sweat was forming on his upper lip. His German was fluent but unmistakably Balkan. He had travelled by train, he said: Budapest, Györ, Vienna, Herr Doktor. His masters had given him a cold chicken and a bottle of wine for the journey. With best pickles, Your Honour, and paprika. More smiles. Arriving in Vienna, he had checked in at the Altes Kaiserreich Hotel, near the railway
station, where a room had been reserved for him. A humble room, a humble hotel, Your Excellency, but I am a humble man. It was at the hotel, late at night, that he was visited by a Hungarian gentleman whom he had not seen before—“But I suspect he was a diplomat, Herr Doktor. He was distinguished like yourself!” This gentleman gave him his money and documents, he explained— and the arsenal that lay before us on the table.

“Where are you staying in Munich?”

“It is a modest guesthouse on the edge of town, Herr Doktor,” he replied, with an apologetic smile. “More a brothel. Yes, a brothel. One sees many men there, coming and going all the time.” He told me its name, and I had half a notion he was going to recommend a girl as well.

“Did they tell you to stay there?”

“For the discretion, Herr Doktor. The anonymity. Please.”

“Do you have luggage there?”

He gave the poor man's shrug, quite unlike the Professor's. “A toothbrush,” he said. “Some clothes. A bag, sir. Modest materials.”

In Hungary he was by vocation an agricultural journalist, he said, but he had made himself a second living working for the secret police, first as an informer, and more recently, for the money, as assassin. He had performed certain duties inside Hungary but preferred—forgive him, Excellency—not to say what these were until he was assured he would not be prosecuted in the West. The Professor was his first “foreign duty,” but the thought of killing him had offended his sense of decorum.

“The Professor is a man of format, Herr Doktor! Of reputation! He is not some Jew or priest! Why should I kill this man? I'm a respectable human being, good heavens! I have my honour! Please!”

“Tell me your orders.”

They were not complicated. He was to ring the Herr Professor's doorbell, they had said—so he had rung it. The Professor was sure to be at home, since on Wednesdays he gave private tuition until
nine, they had said.—The Professor was indeed at home.—He should describe himself as a friend of Pali from Debrecen.—He had taken the liberty not to describe himself in these terms.—Once inside the house, he should kill the Herr Professor by whatever means seemed appropriate, but preferably the garotte, since it was sure and silent, though there was always a regrettable danger of decapitation. He should kill Helena also, they said—perhaps kill her first, depending on who opened the door to him, they were not particular. It was for this contingency that he had brought a second garotte. With a garotte, Herr Doktor, he explained helpfully, one could never be sure of being able to disentangle the instrument after use. He should then telephone a number in Bonn, ask for Peter, and report that “Susi will be staying with friends tonight”— Susi being the Professor's codename for the operation, Excellency. This was the signal for success, though in the present circumstance, Herr Doktor, it must be admitted that he had not been successful. Giggle.

“Telephone from here?” I asked.

“From this house, exactly. To Peter. Please. They are violent men, Herr Doktor. They threaten my family. I have no choice, naturally. I have a daughter. They gave me strict instructions: ' ‘From the Professor's house you will telephone Peter.'”

This also surprised me. Since the Professor was identified to the Hungarian secret police as a Western asset—and had been for fifteen years—one might suppose they would be suspicious of his telephone.

“What do you do if you've failed?” I asked.

“If the duty cannot be fulfilled—if the Herr Professor has guests, or is for some reason not available—I am to ring from a phone box and say that Susi is on her way home.”

“From any particular phone box?”

“All phone boxes are suitable, Herr Doktor, in the event of a non-completion. Peter may then give further instructions, he may not. If not, I return at once to Budapest. Alternatively, Peter may
say, ‘Try again tomorrow,' or he may say, ‘Try in two days.' It is all in the hands of Peter in this case.”

“What is the Bonn telephone number?”

He recited it.

“Turn out your pockets.”

A khaki handkerchief, some badly printed family snaps, including some of a young girl, presumably his daughter, three East European condoms, an open packet of Russian cigarettes, a wobbly tin penknife of obvious Eastern manufacture, a stub of unpainted pencil, 960 West German marks, some small change. The return half of a second-class rail ticket, Vienna–Munich–Vienna. I never in my life saw such miserably assembled pockets. Did the Hungarian Service have no despatchers? Checkers? What the Devil were they thinking of?

“And your raincoat,” I said, and watched him fetch it from the hall. It was brand-new. The pockets were empty. It was of Austrian manufacture and good quality. It must have cost serious Western money.

“Did you buy this in Vienna?”

“
Jawohl,
Herr Doktor. It was raining cats and dogs and I had no protection.”

When?”

“Please?”

“What with?”

“Please?”

I discovered he could anger me quite quickly. “You caught the first train this morning, right? It left Vienna before the shops opened, right? You didn't get your money till late last night when the Hungarian diplomat visited you. So when did you buy the coat and what did you use for money? Or did you steal it? Is that the answer?”

First he frowned, then he laughed indulgently at my breach of good manners. It was clear that he forgave me. He opened his hands to me in generosity. “But I bought it last night, Herr
Doktor!” When I arrived at the station! With my personal
Valuten
that I brought with me from Hungary for shopping, naturally! I am not a liar! Please!”

“Did you keep the receipt?”

He shook his head sagely, advice to a younger man. “To keep receipts, Herr Doktor? I give you this advice. To keep receipts is to invite questions about where you get your money. A receipt—it's like a spy in the pocket. Please.”

Too many excuses, I thought, releasing myself from the brilliance of his smile. Too many answers in one paragraph. All my instincts told me to trust nobody and nothing about the story that was being told me. It was not so much the sloppiness of the assassination plan that strained my credulity—the implausible documents, the contents of the pockets, the shoes—not even the basic improbability of the mission. I had seen enough of low-level Soviet satellite operations to regard such amateurishness as the norm. What disturbed me about these people was the unreality of their behaviour in my company, the feeling there was one story for me and one for them; that I had been brought here to perform a function, and the collective will required me to shut up and get on with it.

Yet at the same time I was trapped. I had no choice, and no time, but to take everything they had told me at face value. I was in the position of a doctor who, while suspecting a patient of malingering, has no option but to treat his symptoms. By the laws of the game, Latzi was a prize. It was not every day that a Hungarian assassin offered to defect to the West, no matter how incompetent he was. By the same token, the man was in considerable danger, since it was unthinkable that an assassination operation of this consequence could be launched without separate surveillance.

When in doubt, says the handbook, take the operational line. Were they watching the house? It was necessary to assume so, though it was not an easy house to watch, which was what had commended it to Teodor's handlers fifteen years ago. It stood at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac and backed on to the river. The way into
the garden led along a deserted tow-path. But the front porch was visible to anybody passing by, and Latzi could have already been observed entering it.

I went upstairs and from the landing window surveyed the road. The neighbouring houses were in darkness. I saw no sign of stray cars or people. My own car was parked in the next sidestreet, close to the river. I returned to the drawing room. The telephone was on the bookcase. I handed Latzi the receiver and watched him dial the number in Bonn. His hands were girlish and moist. Obligingly, he tilted the earpiece in my direction, and himself with it. He smelt of old blanket and Russian tobacco. The phone rang out, I heard a man's voice, very grumpy, speaking German. For somebody awaiting news of a killing, I thought, you're doing a good job of pretending you aren't.

A thick accent, presumably Hungarian: “Hullo? Yes? Who is it?”

I nodded to Latzi to go ahead.

“Good evening, sir. I wish, please to speak to Mr. Peter.” “What about?”

“Is this Mr. Peter, please? It is a private matter.”

“What do you want?”

“Is this Peter?”

“My name is Peter!”

“It is regarding Susi, Mr. Peter,” Latzi explained, with sideways wink at me. “Susi will not be coming home tonight, Mr. Peter. She will be staying with friends, I am afraid. Good friends. She will be looked after. Good night, Mr. Peter.”

He was about to replace the receiver, but I stayed his hand long enough to hear a growl of contempt or incomprehension the other end before he rang off.

Latzi smiled at me, very pleased with himself. “He plays it well, Herr Doktor. A true professional, I would say. A fine actor, you agree?”

“Did you recognise the voice?”

“No, Herr Doktor. Alas, the voice is not familiar to me.”

I shoved open the study door. The Professor sat at his desk, his fists in front of him. Helena sat on the tutorial sofa. I felt a need to acquaint the Professor with my scepticism. I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me.

“The man Latzi, as you call him, is a criminal,” I said. “Either he's some kind of confidence trickster, or he's a self-confessed murderer who came to Germany on false papers in order to kill you and your wife. Either way, you're within your rights to turn him over to the West German police and be done with him. Do you want to do that? Or do you want to leave the decisions to us? Which?”

To my surprise, he appeared for the first time that evening genuinely alarmed. Perhaps he had not expected to be challenged. Perhaps the proximity of his own death had dawned on him. Either way, I had the impression he was attaching more importance to my question than I understood. Helena had turned her eyes away from me and was watching him also. Critically. A woman waiting to be paid.

“Do whatever you must do,” he muttered.

“Then you must do as I ask. Both of you.”

“We are cooperative. We shall be—yes, cooperative. We have been—cooperative—for many years. Too many.”

I glanced at Helena.

“It will be my husband's responsibility,” she said.

I had no time to ponder the mysteries of this ominous statement. “Then please put together some night things and be ready at the garden door in five minutes,” I said, and returned to the drawing room and Latzi.

I think he had been standing at the door for he stepped quickly back as I entered, then clasped his hands to his chin and beamed at me, asking what was
gefällig—
what was my pleasure?

“Have you ever seen the Professor before tonight?”

“No, sir. Only photographs. One would admire him anywhere.

A true aristocrat.”

“And his wife?”

“She is known to me, sir. Naturally.”

“How?”

“She was once an actress, Herr Doktor, one of the best in Budapest.”

“And you saw her on the stage?”

Another pause. “No, sir.”

“Then where did you see her?”

He was trying to read me. I had the impression he was wondering whether she might have told me something, and he was trimming his answers accordingly.

“Theatre bills, Your Excellency. When she was young, her famous face was on every street corner. All young men loved her— I was no exception.”

“Where else?”

He saw that I had nothing. And I saw that he saw. “So sad about a woman's looks, Herr Doktor. A man, he can remain impressive until he is eighty. A woman—” he sighed.

I let him pack together his weapons, then took possession of them. I loaded the soft-nosed bullets into the revolver. As I did so, a thought occurred to me.

“When I walked in here, the cylinder was empty and the bullets were spread on the table.”

“Correct, Excellency.”

“When did you take the bullets out of the cylinder?” I asked. “Before entering the house. So that I could demonstrate my peaceful intentions. Naturally.”

“Naturally.”

As we moved to the hall, I shoved the revolver into my waist-band.

“If you take it into your head to run away, I shall shoot you in the back,” I explained to him, and had the satisfaction of seeing his little eyes swivel in alarm. Professional assassins, it seemed, did not take kindly to their own medicine.

I tossed him his raincoat and glanced round the room for other traces of him. There were none. I ordered silence and led the three of them into the garden and along the tow-path to my car. A famous actress, I thought, and not a word about it on the file. I put the Professor and Helena in the back, and Latzi in the front beside me. Then we sat still for five minutes while I waited for the slightest sign that we were being watched. Nothing. It was by now midnight and a new moon had risen among the stars. I circled the town, keeping a watch on my mirror, then took the autobahn south-west to the Starnbergersee, where we kept a safe house for briefing and debriefing joes in passage. It lay close to the lake's edge and was manned by two murderous long-haired wonders left over from London Station's Lamplighters Section. They were called Jeffrey and Arnold. Arnold was hovering in the doorway by the time we reached it. One hand was in the pocket of his kaftan. The other hung threateningly to his side.