November Man Page 6

  After everything, he thought, she still believes in God. But then, since the attack, hadn’t he been invoking God constantly?

  Immediately another thought occupied his mind. The promise of weekly visits precluded any American flight, he decided. He needed protection from another paymaster. He sighed, unsettled at the idea of approaching Moscow. They’d see the request as a weakness and try to capitalize upon it, he feared.

  Three thousand, five hundred miles away in Washington, it was announced that James Murray had been withdrawn as ambassador to Paris to become foreign affairs adviser to the President.

  And in the Oval Office of the White House, the Party hierarchy accepted it as a brilliant strategy and agreed with Marvin Bell that Murray would get the convention’s nomination in two months’ time.

  Hollis put the magazine to one side, apparently uninterested.

  ‘I’ve been misquoted several times,’ he complained.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Marion, not bothering to disguise her boredom.

  ‘But not badly.’

  There was no mention of an insane father, he saw gratefully.

  ‘No, not badly,’ she accepted again.

  What would James be doing now, she wondered, staring at her husband. A year, she mused bitterly. A whole bloody year, manacled to the man. She’d tell James soon, forcing his awareness of the sacrifice she was making.

  ‘Do you want to come to Leipzig with me?’ he asked, suddenly.

  A boring man in a boring country, she thought. Jesus Christ!

  ‘No,’ she said decisively.

  He picked up the colour supplement again, studying it.

  ‘Please yourself,’ he said.

  When the time comes, she thought, I will.

  Melkovsky was very annoyed, Turgonev realized.

  ‘Nothing?’ demanded the minister.

  The K.G.B. officer shook his head.

  ‘He’s been cautious,’ amplified Turgonev. ‘But then, Hugo always is. There’s not been the slightest indication of any behaviour different from what I would have expected.’

  ‘You’re sure he would have realized it was an attempt on his life?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  Melkovsky shrugged reluctantly.

  ‘I suppose the extra files could be duplicates,’ he allowed.

  Turgonev didn’t reply. Within two months, he thought, he would know the identity of Melkovsky’s informant.

  ‘So what do we do?’ he asked.

  ‘Involve him in the Hollis affair,’ said Melkovsky, immediately. ‘Using him will take the uncertainty out of it: I’ve never questioned his ability, only his loyalty.’

  Turgonev nodded.

  ‘You do it, personally,’ instructed the minister. He paused, refusing to relax the pressure completely on the Austrian Jew.

  ‘Let him know we’re aware of his wife,’ he insisted. ‘Keep him apprehensive.’

  A bully. reflected Turgonev again. Just a boorish bully. It was important to discover the traitor within his own organization, he determined. Melkovsky could never be allowed any hold over him.

  (6)

  Altmann paid the airport taxi off several streets away from his apartment in Vienna’s Sonnenfelsgasse and then approached it through the interlocking courtyards of the old city, one of the varying routes he had followed since the attack.

  Fifty yards from the apartment-block entrance he pulled into a doorway, peering into the night. Far away, two clocks began striking, racing each other to midnight He let thirty full minutes pass, confident that even the most professional watcher would shift position and reveal himself in that time. Finally satisfied, he pushed away from the concealment, but still kept close to where the buildings abutted the pavement, deep in the shadows.

  He stopped again, for the final check, three doors away, then covered the final distance in a scurrying dash that carried him breathless to the first-floor apartment.

  He stopped immediately inside the door, leaning back against it, air rasping from his lungs. He winced at the sudden pain in his chest, a tightening constriction that made it difficult to breath. He gripped the door-edge to stop himself crying out. He’d have to approach Moscow immediately, he decided, knowing the physical pain was a manifestation of his fear.

  It took several minutes for the discomfort to go and for his breathing to become normal.

  Unsteadily he walked farther into the flat in which he had once naïvely believed he and Hannah would make a home again. She would have been happy here, he thought, looking round. He had tried verv hard to recreate the home she had known as a girl, the apartment into which he had finally been admitted to fumble the words asking her parents to allow their marriage. His chances had improved, of course. The sophisticated suitors had stopped calling by 1938. Only Hugo Altmann had remained to court the daughter of Vienna’s leading Jew, and they had been grateful for the offer then, even indicating a partnership in the business as a bribe.

  And Hannah had accepted him, too. Had the hesitation he still remembered so vividly really been shyness, he wondered, greeting his perpetual doubt. Or had it been her reluctant acceptance of the only chance likely to come her way? Shyness, he thought, attempting another familiar reassurance.

  That could be the only conclusion from the tender, stumbling embarrassment of their two-week idyll of married life, so brutally shattered by that 1 a.m. knock. She had been so frightened, he recalled, as they pulled her, still a virgin, from a bed so much like the one he had installed in the apartment.

  He shuddered, his vision fogging at the recollection of how they’d fondled and abused her, standing in that pristine white nightdress, that gorgeous hair braided in pigtails, her face clouded with shame and misunderstanding and puzzlement why he didn’t do anything to stop it. How little that abuse seemed against the humiliations later at the camp, with its ‘satisfy or die’ brothels and obscene stage-shows for the officers, at which he, the compliant, frightened trusty, had served the champagne and schnapps, ever anxious to please.

  And live.

  The strident doorbell broke into the self-accusing reverie, startling him. Immediately his stomach leapt and he groped out, feeling for a chair-back. They wouldn’t announce their presence by ringing the bell, he tried to convince himself. If they intended a second attempt, there would have been another forced entry, very late, when they knew he would be asleep.

  He went silently to the door and stood, listening, ear pressed to the woodwork. There was complete silence from the other side. The bell sounded again, over-loud, and he jumped, his nerves stretched.

  ‘Who is it?’ he demanded. His voice quivered unevenly.

  The answer came in a whisper, confusing him, and he made the man repeat it and even then opened the door on the chain, staring through the crack at such an angle that he could have avoided almost any attack.

  Having confirmed it was Turgonev, Altmann released the door fully, standing back for the Russian to enter. He took care locking it before turning back into the room.

  ‘Always under perfect control, Hugo,’ complimented Turgonev lightly. ‘I thought you’d be surprised to see me.’

  The Russian rarely strayed across from the East, Altmann knew. Nearly always their previous meetings had been in Moscow. Altmann waited, intrigued.

  Turgonev shivered, as if cold.

  ‘I’ve waited fc three hours,’ he complained.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ invited Altmann, unimpressed. It was a lie, he knew. With Turgonev risking a crossing, they would have discovered exactly where he was and been aware of the precise moment of his landing. And his apartment would have been under surveillance, so that not until he had entered would Turgonev have come from the safe house somewhere in the city to make his approach. It meant he’d failed to detect the observation, Altmann realized. He was getting old, he thought. Perhaps too old.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said, over his shoulder.

  The Russian looked at him, head to one side, surprised at the tone
of the other man’s voice.

  ‘What’s the matter, Hugo?’

  ‘Nothing,’ dismissed Altmann, unsettled by the colonel’s arrival. It was almost too much of a coincidence, thought the Austrian. He stared at Turgonev, who returned the look blankly.

  ‘Cognac?’ offered Altunann.

  ‘Of course,’ accepted the Russian.

  Altmann gushed liquor into the glass and Turgonev took it at arm’s length, mocking the quantity. Untasted, he placed it on the side-table, then stared back at the Austrian.

  ‘What’s the matter, Hugo?’ he repeated.

  Altmann hesitated. Let the Russian make the running, he decided, still unsure.

  ‘How’s Hannah?’ demanded Turgonev, remembering Melkovsky’s instructions.

  Altmann stood with his back to the other man, pouring wine for himself. It was a strange opening, he decided. Almost as if the man wished to frighten him. It indicated closer than normal observation. Could it mean they’d witnessed the attempt on his life?

  ‘No better,’ he replied, still looking away.

  ‘So the new drugs aren’t having much effect?’

  Altmann turned, frowning. This showed much more than surveillance, he realized. He gazed at the plump, contented man who sat easily in the chair ten feet away, the cognac ignored by his side. They had never operated this way before. He felt the vague stirring of a different form of uncertainty.

  ‘It’s too early to say,’ he fenced. ‘We’re hopeful.’

  ‘So are we,’ said Turgonev.

  Altmann waited, warily, coaxing the other man into further commitment.

  ‘We all hope she’ll be able to come home, here.’

  The approach was to pressure him, decided Altmann, possibly to frighten him into some sort of acquiescence.

  ‘Ever feel any regrets, Hugo?’

  He couldn’t have hoped for anything better, decided Altmann, recognizing the route the other man was taking.

  ‘Regrets?’ he played.

  ‘Doesn’t she ever condemn you for what happened in the camp?’

  ‘By being a trusty, I saved her life,’ insisted Altmann, adopting a practised defence. ‘If I hadn’t done what I did, she would be dead now. I got her food … protected her …’

  His voice fell away at the emptiness of the words.

  ‘So instead of being dead, she’s spent all those years in a sanatorium,’ concluded Turgonev.

  ‘She’s alive,’ countered Altmann.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Turgenov. Sarcastically he added, ‘That must make you very happy. And justify what you did.’

  Altmann snatched at his drink, openly annoyed. They’d pay very dearly for this approach, he decided.

  Melkovsky’s tactic appeared to be having the proper effect, judged Turgonev. Altmann certainly seemed unsettled. But it still seemed pointless antagonism.

  ‘You made an appalling mess of that Russian officer,’ said Altmann, beginning cautiously.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Turgonev, shrugging. ‘We did, didn’t we? We employ men who enjoy doing that sort of thing. Clever of you to buy the pictures, though. I presume they’re in the files, along with all the other embarrassing material?’

  So he’d been under surveillance for two months, Altmann realized. The knowledge was important.

  ‘Do they drive cars badly, too?’ he pressed.

  Turgonev frowned. Melkovsky must be completely wrong, decided the K.G.B. colonel, reaching for the cognac to cover his reaction to the Austrian’s unexpected question. He shook his head, apparently baffled.

  ‘What does that mean, Hugo?’

  ‘It means that you almost had the embarrassment I’ve always warned you about,’ replied the Austrian. He stared steadily at Turgonev, trying to gauge the other man’s reaction.

  Turgonev sat with the brandy cupped in his hands, half-hiding his face. Altmann was completely proving his loyalty, he decided. He would enjoy telling Melkovsky how wrong he’d been.

  ‘You don’t mean an attempt on your life?’

  The incredulity was perfectly pitched.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ challenged Altmann.

  ‘How could we?’ retorted the Russian. ‘You surely don’t think …?’

  ‘No, I don’t suspect you,’ said Altmann, immediately. ‘Because in Moscow you know the international consequences my death would cause. But you appear very well acquainted with everything I’ve been doing in the last few months.’

  Turgonev rose, needing the activity to compose a reply. It was a telling point that Altmann had made, he accepted. The Austrian’s reaction was completely different from what they had expected: it made the bullying approach utterly wrong.

  ‘We had no idea,’ said the Russian. It sounded very inadequate, he decided. He stood in the middle of the room, unbalanced by the elderly man.

  Altmann moved quickly to take advantage.

  ‘What is so important that Alexei Turgonev, one of the foremost colonels in the K.G.B., comes personally to commission me?’ he demanded, taking control of the conversation. ‘And so soon after I was almost killed.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said the Russian, trying to recover. They’d made a bad mistake, he thought. He smiled, hopefully. ‘We want you to help in another job, Hugo,’ he said.

  Altmann looked without expression at the visitor. He had to be made to grovel, determined the Austrian.

  ‘There are to be no more jobs,’ refused Altmann positively. His mind locked on the rejection. Why should he work ever again, he asked himself. He didn’t need the money. Perhaps he could successfully drop out of sight, even take on a new identity. He knew people who could make it possible, for a price. He sighed at the shallow-ness of the hope. They’d never let him go, he knew. None of them. A prison, he thought, his whole life had been spent in a prison of one sort or another.

  ‘So you’ve got to see Hannah more regularly,’ guessed Turgonev. Altmann was offended by his wife’s name in the other man’s mouth.

  ‘No more jobs,’ insisted Altmann doggedly.

  Turgonev sipped his drink, lifting his shoulders in an apologetic gesture.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hugo.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Opening locked doors.’

  He had the unquestionable advantage now, Altmann knew.

  ‘It was rude of me,’ continued the Russian. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  Altmann waited, enjoying the other man’s retreat.

  ‘Only you can do what we want,’ said Turgonev.

  ‘No,’ he refused. ‘I’ve promised to see Hannah every week.’

  ‘You can.’ agreed the Russian immediately.

  Turgonev was a stupid man, thought Altmann.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  Turgonev groped into his jacket, then held up a photograph. Altmann frowned, trying to identify the international face he recognized.

  ‘It’s the Englishman,’ he tried, snapping his fingers. ‘… The one who’s so rich and …’

  ‘Hollis,’ supplied Turgonev. ‘Jocelyn Hollis.’

  Altmann took the picture, studying it. It was carefully posed, he saw, the portrait of a man willingly co-operating with the photographer.

  ‘A vain man,’ said the Russian, picking up Altmann’s thoughts. ‘A vain and ambitious man.’

  ‘So?’ asked Altmann.

  ‘We want to destroy him completely,’ said Turgonev simply.

  Always destruction, thought Altmann. It had never ceased, he decided. Only the regimes and the names of the people who led them changed; people went on suffering.

  ‘How?’ asked Altmann, needlessly. He felt more than physical tiredness, he decided. He was weary of everything. It would be so good never to do any more jobs.

  ‘Come now, Hugo,’ smiled Turgonev. ‘That’s a naïve question.’

  ‘Then it’s ridiculous,’ rebutted Altmann. ‘A man who has achieved as much as Hollis won’t make stupid mistakes.’

  ‘We’re very confident he will,’ disputed Turgonev.
‘For three months the embassy in London have been amassing a file …’ he tapped a briefcase at his side. ‘It’s amazing what they’ve uncovered …’

  Another pause. ‘… But then’, he sidetracked, ‘they are professionals. Just like you.’

  He patted the briefcase again.

  ‘Psychologically, if the right moment is chosen, vain, arrogant men like Hollis can be made to behave like children. And that’s your job. Misguide him, Hugo.’

  He’d known such things happen in the past, Altmann conceded. Overwhelmingly successful men were often bewildered and lost outside their chosen environment.

  He looked across at the Russian and saw him smiling.

  ‘What else have you got?’ demanded Altmann, knowing the colonel hadn’t finished.

  ‘About three years ago there was a cause célèbre in England involving a British minister. He was blackmailed by a whore and resigned. Then a lot more scandal arose, involving directorships of companies being illegally milked of their assets.’

  Altmann frowned, waiting.

  ‘He was a good friend of Hollis’s,’ continued the Russian. ‘And one who suddenly became quite rich.’

  ‘From the asset-stripping, surely?’

  Turgonev shook his head, in rejection.

  ‘No, Hugo,’ he said. ‘The embassy have costed it out, studying the balance-sheets.’

  ‘And?’ pressed Altmann.

  ‘The figures won’t match,’ said Turgonev. ‘Which makes them think there is some basis in the rumours that were around at the time – that Hollis was trying to buy an honour. It’s possible to do that in England, if you make sufficient political contributions to the right man.’

  They had been very thorough, thought Altmann.

  ‘We’ve already established a framework,’ elaborated Turgonev. ‘We’ve selected people in East Germany and Czechoslovakia but we need you to make it work for us.’

  So that if the whole thing were exposed, a non-Russian would be shown to be the instigator, realized Altmann. Perhaps he wasn’t completely secure through his Zurich records, even from the Russians.

  ‘Two hundred thousand dollars,’ stipulated the Austrian, determined to make Turgonev pay in every way for his approach. ‘I want half paid in advance into the Swiss account.’