Quiller KGB q-13 Read online

  'Weggehen!'

  It didn't take much notice, just drew back a bit, the metal tag on its collar jingling. And went on watching me. I could feel the hairs on my arms and hands flattening again after the shock: when I'd seen that bloody thing I'd thought they were sending in dogs to flush me out of here, but this wasn't trained; it had broken its lead and was wandering.

  The light came sweeping again and the dog turned its head and watched it, puzzled, because lights don't normally move; but it didn't look substantial enough for it to chase or try to catch. Its eyes became jewels as the light passed over them; then it was dark again.

  'Aus mit dich!' I slapped the underside of the crankcase and this time it took some notice and when the next beam came past the dog was halfway between this vehicle and the next, looking back at me and wondering why I'd told it to go away instead of being friends, and then it spun sideways and leapt once and hit the ground with blood spilling under the bright sweeping light and I thought you bastard, oh you bastard.

  I knew him now. He was a sadist. There'd been a choice for him to make: the dog could have been useful to him; it had already shown him which vehicle I was using for cover and it could have gone on following me whenever I made a move, and that would have been tempting to a professional marksman, a technician — an ideal situation, with a dog to keep track of his quarry. But he'd made the other choice, of terrorising the quarry itself by showing me what it would be like when the last shot came and I spun and leapt and hit the ground with my blood spilling under the light, just like that.

  Bastard.

  Not because of what he'd done to me but because he'd taken a dog's life to do it: that was obscene.

  Ten minutes, then, another ten minutes and I'd give him his chance, because there was no option. If I had to go then I'd go the way of the dog and at least have company.

  Rest, relax, await the moment. It would be of my own choosing: I would move when I decided to move. If he took -

  Voice.

  It came from the left. I thought I'd heard it before but decided it had been someone in the street on the far side; this time it'd come more clearly from the left, and now there was the faint crackle of squelch. It was a man with a walkie-talkie and he was stationed over there and reporting his position — there couldn't be any other answer. The sniper had sent beaters in, at least one but more probably two, the other positioned on the right. They could be armed but I doubted it; East Berlin is efficiently policed and the penalty for bearing weapons is imprisonment.

  It could be that the sniper hadn't expected me to make two moves and get away with it, and now he was worried because there were only two more rows of vehicles between here and the street, where there were lights and traffic and people, giving me ample cover and a first-class chance of escape. I suppose it should have encouraged me a bit but of course it didn't: he'd seen the danger and had dealt with it.

  Five minutes.

  But there was a new factor coming into play that I didn't want to think about. In front of me there were still two more rows of vehicles and I could reach the first row in darkness between the beams of light, unless the beaters caught a glimpse of me and signalled my run to the sniper; but if I reached cover alive there wouldn't be another move to make, because I knew approximately where the sniper was and from his position the front row of vehicles would be silhouetted against the lights of the street.

  Two minutes.

  And even if I could reach the front row it would be a dead end because beyond it was open ground and I would be a silhouette if I tried a final run.

  One minute.

  So there wasn't a great deal of point in going forward again. They'd set up an execution and there was only one man in the firing squad and he didn't have the dummy round in the gun. But the only alternative was to stay here and let them come for me sooner or later, taking their time, and I'd rather go the way of the dog, running flat out for dear life, than have them come and find me lying on my back underneath a bloody street-maintenance vehicle with nothing left to do but bare my neck.

  Then go for it.

  The light came sweeping and I waited till the dark came down and then got into motion with all the force I had in me and I was halfway there when a shell ripped the left sleeve at the shoulder and smashed into the rear window of the vehicle and shattered the glass as I kept running with the light nearing from the left and he fired again and the shell hit the rear of the same vehicle but lower down and pierced the fuel-tank and brought the reek of petrol into the air as I dived for cover. The third shot made impact at a flat angle and tore metal away from the side of the vehicle and I heard the shell ricochet and hit the ground and bounce and rattle against the vehicle ahead.

  Lie flat and rest, let the shock expend itself in the organism. Relax, let go, hands and face against the gritty tarmac, the heart thundering in the chest and the sunburst of colours fading from the nerves in the retinae, relax, we did well, we survived and here we are.

  Here we are at last, at the dead end of the run.

  Rest, relax, don't think about it. There must be something we can do; it can't be over.

  Wrong. Because when I opened my eyes and studied the environment I saw the situation was exactly as I'd thought it would be when I reached here. From the sniper's viewpoint the last row of vehicles would be silhouetted against the lights of the street beyond and if I made a final run he'd take his time and check the aim and put the first shot into my spine.

  A rose for Moira.

  The light sweeping, flooding the ground and passing on, leaving the dark. Nothing has changed. You knew there was no real chance when you realised they'd trapped you here on this killing-ground. Nothing has changed, but when you feel ready then make your final run, just as a gesture, and die like a man.

  Correction, yes.

  Like a dog.

  15: TRUMPETER

  God knows what it was: something soft.

  The only light in here was from the flames.

  Soft and pliable, possibly a dead cat, though a dead cat would be stiffer than this. I raked lower, and found an empty box and some banana peel and a paper bag with something in it, though I didn't want to know what.

  The light of the flames was coming across the top of the open bin and I tried to see things by it, but it wasn't easy, here among the rotting detritus of man. I was looking for rope, ideally, a piece of rope, or failing that, some wire, or even string if it were strong enough; it wouldn't have to last very long.

  Be it known that the bearer is in the private service of Her Majesty the Queen, and shall be permitted free passage and certain privileges on demand, wherever her dominion shall extend.

  Stink of fish as I dug deeper and found bones and a beer can, the bearer, being in the private service of Her Majesty, assiduously pursuing his duties, though it be in this bloody hole where no one, may they catch the pox, has left any rope. No point, you might well think, in flashing my laissez-passer and demanding certain privileges, since Her Majesty's dominion doesn't extend as far as the trash bins in the German Democratic Republic.

  I reached for his throat and felt the pulse. I'd put my watch on again but I couldn't see it in this light and in any case you don't need a watch to tell you if a man's pulse is approximately normal. This one's was steady, perhaps a fraction slow. I'd put him out five minutes ago and he was probably still well under. He was one of the beaters.

  Something long and thin and — bicycle tube, yes — and some rotten fruit by the feel of it, black market and an exchange of hard currency under the counter, and a wire coat-hanger: that would do. I hooked it over the edge of the bin and went on digging. It was ten or fifteen minutes before I found all I wanted, and the flames had died away. It had been a night for bonfires, you may have noticed.

  There'd been quite a lot of petrol on the ground when I'd got my lighter out and it had made a sheet of flame before the whole tank went up and by that time I was diving for the vehicle in front and there'd been no shot: I think he
was surprised by the explosion and couldn't bring the gun into the aim in time to drop me.

  There were several bits of rope and I joined two or three and found another coat-hanger and untwisted the hook and got his wrists behind him and his feet together; then I forced his mouth open and stuffed some rag in and bound it with the rest of the rope.

  I'd waited till the fire crews were milling around and then I'd gone for the buildings on the left and found him still there with his walkie-talkie and he wasn't carrying a gun. This stinking bin was further along the wall and I'd had to drag him there because he'd tried to resist and that was when I'd put him under.

  Got the worst of the oil off my face and then I took a look from the top of the bin. The fire crews were starting to roll their hoses but there were a lot of people in the area and I dropped onto the ground on the side facing the wall and kept in its shadow. His shoes were tight but better than bare feet; I didn't want anyone asking questions. From the sniper's viewpoint it must have looked as if I'd gone up in flames because there'd been a fifty-foot jet when the tank had burst and the two nearest vehicles had taken fire and their tanks had gone up too; but there could still be some of Volper's people in the environment and I wouldn't be taking any chances I could avoid.

  The nearest phone box was half a block away and I wanted to run there but it would have called attention.

  'Gunter?'

  'Yes.'

  'I want you to pick me up on the corner of Beckerstrasse and the municipal vehicle park in Treptow. Do you know where that is?'

  'I can find it.' He asked me for the nearest cross-street and I told him and rang off and dialled again and Cone answered before the fifth ring.

  'Look,' I told him, 'I'm bringing a prisoner in.'

  'Where are you?'

  'Treptow. But I can't bring him into the hotel: we look too messy.' He told me there was a lock-up garage in Hausvogteplatz and I noted the number.

  'We should be there within the hour; it's the nearest I can say.'

  'I'll wait,' he said.

  It looked like a thieves' kitchen — concrete floor, bare brick walls, no window, a ceiling festooned with cobwebs, naked light bulb hanging down from the middle, two drunken-looking chairs and a pile of cardboard boxes in the corner, stained from the rain that came in. But there was a phone rigged up, perched on a directory on the floor.

  'You can have these back.'

  I threw them over to him but he didn't pick them up or even look at them. Cone had stuck him on one of the chairs and he was just sitting there with his head up and his eyes gazing at the wall like a bloody zombie.

  Cone stood squinting at him for a minute, hands in his mac pockets, his scarecrow body hunched forward.

  'We're going to leave him locked in here,' he told me, 'and then remote-control the bomb.'

  We were looking at the man in the chair. No reaction, so we went on speaking English; not that there was anything sensitive to say.

  'I'll need some more clothes by the morning.'

  'I've brought some. You said you were messy. They're in the car.'

  'Thank God; these stink. And you'd better tell London they owe the municipal authorities of East Berlin three of their street-maintenance vehicles.' The Bureau was punctilious about damage compensation during a mission.

  'Are they total write-offs?'

  'Burnt out.'

  'You've had a busy night.'

  'Been a long one. Started at lunch-time.'

  'What's your condition?'

  'Active. But I'll have to look in at a hospital; someone stuck a knife in me, nothing dramatic.'

  'They ask too many questions,' he said, 'in the hospitals here. I'll get the doc along from the embassy when we get to the hotel. It'll wait till then?'

  'The bleeding's stopped.'

  Cone nodded and looked at the man in the chair again and said in German: 'Name?'

  No reaction again. The man had come to in the cab but hadn't said anything. He looked fully conscious now but by the way he was holding his head up and staring straight in front of him he was the die-hard type, wouldn't even need a capsule, you'd have to break him and even then you'd get nothing.

  Cone went closer to him and stood looking down for a minute; then without taking his hands out of his mac he went into a crouch and stared straight back into the man's eyes.

  'What is your name?'

  His tone was quiet enough to chill. It reminded me that I didn't know much about Cone; he could have a reputation for strangling mice for kicks, like Ferris.

  'Dietrich.'

  'I want you to tell me something, Dietrich. Where is Horst Volper?'

  Nothing.

  'The British government will guarantee your safety, Dietrich. We'll get you out of East Germany with official sanction from the Democratic Republic, and find a job for you. If you've got a family, you can take them with you. Now, where is Horst Volper?'

  Nothing.

  ''Then give me a yes or no. Will you answer any questions?'

  'No.'

  'All right, here's another "yes or no" for you. Is there anything that would induce you to answer my questions? Money? Information that we wouldn't mind exchanging? Anything at all?'

  'No.'

  'When I say money, I'm talking about one million pounds sterling.'

  'No.'

  'I see.' Cone straightened up and took a turn and came back to the man in the chair. 'The East German secret police snatched another of your people tonight. He didn't want to answer questions either. He's in an intensive care unit at the moment, and everything's being done for him, but he's not expected to live.'

  I didn't know if it were true, but if Yasolev had ordered that snatch he would have done it through Karl Bruger. It is essential, he'd told me at our meeting in the woods, that the HUA is not informed that my department is operating in East Berlin on this particular case. Bruger alone had his trust.

  'We need you to answer questions,' Cone was saying, 'just as we needed the other man to answer questions. If you won't do it for me, I'm not going to hand you over to the HUA. I'm going to put you into an interrogation room with an officer of the KGB.'

  Got a flinch. Just a slight one. It's always like that over here: you can threaten a man with an intensive care unit and he won't necessarily break, but mention the KGB and you'll make an impression.

  Understandable.

  'So will you answer my questions,' Cone said, 'or his?'

  He waited.

  God it was cold in here.

  'Yes or no?' Cone asked him.

  'No.'

  'I see.'

  Cone went over to the phone, then turned to me before he picked it up. 'This might take a little time. Do you want running to the hotel right away?' Squinting steadily; I suppose I looked tired.

  'No.' I might be able to help.

  He picked up the phone and dialled.

  I thought of going out to the car and getting into some clothes that didn't stink of fish but I didn't want to miss anything; I'd been to a lot of trouble getting Dietrich here and Cone might get just one clue out of him that could push Quickstep forward. Time was running out.

  'Good evening,' Cone said in German; he didn't give the parole because Dietrich was listening. 'We've got one of Volper's people here and he doesn't want to say anything. I've told him you're ready to interrogate him, so I think you'd better come and pick him up. You know where we are.'

  I was watching Dietrich. He must have known a bit of Russian because the blood was leaving his face. Cone wasn't messing about, I knew that. We needed answers.

  The Bureau's ruling on interrogation is perfectly clear: no director or executive in the field is to force any opponent to talk, other than by verbal means. With Skidder it had been different, a case of dog eat dog. I've been inside Lubyanka, locked in an interrogation room with a major of the KGB, and it wasn't nice; but as I watched the man in the chair I didn't feel any compassion for him. He'd tried to get me killed tonight, and if you think I was takin
g things too personally I don't give a damn, it was my life on the line, not yours.

  When we heard a car stopping outside, Cone went over to the man in the chair again. 'Before he comes in here, Dietrich, I'm going to tell you that he's a colonel in the KGB, highly experienced and effective as an interrogator, and with a reputation for being completely ruthless when people don't want to talk. I happen to be a different type myself and I'd like to save you a lot of misery, so if you want to answer questions now, I'm listening.'

  For a second or two there was nothing but fear in the man's eyes; then they changed, as he got the better of it. 'I appreciate your offer, but this time he will not succeed.'

  Cone gave a brief nod. 'It's your life,' he said, and went to unlock the door.

  Yasolev came in alone, and took in the scene immediately, staring at the man in the chair for a moment and then giving us a nod. 'He still refuses to speak?'

  'Yes.'

  'You have searched him?'

  'Yes.'

  'There was no capsule?'

  'Just a knife.'

  'Where is the knife?'

  Cone gave it to him.

  'Thank you.' He looked at me and asked formally, 'Will you place your prisoner in my hands?'

  'I will.'

  'Then you may leave him with me. Stay if you wish, of course, but — ' he left it.

  'I think we'll be off now,' Cone said, and we went out to the car, and as I heard Yasolev locking the door of the garage the shivering began, partly because man's inhumanity to man during the interrogation process always worries me and partly because of delayed shock after the car-park thing: I'd been expecting it.

  'Are you all right?' Cone asked me.

  'It's so bloody cold.'

  'We'll get you into a nice hot bath.'

  'There's no need to be personal.' Little joke, to take my mind off the garage.

  'It's the fish,' he said, and started the engine. 'You fall in a rubbish dump or something?'

  'You must be psychic.' Shivering like a leaf. 'Do you think he'll make that man tell him anything?'