XPD
The reputation his execution squads had gained for him then had done his career no harm. After the war he had applied the same single-minded determination to his studies at Moscow University before returning to become deputy chief of the Training Section and later to chair the First Main Directorate’s Purchasing Committee for a year. Shumuk had changed very little from that tall, young NKVD lieutenant in the badgeless uniform, his shoulder bruised blue from rifle recoil and his face impassive. He had the same toneless voice in which he had read the death sentences, the same unseeing pale grey eyes, the same shaved skull, and the same trim waistline that came from a daily routine of strenuous exercises.
Shumuk looked up and studied his two colleagues, and there was no admiration in his gaze. He decided that they were mentally, morally and physically inferior to him. Yuriy Grechko, with his expensive western clothes, curly hair and soft mouth, was decadent, if not depraved. He had been corrupted by western living and the sheltered life of the diplomatic service; and he should never have been appointed to the vital position of legal resident in the USA. He was too young, too inexperienced and too lacking in stamina. Shumuk decided to say so in the report. Edward Parker was little better: he had spent the years between 1941 and 1945 not in resisting the Fascist hordes but in guarding some remote Red Army supply depot from a Japanese invasion that never came. Now, while his wife and grown-up daughter worked as booking clerks for Aeroflot and struggled to make a living in one of the less salubrious suburbs of Sverdlovsk, Parker was sharing his bed with some Japanese woman and living in a vast house in Chicago. The woman was a long-term Party member, of course, and the whole arrangement had been approved if not instigated by Moscow Centre, but Shumuk was old-fashioned enough to find it distasteful.
He lit a cigarette. He was old fashioned about cigarettes too; he preferred this coarse Makhora tobacco. Waving the smoke away impatiently with thin bony fingers, he noticed Edward Parker’s nose twitch. He must have detected the aroma of the tobacco; did it remind him of his youth, as it did Shumuk?
Little wonder then that the meeting was bitter and recriminatory. Shumuk started by announcing that he had already decided to pull Parker out, and proposed giving him until the end of June to get his networks prepared for regrouping. Parker would report in person to Moscow Centre on Monday, 2 July.
There was a moment’s hushed silence before Yuriy Grechko attacked this plan. It was obvious to everyone present that there was little chance that Grechko would survive such a drastic reshuffle as would surely follow the change in illegal resident. The arguments continued for over two hours. Grechko and Shumuk had clashed before, in the Dzerzhinsky Square building, and this time the discussion degenerated into what was little more than a shouting match. It was Edward Parker who decided the matter. He explained that he had gone to Los Angeles simply because his agent needed him there. As resident, such a decision was rightfully his to take. Furthermore, he told them, he was using an agent who might refuse to work with any new resident that Moscow assigned to the job. It had taken him years to build relationships with some of his top men. It was pointless to discuss the advisability of having him back in Moscow unless the KGB was prepared to start building up what would be badly damaged networks.
It was a power-play of course. Shumuk knew that; so did Grechko. Grechko was sweating; Shumuk’s grey face twitched as it used to when he was running his agents through the German lines in the last few months of the war, trying to make contact with the remnants of the Communist Party in Hungary and Czechoslovakia. Not many of those agents survived but the work had been done. Hungary and Czechoslovakia were now workers’ democracies, their stability a tribute to the secret political police that Shumuk had helped install there. He was proud of that, as he was of the Order of Alexander Nevsky which his wartime contribution had earned for him.
The harsh words and shouting died suddenly; as if by common consent, the contest was finished. Grechko wrung his hands and Parker sat down in a heavy oak armchair which was placed in the window amongst the luxuriant plants.
It was all right for the other two, thought Parker. Shumuk was concerned only with the paperwork on his desk in Moscow, and as for Grechko, if it all went wrong, Grechko need fear little more than being declared PNG, persona non grata. Only Parker faced the prospect of twenty years in a federal penitentiary, the sort of sentence which would ensure that he died in prison.
‘In the Ukraine,’ said Shumuk primly, ‘we have a saying: there are some nightmares from which the only escape is to awaken.’
The other two men looked at him but did not reply. Their hostility was unmistakable. Shumuk said, ‘I’ll grant you another month.’ He brandished his papers again. He had not referred to the papers from his case, noted Parker, never quoted them or read them. He used them simply to toy with; the Soviet Union was overprovided with men who liked shuffling official papers. ‘It’s against my better judgement,’ added Shumuk. ‘We’ll leave it another month, but it’s against my better judgement.’ He put the papers into his case and locked it using the combination lock. Then he glanced scornfully at the two men and went strutting from the room like a dowager duchess.
‘Apparatchik!’ said Grechko bitterly, although he was not a man much given to criticizing the bureaucratic tendencies of his superiors.
Parker who had spent twelve years absorbing the mores and manners of North America said, ‘He’s a horse’s ass, Grechko, and you know it.’
Grechko smiled nervously. ‘Tell me about this man Kleiber in Los Angeles,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Is he reliable? Do you know anything about him? Will he continue to work with us?’
Parker shrugged, drank the dregs of his cold coffee and shrugged again.
Grechko waited for some further reaction but none came. The shrug could mean that Kleiber was reliable or that he was not. It could mean that Parker did not know, or that he did not intend to discuss the matter.
Chapter 10
The job in California did not prove to be the sun-drenched poolside sinecure that Boyd Stuart’s girlfriend Kitty had predicted. A couple of weeks later – still devoid of suntan – he was sitting in a grimy office on Venice Boulevard in Los Angeles, talking to an earnest young Englishman.
This near to the freeway, the boulevard is a six-lane highway strung with overhead wires, littered with palms and generously provided with gas stations and religious meeting halls. The buildings are low and hastily finished. In June they are hot and the noise of the heavy traffic loud and unceasing.
The Secret Intelligence Service in London had made contact with Lustig Productions’ new man, Max Breslow. They had found a young commercial attaché in the British embassy in Washington who had once had dealings with Breslow about a previous film production. Now he had been urgently sent to Los Angeles in order to bump ‘accidentally’ into his old acquaintance in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Stuart’s visitor was wearing a dark blue flannel blazer with regimental buttons and a motoring-club badge on the pocket. His hair was long and straight and so was his nose. Even without the accent and the clothes, there would be no mistaking him for anything other than what Jennifer called ‘Eton and Harrods’.
‘There would in fact be considerable advantages if this fellow actually made the film in England,’ said the visitor. He looked round the dingy little office which the department had provided for this meeting. It was his first experience of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.
‘Spare me all that sales talk,’ said Boyd Stuart wearily. ‘Just tell me about Max Breslow.’ From somewhere at the back of the building there came the sound of someone practising scales on an out-of-tune piano.
‘Not just the government allowances that all films can get, but special tax deals can be arranged if he uses British crews and British studios.’
This was the right man to send, noted Stuart approvingly. No one could doubt this lad’s pitch was anything but sincere. He wondered how much they had confided in him before sending him. ‘How old is Breslow? What’s he know about the film industry?’
‘He’s old enough to set up a film,’ said the young man with a smile. He poured himself some more tea from the teapot on the desk. ‘He’s a businessman. He’s put together a couple of small productions in New York using front money from Germany and then sold them to television on the strength of the rough assembly. He’s got good contacts in Germany.’
‘Television?’
‘Television here in America, but cut into a feature film for Europe and Asia. It’s done quite a lot nowadays.’
‘Only two films?’
‘Only two here but he’s produced a dozen or more cheapies in Europe, mostly in German studios. He works with an executive producer who stays with the movie while Breslow goes after the money boys.’ He drank some tea and then said, ‘Breslow isn’t an old-time movie mogul. He’s not a Goldwyn or a Cohn. You won’t meet any stars sipping champagne round his pool. He doesn’t live in Beverly Hills or Bel Air. He has a modest little condominium somewhere out near Thousand Oaks on the way to Ventura and shares his pool with a few neighbours. No, Breslow is not a movie man. You only have to talk to him for five minutes to discover that. He couldn’t distinguish a zoom lens from a Coke bottle, and he’s perfectly willing to admit it.’ The young man stretched his feet out and propped his teacup and saucer on his chest. Doubtless it was a mannerism copied from some elderly tutor, a rich uncle or an ambassador, thought Stuart. ‘You can see if you agree. I’ve fixed an invitation to dinner for you chez Breslow tomorrow. He thinks you represent a firm with money to invest in films.’ The piano exercises paused for a mercifully long time, then started from the beginning once more.
‘Breslow’s in his fifties … a well-preserved sixty perhaps. I’m not trained for the cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ The visitor smiled but, getting no response to his smile, continued. ‘Quite tall, lots of hair, no sign of going grey. Good firm handshake, if that’s anything to go by, and very friendly.’
‘Has anyone put him on the computer?’
The visitor drank his tea and looked at Stuart. In Washington they had hinted that he was going to meet one of the SIS’s best agents but the young man found Boyd Stuart older, wearier and far less polished than he had expected. ‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘that’s something I’m not supposed to know about, but I’d say it’s rather unlikely.’
‘Why unlikely?’
‘My briefing was rather circumspect, old chap, but I gathered that nothing is so far being communicated to our American friends. And we both know that anything that goes through the Bonn computer will be known in Washington within twenty-four hours.’
Stuart nodded and concluded that his visitor was less idiotic than his manner would indicate. ‘Have some more tea,’ he said, ‘and tell me what else you got out of him.’
‘You brought this with you, I suppose,’ said the visitor, watching the tea being poured. ‘It’s a damned funny thing, I buy the self-same brand of English tea in my supermarket in Washington and it never tastes the same.’
‘You think he’s going to make the film?’
‘He didn’t seem to be in a great hurry.’
‘I heard he has a script.’
‘It’s still not right, he says.’
‘Where is the front money coming from?’
‘He says it’s all his own.’ The visitor scratched his chin. ‘I think he’s fronting for someone. I don’t know what you’re up to with this fellow but I’d advise caution.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That your Porsche outside?’ It was a casual question. Too casual.
Stuart laughed. ‘What a hope! Back in London I spend most of my spare time on my back under a 1963 Aston Martin.’
The young man came to life. ‘A DB4! You lucky dog. In Washington, I’ve picked up a Sunbeam Tiger fitted with an American V8 engine but one of the bearings is giving me trouble. It’s all in pieces at the moment … That’s one of the reasons I cursed the orders that brought me here to the coast. You should see my garage – bits of the engine all over the place. If my wife goes in there and trips over one of those bowls in which I’m soaking the valves …’ He pulled a face to indicate the pain it would cause him. ‘Not yours, eh, that Porsche?’
‘Which bloody Porsche?’
‘I saw it at the airport when I arrived. It was parked in the hotel car park. Then yesterday I saw it cruising slowly down Sunset Boulevard when I was talking with our pal Breslow.’
Boyd Stuart got up and walked to the window. ‘Where is it now?’
‘In a lot across the road, alongside the Pioneer Chicken.’
Stuart looked through the dark tinted glass which was advertised as a way of cutting air-conditioning costs. It gave the office privacy from passersby. Across the street he could just see the back of a black Porsche tucked behind a Chevrolet pick-up. Sitting inside the Porsche was Willi Kleiber, and behind the wheel Rocky Paz, a local strong-arm man turned car dealer. But even had Stuart seen their faces it would have meant nothing to him; he had never met either of them. ‘A Porsche,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Not exactly inconspicuous, is it?’
‘In this town it is. Look for yourself; the streets are full of them, especially black Porsches.’
‘In that case perhaps you’re overreacting,’ said Stuart. ‘How can you be certain that this was the same car you saw? Did you get the license?’
‘It’s an Illinois licence. And he’s got a hand-operated spotlight mounted behind the windscreen slightly off centre – it’s a 1978 Porsche 928. It’s the same car all right.’
‘At the airport, you say?’
‘When I got off the plane from Washington. It was a million to one that I should notice him, but I notice cars like that.’
‘Always the same man driving?’
‘Couldn’t see who was inside, I’m afraid. I thought it was one of your people, to tell you the truth.’
‘You’ve got the green Datsun at the kerb?’
‘Hertz; from the airport.’
‘Give me three or four minutes to get my car ready to go. Then get in your Datsun and take a ride round Palos Verdes Drive. You know where I mean? Let’s take a look at him. Would you do that for me?’
‘You bet I would! Do you really mean it?’
‘And keep going until we find a nice lonely stretch of road, without any filling stations or McDonald’s. We’ll shake an explanation out of him.’
‘Depend on me,’ said the young man, galvanized by new-found enthusiasm.
‘And pull this door locked when you leave.’
Boyd Stuart opened the door of the battered cupboard that held two brooms and some telephone directories and rattled around the wire coat-hangers to get his jacket. He put it on and said, ‘Wait a minute, though. Let’s do it another way. Why don’t you take my car? It’s a white BMW with dark tinted glass.’
‘No rainbow-paint job or flashing light top?’ said the young man sarcastically.
‘And I’ll take your Datsun. OK?’
The visitor got the car keys from his pocket and gave them to him. ‘It’s a rented car, remember. Don’t bend it.’
‘Good,’ said Stuart handing over the keys of his BMW. By this time Stuart had begun to have second thoughts about the chase but it was no longer socially possible to voice such thoughts.
‘If you lose me, phone me at the apartment tonight.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s say about 10.30.’
‘I won’t lose you,’ said the visitor. ‘I’ve done enough rally driving to hang on to a Datsun with a BMW. But I can’t guarantee to keep the Porsche in sight if he tumbles to what’s going on.’
The temperature touched 100° Fahrenheit in Los Angeles that day. The hot Santa Ana wind brought the sour smell of the desert and made the city unbearable. Overhead the sky was white and baleful. Stuart hurriedly fitted the keys into the Datsun and started it up. He watched the BMW come into view and glanced in the mirror in time to see the driver of the black Porsche toss the remains of his chicken into the trash bucket, together with a shower of fried potatoes and a dollop of coleslaw. The tinted window closed with a purr and the car shivered in a blue haze as the engine came to life with a deep roar. By the time Stuart had the Datsun moving, the Porsche came bumping its way out of the Pioneer Chicken parking lot. He followed both cars on to Venice Boulevard.
The San Diego Freeway traffic was thin and fast on the southbound side of the elevated highway. He matched his speed to the other cars and trucks, and found the black Porsche and his own BMW in the number one lane. He pulled ahead of them and positioned himself so that he could see them in the mirror. Then the Porsche accelerated suddenly and the youngster from the embassy gave chase. It was a foolish thing to do.
Somewhere in the complex crossover of the Marina Freeway intersection Stuart lost sight of the other two cars. One moment they were clearly visible behind a huge Vons delivery truck. Then the great articulated vehicle changed lanes to find the westbound loop that would bring it to the Marina del Rey. It closed out the rearward view like the curtains closing upon the last act of a play. As the truck passed across the mirror, the highway reappeared but this time empty. Damn! They’d left the freeway. It was about half a mile before the next exit sign appeared. It seemed like a hundred miles. Stuart slammed his car into the slow lane and roared down the ramp at Centinela Boulevard. One way the road dead-ends. Stuart swung down into the street and on to the pavement as he squeezed past an angry lady in a Buick to make an illegal U-turn at the lights, almost hitting the large sign which says such turns are forbidden here. He came back under the freeway, his engine roaring at its concrete confines. Only then did he realize that there was no entrance to the freeway here and he changed lanes to make a left turn. Coming through the amber he caused a panel truck to flash its lights as he narrowly missed hitting a motorcyclist. Stuart swore again. To get to the northbound side of the freeway he had to drive a block to find the next ramp.
This side of the freeway was crowded with commuters making an early start back to their families in the valley. Stuart weaved through the heavy traffic and now and again slowed to a crawl. There was no sign of the other two cars, and eventually he turned off the freeway and returned to the Marina del Rey. His department had arranged for him to live on the Hare Krishna II, a thirty-five-foot cabin cruiser moored near the California Yacht Club building, and using the power, telephone and TV antenna hook-ups.
He put the air-conditioning to its coldest, took off all his clothes, poured himself a big malt whisky and drank some before stepping under the shower. It had been a frustrating day and he was continually hampered by having to work in a city with which he was only superficially acquainted and where he was almost totally devoid of the sort of contacts he needed. He wrapped himself in a big bathrobe and looked at the time. It would be the middle of the night in England; he abandoned the idea of phoning Kitty. He switched on the television and went rapidly through some quiz games, ‘Bugs Bunny’ and a black-and-white film about the French Revolution. He made himself a toasted ham sandwich, opened a tin of mixed nuts and settled down in front of a situation comedy. The boat moved lazily as a big ketch slid out from its mooring.
It was 9.30 when the telephone rang. A polite voice inquired if he was Mr Boyd Stuart.
‘Rampart Division, Los Angeles Police Department. Sergeant Hernandez. Traffic accident investigation.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You rent a white BMW from Citisenta Rentcar?’
‘That’s right? Where is it?’
‘Right now it’s being shovelled into the back of a dump truck, Mr Stuart. When did you miss it?’
His mind raced ahead, trying to decide whether to confirm that his car had been stolen.
‘Are you still there, Mr Stuart?’ the police sergeant asked.
‘Was the thief hurt?’
‘He sure was, sir. The gas tank exploded and made a fireball that scorched three lanes of the Harbor Freeway. Nothing left of him to identify, I’m afraid.’
‘No other car involved?’
‘No, sir. We figured it was stolen. The car rental company know about the accident already – that’s how we got your number – but you’ll have to come down to the station tomorrow and do some paperwork with me. Ask for AI Follow-up. Would noon be OK?’
‘I’ll see you at noon, Sergeant Hernandez.’
Stuart fetched the notebook from his jacket pocket. There was a phone number scribbled in the margin of the page of addresses. They had told him to use it only in an emergency. This was an emergency. He dialled the number and heard an answering machine telling him that Dr Curtiss was not available at this time but, if the caller would leave a name and address and telephone number, he would call back. If the caller was in pain, the recorded voice added, an osteopath on emergency call would be sent immediately.
‘I’m in pain,’ said Stuart and gave the south Pasadena address that London had told him to give in such a situation.
He sat with the lights off and the curtains drawn back. He could see the harbour lights reflected in the water and the dark outlines of countless boats. An osteopath was a good cover for a case officer, he thought. Not too difficult to get a licence, and it would account for him going anywhere at any time of day or night.
The osteopath arrived at midnight. Stuart heard him clatter down the gang-plank. This was the man whom London had assigned to control him. Some agents in the field could operate for years and never meet their controller and Stuart studied him with interest. This man was a swarthy forty-year-old, with short hair and tired eyes which he rubbed sometimes with the back of his fist. He was wearing light blue cotton trousers, an openneck shirt and a dark blue cashmere cardigan. He carried a black leather case which he put down just inside the front door.
‘We’ll close the curtains if you don’t mind,’ said the man. He walked across the cabin and closed them without waiting for a reply.
‘The pain …’ said Stuart.
‘Never mind all that crap that London told you to say,’ said the man. ‘Just pour me a scotch and water and tell me why I had to be dragged away from my chess game.’
Stuart gave him the whisky and watched him pour a lot of water into it. Then the man switched on the TV and tuned it to the Japanese channel. ‘Sit close and talk softly,’ said the man.
‘Didn’t you check this boat for bugs?’ said Stuart.
‘Sure we did, but why take chances?’ He sipped his drink. ‘Are you a chess player?’
‘Not seriously,’ said Stuart.
‘We play for money, and I was on a winning streak tonight …’ He pulled a face. ‘No matter, tell me the story.’
Stuart went carefully through the whole business. At the end of it, the man did not react for a long time. He stared at the small screen of the TV set as if enjoying the Japanese singing contest. ‘Centinela Boulevard exit from the freeway,’ he said finally. ‘Just about the only one I can think of, in the whole city, where there’s no entrance ramp on the other side.’
‘That’s why I lost them,’ said Stuart.
‘Could be they chose it for that very reason. It would be a good way to do it. Stick in the fast lane all the way to the changeover … cut suddenly across the lanes to the exit, and leave you ahead with no alternative but to take the Centinela ramp and find yourself in a tangle of street traffic … Too bad you didn’t get a better look at the man in the Porsche.’
‘It was a deliberate killing, you mean?’
The case officer did not answer him. He said, ‘The accident investigation cops have a routine they call AI Follow-up. I don’t want you getting tangled into it. You make sure you’re Mr Clean when this Sergeant Hernandez talks with you.’