Disorderly Elements (8 page)

“A little,” said Schofield, smirking. “More than I should ever have learned in the first place.”

“Do you remember what F-networks were all about?”

“F-networks. Mmmm. Let me see…”

He paused for reflection and said:

“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

“Recently, an F-network in the DDR was blown. Ordinarily, there'd be nothing to worry about. Such things happen all the time. But on this occasion there was cause for concern because several of the members were blown before the network leader was exposed.”

“Jesus!” Schofield exclaimed. “That isn't supposed to happen.”

“Draw your own conclusions, Frank.”

Schofield paused once more and looked at Wyman in consternation.

“That's very hot shit, Mike.”

“Precisely. Only three people know about this: myself, the Minister and Owen, my boss.”

“Owen. Little guy, military type? I met him once. Isn't he a faggot?”

Wyman smiled.

“I've really no idea. Anyway, for obvious reasons, Owen wants it kept quiet until our inquiries have been completed. That's why he had to put me onto the case. As you can imagine, it's all very embarrassing for him, seeing that I'm to be made redundant. But he has no choice.”

Schofield found the irony of this amusing

“And you're the one that's getting fired? No offence, Mike, but doesn't it occur to you that the Firm is run by a bunch of incompetent jerks?”

“We do have an unorthodox way of dealing with things, it must be said.”

“So how do I fit into all this?”

“I'm supposed to be making inquiries outside all the normal lines of communication. That doesn't give much scope, but it occurred to me that you might be able to contact someone in the Company and make a few discreet inquiries on my behalf.”

“What sort of inquiries?”

“I want to know if they've heard about this story, and if they have, I'd like to see what they've managed to pick up. There's no need to mention that virtually the entire network was blown or that it was an F-network. The network was based in Erfurt, and the leader's name was Josef Grünbaum. Just say that Grünbaum was blown, and that you'd like to know how it happened.”

Schofield frowned.

“I'm not sure about this, Mike. Most of the Company people I know left Rome several years ago. I don't know any of the new boys. Still, if you give me a couple of days, I might be able to find out something for you. Mind you, I'm not making any promises.”

“I don't expect any,” Wyman reassured him. “I was going to suggest that I get in touch with you again in about four days' time. How does that suit you?”

“Well, if I can't get anything by then, you might as well give up on me. Okay, four days it is.”

“Splendid,” Wyman beamed.

“Furthermore,” Schofield said sternly, “if I actually find out who blew this Grünbaum fellow, I expect a free meal at the Savoy, courtesy of your friend Owen.”

“I'll put it to him,” Wyman said. “I'm sure he'd be delighted.”

My dear Margaret,

I hope you are well. The weather here is infinitely more agreeable than in London, and I am having a splendid time. Although I am only here for a day or two, I have still found the opportunity to visit several old friends in the neighbourhood.

Did I ever tell you about Neville Tanner? I once helped out with his monograph on Aristotle's
Prior Analytics
, and we became firm friends. He's doing something or other at the British School, and we met for a drink this morning. He was most upset to hear about my removal from the College, and he says he will send a formal letter of protest to the Master. I doubt if it will do any good, but I thanked him for the gesture.

Rome is as relaxed and unhurried as ever. (I believe the modern term for it is “laid back”.) I find it difficult to reconcile this mood with the hurried nature of my trip. Had it been possible, I would have liked to stay here for another week, but I doubt that our mutual friend in Percy Street would have approved.

I expect to be back in London by the evening of the 16th. Perhaps we could have dinner somewhere, if that would suit you. I know I have been somewhat diffident lately, but I think you can appreciate why. A great deal has happened very quickly, and I haven't adjusted to my circumstances as swiftly as I thought I would. I think I must be getting old. Please bear with me, and forgive the eccentricities of a disorientated don.

Love,

Michael.

A
NATOLI BULGAKOV SAT in his spacious office in Lowndes Street. Spread out across the desk before him were the documents that Mrs Hobbes had given him three days before.

Earlier that day Bulgakov had been told by his KGB colleagues that Michael Wyman had left for Rome. Some months earlier, Bulgakov had placed Wyman's flat under close observation, and the scrutiny now bore fruit. Wyman had been discreetly tailed as far as Heathrow Airport the previous morning.

It was now obvious to Bulgakov that something important had happened in the Department. He knew enough about Wyman to realize that an impromptu flight to Rome was not part of Wyman's routine work. He therefore had to make sense of the information given to him by Mrs Hobbes.

Exhibit A was a photocopy of the item in the
Thüringer Neueste Nachrichten
relating the death of Grünbaum. Beside it was a photocopy of a page from Owen's desk-pad. It contained a string of handwritten notes which Owen had taken down when Wyman related his findings. There was a series of dates and cryptic remarks: “Grünbaum 5/5,
but
Neumann 1/1, Reichenbach 18/12, Gödel 2l/l0—technically impossible”; “Fix emergency appt with Min.”; “W. to establish full circs of G.'s death”.

Mrs Hobbes had also photocopied the extract from the
Compendium of Anglo/US Intelligence Systems
which Wyman had taken with him to the meeting. Presumably, Mrs Hobbes had decided that this was enough for Bulgakov to establish what was going on.

Bulgakov lit a cigarette and reread the documents. He began to wonder if he should not report all this back to Moscow Centre. Most of his colleagues would have been expected automatically to pass this sort of information back to Dzerzhinsky Square, where their superiors would process it and decide what was to be done. It was only because Bulgakov was an especially trusted operative that he could even contemplate handling all this on his own.

Indeed, the KGB is famous for allowing its employees almost no personal initiative in matters outside the USSR. It has frequently been described as a dinosaur. Although it is by far the world's largest intelligence organization, its rigidity of structure and procedure invariably leads to bureaucratic clumsiness and delays which do not impede the agencies of lesser nations.

The KGB hierarchy is vast and complex. At the top of the tree sit the Chairman and his deputies. Below these gentlemen are the four Chief Directorates, which in turn control a large number of subsidiary departments. The First Chief Directorate, Bulgakov's employer, is responsible for all foreign operations. The others deal with internal security, political, religious and ethnic dissent, and the control of all the border guards in the Soviet Union.

Below the Chief Directorates are nine ordinary Directorates. These handle the armed forces, surveillance, communications intelligence, political bodyguards, technical support for the rest of the KGB, research, administration, service and personnel.

Finally, there are six Departments which deal with special investigations, collation of operational experience, state com munications, “physical security”, registry and archives, and finance.

The headquarters of this colossal organization are in a seven-storey, ochre-coloured rococo building at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square in Moscow, which before 1917 housed the All-Russian Insurance Company. Behind it sits the infamous Lubyanka prison.

A nine-storey extension was added to the building during the Second World War, but even that proved too small to meet the needs of the KGB. Further buildings went up elsewhere in Moscow to house the organization's ever-growing staff. There is now an extra block on the Kutuzovsky Prospekt, as well as an enormous administration building on the Machovaya Ulitza, and an even bigger half-moon-shaped building just off the Moscow Ring Road.

It was in these buildings that Bulgakov had received his basic training as a KGB officer, before he was sent out of Russia as a captain in the First Directorate. He disliked having dealings with Moscow Centre, since he resented any infringement of his personal autonomy. He knew that if he reported the present situation to Moscow, his superiors would infer his inability to handle it. Bulgakov's record in Europe was spotless and he wished to keep it that way. He therefore resolved to tell Moscow nothing for the time being.

He studied the extract from the
Compendium
. This document clearly implied that Grünbaum was in an F-network. The other names on Owen's notepad must have belonged to other members of this network. So why had Owen added the words “Technically impossible” to this list of names?

The number “5/5” after Grünbaum's name gave the date of his death, since the newspaper item claimed that Grünbaum had died on May 5. Hence, Bulgakov reasoned, the other people must have died on the dates written by their names—Neumann on January 1, Reichenbach on December 18 and Gödel on October 21. But this did not explain Owen's remark: why was all this “technically impossible”?

Bulgakov reread the extract from the
Compendium
and the answer finally hit him. Given the definition of F-networks, the only thing that was “technically impossible” was that the members of the network should be exposed before the network leader. The leader must have been Grünbaum, and therefore…

“Shit!” he exclaimed. It was all clear to him now. He leaned back in his chair and thought very hard. The rest of Owen's notes now made sense: “Fix emergency appt with Min.” meant that Owen was reporting his department's discovery to the Minister in charge. “W. to establish full circs of G.'s death” indicated that Wyman had been sent out to discover precisely how Grunbaum's network had been blown.

It occurred to Bulgakov that he too must find out exactly what had happened in Erfurt. Unlike Wyman, however, he did not need to do so by covert means. He would merely have to interview the East Germans responsible for Grünbaum's case. He would then be in a position to establish how far Wyman's inquiries could possibly lead him.

He wrote a memo for one of his secretaries, asking her to book a return ticket to East Germany on his behalf. His diary revealed that he would be needed in London for another five days, so he decided to fly to the DDR on the 20th.

He added a postscript to the memo which ran as follows:

“Please notify the Erfurt division of the SSD of my plans, and request that they make all the necessary preparations for my stay. I will be in Erfurt for no more than four days. In that time I intend to investigate the case of one Josef Grünbaum, and I will expect all the appropriate documentation to be available to me. Stress that this is a matter of the utmost urgency, requiring the strictest observation of security procedures. Only the minimum number of people should be notified of my visit.”

W
YMAN FLEW TO GENEVA on the afternoon of May 14. After a pleasant thirty-six hours in Paris, the flight had no appeal for him. He regarded the Swiss as a nation of insipid nonentities who deprive you of your money in four different languages. Wyman's visit therefore took no longer than the job required.

He took a taxi to the Banque Internationale Descartes, 53 Rue Pascal, and was shown into the manager's office. Monsieur Georges Piaget was an impeccably polite cadaver with a limp handshake and an antiseptic voice.

“Good afternoon, Mr Ryle,” he said to Wyman. “What can we do for you?”

“A great deal, I hope,” Wyman said. “I am acting on behalf of another party who wishes to open an account at this bank. The gentleman concerned is also not a Swiss national, and for reasons of discretion he wishes the account to be numbered. For the time being he wants me to act on his behalf in the matter of depositing and withdrawing sums from the account.”

“I see,” Piaget said. “That should present no difficulties, Mr Ryle. Nevertheless, since neither you the contracting party, nor the beneficial owner of the account are Swiss nationals, a certain amount of documentation is required.”

“I appreciate that,” Wyman said.

“Splendid. You are probably aware of what is required, but I will go through it all in case of difficulty. To begin with, Mr Ryle, we need documentation of your own identity—your passport would suffice.”

Wyman drew out the false passport and handed it to Piaget.

“Splendid,” Piaget repeated, noting down the passport number. “We will also need several specimens of your signature, and details of your place of residence. And of course, we need to know certain details about the beneficial owner of the account.”

“Yes,” Wyman said. “I think you will find all you need here.”

He produced a typewritten document and placed it on Piaget's desk.

“This,” he explained, “gives the gentleman's full name, and his place and country of residence. There is also a letter of introduction from a reputable European bank. As you can see, it confirms the gentleman's address and certifies the specimens of his signature given below.”

“Excellent,” said Piaget.

He studied the documents carefully, and if any of it surprised him, his face did not show it.

“This is more than sufficient,” he added. “There are one or two standard documents we must request you to sign, and I will introduce you to the official who will be responsible for this account. You will appreciate, of course, that once the agreements have been signed, we will require a period of forty-eight hours to complete our own formalities.”