World War Two Will Not Take Place (16 page)

He tabulated: (2) SURVEILLANCE recollections.

The watching car meant an embassy trip at present could be foolish, a give-away – if there was anything left to give away. Postpone it, he'd decided. The town hall called. ‘Get diversionary, Marcus Mount,' it said. When he went out, he saw there were two men in the car: one, very tall, at the wheel; the other, shorter, had the passenger seat. They showed indifference to him. To be expected. They'd have been trained in acting out boredom, as Mount himself had been: ‘Today, lads and lasses, you learn deadpan: don't alert a target by revealing interest.' And there'd been tips on how to swivel your eyes without swivelling your head, and on how, laboriously, to assemble nonchalance.

But Mount naturally wondered whether these might be the two who had arrived at Lichtenberg with Toulmin – his escort, warders, bodyguards – although the taller man no longer wore the aslant cap. If so, they must somehow have tailed Mount to his flat on Monday night, starting at the
plattenbauten
hive, along the Lichtenberg streets, on the U-Bahn, then through part of Steglitz. Hell, he'd failed to spot them. Had they witnessed from some concealed nook all the comings and goings at Toulmin's apartment block; perhaps watched him while he watched the windows of thirty-seven?

The idea that he'd been viewed while unaware scared Mount. Well, naturally. A spy was supposed to view others unaware of him, not get viewed unaware. The situation shunted him back into long-term anxieties about his competence, and, therefore, his and others' safety. At training school, Mount had been weak at tailing and at dodging tails. They said he had ‘a severe, though correctable, deficiency in whereabouts awareness', owing to self-absorption. This they'd described as a serious fault in an intelligence operative, and one he'd better get rid of. They'd made self-absorption sound sort of dreamy and frothy, like a romantic movement poet. In several of the surprise exercises an instructor would get up close and culpably unnoticed to Mount when he was walking or tubing to work in London. What could have been the muzzle of a pistol would jab at his kidneys. Actually, it was only a ratty, stiff finger masquerading for the occasion, and for the wake-up sermon, as the muzzle of a pistol. ‘Were you thinking of cunt, cunt?' an instructor had asked after the fourth of these lapses. ‘You could be dead, sonny boy. Do attend to your deficiency in whereabouts awareness. It's time you noticed that whereabouts are everywhere, which is why they're called whereabouts.'

Mount would have had to admit that sometimes he
was
thinking of cunt, especially on the tube where there was so much of it to incite interest, clothed but still thinkable about. He
didn
't admit it, partly because the instructor who'd mock-pistol poked him on that occasion was a woman. To Mount, it would have seemed indelicate, even though she'd clearly been the one to bring cunt into things. These days, women appeared in many jobs that previously had been more or less reserved for men. And some spoke like men – perhaps felt especially qualified to refer to cunt.

He hadn't been able to see much of Toulmin's companions' features at Lichtenberg, but, after his quick gaze at the Mercedes, he thought the taller man had a jagged, bony profile, a sharp, Mr Punch chin and a prominent nose. His mate looked plumpish, sallow, round-faced, thick necked. He'd do well under a hook-on Santa Claus beard or touting for customers outside a nude show. In the car, he'd been smoking a small cigar.

Mount had continued towards the town hall, flourishing the booklet in his swinging left hand. He hadn't looked back. It might have shown he knew about them. When he arrived, he walked slowly around the building twice, by turns gazing and studying the notes in his guide. He aped awe, a neo-Gothic worshipper close to ecstasy. But was it credible that anyone could think this bristlingly ugly, pretentious, lumpy creation deserved a visit, unless you wanted to go in and pay your rates or complain about holes in the roads? Mount liked a building's appearance to match its purpose, but this one seemed made to browbeat, to nauseate, to repel.

He had the impression that both men from the car had come on foot with him, but he never saw them, although his devotions around the town hall now allowed him to look about in all directions. Mount might himself be poor at the tailing and counter-tailing game, but he could recognize its skills in others. These two seemed to have most of the tricks, invisibility included, despite the Mr Punch chin and the tree-trunk neck. No deficiency in whereabouts awareness had hampered Mount here. His nerves saw to that. Awareness he had by the tun and ton. Training school had said his deficiency in whereabouts awareness was correctable. He'd corrected it.

But he still failed to locate the stalkers, suppose they
were
stalkers. And if he did suppose it, the meaning was harsh: they knew of his association with Toulmin – may even have seen Toulmin leave the building earlier that day, making for the Foreign Ministry. And possibly they'd also observed Inge and Olga arrive or depart or both, though perhaps the watchers could not be sure which apartment they'd visited. Mount might have several lives dependent on him. The training would say it didn't matter much as long as they were foreign lives, ‘collateral lives', but, in his sloppy way, he couldn't go along with that.

He'd spent about an hour at the town hall, then returned to his apartment. The Mercedes had still been there, though empty by then. He'd watched it from the window – concealed again, he hoped, by the drawn back curtain, as at thirty-seven. And after a while the two men had reappeared, walking, from the direction of the town hall, and climbed into the car. Furtive? Shifty? Mount would have said ‘purposeful', ‘unshowy'. What had they thought of the architecture?

Not long after this, two other men had arrived in a blue Opel Olympia. They left their vehicle and got into the back of the Mercedes. Furtive? Shifty? Mount would have said ‘urgent', ‘alert'. The two men in the front turned and the four of them seemed to chat. Mount thought it must be a briefing session for the Olympia relief team, a changing of the guard. His ostentatiously reverent visit to the town hall would be described and his attempt to semaphore innocence with the tourist book.
He
would be described. Perhaps Toulmin and the girls would be described. Yes, Mount had lives dependent on him.

Soon, the Olympia crew returned to their own car and the Mercedes drove off. Mount had moved away from the window. The two in the Mercedes, and those two who'd taken over from them, plainly believed he didn't realize they were there, or the sentry job would have been split: one to watch the front of the building, one the back – though, of course, there might be another unit at the back, not seen by Mount or the woman on the stairs.

Perhaps these watchers at the front had heard of Mount's whereabouts awareness deficiency and couldn't know it had just been cauterized. And perhaps he
might
have been unaware of them, but for his neighbour on the stairs again with her anxious adjectives and refusal to rest easy. He'd still felt he must get to the embassy as soon as he could.

Now, at the Toledo, Mount tabulated recollections: (3) MOSCOW.

One of the other main disclosures from Toulmin at breakfast yesterday morning had been that there were signs of a growing importance of Molotov, while Litvinov sank – Molotov a much tougher proposition for Britain, of course, and probably much closer to Uncle Joe. In Toulmin's view, Germany and Russia were each terrified of the other. Hitler was scared of the Red Army. That was partly why he wanted Czechoslovakia, though he'd postponed the actual assault. Toulmin could sense that Hitler was worried a Russian attack could come that way and reach east Germany in a flash. But, Toulmin also got the impression from some Moscow gossip that Stalin probably knew what a mess the Red Army was in – since he'd purged more than half the generals. ‘He doesn't want conflict with Germany, not at present, because the Russian military is nowhere near up to scratch.' Stalin, it became plain, trusted nobody, especially not his friends and potential allies. ‘Apparently, he listens only to Nikolai Yezhov, the “poison Dwarf”, head of their Organizational Bureau and so on,' Toulmin had said. ‘Yezhov tells him there are enemies everywhere, determined to destroy the Soviet Union. Many were inside Russia and had to be eliminated. So, the Terror. But some were other nations and must be treated as likely, dangerous aggressors. For the moment Yezhov is powerful, perhaps third after Molotov and Stalin. Yezhov nourishes Stalin's phobias.' According to Toulmin, both countries sought friendship, as protection. Or appeared to.

Mount tabulated recollections: (4) SURVEILLANCE (continued).

It had been crucial to get this material to Stephen Bilson as soon as possible. So, Mount had decided he'd exit from the rear and somehow get to the embassy, if the Olympia pair looked likely to remain in the car for a while. He returned to the edge of the window and looked down. The men were still together in the Opel. Good.

The next time Mount peered out, an hour or two later, the man in the passenger seat had a wireless handset up to his ear. Mount decided to wait and watch. After a few minutes, the man put away the handset and spoke to the driver. Their conversation was brief, but seemed animated, and then Mount heard the Olympia's engine start. The car pulled out from its parking spot, turned right at the end of the street, like the Mercedes, and disappeared.

Again Mount waited. Perhaps they would circle, and then vary their parking position on return, hoping to be less obvious. They couldn't have gone for keeps, could they? What was happening? Did it make sense to relax their vigil, maybe abandon it? Everyone knew that surveillance had to be continuous or it became useless. When you resumed after a break you might be starting surveillance on a totally changed situation. There could have been quick, secret departures, quick, secret arrivals, though you did not know it. Perhaps the woman's complaint to the police had been passed on and the Opel couple told they were too noticeable there. Perhaps the men had detected the woman watching and decided they'd switch.

Or . . . or. Mount did wonder if they'd just had the order to withdraw, withdraw permanently. Why, though? He knew this might be hope rather than a wise guess. A trap? Was it an inducement to go out again, and perhaps lead to somewhere more significant than the gorgeous Steglitz town hall – such as, for instance, the British embassy?

He had waited in the apartment for another couple of hours yesterday. Neither of the cars reappeared, and he'd seen nobody on foot patrol. He felt increasingly baffled that the watch might have been lifted. If the original pair had followed him here from Lichtenberg it must mean, mustn't it, that they suspected a shady bond between a Foreign Ministry official, full of important secrets, and this stranger – supposing, that is, they hadn't identified the stranger? How had they connected him with Toulmin on Monday night? They clearly had, hadn't they, and seeing Toulmin leave the building on Tuesday morning would have confirmed the connection for them. Yet they, or their chiefs, had closed the operation. Madness? Impossible?

Mount tabulated recollections: (5) BRITISH EMBASSY.

He'd made himself a soup and cheese meal, then had yet another look down at the street: still nothing and nobody hanging about. He went from the apartment and, very watchful, set out for the embassy. For the present, he shelved his worry about the chairs. He did some unnecessary changes on the U-Bahn to check for gumshoes, classic anti-tail drills. No. He'd been sure he had no tail. He'd become sure that, if he did have a tail, he would have located it, them. Yes, he'd learned something permanently useful: Mount, stay awake and aware.

At the embassy in Wilhelmstrasse, Bernard Kale-Walker, Head of Passport Control, Germany, as it were, had helped him draft then encode the telegram to SB. It would be decrypted and on his desk at the Section by the end of the day. ‘High-grade material,' he'd said about the dispatch. ‘High-grade and alarming. What comes next?'

Well, I'll give things a day and a half in case of developments, and then, if there aren't any, tomorrow night I must get to the Toledo club and warn two commercial girls there that they might have recently qualified for a state police dossier. I'll have to concoct some non-espionage tale as to why this should be. Perhaps I'll take one or both back to the apartment so I can give the yarn in privacy
.

Mount had thought this, but didn't say it. It would have involved telling Kale-Walker he'd unknowingly, stupidly, allowed himself to be tailed from Lichtenberg to Steglitz on Monday night, and that Inge and Olga visited the apartment now and then for a bit of an orgy. These topics Mount preferred to keep quiet about. It might also suggest he was putting an operation at risk for inanely big-hearted reasons. ‘I'll lie low for a day or so, see if there are any developments,' he said.

‘What sort of developments?' Kale-Walker had asked.

‘Occasionally it can be wise to do nothing.'

‘“Masterly inactivity.” Who said that?'

‘Me, if I'd thought of it.'

Perhaps the German security people had become keen on masterly inactivity, too, and so the Olympia had been called home yesterday afternoon. For a reason Mount could not see, did they want for now to avoid a public espionage fracas in Berlin? Politics? Would they allow the link between him and Toulmin to continue? Mount had decided not to make it a priority to warn Toulmin. Another journey to Lichtenberg would be needed, or a wait around the Foreign Ministry once more, or an attempt at a booth phone call. And he couldn't tell what results any of these might have.

Even if he did get a warning to him, what could Toulmin do? Would either he or Mount be allowed to flee Germany? That was very different from being tolerated inside the country as a clever tactic of some sort, possibly supervised at a distance – at liberty, it seemed, but on a long lead. After all, Toulmin would rate as a traitor, and Mount was a spy. Could Germany possibly let them do a flit? Quite a question, that, and the answer depressing. Possible exits might be arranged, though: a small plane lands at night on a remote, improvised airstrip; a submarine surfaces to meet a rubber dinghy off some secluded beach? Possibly, it would come to something like that. But either would take a deal of setting up, with Kale-Walker most probably in charge, as Service chief in Germany. For now, Mount shelved the notions.