Spy Sinker. Len Deighton

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СКАЧАТЬ and the guards. Both men were wearing headphones over their knitted hats, and Gabby, whose taciturn disposition had earned him his nickname, had his eye to the big Hawklite image-intensifying scope.

      ‘Yes,’ he said suddenly, the rubber-sided microphone clamped tight to his mouth. ‘One! No: two of them. One running … the other on the ground. Jesus!’

      The searchlight had come on by that time, but it provided no help for anyone trying to see what was happening.

      ‘And there go the infra-red lights too. My, my, they are getting serious,’ said Gabby calmly. ‘Can we jam?’ Tom had already tuned the jammer to the required wavelength, but it was a lower-power machine that would only affect the small sets. ‘I’ll have to go forward. I can’t get it from here.’

      Tom said nothing. They’d both hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary for either of them to cross into DDR territory. Over the last year they’d had a couple of close shaves, and their opposite numbers – the two-man team who were responsible for the stretch of Wall to the north – had both been killed after one of them stepped on a mine that had been ‘accidentally’ left on the West side of the Wall when DDR repair parties had finished work.

      Tom Cutts’s misgivings would have been confirmed had he had a chance to see into the Russian Electronic Warfare Support Vehicle that was parked out of sight behind the dog kennels. Inside its darkened interior a senior KGB officer named Erich Stinnes could just about fit between the collection of electronic equipment. His face was tense and the lenses of his glasses reflected the screen of a battlefield radar far more sophisticated than the ‘man-portable’ infantry model that the two ‘freebooters’ had placed into position.

      ‘One of them is moving forward,’ the Russian army operator told Stinnes. The blip that was Gabby glowed brighter as he scrambled from his trench and exposed more of his body to the radar.

      The EW support vehicle provided more than one indication of what was happening in the sector. There was a thermal imager rendering the warmth of human bodies into revealing white blobs, and now that the infra-red lights were on, the automatic IR cameras were taking a picture every five seconds. If it came to an inquiry there would be no chance of proving the DDR was in the wrong.

      ‘Let him come,’ said Stinnes. ‘Perhaps the other fellow will come too. Then we’ll have both of them.’

      ‘If we wait too long the two spies will escape,’ said the Grepo officer who’d been assigned to give Stinnes all the help and assistance he required.

      ‘We’ll get them all, never fear. I’ve followed them a long way. I’ll not miss them now.’ They didn’t realize how circumscribed he was by the rules and regulations. But without breaking any applicable rules Stinnes had supervised what can only be described as an exemplary operation. The two agents arrested in Schwerin had yielded the details of their rendezvous after only two hours of interrogation. Furthermore the methods used to get this ‘confession’ were by KGB standards only moderately severe. They had detected the two ‘Englishmen’ at the log cabin and kept them under observation all the way here. Apart from the misrouteing of a helicopter by some imbecilic air traffic controller it was a textbook operation.

      ‘The second man is coming forward,’ said the operator.

      ‘Kolossal!’ said Stinnes. ‘When he gets to the wire you can shoot.’ The unrepaired gap in the Wall had enabled them to plan the fields of fire. It was like a shooting gallery: four men trapped inside the enclosure formed by the Wall, the wire and the builders’ materials.

      It was Gabby who shot the searchlight out. Afterwards Bernard said it was Max, but that was because Bernard wanted to believe it was Max. The death of Max distressed Bernard in a way that few other losses had ever done. And of course Bernard never shook off the guilt that came from his being the only survivor.

      He saw the other three die. Max, Tom and Gabby. They were cut to pieces by a heavy machine gun: an old reliable 12.7mm Degtyarev. The noise of the machine gun sounded very loud in the night air. Everyone for miles around heard it. That would teach the English a lesson.

      ‘Where’s the other one?’ said Stinnes, still watching the radar screen.

      ‘He tripped and fell down. Damn! Damn! Damn! They’re putting the big jammer on now!’ As the two men watched, electronic clutter came swirling up from the bottom of the screen: major interference like a snowstorm.

      ‘Where is he?’ Stinnes slapped his hand upon the blinded radar and its useless screen and shouted, ‘Where?’ The men in the bunker with him jumped to their feet, stared straight ahead, standing stiff and upright as a good Russian soldier is taught to stand when a senior officer shouts at him.

      Thus it was that Bernard Samson drowned in the clutter and scrambled away unhurt, running like he’d never run before, eventually to fall into the arms of Sergeant Powell.

      ‘Shit!’ said Powell. ‘Where did you come from, laddie?’ For one wild moment Sergeant Powell thought he’d captured a prisoner. When he realized that it was only an escaper from the East he was disappointed. ‘They said there’d be two. Where’s the other fellow?’

       3

       Cambridgeshire, England. February 1978.

      Sir Henry Clevemore was not renowned for his hospitality, and rightly so. As the Director-General of the Secret Intelligence Service, he carefully chose the people he met and where he met them. The chosen venue was unlikely to be his own home, a magnificent old timber and stone mansion, a large part of which dated from the sixteenth century. In any case Lady Clevemore did not enjoy entertaining, she never had. If her husband wanted to entertain he could use the Cavalry Club in Piccadilly. It was more convenient in every way.

      So it was a flattering exception when on a chilly February evening he invited Bret Rensselaer – a senior Departmental employee – to drive out to Cambridgeshire for dinner.

      Sir Henry appeared to have overlooked the fact that Rensselaer was the sort of American who liked to wear formal clothes. Bret had agonized about whether to wear a tuxedo but had finally decided upon a charcoal suit, tailored in that waisted style so beloved of Savile Row craftsmen, lightly starched white shirt and grey silk tie. Sir Henry was wearing a blue lounge suit that had seen better days, a soft collared shirt with a missing button and highly polished scuffed black brogues that needed new laces.

      ‘For God’s sake, why a woman?’ said Bret Rensselaer more calmly than his choice of words suggested. ‘Why ever did you choose a woman?’ This was not the way Departmental staff usually addressed Sir Henry Clevemore, but Bret Rensselaer had ‘a special relationship’ with the Director-General. It was a relationship based to some extent upon Bret Rensselaer’s birthplace, his influential friends in the State Department, and to some extent upon the fact that Bret’s income made him financially independent of the Secret Intelligence Service, and of most other things.

      ‘Do smoke if you want to. Can I offer you a cigar?’

      ‘No thank you, Sir Henry.’

      Sir Henry Clevemore sat back in his armchair and sipped his whisky. They were in the drawing room staring at a blazing log fire, having been served a grilled lobster dinner and the last bottle of a particularly good Montrachet that Sir Henry had been given by the Permanent Under-Secretary.

      ‘It СКАЧАТЬ