Bagley, Desmond - The Enemy Page 12

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN It was dark and cold in Stockholm at that time of year. All the time I was in Sweden it didn't stop snowing; not heavily most of the time, but there was a continual fall of fine powder from leaden-grey clouds as though God up there was operating a giant flour sifter. I was booked into the Grand, which was warm enough, and after I had made my call to Henty I looked out over the frozen Strommen to the Royal Palace. Edward VII didn't like Buckingham Palace, and called it 'that damned factory'. It's not on record if he said anything about the Palace in Stockholm, but that afternoon it looked like a dark satanic mill. There were swans on the Strommen, walking uneasily on the ice and cuddling in clusters as though to keep warm. One was on an ice floe and drifting towards Riddarfjarden; I watched it until it went out of sight under the Strom bridge, then turned away feeling suddenly cold in spite of the central heating. Sweden in winter has that effect on me. Henty arrived and we swapped credentials. 'We don't have much to do with your mob,' he commented as he handed back my card. He had a raw colonial accent. 'We don't move out of the UK much,' I said. 'Most of our work is counterespionage. This one is a bit different. If you can take me to George Ashton I'll buy you a case of Foster's.' Henty blinked. 'Good beer, that. How did you know I'm Australian? I've not been back for twenty years. Must have lost the accent by now.' I grinned. 'Yes, you've learned to speak English very well. Where's Ashton?' He went to the window and pointed at the Royal Palace. 'On the other side of that. In Gamla Stan.' Gamla Stan—the Old Town. A warren of narrow streets threading between ancient buildings and the 'in' place to live in Stockholm. Cabinet ministers live there, and film directors—if they can afford it. The Royal Palace is No. 1, Gamla Stan. I said, 'How did you find him?' 'I got a couple of crummy pictures from London, and the day I got them I walked slam-bang into this character on the Vasabron.' Henty shrugged. 'So it's a coincidence.' 'By the laws of statistics we've got to get lucky some time,' I observed. 'He has a flat just off Vasterlanggatan. He's passing himself off as a Russian called Fyodr Koslov—which is a mistake.' 'Why?' Henty frowned. 'It's a tip-off—enough to make me take the pictures and send them back. There's something funny about the way he speaks Russian—doesn't sound natural.' I thought about that. After thirty years of non-use Ashton's Russian would be rusty; it's been known for men to forget completely their native language. 'And Benson is with him in the flat?' 'Benson? Is that who he is? He calls himself Williams here. An older man; looks a bit of a thug. He's definitely British.' 'How can I get a look at them?' Henty shrugged. 'Go to Gamla Stan and hang around outside the flat until they come out—or go in.' I shook my head. 'Not good enough. They know me and I don't want to be seen. What's your status here?' 'Low man on the bloody totem,' said Henty wryly. 'I'm junior partner in an import-export firm. I have a line into the Embassy, but that's for emergency use only. The diplomats here don't like boys like us, they reckon we cause trouble.' 'They could be right,' I said dryly. 'Who do I see at the Embassy?' 'A Second Secretary called Cutler. A toffee-nosed bastard.' The iron seemed to have entered Henty's soul. 'What resources can you draw on apart from the Embassy?' 'Resources!' Henty grinned. 'You're looking at the resources—me. I just have a watching brief—we're not geared for action.' 'Then it will have to be the Embassy.' He coughed, then said, 'Exactly who is Ashton?' I looked at him in silence until he said, 'If it's going to be like that . . .' 'It always is like that, isn't it?' 'I suppose so,' he said despondently. 'But I wish, just for once, that I knew why I'm doing what I'm doing.' I looked at my watch. 'There's just time to see Cutler. In the meantime you pin down Ashton and Benson. Report to me here or at the Embassy. And there's one very important thing—don't scare them.' 'Okay—but I don't think you'll get very much change out of Cutler.' I smiled. 'I wouldn't want either you or Cutler to bet on that one.' The Embassy was on Skarpogatan, and Cutler turned out to be a tall, slim, fair-haired man of about my age, very English and Old School Tie. His manner was courteous but rather distant as though his mind was occupied by other, and more important, considerations which a non-diplomat could not possibly understand. This minor Metternich reminded me strongly of a shop assistant in one of the more snob London establishments. When I gave him my card—the special one—his lips tightened and he said coolly, 'You seem to be off your beat, Mr. Jaggard. What can we do for you?' He sounded as though he believed there was nothing he could possibly do for me. I said pleasantly, 'We've mislaid a bit of property and we'd like it back—with your help. But tact is the watchword.' I told him the bare and minimum facts about Ashton and Benson. When I'd finished he was a shade bewildered. 'But I don't see how . . .' He stopped and began again. 'Look, Mr. Jaggard, if this man decides to leave England with his manservant to come to Sweden and live under an assumed name I don't see what we can do about it. I don't think it's a crime in Swedish law to live under another name; it certainly isn't in England. What exactly is it that you want?' 'A bit of manpower,' I said. 'I want Ashton watched. I want to know what he does and why he does it.' 'That's out of the question,' said Cutler. 'We can't spare men for police work of that nature. I really fail to see what your interest is in the man on the basis of what you've told me.' 'You're not entitled to know more,' I said bluntly. 'But take it from me—Ashton is a hot one.' 'I'm afraid I can't do that,' he said coldly. 'Do you really think we jump when any stranger walks in off the street with an improbable story like this?' I pointed to my card which was still on the blotter in front of him. 'In spite of that?' 'In spite of that,' he said, but I think he really meant because of it. 'You people amaze me. You think you're James Bonds, the lot of you. Well, I don't think I'm living in the middle of a highly coloured film, even if you do.' I wasn't going to argue with him. 'May I use your telephone?' He frowned, trying to think of a good reason for denial, so I added, 'I'll pay for the call.' 'That won't be necessary,' he said shortly, and pushed his telephone across the desk. One of our boffins once asked me what was the biggest machine in the world. After several abortive answers I gave up, and he said, 'The international telephone system. There are 450 million telephones in the world, and 250 million of them are connected by direct dialling—untouched by hand in the exchanges.' We may grouse about the faults of local systems, but in under ninety seconds I was talking to Ogilvie. I said, 'We have Ashton but there's a small problem. There's only one of Henty, and I can't push in too close myself.' 'Good. Get on to the Embassy for support. We want him watched. Don't approach him yourself.' 'I'm at the Embassy now. No support forthcoming.' 'What's the name of the obstruction?' 'Cutler—Second Secretary.' 'Wait a moment.' There was a clatt er and I heard the rustle of papers in distant London. Presently Ogilvie said, 'This will take about half an hour. I'll dynamite the obstruction. For God's sake, don't lose Ashton now.' 'I won't,' I said, and hung up. I stood up and picked my card from Cutler's blotter. 'I'm at the Grand. You can get me there.' 'I can't think of any circumstances in which I should do so,' he said distantly. I smiled. 'You will.' Suddenly I was tired of him. 'Unless you want to spend the next ten years counting paper clips in Samoa.' Back at the hotel there was a curt note from Henty: 'Meet me at the Moderna Museet on Skeppsholmen.' I grabbed a taxi and was there in five minutes. Henty was standing outside the main entrance, his hands thrust deep into his pockets and the tip of his nose blue with cold. He jerked his head at the gallery. 'Your man is getting a bit of culture.' This had to be handled carefully. I didn't want to bump into Ashton face to face. 'Benson there too?' 'Just Ashton.' 'Right. Nip in and locate him—then come back here.' Henty went inside, no doubt glad to be in the warm. He was back in five minutes. 'He's studying blue period Picassos.' He gave me a plan of the halls and marked the Picasso Gallery. I went into the Museum, moving carefully. There were not many people in the halls on the cold winter's afternoon, which was a pity because there was no crowd to get lost in. On the other hand there were long unobstructed views. I took out my handkerchief, ready to muffle my face in case of emergency, turned a corner and saw Ashton in the distance. He was contemplating a canvas with interes
t and, as he turned to move on to the next one, I had a good sight of his face. To my relief this was Ashton. There would have been a blazing row if I had goosed Cutler to no purpose.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN Cutler jumped like a startled frog. An hour later, when I was unfreezing my bones in a hot bath and feeling sorry for Henty who was still tagging Ashton, the telephone rang to announce that he was waiting in the hotel foyer. 'Ask him to come up.' I dried myself quickly and put on a dressing gown. He brought two men whom he introduced as Askrigg and Debenham. He made no apologies for his previous attitude and neither of us referred to it. All the time I knew him he maintained his icily well-bred air of disapproval; that I could stand so long as he did what he was told and did it fast, and I had no complaints about that. The only trouble was that he and his people were lacking in professionalism. We got down to business immediately. I outlined the problem, and Askrigg said, 'A full-time surveillance of two men is a six-man job.' 'At least,' I agreed. 'And that's excluding me and Henty. Ashton and Benson know me, so I'm out. As for Henty, he's done enough. He spotted Ashton for us and has been freezing his balls off ever since keeping an eye on him. I'm pulling him out for a rest and then he'll be in reserve.' 'Six men,' said Cutler doubtfully. 'Oh, well, I suppose we can find them. What are we looking for?' 'I want to know everything about them. Where they go, what they eat, who they see, do they have a routine, what happens when they break that routine, who they write to—you name it, I want to know.' 'It seems a lot of fuss over a relatively minor industrialist,' sniffed Cutler. I grinned at him, and quoted, '"Yours not to reason why, yours but to do or die." Which could happen because they're probably armed.' That brought a moment of silence during which Cutler twitched a bit. In his book diplomacy and guns didn't go together. I said, 'Another thing: I want to have a look inside Ashton's apartment, but we'll check their routine first so we can pick the right moment.' 'Burglary!' said Cutler hollowly. 'The Embassy mustn't be involved in that.' 'It won't be,' I said shortly. 'Leave that to me. All right; let's get organized.' And so Ashton and Benson were watched, every movement noted. It was both wearisome and frustrating as most operations of this nature are. The two men led an exemplary life. Ashton's was the life of a gentleman of leisure; he visited museums and art galleries, attended the theatre and cinemas, and spent a lot of time in bookshops where he spent heavily, purchasing fiction and non-fiction, the non-fiction being mostly biographies. The books were over a spread of languages, English, German and Russian predominating. And all the time he did not do a stroke of what could reasonably be called work. It was baffling. Benson was the perfect manservant. He did the household shopping, attended to the laundry and dry cleaning, and did a spot of cooking on those occasions when Ashton did not eat out. He had found himself a favourite drinking hole which he attended three or four times a week, an olstuga more intellectual than most because it had a chess circle. Benson would play a couple of games and leave relatively early. Neither of them wrote or received any letters. Neither appeared to have any associates other than the small-change encounters of everyday life. Neither did a single damned thing out of the ordinary with one large and overriding exception. Their very presence in Stockholm was out of the ordinary. At the beginning of the third week, when their routine had been established, Henry and I cracked the apartment. Ashton had gone to the cinema and Benson was doing his Bobby Fischer bit over a half-litre of Carlsberg and we would have an hour or longer. We searched that flat from top to bottom and did not find much. The main prize was Ashton's passport. It was of Israeli issue, three years old, and made out in the name of Fyodr Antonovitch Koslov who had been born in Odessa in 1914. I photographed every page, including the blank ones, and put it back where I found it. A secondary catch was the counterfoil stub of a chequebook. I photographed that thoroughly, too. Ashton was spending money quite freely, his casual expenses were running to nearly £500 a week. The telephone rang. Henty picked it up and said cautiously, 'Vilket nummer vill ni ha?' There was a pause. 'Okay.' he put down the receiver. 'Benson's left the pub; he's on his way back.' I looked around the room. 'Everything in order?' 'I reckon so.' 'Then let's go.' We left the building and sat in Henty's car until Benson arrived. We saw him safely inside, checked his escort, then went away. Early next morning I gave Cutler the spools of film and requested negatives and two sets of prints. I got them within the hour and spent quite a time checking them before my prearranged telephone call from Ogilvie. It had to be prearranged because he had to have a scrambler compatible with that at the Embassy. Briefly I summarized the position up to that point, then said, 'Any breakthrough will come by something unusual—an oddity—and there are not many of those. There's the Israeli passport—I'd like to know if that's kosher. I'll send you the photographs in the diplomatic bag.' 'Issued three years ago, you say.' 'That's right. That would be about the time a bank account was opened here in the name of Koslov. The apartment was rented a year later, also in the name of Koslov; it was sublet until four months ago when Ashton moved in. Our friend had everything prepared. I've gone through cheque stubs covering nearly two months. Ashton isn't stinting himself.' 'How is he behaving? Psychologically, I mean.' 'I've seen him only three times, and then at a distance.' I thought for a moment. 'My impression is that he's more relaxed than when I saw him last in England; under less of a strain.' There didn't seem much else to say. 'What do I do now?' 'Carry on,' said Ogilvie succinctly. I sighed. 'This could go on for weeks—months. What if I tackled him myself? There's no need to blow my cover. I can get myself accredited to an international trade conference that's coming up next week.' 'Don't do that,' said Ogilvie. 'He's sharper than anyone realizes. Just keep watching; something will turn up.' Yes, Mr. Micawber, I thought, but didn't say it. What I said was, 'I'll put the negatives and prints into the diplomatic bag immediately.' Two more weeks went by and nothing happened. Ashton went on his way serenely, doing nothing in particular. I had another, more extended, look at him and he seemed to be enjoying himself in a left-handed fashion. This was possibly the first holiday he'd ever had free from the cares of the business he had created. Benson pottered about in the shops and markets of Gamla Stan most mornings, doing his none-too-frugal shopping, and we began to build up quite a picture of the culinary tastes of the ménage Ashton. It didn't do us one damned bit of good. Henty went about his own mysterious business into which I didn't enquire too closely. I do know that he was in some form of military intelligence because he left for a week and went north to Lapland where the Swedish Army was holding winter manoeuvres. When he came back I saw him briefly and he said he'd be busy writing a report. Four days later he came to see me with disturbing information. 'Do you know there's another crowd in on the act?' I stared at him. 'What do you mean?' 'I've got a bump of curiosity,' he said. 'Last night, in my copious spare time, I checked to see whether Cutler's boys were up to snuff. Ashton is leading quite a train—our chap follows Ashton and someone else follows him.' I was about to speak but he held up his hand. 'So I checked on Benson and the same is happening there.' 'Cutler's said nothing about this.' 'How would he know?' said Henty scathingly. 'Or any of them. They're amateurs.' I asked the crucial question. 'Who?' Henty shrugged. 'My guess is Swedish Intelligence. Those boys are good. They'd be interested in anyone with a Russian name, and even more interested to find out he's under surveillance. They'll have made the connection with the British Embassy by now.' 'Damn!' I said. 'Better not let Cutler know or he'll have diplo matic kittens. I think this is where we join in.' Next morning, when Ashton took his morning constitutional, we were on the job. Ashton appeared and collected the first segment of his tail who happened to be Askrigg. Henty nudged me and pointed out the stranger who fell in behind. 'That's our joker. I'll cross the road and follow him. You stay on this side and walk parallel, keeping an eye on both of us.' By God, but Henty was good! I tried to watch both him and the man he was following but Henty was invisible half the time, even though I knew he was there. He bobbed back and forth, letting the distance lengthen and then closing
up, disappearing into shop entrances and reappearing in unexpected places and, in general, doing his best not to be there at all. Two or three times he was even in front of the man he was shadowing. It was one of Ashton's book mornings. He visited two bookshops and spent about three-quarters of an hour in each, then he retired with his plunder to a coffeehouse and inspected his purchases over coffee and Danish pastries. It was pretty funny. The coffeehouse was on the corner of a block. Askrigg waited outside while, kitty-corner across the street, his follower stamped his feet to keep warm while ostensibly looking into a shop window. The third corner held Henty, doing pretty much the same, while I occupied the fourth corner. My own wait was made risible by the nature of the shop in which I was taking an intent interest. Henty was outside a camera shop. Mine sold frilly lingerie of the type known pungently as passion fashion. Out came Ashton and the train chugged off again, and he led us back to where we had started, but going home by the Vasabron just to make a variation. So far the whole thing was a bust, but better times were coming. Our man went into a tobacconist's shop and I followed. As I bought a packet of cigarettes I heard him speaking in low tones on the telephone. I couldn't hear what he said but the intonation was neither English nor Swedish. He left the shop and walked up the street while I followed on the other side. A hundred yards up the street he crossed, so I did the same; then he reversed direction. He was doing what he hoped was an unobtrusive patrol outside Ashton's flat. Fifteen minutes later came the event we'd waited for—his relief arrived. The two men stood and talked for a few moments, their breath steaming and mingling in the cold air, then my man set off at a smart pace and I followed. He turned the corner which led around the back of the Royal Palace, and when I had him in sight he was dickering with a taxi driver. I was figuring out how to say, 'Follow that car!' in Swedish when Henty pulled up alongside in his car. I scrambled in, and Henty said in satisfaction, 'I thought he might do that. We've all had enough walking for the day.' I've said he was good. So we followed the taxi through Stockholm, which was not particularly difficult, nor did he take us very far. The taxi pulled up outside a building and was paid off, and our man disappeared inside. Henty carried on without slackening speed. 'That does it!' he said expressively. I twisted in my seat and looked back. 'Why? What is that place?' 'The bloody Russian Embassy.'