Spy Line

8

I didn't eat dinner in the hotel. I found a charming little place near the Mozart statue, or it might have been near the Papageno fountain or the Mozart footbridge. I heard the music of an accordion playing a spirited version of 'The Lonely Goatherd' and went in. The interior was done in dark wood panelling with red check tablecloths. It was almost empty. On the walls there were shiny copper pans together with the actual marionettes that had been used to perform the Mozart operas in the world-famous Marionettentheater. Or maybe they were plastic replicas. The waiter strongly recommended the breaded pork schnitzel, but as my mother told me, you should never trust a man in lederhosen. It took several glasses of the local Weizengold wheat beer to help me recover. The accordion music was on tape.

I got back to the hotel late. There were men everywhere: standing about in the lobby, others drinking solemnly in the bar and all of them eyeing each other warily. I knew they were stamp dealers, for I could detect the ponderous gravity that so often attends the first evening when men are gathered together for business purposes.

Even the serious drinkers were quiet. A group near the bar were speaking in that stilted German that is usually the sign of the expatriate. One said, 'I don't know why people say the Austrians are venal, it took them more than a century to discover how much money they could make out of Mozart.'

His companion shushed him. Rightly so, for even his quiet voice was audible on the other side of the hotel. Then suddenly there was a loud shuffling and squeaking noise from the revolving doors and into the lobby there came two young couples. They had gleaming complexions and perfect wavy hair. Their clothes were chic and expensive and the women wore glittering jewellery and they all had that boisterous self-confidence with which the wealthy are so often endowed. They were not stamp dealers. Everyone turned to see them, for their sudden entrance into the sombre hotel lobby was unwelcome, like noisy brightly coloured TV advertisements interrupting the soft nostalgia of an old black and white film.

They must have sensed the feelings their unexpected appearance had provoked, for they became quieter and their movements more composed as they made their way across the marble floor. The lift was not working, so they went up the grand staircase to their rooms. The eyes of every man followed the progress of the glamorous people, the women with their long dresses decorously lifted as they ascended the stairs, the young men murmuring together.

I looked around for the mysterious American but there was no sign of him. I had done enough for one day: I went to bed. As I put my head on the pillow a clock began to chime eleven and soon another one joined in.

The auction started exactly on time, as most things do in that part of the world. It was all Zeppelin mail today, starting with the earliest examples, mail of the 'pioneer' airships Viktoria Luise and Schwaben. Then came one postcard from the airship Deutschland which bore the airship company's red stamp, and the bidding just kept going and going until it reached the sky. There were three men after the card and the room went silent as the auctioneer just kept his litany of numbers going with glances from one side to the other. The bidding stopped suddenly as two of the men seemed to decide simultaneously that there was no longer a margin of profit left. Crack, went the hammer, and the reaction was a sudden shuffle of tense muscles and released breaths. They were all writing the price into their catalogues. This would set a higher value for such items and would mean a reappraisal of their stocks.

The room wasn't crowded but there was a continuous flow of people as specialists interested in particular items came in and took part in some spirited bidding and then went to drink coffee in the glassed-in sidewalk café, or out on the terrace to smoke and chat with their colleagues.

They must have been running a bit behind time that morning, for the auctioneer kept glancing at his watch and there seemed to be a general tendency to hurry things along.

As the auction reached 1914, and the wartime Zeppelins, there was something of an exodus that left only a couple of dozen specialists. Whether this was because the First World War items were a neglected part of the stamp collector's world, or because this particular auction contained poor examples, I had no way of knowing. But when the auctioneer announced the beginning of a Hungarian collection of Graf Zeppelin mail, sold by order of the executor of the deceased man's estate, almost every chair was taken, and there were some who preferred to remain standing at the very back.

I was ready well before Lot 584 was offered for sale. Face down on the table in front of me there was a large white card printed with a big black number 12. That was my number and when the bidding for 584 began I tipped it up so that it was visible to the auctioneer. For a fraction of a second he met my eyes to tell me that I was in the auction, and increased the bid accordingly. Behind me there must have been a dozen or more bids offered somewhat mechanically. The price kept going up, and it was hard to know whether my raised card made any difference. The auctioneer looked into the distance and deliberately gave no clue as to where the bids were coming from.

The bidding slowed. That first flurry of bids had gone, leaving more serious ones. 'One thousand nine hundred!' he called, and as the total increased each bid was a bigger jump. Suddenly we were into bigger bids. I tipped the card to keep the bidding going but someone behind me was interested too. We were now at double the estimated price and the bids were still coming!

The auctioneer didn't look surprised. That morning there had been other things to surprise him more: items ignored and items fetching three or four times their estimates. I tried to remember how much cash I had in my wallet over and above the money that Hoffmann had left with me. Two thousand five hundred!' They were 100-schilling increments now, and still going.

'Two thousand six hundred!' Behind me there were two other people bidding for the damned envelope. I turned but could not see either of my rivals.

'Two thousand nine hundred!' The auctioneer was looking at me now, an eyebrow lifted. I showed my bidding card again and he lifted his eyes to somewhere at the back of the room.

'Three thousand…' and even before he said it he was looking over my head and saying 'Three one… Three two…'

His eyes came back to me. I held the card resolutely upright and his eyes passed discreetly over me and to the room. 'Three three… three four… three five…'He hadn't even brought his eyes back to me. There must be two of them fighting it out. And they weren't slowing. I turned to see the room. One of the auction officials was standing in the corner at a telephone. He lifted his hand. So it was a phone-in customer who was bidding against me plus someone at the back of the room.

'Three thousand seven hundred schillings!'

Some sort of pause had come in the bidding, for the auctioneer's eyes came back to me. 'Three thousand seven hundred schillings at the back of the room,' he said.

I nodded. The auctioneer said, Three eight at the front of the room.'

From somewhere behind me I heard a German voice say, Three nine,' and then another German voice say, Tour thousand on the phone.'

'Four thousand one hundred at the back of the room,' said the auctioneer. And then immediately, 'Four two…three…four, five.' Even the auctioneer was surprised. 'Four thousand six hundred at the back of the room.'

He was looking at me. I nodded. He looked up and said, 'Four…' and then said, 'Five thousand one hundred schillings to the back of the room.'

I turned to get a proper look at who was bidding and was in time to see the man at the telephone wave a hand to indicate the bidder had stopped.

'For the second time: five thousand one hundred schillings,' said the auctioneer looking at me quizzically.

I lifted the numbered card. 'Five two at the front.'

For a moment I thought the bidding had stopped. I was relieved. If I turned out all my pockets and persuaded the hotel to take an English cheque I might put together that amount of cash. Then the auctioneer said, 'Five three…'and then without looking in my direction at all he said, 'Five four… Five five.'

Someone else had joined the bidding and before I could catch my breath the price was at six thousand Austrian schillings.

The auctioneer was tapping his hammer again. 'For the third time…' I shook my head. 'Gone!'

Once again the Department had given their orders and then so arranged things that the man in the field could not carry them through. I put the numbered card in my pocket as a souvenir and got to my feet. I wanted to see the man who now owned what I'd been sent here to buy.

He made no attempt to avoid detection. He looked sixtyish; wavy hair, a bit overweight but physically rather trim. He was wearing a Black Watch tartan jacket and dark slacks with a spotted bow tie. His neatly trimmed grey beard and gold-rimmed bifocals all added up to an American college professor on a sabbatical. He was leaning against the edge of a table and as he saw me he smiled and edged his way past the other men to join me. I waited for him.

'Oh boy! I wondered what was happening,' he said in English with a soft American accent. 'I thought you maybe had a buy bid too.'

'No, 'I said. 'I had a limit.'

'And am I glad you did. We could have gone through the ceiling. Can I buy you a drink?'

'Thanks,' I said.

'I haven't seen you around before.'

'I work in London,' I said.

As we reached the door he asked one of the auction staff where he could pick up his purchase and was told to go to the cashier's office – a room on the ground floor at the back of the hotel. It was all well-organized, and evident that the same firm held auctions here regularly.

'Jesus, look at that rain and it's becoming hail,' he said as we walked past the bookstall and along the corridor.

There was a line waiting outside the cashier's office when we got there. We joined the line. 'It was a good item but I've seen better,' said the man, continuing with the conversation. 'My name is Johnson, Bart Johnson. I work in Frankfurt but I come from Chicago. Are you a Zeppelinpost expert?'

'No,' I said.

He looked at me and nodded. 'Well Graf Zeppelin is a kind of hero for me. I was always crazy about airships. It started when I was a kid and someone gave me a piece of fabric from the Shenandoah that crashed in Ohio in 1925. I've still got it, framed on the wall. Yes, back in my office I keep a file on everything. And I looked up Berezowski's Handbuch der Luftpostkunde… You know that of course?'

'I'm not sure I do.'

'Jesus, I depend on Berezowski even more than I rely on the Sieger Katalog.' In his hands he had a catalogue and a blue folder containing cuttings and handwritten notes. He flipped it open to refer to it.

I sensed that some reaction was expected so I said, 'Do you really?'

'Berezowski's 1930 book is a classic for this kind of reference. It's been reprinted: you can still buy copies. I'll give you an address and you can get one mailed. But in the clippings I came across an article that Dr Max Kronstein wrote in the Airpost Journal in January 1970. He says the Paraguay post office refused to accept International Reply Coupons; that's why Paraguay mail is so rare. The only mail with Paraguay adhesives came from residents – foreign residents.'

'That's very interesting,' I said.

'Yes, isn't it?' He flipped the file closed and put a gold pencil into his pocket. 'And ever since Sieger listed the mail to Europe as being worth ten per cent more than mail to USA, our customers prefer it. In fact I looked up Kummer: he says that only sixty items went to the USA and about 180 to Europe so I'd say it was the other way around. Mind you, you can never be sure because mail sent to Europe might have been destroyed by the war, while items in American collections remained safe.' He kept a finger in the file, as if it might be necessary for him to prove these contentions to me by references to it.

'Yes,' I said.

'Sure. I know. I mustn't go on so much. You seem kind of disappointed. Was it for your own collection?'

'No, it was just a job.'

'Well, don't take it to heart, fella. There's a whole lot more Zeppelinpost out there waiting to be bought. Right?' I nodded, He stroked his beard and smiled. The line moved forwards as some dealers emerged from the office with their purchases.

'Say, who was that character I saw you talking with on the terrace yesterday?'

'An acquaintance,' I said.

'What's his name?'

'I've been trying to remember,' I said. 'I thought he was with you.'

'Thurkettle,' he supplied. 'He said his name was Ronnie Thurkettle. So he's not a buddy of yours?'

'I hardly know him.' Now I remembered the name but his face was still not familiar to me.

'Say, what kind of work does that guy do? He's not in the stamp business is he? I used to see him in Frankfurt and all around but I never figured what kind of job he has.'

'Works for the State Department,' I said. 'But that's all I know about him.'

'He buttonholed me yesterday. He came on real friendly, but he just wanted to pick my brains about Zeppelinpost. He doesn't know the first thing about airmail. He was expecting me to explain the catalogue to him. I told him to go and get a good book on the subject. I'm not about to give lessons to guys like him: he's not my kind. Know what I mean?'

'How did he take it?'

'Take it? He backed off and changed the subject. He's not a friend of mine. No way. I just used to see him around when I was in public relations. Frankfurt; I'd see him at those little shindigs the contractors give to entertain visitors: cute little weenies on a stick and diluted Martinis. You know. I guessed he was with the government. Washington is printed all over him: right? But I thought maybe he was a civilian with the army.'

'No,' I said. 'State.'

'I stay well away from those guys. They bring trouble and I don't need it.' The line moved again until we were at the front. A soft buzzer sounded and the security man signalled for us to go in. There was not much room in the cashier's office. A morose clerk looked through a small metal grille. Behind him there was a girl with a table piled with philatelic covers and cards in transparent plastic and a cash box full of cheques and money of all denominations. 'Johnson's the name. Johnson, Bartholomew H.,' said my companion. ' Lot 584. Six thousand schillings. I have an account with you.' The room had an unfamiliar smell, like incense. Maybe it was the clerk's after-shave. Or the money.

The man behind the grille turned the pages of the book. 'What number?' he asked.

' Lot 584.' Johnson now had a thick bundle of Austrian money in his hand. He riffled it. It seemed as though all these stamp dealers liked cash.

'There must be a mistake,' said the man behind the grille.

'Johnson Bartholomew H. I have an account. Six thousand schillings. If you want cash, I have it here.' He flip-flopped the wad of money and said, I'm not going to spend ten thousand schillings before getting on the plane this afternoon.'

The clerk said, ' Lot 584 went for six thousand two hundred schillings. A telephone bid.'

'No sir!' said Johnson. 'I got it.'

'You have made a mistake, sir,' said the man behind the grille.

'You've made the mistake, buddy. Now give me my cover.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I insist. It's mine! Now let me have it.' He was angry.

'I'm afraid it's no longer here,' said the clerk. 'It went off with a lot of other material. It's for a very well-known client.'

'What am I?' said Johnson angrily.

'I'm sorry you are disappointed, sir,' he said. 'But there is really nothing I can do and there are many other customers waiting.'

'How do you like that?' He shouted so loudly that the security man looked around the door, but the steam was going out of him.

'Let's get out of here,' I said, a number one rule amongst the people I work with being never get tangled with the law.

'You haven't heard the last of this!' Johnson said to the man behind the grille.

I'm very sorry, sir. I really am.'

Once out in the corridor again we both became objects of curiosity for those who had heard Johnson shouting. He brushed the front of his suit self-consciously and said, 'Come on. Let's get a drink.'

'Good idea,' I said.

It took him several minutes to recover his composure. He seemed really rattled. If it was all an act it was an Oscar-worthy performance. Once seated at the counter in the bar he said, 'What the hell was that all about? You were there. You saw me get that damned cover. Or am I going nuts?'

'You're not going nuts,' I said.

'Did you tell me your name?'

'No, I didn't.'

'I'm not going nuts,' said Johnson. 'It's these Austrians who are going nuts. Give me a double scotch,' he called to the barman. He raised his eyes and I nodded. 'Make it two double scotches.'

'Let me pay,' I said. 'I suddenly seem to have a lot of cash.'

'Me too,' he said and laughed. 'I've got to get out of here, these people drive me crazy. Want a ride to the airplane? Or have you got a car?'

'When?'

I'm catching the seven o'clock plane to Vienna,' he said, and I told him that would suit me just fine. The whisky calmed him down. I let him talk about his stamps while I made appropriate interjections and thought about other things.

Later I walked upstairs with him. His room was near the stairs and mine along the same corridor. As he let himself into his room he said, 'I'll take a bath and maybe grab a sandwich. See you in the lobby about five-thirty?'

'Right,' I said.

Then, as his door closed I heard him say, 'Well, what about that?' and I wondered what he was referring to. But by that time I'd grown used to his spirited disposition and decided that he was talking to himself.

There was plenty of time. I wondered whether to phone London and tell them that someone else had bought the cover but decided to put it off for an hour or two. By that time I'd be speaking to a Duty Officer rather than to Dicky or Stowe.

I went to the window and stared down at the rainswept street. The tourists were indomitable. Buttoned tight in long brightly coloured plastic coats, their feet encased in transparent overshoes, their hoods with drawstrings tightened to reveal small circles of grim red faces, they trekked past like combat-hardened veterans resolutely moving up to the fighting line. I got a glass from the bathroom and poured myself a shot of duty-free scotch. I'd promised Gloria not to touch the hard stuff while I was away this time, but that was not taking into account the fiasco in the auction room and the way in which I would soon have to explain my failure.

I kicked my shoes off, stretched out on the bed and dozed. All day – like an errant poodle tugging its leash – my mind had tried to explore some other time and place. And yet these fugitive memories remained fuzzy grey and unfocused. It was when I closed my eyes and relaxed that my memories sniffed out what had been bothering me all day.

'Deuce' Thurkettle! Jesus Christ, how could I ever have forgotten Deuce Thurkettle, even if he now preferred to be known as Ronnie? I'd never known him but his dossier was something not to be forgotten.

'Deuce' not in the sense of runner-up, quitter or coward, the way the word is sometimes used, nor a 'pair' in a poker game. This man was Deuce because of the barbaric double murder for which he'd gone to prison. Deuce Thurkettle came to Berlin after being released from some high-security prison in Arizona, where he was serving a life sentence for murder in the first degree.

Perhaps it was a long dull afternoon after too much Southern-fried chicken when some bright young fellow sitting behind a desk in Langley, Virginia, had got this brilliant idea of sending a convicted murderer into Berlin on a tourist visa, to get rid of a troublesome KGB agent who had so far eluded all attempts to incriminate him.

I remembered the Deuce Thurkettle file and the way I'd read it all the way through without pause. I suppose to some extent I read it because I was not supposed to see it. It was a CIA document buried deep in the dank dark place where the CIA buried their secrets. Or that's where it should have been. Poor old Peter Underlet had taken it home with him. He had shown it to me one evening after the two of us had dinner – and two bottles of lovely Château Beychevelle 1957 – in his apartment. I could recollect each page of that bizarre insight into the cloistered mentality of the administrator: '… and Thurkettle's knowledge of electronic timing devices, sophisticated locks, modern handguns and explosives, added to his proved physical resources, qualify him as an outstanding field agent.'

Underlet had opened the file to that page of a long report from Langley before he slammed the whole thing on to my knees. 'Look at that,' said Underlet bitterly. 'That's what those shits in Washington think about field agents. Without any training or experience this murdering bastard becomes a field agent overnight, an outstanding field agent it says there.'

I remember Underlet slumping back in the armchair and drinking his wine and saying nothing while I read the file through. 'Deuce'

Thurkettle; how could I have forgotten him, the first of a trio of hit men who came unbidden and unwelcome to the CIA offices of Europe during that unhappy period?

Afterwards – weeks afterwards – we talked about it again. By that time I had become more indignant about the morality of Washington DC than about what the episode revealed of the desk-man's feelings about field agents.

I was no longer stretched out, I was sitting up in bed fully aware of the racing pulse and tension that comes when the mind is on the verge of remembering some important image. What happened to those three jailbirds? All three were given the elaborate new identities that later became the reward for mafiosi who turned State's evidence. Thurkettle: Thurkettle. There was speculation that he murdered a supermarket tycoon in Cologne: a man with whose wife Thurkettle had a love affair. I wasn't sure that was Thurkettle. Had Thurkettle's name been in any of those 'most wanted – confidential' lists? My memory just could not get hold of it.

By now I was on my feet. I paced the room knowing beyond any doubt that it all added up to a conclusion that would seem obvious when the questions were asked. Obvious, that is to say, to the questioner.

I decided to ask Johnson some more questions: about Thurkettle and anything else that emerged. I put on my shoes and went down the corridor to knock at the door of Johnson's room. There was no response. I turned the knob and found the door unlocked.

Inside, the bedroom was empty. A clean shirt, underclothes and socks were laid out on the bed, in the careful way a valet might arrange clothes for a fastidious employer. From the bathroom there came the sound of water running. The door was closed. Johnson called, 'Put it down on the table. There's a tip there for you.'

'It's not room service: it's me,' I said.

'You're early aren't you?' His voice was distorted like that of a man cleaning his teeth.

'That guy Thurkettle. I remembered something about him.'

'Give me fifteen minutes.' There was a splutter as if the tooth cleaning was proceeding energetically.

Okay, I thought, everything is normal. I went back to my room. I don't know how long I sat there before the sound of the explosion made me jump out of the chair and run for the door. Afterwards the newspapers said the forensic department estimated it at 300 grams of explosive, but that amount would have taken the bathroom door off and maybe the wall and me too.

But it was a loud bang all the same, and that unmistakable stink of explosive came rolling down the corridor to meet me. My mind went blank. Experience said hide under the bed: curiosity made me wonder what had happened.

For better or worse, I hurried along the corridor and into Johnson's room. I went to the bathroom and grabbed the handle as the door fell off its hinges. I don't know what kind of explosive they'd used but the inside of the bathroom was black with soot and dirt. Maybe that had come from something else. The wash-basin was the centre of the damage: the mirror had disappeared, except for a couple of splinters dangling from the fixing screws. Below it, looking like some example of modern sculpture, the blue china pedestal remained in position supporting one elegant slice of basin.

What remained of Johnson was on the floor face up and twisted between the water-closet bowl and the bidet. There were appalling burn marks on the torso and his clothes were scorched. There was very little blood: the heat of the explosion had cauterized the blood vessels. Around him there were hundreds of pieces of broken chinaware. I didn't have to look twice to know what had happened. His hand was only a stump and what was left of him above the neck was wet and shiny and spread all over the marble floor.

It was the electric razor bomb, an old trick but I'd never seen the results of one before. Find out what model of razor your victim uses, fill one with any decent plastic explosive – shaping it for something really directional – and fit a neat little detonator (made in Taiwan – please state on order form whether 110 v. or 220 v.) and he'll obligingly hold it to his head and switch on the electricity!

Poor Johnson. Behind me excited voices indicated that people were crowding into the bedroom now, so I slid back amongst them, vociferously asking everyone what had happened. Johnson. Had there been someone waiting for him when he went into his room? Was that remark, 'Well, what about that?' rhetoric, or had he been talking to a visitor, someone like Deuce Thurkettle whose 'knowledge of electronic timing devices, sophisticated locks, modern handguns and explosives, added to his proved physical resources, qualify him as an outstanding field agent'?

And if Thurkettle was the killer, why? Or, to turn the whole thing on its end; was Thurkettle some sort of deep-cover operator for whom a bizarre background story of a murder conviction had been fabricated? If so who killed Johnson, if Johnson was his real name? And all the time another part of my mind was telling me that London Central would not expect me to phone them now. Not even Stowe would expect me to make contact, not with this mess to extricate myself from, and the likelihood of the Austrian police listening to phone calls. Despite everything, I was somewhat comforted by that reprieve.