 |
 |
Hugh Chamberlain sat at his desk and twiddled his pen. “It’s an unusual request seeing as you’re soon to take over the counter-intelligence section but I’ve spoken to the Director and he’s sanctioned it on the proviso that you take someone with you.” He laid the pen on his blotter. “I’d suggested you take Felix but the Chief said it had to be your decision.”
Rupert sat back in the chair and rubbed his chin in thought. “Not a bad idea, however, Felix has been a bit distracted of late. I’m beginning to suspect some issues at home; perhaps it would be better if I took young Tristan Lowe with me.” He saw it coming and interrupted. “I know what you’re going to say, yes, he does lack experience but he’s never going to get the right sort unless we loosen the leash a little. He’s keen and, I don’t want to blow the old trumpet, but he really couldn’t get better instruction.”
Hugh smiled. “Trumpet blown, I believe. Alright, get yourselves sorted with the usual necessities and get over to Northolt. There’s a suitable military flight leaving late afternoon. Oh, and just be aware that our American friends may start sniffing around on this one. We’ve picked up some odd traffic to their Berlin station chief.”
Rupert stood up. “And there’s no further information at present? Just a ranking Interior Ministry official?”
Hugh shook his head. “That’s right. The informant’s playing it close to their chest. They’re probably trying to gauge our enthusiasm for the enterprise. We’ve been caught out before so be careful.”
“Who’s the Case Officer?”
“Astrid Hopkins. I was originally thinking of sending her out there but I think it’s best she remain here as a conduit. I’m sure she’ll be pressing hard for the finer details.”
Rupert just nodded and made to leave but Chamberlain had more. “I understand why you want to do this. Last fling at the operational stuff before you become totally deskbound and it’s always nice to end on a success but it has to be the last time, Rupert. It’s a younger man’s game these days and you’ll soon have bigger things to think about as a Section Head.” He took up the pen and a file from his in-tray then looked up again. “Updates as and when.”
Wilkinson’s slight inclination of the head showed his understanding. “Thank you, Hugh. I appreciate it.”
Firming up the details with the support personnel, he’d asked those that arranged these things to get them accommodation in two separate hotels in adjoining districts claiming it provided a safety net. The real reason was it gave him more freedom of movement. He could manage young Tristan but Felix would have been a problem; too experienced, too free-thinking. He collected their false passports including documentation which would allow his passage through the wall into the East as a representative of a British trade delegation in order for him to meet SIS assets on the other side, if he had to. He collected his Walther PPK-L, favoured because it was lighter yet the magazine held the same number of rounds as the standard. Signing out Tristan’s, he’d give it to him when they reached their destination.
From Gatow, they made into the city having invisibly morphed into their passport characters, Thomas Sinclair and Michael Spicer. Rupert told his colleague it would be best if he retained the weapons until a more appropriate moment and they exchanged hotel contact numbers.
Tristan saw no problems with Rupert’s suggestion; he was looking forward to a relaxing night and not having to worry about the safety of the weapon meant he could happily have a few beers and a meal out. Being alone held no trepidation for him, he spoke German fluently. His father had been in the British military and posted to Germany, he’d married a local girl. Tristan had grown up there. He had German relatives, friends and even neighbours. Initially schooled at a British military establishment, when his father left the Army they’d settled down in a local village and he’d finished his education at a German ‘gymnasium’ in the nearest town. Roughly the equivalent of the British grammar school it provided him with everything he needed to reach Bonn University from which he’d earned his degree. Whilst he was very much the new boy, as yet untried and untested, he was very keen and the one thing he excelled in was surveillance, especially the art of following someone and remaining unnoticed. In this respect, he was greatly aided by a nondescript face. Once described as drearily dull, it was for all intents and purposes instantly forgettable. Complimented by a sense of dress that was equally unremarkable it had resulted in his training officers commenting that he would only ever be noticed if his face actually had the featureless appearance of an egg shell.
Rupert, on the other hand, had a reputation amongst fellow agents. To those who really knew him, he was a short-tempered risk-taker with a penchant for strong alcohol and loose women. Tristan was glad his companionship hadn’t been sought as he really didn’t feel comfortable in that sort of company.
Wilkinson was like many SIS operatives of his time; private education, university, foreign study and an interest in the works and ideals of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels.
A nanny had provided home schooling prior to his boarding at a preparatory school near Chichester which was followed by more boarding at a place skilfully hidden amongst the woods on the South Downs. His parents wanted him to have the best formal education they could afford and not the sort he’d find at home. They enjoyed a busy and varied social life amongst a set that would now be known as swingers; they could just about manage his company during the school holidays. The English public school régime of the time was known to be somewhat harsh and his housemaster was a keen fan. The saving grace for Rupert was the presence and kindness of the foreign language teachers and of all the lessons it was theirs he enjoyed the most.
Studying at Christ’s, Cambridge, he acquainted himself with campus life and politics then spent a year in Switzerland honing his language skills but, realising conscription was heading his way, he decided to volunteer so as to better find the right place for himself. The Intelligence Corps were more than happy to take him on. Working, briefly, in Allied-occupied Austria as a German language specialist he was then sent to West Berlin where one night he bumped into a charismatic, convincing and amiable man he later found to be Harald Radler.
As soon as he’d become aware there was a possibility of a defection from the DDR’s Interior Ministry, Rupert Wilkinson had been a worried man. His sideline was working for the HVA, the foreign intelligence service of the Stasi which had once upon a time been controlled by the old Ministry of the Interior. In the world of espionage, such a connection could not be summarily dismissed as coincidence. If the subject was a Stasi official, as he feared, he was worried about their depth of knowledge. He had to warn the HVA and time was short. The only man he knew he could totally trust was Harald Radler so there was only one place to go.