I, Said the Spy. Derek Lambert
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influential circles. Already she was learning to hate the people with whom she mixed. When she described a dinner party thrown by her father, Danzer reminded her of the starving millions in the Third World countries; when she mentioned some million-dollar deal of which she had heard, Danzer painted word pictures of peasants reaping the harvest in Russia and sharing their wages.
In fact Zurich, with its secrecy, complacency and affluence, was the ideal location to seize a young girl’s confused ideals and give them direction.
Danzer turned into the Bahnofstrasse, glancing appreciatively at the shops filled with gold, jewels, watches and cream cakes. He was really managing his life exceedingly well. He lived well but without excess; he was trusted by his mentors in Moscow; he was accepted at Bilderberg and had been given to understand that he would be invited again; he had salted away enough money to ensure an early retirement, in South America perhaps.
He entered his business premises, discreetly imposing with a brass nameplate and a small, marbled foyer, listened for a moment to the gabble emanating from the room where his staff juggled with telephones and currencies, and entered his own oak-panelled office where his secretary awaited him with the day’s business attached to a clip-board under her arm.
The secretary, middle-aged and homely, knew a considerable amount about the affairs of Danzer Associates. What she didn’t know was that a sizeable proportion of the profits were creamed off into the hard-currency reserves of the Soviet Union; nor did she know that a percentage was also channelled into the secret coffers of Karl Danzer.
The day progressed predictably. Danzer’s sense of well-being swelled as a small fortune was made out of the wobbling dollar and the rock-hard German mark. He took a light lunch and, in mid-afternoon, a sauna.
In the evening he retired to his apartment to change. He had a couple of drinks and set off for the address on the Limmat Quai, blissfully unaware that his euphoria was about to be terminated for ever.
He wondered without any particular concern why the KGB wanted to see him. A development, perhaps, from the information – admittedly sparse – that he had gathered from Bilderberg … a lead on the American team of financiers who had just arrived in Zurich … a progress report on his latest recruit, Helga Keller ….
He stopped outside the guildhouse named in the cable. The moon shone fleetingly from the low clouds that had detached themselves from the mountain peaks to sweep across the lake. From the shadows came a voice: ‘Herr Danzer?’
Danzer peered round. The first premonition of danger assailed him, an ice-cold wariness. ‘Who is it?’
A figure materialised in front of him. Curiously indistinct, despite a brief parting of the clouds. Then he had it. The man was black. Danzer wished he had brought a gun.
‘We’ve met before,’ the man said. He was very tall, broad with it. He emerged into the moonlight. ‘The trouble is we all look the same, especially at night.’ Danzer could see that he was grinning. ‘And yes, I have got a gun, and no, you aren’t going any place,’ as Danzer tensed himself to run.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘I’d like to have a little talk with you, Herr Danzer.’
‘Who are you?’
‘We were both at Woodstock. Does that help?’
The black security chief. ‘You sent the cable?’
‘Of course, it’s time your people changed the code,’ and conversationally: ‘Shall we take a walk?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Danzer said. ‘You wouldn’t use a gun here.’
‘I have something much more persuasive than a gun, Herr Danzer.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
‘The number of your bank account, currently in credit to the equivalent of five hundred thousand American dollars.’
They began to walk.
Step by step Anderson detailed everything he knew about Danzer. From his birth in Leningrad to his last deposit in the numbered account. ‘You’re blown, Herr Danzer, he remarked as they threaded their way through the cars parked beside the river. ‘Blown sky high.’
‘What do you intend to do about it?’ He couldn’t believe it: the comfortable, secure future scythed away, leaving only exposed foundations. Danzer shivered as fear replaced shock.
Anderson said: ‘I’m sure you know what will happen to you if I tell your employers about your savings for a rainy day.’ Anderson stopped and pointed to a telephone kiosk. ‘I could do it right now. One call ….’
Danzer had seen the white-tiled cells beneath Lubyanka Prison in Moscow. Had seen a little of what went on inside them. It was enough. ‘What do you want for God’s sake?
‘You,’ Anderson said.
* * *
Karl had said he would meet her in the little café they frequented at 11 pm or thereabouts, and she had told her father that she was going to a party with a girl-friend. Not that he objected to Karl. Far from it, but he was a good member of the Swiss Reform Church and he wouldn’t have tolerated the moral implications of an 11 pm assignation, especially without dinner beforehand.
She glanced at the slim gold Longines watch on her wrist. 11.23. He had said ‘thereabouts’ but when did ‘thereabouts’ finally run out? She would give him until 11.30, she decided, as she ordered another coffee, acutely aware that she looked like a girl who had been stood up.
She hadn’t, of course. Karl would come. And he would talk. How beautifully he could talk. And then – and she had no doubt about this – they would go back to his apartment where she would give herself to him. Love was wonderful, just as she had always known it would be.
But how many girls were lucky enough to enjoy love on so many levels? From the physical to the idealistic. Between them they would carry on the fight here in Switzerland, the heartland of the Capitalist Conspiracy. (Such phrases!) They had a cause and it united them.
11.30 pm.
He had obviously been detained by THEM. Helga had only a very vague idea what Karl’s employers looked like. Certainly not like the caricatures of Russians she saw in the newspapers.
The waiter was glancing at his watch. What time did they close? Candles were being snuffed out on the small, intimate tables; traffic on the street outside was thinning out.
Unaccountably her lips began to tremble. Her body had sensed what was happening before her brain had admitted it. There were only three customers left in the café. 11.40 ….
Perhaps he had been in an accident. Perhaps he’s sick of you! Karl Danzer could have any woman he wanted in Zurich. Why should he bother with someone unsophisticated and, yes, clinging …. From college to finishing school to Investors Club with no taste of life in between …. What a catch.
A tear rolled unsolicited down Helga Keller’s cheek.
Behind her the waiter cleared his throat. She could smell the smoke from the snuffed-out candles. She finished her coffee, paid her bill and tried to smile when the cashier said: ‘Don’t worry, he’s not worth it.’
It was midnight.
She crossed the street to a call-box and dialled his number. Supposing he was with another woman. But it was even worse than that. His voice told her that he didn’t care. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it …. You’ll have to excuse me … I’ve got a lot on my mind just now.’
Click.
Desolation.
The message was terse. SUBJECT TURNED.
Anderson transmitted it through one of the three CIA operatives at