Every Spy a Traitor, page 10
Cooper crossed the road, from where he had a good view of what happened next. Ernst stopped by the entrance of an alleyway where he was joined by another man who’d emerged from its shadows. There was a brief conversation and the man handed an envelope to Ernst who then held open his bag for the man to take out the coat and put it on himself.
And then they continued their separate ways: the man back down the alley, Ernst turning sharply to head home. Cooper only just managed to avoid being seen by him.
Later that evening he heard them in their room on the other side of the thin wall from his bed. Snatched lines of urgent conversation in the other language again. It was a hard language, its tones unfamiliar.
He decided that night it was time to move on from the Maurers. He had plenty of material from Germany and in particular from Berlin. One only needed to walk around the city to absorb the enormity and gravity of what was happening there. Perhaps the diamond thief first encountered in Paris could emerge now in Berlin, maybe she could be involved in smuggling jewellery and other valuables out of the country on behalf of people desperate leave but prohibited from taking much in the way of valuables with them.
The Maurers’ conversation ceased, but Cooper found it hard to sleep. He looked through his notebook and the places he’d noted in Berlin that would make good settings for the novel.
A possible meeting in the Tiergarten.
A secret rendezvous at the back of a cafe on the Unter den Linden.
A love affair consummated in the Adlon hotel.
Heartbreak on the banks of the Wannsee.
An alley of Schönhauser Allee.
The following morning, he informed his hosts that he’d decided to move on. He wanted to visited Dresden and possibly Poland too before returning to England. He was very grateful for their hospitality and, as Ernst had promised, he’d certainly found his novel in Germany.
‘And the ending, Herr Charles – have you found that in Berlin?’
Cooper replied, not quite, but he hoped…
‘You can’t leave your novel unfinished, my friend.’
‘Unfinished? I haven’t begun it yet, Ernst! I have a plot and a structure of sorts and a whole cast of characters and a few sections sketched out, but I want to visit a few more places and then go home and actually write it.’
‘Perhaps stay two more days?’ It was Ida, making it sound like an instruction rather than an invitation, her demeanour brittle as usual.
* * *
The following evening he returned after a day spent walking around the Tiergarten to find a man sitting in the front room with Ernst, smoking a cigarette of the strongest tobacco he’d ever experienced.
The man stood up as they were introduced: he was called Eduard and younger than the Maurers, perhaps in his early forties, and very tall with a confident air. He seemed very interested in Cooper – ah, the man I’ve been hearing all about! – and when he spoke Cooper could tell he wasn’t a native German speaker.
They ate well that night, the four of them crowded around the small table, which tonight had a crisp white tablecloth and for the first time since he’d been there Ida Maurer served three courses, including a whole roast chicken for main course and an extravagant cake for dessert.
After dinner the Maurers said they’d tidy up and Eduard suggested Cooper join him in the lounge and the two of them were there alone for the next two hours, long after the kitchen should have been tidied up. Eduard wanted to know everything about Cooper.
‘I wouldn’t know where to start, to be honest!’
‘You’re an interesting chap: I’d like to know more about you.’
Cooper felt more relaxed in Eduard’s company than he did with the Maurers and was happy to talk. He described his journey through Germany and some of what had happened during it and he gave his impressions and Eduard moved the conversation along very skilfully, a little prompt here, the right question there and while never giving his own opinion he was more encouraging than the Maurers had been.
After that Cooper found himself being frank with Eduard in a way he couldn’t recall having ever been with anyone else. Eduard had a way of looking at him that was almost hypnotic. He appeared so interested that, in spite of himself, Cooper talked not just about Germany and his novel but also about himself: his mother, the grief he felt for his father, the inheritance, his lack of confidence and how he was determined to write and… even Grace, the older woman at the hotel in Innsbruck.
It was late when Eduard said he had to leave, but if Cooper was able to spend an extra couple of days in Berlin, then he’d like to have more time with him.
* * *
Two days later they were in the Kleine Tiergarten when Eduard suggested they sit down on a bench set some way back from the path.
‘You have told me much about your book. I think it has potential. But you’re a novice, you’ve never had anything published. You need help. I have contacts in publishing who can help you.’
Cooper said he was very grateful and, of course, any help he could give would be very much appreciated.
‘My contacts are in Moscow. I can arrange for you to visit there, if you so wish.’
Cooper was unsure how to react. He’d never thought of going to Moscow. How would he even get there?
‘You seem hesitant: let me tell you, as well as getting help you will also find much material for your novel in Moscow. The greatest novelists are all Russian and the modern novel was invented in Russia after all!’
‘Are you Russian?’
Eduard shrugged and said if Cooper was interested then he could make the necessary arrangements. ‘If you’re not interested, Charles, then I quite understand, but in my opinion, you’d be foolish to turn down an opportunity to visit Moscow.’
‘Perhaps if I could think it over for a couple of days?’
Eduard shook his head. ‘I would need to make the arrangements, so I really need to know now. But, of course, if you’d rather not, I quite understand.’
‘How long would it be for?’
‘I would suggest a fortnight.’
‘And excuse me asking, but is it expensive to travel to Moscow? And what about hotels?’
Eduard said not to worry, he’d take care of all that and all his expenses would be covered, but what he really wanted to know now was whether Mr Cooper was going to turn down such a wonderful opportunity and Cooper found himself saying no, because it seemed to be a good example of what the solicitor in Birmingham had meant about regretting things one didn’t do and after all, what harm could a few days in Moscow do?
It was only later – much later, when it was far too late – he realised that notwithstanding what Mr Carter had told him in Birmingham, what one does can be the cause of far greater regret than what one hasn’t done.
Chapter 9
Moscow
July 1937
One week after the conversation with Eduard in the Kleine Tiergarten Cooper was in Moscow.
Eduard had come to the Maurers’ apartment the night before his departure and presented him with a dark green passport from the Irish Free State.
‘It’s better for you to travel under an Irish passport than a British one,’ said Eduard. He leant over and opened it.
‘George William Hobson, same date of birth as your own – sixteenth of October, 1911. You’re a protestant, which will hopefully account for your accent. You have an address in Rathmines, which is apparently an area where many protestants live. If you get into conversation with people, you should be as vague as possible. Volunteer very little, but we find it is helpful to allude to the fact you’ve moved around.’
When he was satisfied Cooper understood the travel arrangements, Eduard hesitated before speaking in a quieter voice.
‘Maybe I can give you some advice? The Soviet Union is completely unlike any other country, certainly nothing like your country. There is no scope here for discussion, for questioning what people ask you to do. Assume if someone asks you to do something or makes a suggestion, then it is an instruction. There’s an old Russian saying about never regretting arriving at your destination: if you regret it, you should have never started out on the journey.’
‘Maybe that works better in Russian, Eduard, I’m not too sure I understand.’
‘You will do, believe me.’
* * *
He arrived in Moscow and a car was waiting to take him to the Lux Hotel on Gorky Street.
A man in a dark suit was waiting in the foyer for him. He shook his hand and signalled for a porter to take his case and ask ‘Mr Hobson’ to follow him into his office.
He told Cooper his name was Grigory and spelt it out carefully in English and said his job was to look after important foreign guests staying at the Lux, and Cooper laughed – more out of sheer relief than anything else – and said that was very nice but he didn’t think he counted as important, but Grigory waved his hand and said nonsense, of course he was important.
‘You are Mr George William Hobson from Dublin.’
He smiled and nodded and Grigory said ‘good’ and he would be addressed as ‘Comrade Hobson’ and Cooper said ‘very well’, though by now he was utterly confused and apart from anything else, he had no idea he was anyone’s comrade and, if he was honest, it sounded quite ridiculous.
‘Let me explain about your stay, Comrade Hobson. The Lux Hotel is reserved for special guests of the Soviet Union. The hotel has four floors, your room will be on the second floor. You will need this pass.’ He handed a card to Cooper.
‘It is called a propusk. You need to show it to the guard on your floor. You are only to use the elevator, do not use the stairs. You are not to go to any other floor in the hotel, and only the common areas on the ground floor. Do you understand?’
Grigory paused and watched Cooper, waiting for acknowledgment, so Cooper said yes, of course, he understood.
‘The cost of your stay here is covered. We have a cafe on the ground floor called the Filippov: you will need this other card to be able to eat there. Breakfast is served from six to eight and the evening meal from six to seven thirty. If you want to use the cafe at other times you will need to pay. Do you have foreign currency with you?’
Grigory leant forward as he asked the question, furrowing his brow and it felt like he was being interrogated.
‘Yes, I do… I’m afraid I didn’t realise that I—’
‘What foreign currency do you have?’
‘Mostly British sterling – some German marks and French francs, not many though as I was…’
‘You will give me all your foreign currency, Comrade Hobson. In return you will be given Russian roubles. If you have any remaining when you leave it will be exchanged back for you. I should warn you that our exchange rate is non-negotiable.’
It took ten minutes to sort out the currency and then hand over his Irish passport and in return he was given a passport-sized card with his photograph on it – he thought better than to ask where they’d got it from.
‘We are almost done. You are in the centre of Moscow, Comrade Hobson: it is important to remember that parts of the city are restricted areas. As a general rule I would advise sticking to the area around Gorky Street and Red Square. The Kremlin is a restricted area. The Bolshoi theatre is on the next block: they have an impressive repertoire of ballet and opera. I strongly recommend you go to at least one performance.’
‘Thank you – and would it be possible to get a street map of Moscow?’
Grigory shook his head. ‘That is not necessary: our concierge desk will give you all the information you need. I am told that you are expecting a meeting, regarding a book you wish to see published?’
‘Yes, that’s right – I’d been told that I’d meet someone in Moscow but I was rather hoping there’d be a message for me here or something.’
Grigory nodded and gathered up the papers on his desk. ‘That is correct, a gentleman will meet you here. In the meantime, you have a few days to look around Moscow. I think you call it sightseeing.’
‘And the person who’ll be meeting me… how will I know when he’s here?’
Grigory paused sorting out the papers and looked carefully at Cooper. ‘Don’t worry, Comrade Hobson: you’ll know.’
* * *
July was known to be Moscow’s warmest month and also its wettest one, which made for a consistently oppressive and muggy atmosphere. People who’d never been in one – that is, virtually the entire population of Moscow – said the city felt like a jungle.
Cooper was singularly ill-equipped for a Moscow July: he had his raincoat with him all the time and was forever taking it on and off and he wore his dark suit as that seemed more appropriate because he saw no men on the streets of Moscow wearing light brown suits like the one he had with him and which was more suited to hot weather. But the dark suit was quite heavy, and he was constantly hot and although he did sometimes remove the jacket that seemed to draw attention, which he wasn’t too keen on.
It wasn’t that people in Moscow were well dressed. Their clothes were clearly mass-produced and cut from cheaper materials, but there was a conformity about them. And the people seemed so exhausted and so quiet, quite unlike anywhere else in Europe.
Because of the language barrier he did a lot of pointing and people seemed to know he was a foreigner, eyeing him suspiciously, and he got the impression that however friendly he was, however much he smiled, people knew better than to be seen around him.
He made sure to stay in the areas advised by Grigory: up and down Gorky Street and the other shopping areas, though to describe them as such was overstating it. He walked around Red Square countless times and by the river too and enjoyed the ice-cream stands which seemed to be everywhere. He went to the Bolshoi one evening, on Grigory’s advice. It was a Soviet version of a well-known Italian opera and although Cooper knew next to nothing about opera, he suspected the original version didn’t include a detachment of Red Army troops marching across the stage in step with the orchestra, observed by a kindly looking Lenin peering at them from behind bright white clouds on the painted backdrop.
But if people on the streets appeared suspicious, that was nothing compared to the attitude of his fellow guests at the Hotel Lux.
For a start, all the guests were, as far as he could tell, foreigners. The lobby area and the Filippov cafe were like offshoots of the Tower of Babel. He could only make out a few of the languages: Italian certainly, some Spanish, English, French and a lot of German, along with plenty he didn’t recognise.
Guests congregated in small groups comprised of others speaking the same language. They eyed anyone else suspiciously, usually falling silent or lowering their tone when someone came near.
Cooper had trouble thinking of himself as George William Hobson and he was nervous about being drawn into conversation with other guests. He did his best to keep to himself and frequented two other public areas of the Lux other than the Filippov cafe.
There was a library behind the reception area, a somewhat bleak room with high ceilings and a threadbare carpet, warm and stuffy, but a quiet place and the chairs were surprisingly comfortable and one could sit there surrounded by the high bookcases replete with works in different languages and framed portraits of Marx, Lenin and Stalin.
The tables between the chairs were scattered with a selection of newspapers, magazines and pamphlets: some in Russian and others in different European languages.
There were copies of two English newspapers: the Moscow News, which was produced in Moscow and was invaluable reading if you wanted to keep up to date with the latest five-year plans or were a bit behind on Stalin’s recent speeches – all faithfully reproduced verbatim. And then there was the Daily Worker, the newspaper of the British Communist Party: unswervingly loyal to the Soviet Union, a poorly edited study in sycophancy and the most recent copy at least a fortnight out of date. But it did have one or two merits: a summary of sorts of British news and the football results – though, strangely elitist for a communist newspaper, only those from the English First Division.
And then there was the bar, which was as chilly as the library was hot. It was also brightly lit, with customers purchasing a voucher at one counter and then going to the bar to redeem it and collect their drinks before sitting at a wooden bench on one of a number of long tables.
Cooper got in the habit of eating in the cafe at around half past six – a solitary experience at his own table, and then a few minutes in the library, a stroll round the block followed by a drink in the bar.
He’d nurse his large glass of Zhigulevskoye beer, sitting at the end of a table, away from other drinkers and taking in as much as possible. It was as if he was conducting an audition for characters in his novel. There were the noisy Germans, up to a dozen of them, who exchanged news on which of their comrades in Germany had recently been arrested and then speculated on how long Hitler would last and then it would be a matter of time before they became increasingly maudlin – not quite tearful, unlike the Italians at the table in the far corner – and burst into song, usually something funereal.
His plot was progressing well, though there were large gaps: a storyline was emerging about people trying to smuggle valuables out of Moscow and the ideal courier was surely here among the residents of the Lux. Where his diamond thief fitted in, he wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t sure either what the Russian publisher – should he ever actually meet them – would make of the plot because he had an inkling that the subject matter may not altogether meet with the approval of whoever approved books in the Soviet Union.
There were two groups of English speakers, who sat clustered at either end of a long table. One group was Americans, four or five of them, mostly women, and they hardly exchanged a word – though plenty of glances – with the British group at the other end of the table.
