The Other Side of Silence

“How do I know I can trust you to keep your word about something like that?”

“You don’t. But we’re holding all the cards here. Quite frankly, Gunther, I think your only chance is to come clean with us and hope for the best.” He paused. “The way I see it, you’ve got nothing to lose. You’re burned. Finished. Useless to the Stasi now. We might easily let you go on the basis that you probably won’t last five minutes when they find out you’ve told us everything. Of course, you might survive. Stranger things have happened.”

“Yes, that might work, I suppose.” I nodded thoughtfully. “There is a name I can give you. Two names, actually. For a while they were the two most important Soviet agents in MI6. The question is, which of us is prepared to share them with you now? To some extent I’ll only be confirming what you know since one of them is already in the public domain. But the other should prove I’m telling the truth, all right. Although once I’ve given you these names, I’ll have effectively told you what this operation was really about. That this whole operation was set up by the HVA not only to blacken the name of Roger Hollis but more importantly, to salvage the reputation of someone else. Someone even more important, perhaps. Someone who might yet still make a comeback as the KGB’s top man in MI6. Someone who was always a better spy than Roger Hollis.”

“I’ve already explained what this is about,” insisted Anne. “What are you talking about, Gunther? This is complete fantasy.”

“Herr Gunther, we both know you don’t really have a choice here,” insisted the monk. “I’m sure you know the difficulty you are in. The difficulty we are both in. There is no legal process available to you, or for that matter to us. Then again, we can hardly let you go, can we? Unless and until we’re convinced that you’ve told us everything, I’m afraid I can’t answer for the consequences. Some of my more muscular colleagues favor taking you out to sea and dropping you over the side with a weight around your ankles. Ever since the defections of Messrs. Burgess and Maclean, morale has been low in our service. I’m afraid that killing you and Herr Hennig would help to restore a sense that the balance has been redressed. I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that. For your own sake I urge you to cooperate fully.”

“All right,” I said. “But I have to say there’s something I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?” asked the monk.

“Why hasn’t she told you this? I don’t understand you, Anne. Why are you trying to protect him? It’s all over for me and you and Hennig. The best we can hope for is to try and cut some deal before they throw us all in jail.”

“This is fantasy,” Anne told the monk again. “Look, I’ve told you everything there is to know. The whole bloody operation. I’m not holding anything back. But for me, the deputy director of MI5 would probably be suspended pending an investigation. Wouldn’t he? It’s only because of me that you know anything at all. But for me, you’d be in the dark about all this.”

No one spoke. Anne looked furtive now, even a little desperate. The trouble was that everyone believed her lie, which meant she could hardly contradict mine without compromising her own.

“Why on earth would I hold something back now?” she said. “It makes absolutely no sense. He’s making this up to try and make me look bad in your eyes and to save his own skin. That much is obvious.”

“Anne French is telling you she doesn’t know this man’s name,” I said. “But I have to tell you now that she and I have had more than one lengthy conversation about him. While we were in bed. So I’m afraid she’s lying when she tells you she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.”

“What? That’s a load of crap,” said Anne.

“Is it?” I asked smugly. “Look, the last time I saw her I had absolutely no sense that she was experiencing any crisis of conscience about her actions. None at all. She was cool and very collected. If I’d had even half an idea that she was going to betray Hennig and me I’d have put a bullet in her head without a moment’s hesitation.” I frowned and wagged a finger in her direction. “When last I met with Anne French all of her questions were about Sir John Sinclair and MI6, not MI5. Was it possible that proving that Roger Hollis was a Russian spy would help to put our man in the clear again? That kind of thing.”

“Tell me you’re not going to believe any of this Fascist bastard’s nonsense,” said Anne.

“I don’t know,” confessed the monk. “Really I don’t. It’s a most intriguing picture you paint, Herr Gunther. It is as if you really do have the names of two men who have spied for the Soviet Union in MI6. Do you? I wonder.”

“Look,” said Anne, “it’s perfectly obvious he’s just going to give you the name of Sir John Sinclair or Patrick Reilly. Or that other queer who was at the hotel. The art curator. Blunt. He’s bluffing you, like this was a game of bridge. There is no Soviet agent in MI6, I tell you. At least none that we know of.”