Chapter Three
Post-Graduate Studies
`So you would like to work in the Soviet Union, Mister Grant?’
It was half an hour later and the M.G.B. colonel was bored with the interview. He thought that he had extracted from this rather unpleasant British soldier every military detail that could possibly be of interest. A few polite phrases to repay the man for the rich haul of secrets his dispatch bags had yielded, and then the man could go down to the cells and in due course be shipped off to Vorkuta or some other labour camp.
`Yes, I would like to work for you.’
`And what work could you do, Mister Grant? We have plenty of unskilled labour. We do not need truck-drivers and,’ the colonel smiled fleetingly, `if there is any boxing to be done we have plenty of men who can box. Two possible Olympic champions among them, incidentally.’
`I am an expert at killing people. I do it very well. I like it.’
The colonel saw the red flame that flickered for an instant behind the very pale blue eyes under the sandy lashes. He thought, the man means it. He’s mad as well as unpleasant. He looked coldly at Grant, wondering if it was worth while wasting food on him at Vorkuta. Better perhaps to have him shot. Or throw him back into the British Sector and let his own people worry about him.
`You don’t believe me,’ said Grant impatiently. This was the wrong man, the wrong department. `Who does the rough stuff for you here?’ He was certain the Russians had some sort of a murder squad. Everybody said so. `Let me talk to them. I’ll kill somebody for them. Anybody they like. Now.’
The colonel looked at him sourly. Perhaps he had better report the matter. `Wait here.’ He got up and went out of the room, leaving the door open. A guard came and stood in the doorway and watched Grant’s back, his hand on his pistol.
The colonel went into the next room. It was empty. There were three telephones on the desk. He picked up the receiver of the M.G.B. direct line to Moscow. When the military operator answered he said, `SMERSH’. When SMERSH answered he asked for the Chief of Operations.
Ten minutes later he put the receiver back. What luck! A simple, constructive solution. Whichever way it went it would turn out well. If the Englishman succeeded, it would be splendid. If he failed, it would still cause a lot of trouble in the Western Sector–trouble for the British because Grant was their man, trouble with the Germans because the attempt would frighten a lot of their spies, trouble with the Americans because they were supplying most of the funds for the Baumgarten ring and would now think Baumgarten’s security was no good. Pleased with himself, the colonel walked back into his office and sat down again opposite Grant.
`You mean what you say?’
`Of course I do.’
`Have you a good memory?’
`Yes.’
`In the British Sector there is a German called Dr. Baumgarten. He lives in Flat 5 at No. 22 Kurfürstendamm. Do you know where that is?’
`Yes.’
`Tonight, with your motor cycle, you will be put back into the British Sector. Your number plates will be changed. Your people will be on the lookout for you. You will take an envelope to Dr. Baumgarten. It will be marked to be delivered by hand. In your uniform, and with this envelope, you will have no difficulty. You will say that the message is so private that you must see Dr. Baumgarten alone. Then you will kill him.’ The colonel paused. His eyebrows lifted. `Yes?’
`Yes,’ said Grant stolidly. `And if I do, will you give me more of this work?’
`It is possible,’ said the colonel indifferently. `First you must show what you can do. When you have completed your task and returned to the Soviet Sector, you may ask for Colonel Boris.’ He rang a bell and a man in plain clothes came in. The colonel gestured towards him. `This man will give you food. Later he will give you the envelope and a sharp knife of American manufacture. It is an excellent weapon. Good luck.’