ADAM HALL - The Warsaw Document

Page 9 paragraph 3: The proven guilt of the accused will not only make it clear that incitement to disturbance was wholly motivated by foreign capitalist powers, but also that similar motivation led to similar events in Czechoslovakia, a fact that hitherto other nations have shown the most obdurate reluctance to accept.

'It was different there. In Prague there weren't any talks set up. It'll make you think twice this time.'

'Actually no.' His eyes had gone sleepy again. 'In Prague we lacked evidence of foreign conspiracy. Any necessity to keep order in Warsaw tomorrow will be seen to be fully justified. As a matter of fact — unofficially of course — we'll be rather in your debt.'

The Hotel Alzacki was in a side street of the station district and a commissar-style saloon would attract attention there but we couldn't get out and walk the last hundred yards because the M.O. patrols were stopping everyone and checking papers and we could be past the deadline by now: they might be looking for Foster as well as for me.

'Take it east of the river and leave it in the dark and make your way back separately.'

I got Foster across the pavement and inside.

He recognised me, the man with the Bismarck head and the weathered face. He said they were upstairs.

It was a billiard-room on the first floor and the guns came out when they heard us and I hold them to put the bloody things away. Strain was setting in and I tended to sweat too easily and resented it because there wasn't time for the nerves to start playing up.

Voskarev was on the floor with his back to a leg of the billiard-table. A thin boy with a torn coat and a shocked face was huddled in a leather armchair and Alinka was crouched near him, rubbing his blue hands to warm them. The three Czyn people stayed near the door after we'd come in: one of them was the driver who'd brought Voskarev here. Voskarev looked numbed, his face waxy in the flat hard light from the lamps over the table. He was clutching his handkerchief in a stained ball.

'Who hit him?'

'I did.'

Medium weight, gymnastic type, the small eyes close together, the head lowered a fraction as he came across to me, typical boxer's pose for the local sports page. His hands came up much too late and he spun once and smashed into the rack of cues and sent a chair over and hit the wall and slid down it and didn't move any more.

The other two looked at him.

'I told you to leave that man alone. The same thing goes for this one. God help you if you forget again. Throw some water on him.'

A lot of noise came and the shaded lamps began swinging. Through-train.

Alinka moved across to me, stopping halfway, her feet together. her dark eyes quiet. She looked younger. From behind her Jan Ludwiczak watched me, not sure of me, not sure of anyone after the bright lights and the rubber coshes and the blind-windowed train to the east.

'Why was he brought back?' she asked me.

'He was the only one with a name I knew.'

I went over and looked at the man on the floor in case it was anything serious but there was only a scalp lesion: the cues had taken the initial impact.

'Come on, where's that water? And put Voskarev in a chair, get him a drink; ask the patron for some vodka up here.' They had to help him and I went across. 'Did they take the insulin away?'

'No.'

'Can you do it yourself?'

'Yes.'

'You'll need food afterwards.'

He stared up at me.

'I wish to speak with Colonel Foster.'

'I can't allow that.'

Typical police thinking: show them a shred of humanity and they think you're a bloody fool.

There was a tap running. I had to know the meaning of all sounds. This one was all right: a Pole had gone into the next room for water. I told the other to watch the briefcases and see that Voskarev and Foster didn't talk. Then I went downstairs to the reception desk.

He asked straight away where I was.

I listened for bugs and said: 'I'm still with Foster and Voskarev and everything's under control. Is the guard there?'

'Yes.'

His tone was bleak. This was the first time he'd spoken to me since he'd said he was sorry.

'Tell him we want you to meet us at the Praga Commissariat immediately. Is that clear?'

'Yes. But what — '

'The bomb has been located and it's all right now. Listen carefully. Tell the guard you're going to the Commissariat, but go to the British Embassy instead. To the Chancery, not the Residence. Get the cypher-room staff back on duty as soon as you arrive. Tell the Embassy guard to expect me in half an hour: my papers are in the name of Karl Dollinger and I'll speak to him in German. I shall ask to see you. Have you got that?'

For a moment he didn't answer and I knew why. He was being crucified. Then his voice came faintly: 'Yes, but I can't — '

'Listen, Merrick. Stay in the Embassy and don't contact anyone except for the signals crew. You'll be safe there.'

The silence drew out again.

'No, I won't. They'll only — ' but he couldn't finish. In those words I heard all human desolation.

'They can't do anything more to you now. I've got the photographs.'

Silence.

'Merrick. Did you hear what I said?' In a moment:

'Yes'

He began sobbing and I rang off.

At 23:06 hours I crossed into British territory.

It had seemed a long way from the hotel to the Embassy though it was only a couple of miles. I'd brought the Mercedes 220, the car they'd used to switch Voskarev from the Commissariat saloon. It had seemed a long way because the co-ordinated police divisions had been searching the city for me since I'd made my break from Warsaw Central and by now the hunt would have become intensified: I hadn't asked Merrick if he'd tried to contact Foster at the Commissariat but he. would have done that when Ludwiczak was taken over at the Hotel Cracow. It would have worried him.

Dangerous not to assume that both Foster and Voskarev were now reported missing, last seen in company of Dollinger.

I left the Mercedes in the yard, parked broadside-on to the main entrance, as a point of routine. The plates would have been noted by the police observation-post in the street outside but might not have gone on record. No one else could see them now unless they came right into the yard.

Only two of the windows showed light.

Merrick was in a small room on the first floor.

There was a change in him. He looked much the same but the tension was gone. He reminded me of a man I'd seen just pulling out of a killing trip on one of the amphetamines: physically weak, deathly pale, the hand-movements uncertain but the eyes calm, perfectly calm.

He said

'This is Webster.’

'Signals?'

'Yes.'

Small alert cheerful man, knitted tie and Rotarian badge, breast-pocket stuffed with pens. 'He's okay now.' He looked at Merrick again. 'Okay now?'

'Yes.'

I asked what had happened.

.'Eh? He saw someone run over. Turns you up.'

Merrick went and stood at the window, his back to us.

'Is that the cypher-room?' An inner door was ajar.

'That's right.' With his pert gaze he tried to see who I was, what I was, a red-eyed man with stubble and a German name and no trace of accent, something urgent to send.

'Open up transmission.’

'Okay.' He'd put a pad ready for me on the desk. 'You got a pen?'

'I'm giving it to you direct.’

'I'll have to have it written. It's rules.'

'Just open it up, d'you mind?'

I dumped the briefcases on to a chair and got one open and took out the envelope and dropped it flat on the desk so Merrick could hear it. 'They're yours.'

I pulled the door open. Webster had half closed it behind him: a cypher-room is sacred ground.

'You can't come in here.'