A Young Man's Game Read online

  Contents

  A Young Man's Game Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Beginning of A Young Man's Game

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also, By Paul Blake

  Indie Books Recommended By the Author

  Copyright

  A Young

  Man’s Game

  Paul Blake

  This book has been produced with assistance from

  The London Borough of Barking and Dagenham Library Service

  Pen to Print Creative Writing Project 2017/8

  with funding from

  The Arts Council, England Grants for the Arts.

  For Helen,

  I hope you think this is worth all the nights it took me away from you.

  ‘Look, you get older. Passion is a young man's game, OK? Young people can be passionate. Older people gotta be more wise. I mean, you're around awhile, you leave certain things to the young and you don't try to act like you're young. You could really hurt yourself.’

  - Bob Dylan, 2015

  A Young

  Man’s Game

  1

  The vibration of the phone disturbed Alec Foster from his thoughts; he glanced down at the desk and saw the smiling picture of his niece, Sara, on the screen. He pressed the ‘end’ button to silence it.

  ‘Anyone important Alec?’ Arthur Newbury asked, with rebuke in his voice as the meeting was interrupted.

  ‘Yes… well no, not really, it was just my niece, Sara, she’s coming to here on Thursday to see me,’ Alec replied. He could have added more to his response, like how Sara was the only family he had left. His younger brother Mark and his wife, Sophie, died in a car crash seven years ago; and how it had been over a year since he had last seen her; and how not letting her down was the only thing keeping him going. But he felt this meeting about the impending visit of the Prime Minister was not the setting.

  ‘Ok, let’s carry on then, shall we? Richard, you were saying,’ Newbury directed his comments towards Richard Harper, the Berlin Head of Counter-Terrorism for the Secret Intelligence Service or MI6 as it is more commonly known, dismissing Alec for the time being.

  ‘As I was saying, there have been no direct threats to the PM’s visit, however…’ Harper resumed; as Alec tuned him out.

  Terrorism… that’s all you ever heard about these days. As if that’s the most significant threat we’re facing. We’re running scared of a bunch of unsophisticated virgins who cannot hurt us as a nation; cannot make us submit to their will. Alec was the head of the Russian section in Berlin and had left fieldwork behind almost ten years ago and was now counting down the days until retirement from behind a desk. At fifty-one he had nearly four years left and was considering leaving the service early and taking a hit on his pension. As far as he knew, they wouldn’t be replacing his role when he left; the Russian section would be amalgamated into a general European section. This he felt was a short-sighted mistake considering the increased Russian hacking plots and the alleged meddling in the recent US and UK elections. Unfortunately, since 9/11 it was political suicide to appear to look weak on terrorism, no matter that a nation-state with nuclear weapons was sitting on your windowsill; coveting the furniture and thinking how the room would look so much better in a nice shade of red.

  The meeting concluded without further incident, and Alec returned to his office. He was grateful for the privacy his office afforded, as it was getting harder to hide the shakes and hangovers resulting from his predilection for cheap schnapps from his colleagues. Every night he pottered around his lonely apartment; only the dusty, faded paintings on the wall, the always-full decanter on the sideboard and the pictures of Sara, Mark and Sophie to keep him company. Alec was sure he was despised by his colleagues in the cubicles outside, considering him a relic of the Cold War; a grey dinosaur in an ill-fitting suit. What do they know? They think spying is all about hacking computers and tracking by satellite. They know nothing of the fear of being alone in enemy territory; armed only with a set of false papers and your wits. His desk phone jolted him out of his thoughts with its loud and penetrating buzz.

  ‘Foster,’ Alec answered.

  ‘Hello, Alec, its Jaromir,’ Polyakov, what does he want? Polyakov was his opposite number in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service or SVR; formerly the KGB's First Chief Directorate.

  ‘Hi, Jaromir, what’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Alec, we need to meet. Urgently,’ Polyakov said, straight to the point, which immediately got Alec’s attention. Polyakov was renowned for his ability with ambiguity and obfuscation.

  ‘Sounds serious, when and where?’

  ‘Tonight, at nine, Becketts Kopf Bar in Pappelallee,’ he replied tersely.

  ‘I know it; I’ll be there.’

  ‘Take precautions,’ Polyakov warned and ended the call abruptly.

  What the hell is this about? Take precautions? He turned on his screen and noted the details about the call in the Contact Log out of habit. I’d better inform Newbury about this.

  ‘Jaromir Polyakov?’ Newbury queried, ‘Did he give any hint what this was about?’

  ‘Not even a little one – he sounded grim,’ Alec answered.

  ‘And he told you to take precautions? Do you think you’re up for it, Alec? It’s been so long since you were in the field.’ The concern was evident in his voice. He’d been Alec’s ally over the years and was probably the sole reason why Alec still held his position, much to the displeasure of the young, hungry wolves baying for his job.

  ‘I’m not dead yet, Arthur,’ Alec replied with a wry smile. ‘It’ll be good to get away from the desk for a while.’

  ◆◆◆

  Alec decided against taking a taxi as the unexpected snowstorm earlier in the day had passed. The cold would be good for clearing his head and the walk for recalling the tradecraft, which once instinctual, was now barely remembered. He left the British Embassy at six, which gave him three hours to make the one-hour journey to the bar. He joined numerous other embassy staff making their way up Wilhelmstraße to the Brandenburger Tor U-bahn, subway station in the late December night. Alec glanced up at the Brandenburg Gate opposite the station, lit up in majestic glory. It evoked memories of that night in 1989 watching the crowds demolish the Berlin Wall in front of the gate, the feeling of history changing in front of him and the fear of what could happen next. The thump thump of deep techno bass from the busker playing to the crowds echoed through the night. Alec found his feet moving in time to the beat.

  Alec felt comfortable blending in with the other workers in their long coats, done up tight against the cold; only his thinning grey hair and stooped shoulders standing out. He was a touch under six foot and moved silently amongst the clatter of high heels and leather soles on the hard pavement. He continued past the station; remembering that it had once been called a Geisterbahnhöfe or ghost station; when the East German government built the Berlin Wall and closed the station; the Cold War separating East and West Berlin and ending freedom of movement across the city. As he crossed Unter den Linde
n Boulevard the pungent, meaty aroma of a nearby wurst kiosk made his stomach rumble and his mouth filled with saliva. I’d better get something to eat; it wouldn’t be good to get there with my stomach growling, there’s a restaurant along the river that’ll suit.

  Alec continued down Wilhelmstraße, wishing he had brought his hat with him as the wintry cold attacked his neck and ears. Mounds of melting snow on the pavement created a stream disappearing behind him as he walked up the slight incline towards the River Spree, following the over ground blue pipes transporting water from the building works at the Brandenburger Tor station to the river. He turned on to Reichstagufer, running alongside the river, twinkling with reflected lights from the nearby buildings, amongst the dark and forbidding water, and walked eastwards for a hundred paces until he reached the Die Eins restaurant. There were empty tables with large umbrellas on the terrace outside, but inside, the restaurant was packed. The warmth and fragrance of the place, however, overcame the noise and Alec entered and stood at the bar, looking outwards towards the river. Remembering how the wurst stall affected him earlier, he ordered currywurst and chips to eat at the bar and a glass of red wine. While he waited for the food to arrive, he began to take a mental note of the people who arrived in the restaurant after him and those walking past the large glass windows: Large man, grey suit jacket, dark-rimmed glasses…ah, he’s meeting a woman already seated... a couple at that table, faces strained, the woman has tears in her eyes, the man is eyeing the door, a breakup in progress... colleagues having a drink after work surrounding the alpha male, look at them vying for his attention…He was still people-watching when his food arrived. He paid the waiter, so he could leave without waiting for the bill. After the meal, his mouth tingling from the paprika and chilli powder in the curry sauce, and satisfied with the warmth in his stomach, he took a final look at the diners to embed them in his memory and left the restaurant.

  Alec was approximately halfway to the bar, on Auguststraße, when his stomach began rebelling from the spices in the currywurst, giving him slight heartburn. Come on, Alec, you’re not in your thirties anymore; you’re going to have to try to watch what you put in your body.

  ‘Oi, mate!’ A loud, deep voice from behind Alec suddenly called out.

  Alec turned slowly, trying to allow his eyes time to pick out details and assess threats. His heart beat faster, his vision narrowed, and he fought the urge to urinate as adrenaline coursed through his body. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. Six… no, make that seven males; aged late-twenties to mid-thirties; two of them are helping a third walk, his arms around their shoulders, being carried like a walking wounded battlefield casualty. Is that one wearing a dress?

  ‘Ja?’ he queried, in German. ‘Yes? Can I be of help?’ he continued in accented English, correctly judging their origin from the “Oi”.

  The closest man said, ‘Yeah, mate, do you know where the Reaperbarn is? We’re on John’s stag do,’ he pointed at the man in the red dress, ‘and, are looking for the strip clubs and brothels. It’s tradition,’ he concluded, looking at the ground, sheepishly.

  ‘Ah, I see. Not to worry, my friend, I remember being young,’ Alec said reassuringly in a perfect German accent. ‘However, the Reeperbahn is three or four hours away, in Hamburg. You’ll be looking for the Kurfürstenstraße; it’ll be too far to walk, though.’ This could be useful for me; a group is easier to hide in, and if anyone is looking to pick me up they’ll think twice if I’m with my new friends.

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘It’s ok though; if you get the underground, you’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. I can take you to the station if you want. It’s on my way and only five minutes away. Ja? It’s not a problem.’

  ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble; that’d be great. Danke, I’m Peter by the way.’

  No, thank you. Alec smiled, ‘Nice to meet you, Peter, my name is Stefan,’ he replied. Using the cover name he traditionally used in the field. He put his hands in his pockets to hide the tremors as the jolt of adrenaline faded from his system, and slowly exhaled a sigh of relief.

  When they reached Senefelderplatz station, Alec, still using his German accent gave them instructions on where to change trains and when to get off. He also advised them, ‘Try to get John to erbrechen, uh… be sick, before entering the station. Ja. It is early still, that will clear room for more drink and prevent the night ending early for all.’

  He leaned in conspiratorially to Peter and in a low voice said, ‘When you get to Kurfürstenstraße don’t go in the first strip bar you see. Go to the third or fourth one. Fewer customers, so the girls will be more desperate; more bang for your buck.’ He added a wink for effect, clapped Peter on the shoulder and quickly walked off down a side street. As he was walking he looked at his watch; he still had over an hour to be at the bar, but he wanted to get there early to assess the situation; see if any surprises were waiting for him.

  Reaching Pappelallee, the street that Becketts Kopf bar was on, it was quiet with few people around; the tramlines on the broad road glistened in the streetlight. The bar was down the street on the left, so Alec walked alongside the graffiti-marked buildings opposite; the patterns and tags indistinct in the available light. When he reached the bar, he stepped back into a darkened doorway to survey the entrance. He glanced at his watch and was pleased to see he was there half an hour early. He looked across the road at his target; the entrance was unmarked. A hidden Berlin gem, a person would only know of it via word of mouth. There was a portrait of Samuel Beckett, the Irish playwright, for whom the bar was named, in one of the windows, the only indication of its identity.

  Alec saw Polyakov pull up in a taxi and enter the bar. He was tall and solidly built, in his early forties, dark hair, a Stalinesque moustache dominating his face, curved and bushy. Alec, having known him for almost twenty years, was amused that he was still sporting the reviled style and knew that it was worn for purely practical purposes as anyone describing him would start and end at the moustache. Although they were rivals, Alec liked Polyakov, as he played fair and was as good as his word. Alec watched the bar entrance for a further fifteen minutes to see if Polyakov had been followed, but nothing untoward struck him. He crossed the road, making sure he avoided tripping over the tramlines and rang the buzzer on the dark, mahogany door in the lighted archway. The door was opened by a waiter who led Alec past the crowded smoking room to the dimly lit non-smoking bar area at the back where he knew Polyakov, who had recently given up smoking, would be. The room was furnished with low leather sofas, facing a long bar with barstools at the front. There was a distinct lack of patrons in this section. After a few drinks, all the ex-smokers feel the need to reacquaint themselves with their old habit; even if it is just passively. The walls were covered in poorly finished plasterwork the colour of blood orange, interspersed with garish prints. Alec loved the dark atmosphere of the bar; the dim lighting giving everything a dramatic shadow; the low-level music, audible but designed to allow conversation to flow amongst patrons. As Alec expected, Polyakov was sitting on the end sofa against the far wall, with a glass of whisky on the table and a serious look on his face. Alec ordered the same from the waiter and sat down.

  ‘Good evening, Jaromir,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It is nice to see you again; I do love this place, it feels so surreptitious.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Alec,’ Polyakov said in heavily accented English. ‘Can I get straight down to business?’

  ‘Of course, this is unlike you; it must be serious.’

  ‘It is. We have reason to believe that there is a plot to kill a government minister here in Berlin by the end of the week. And it is being planned by someone in your building.’

  Alec sat for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or be outraged, his mouth formed the start of some unknown words and then closed grimly; he shifted his body in the chair as he processed what he had been told.

  ‘How reliable is the information?’ He asked finally, knowing the answer.r />
  ‘Reliable enough for me to seek you out; you’re the only one I trust in that building, everyone else is only looking out for themselves. We have been hearing reports from our former Soviet states that an Englishman has been looking for some friends to terminate a leading government minister in Germany this week; we have a description,’ Polyakov paused and glanced up, looking past Alec’s shoulder.

  Alec caught the figure in his peripheral vision, turned and saw the waiter with his drink on a black, round tray. The waiter bent down to put the drink on the table; Alec looked back at Polyakov to continue the conversation when the waiter had left, he saw a ragged bullet hole appear in his friend’s forehead and heard the muffled roar and distinctive rattle of a suppressed weapon beside him. Alec spun and faced the waiter; his eyes opened wide as he saw the gun below the tray, a wide can-like suppressor extending the barrel length, as the waiter turned towards him.

  2

  Alec reached down and in one smooth motion grabbed his glass of whiskey and threw it at the waiter. Alec felt the passage of a bullet speeding past his cheek as the glass struck the man hard in the face, like a punch, the whiskey splashed into his eyes. He staggered back, groping at his face. Alec followed the throw with a vicious kick to his assailants’ knee. He fell and dropped the gun, and the tray. Alec thought for a second about his gun, back at the embassy, locked nice and securely away in his office safe, he frowned, aimed a second kick at the man's face and ran.

  He ran through the hazy, smoking section towards the exit, barging past groups of drinkers and smokers; spilling drinks and knocking cigarettes and cigars from hands; ignoring the curses and threats behind him, he threw open the door and ran out into the street. What the hell just happened? He thought as he looked around deciding which way to go. Pappelallee ran from South-West to North-East; South-West took him closer to the embassy and his apartment, however, he’d be expected to head that way; North-East took him further into what he still considered East-Berlin, where his knowledge of the streets wasn’t so good. He heard a commotion coming from the bar behind him, got to move now! He looked ahead of him and saw the alcove from earlier, there, he decided. He ran across the road as a bright yellow tram came up the road towards him. He was halfway across the road when he heard the bar door slam open with a crash; he spun around ready to defend himself and saw that the tram was blocking anyone’s view of him. He hastily turned back around and sprinted to the alcove. When he got there; he slumped to the ground hoping that anyone seeing him would assume he was homeless. Breathing hard, his heart pounding he turned to watch the bar.