Spy Hook (28 page)

'It's water,' I said.

'If it's grease or oil, tell me now so I can leave a note for Tarrant to do something about it before it soaks in.'

'I told you, Frank. It's water.'

'Keep your hair on, Bernard.'

'So I'm still on the arrest list?'

'I'm afraid you are. Your ruse with your friend Werner Volkmann didn't fool the army very long.'

'Long enough.'

'For you to do a bunk, yes. But Captain Berry got the devil of a rocket.'

'Captain Berry?'

'The provost captain. I hear the commanding general wants him to face a court. Poor little bugger.'

'Screw Captain Berry,' I said. 'I have no tears to shed for MP captains who want to throw me into the slammer.' I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Frank saw me looking at it and said, 'They won't come here searching for you.'

'What's it all about, Frank?'

'I was hoping you'd tell me, Bernard.'

'I went to see the old man and reported all that stuff about Bret Rensselaer and the bank funds.'

'I thought you were going to abandon all that nonsense,' said Frank wearily.

'Did they tell you what the charges against me might be?'

'No.'

'Were they planning to hold me here, or ship me back to the UK?'

'I don't know, Bernard. I really don't know.'

'You're the Head of Berlin Station, Frank.'

I'm telling the truth, Bernard. I don't bloody well know.'

'It's about Fiona, isn't it?'

'Fiona?' said Frank, and seemed genuinely puzzled.

'Is Fiona still working for the Department?'

It took the wind out of his sails. He drank some of whatever he was drinking and looked at me for what seemed a long time. 'I wish I could say yes, Bernard. I really do.'

'Because that's the only conclusion that makes sense.'

'Makes sense how?'

'What would Bret Rensselaer be doing with umpteen million dollars?'

'I can think of a lot of things,' said Frank, who was not very fond of Bret Rensselaer.

'Money. You know what a tight rein the Department keep on then-cash. You can't really believe Central Funding let millions out of their sight and forget who they'd given it to.'

'Umm.' He smoked his pipe and thought about it.

I said, That sort of money is stashed away in secret accounts for payouts. For pay-outs, Frank.'

'In California?'

'No. Not California. When I talked to Bret in California, no one, except the Americans, was getting agitated. It was when I traced the money to Berlin that the excitement began.'

'Berlin?'

'So they didn't tell you that? Schneider, von Schild and Weber, right here on the Ku-Damm.'

He touched his moustache with the mouthpiece of his pipe. 'Even so, I'm still not sure…'

'Suppose Fiona's defection was the end of a very long-term plan. Suppose she is doing her own thing over there in East Berlin. She'd need lots of money, and she'd need it right here in Berlin where it's easy to get to.'

'To pay her own agents?'

'Good grief, Frank, I don't have to tell you what she'd need money for. Sure. For all kinds of things: agents, bribes, expenses. You know how it adds up.'

Frank touched my shoulder. 'I wish I could believe it. But I'm Head of Station here, as you just reminded me. No one would be planted there without my say-so. You know that, Bernard. Stop fooling yourself, it's not your style.'

'Suppose it was kept very tight; Bret Rensselaer as the case officer…'

'And the D-G getting direct authorization from the Cabinet Office? It's an ingenious explanation but I fear the true explanation is simpler and less palatable.' A puff at his pipe. 'The Berlin Head of Station is always informed. Even the D-G wouldn't defy that operational rule. It's been like that ever since your father's time. It would be unprecedented.'

'So is having a senior employee arrested at the airport,' I said.

'The D-G is a stick-in-the-mud. I know him, Bernard. We trained together in the war. He's careful to a fault. He just wouldn't go along with such a hazardous scheme.'

'To get an agent into the Stasi at the very top? A trusted agent at committee level? That's what Fiona is now. You told me that yourself.'

'Now calm down, Bernard. I can see why this scenario appeals to you. Fiona is rehabilitated and you have taken on the Department and penetrated their most jealously guarded secret.'

And, he might have added, made Bret into Fiona's colleague instead of her paramour. 'So what is your explanation?'

'A deadly dull one, I'm afraid. But after a lifetime in the service, you look back and see how much time you've wasted chasing bizarre solutions while the true answer was banal, obvious and under your nose the whole while.'

'Fiona leaving her home and children and going to work for the Stasi? Bret embezzling millions of departmental funds and sitting in California pretending to be penniless? Prettyman reassigned from Washington and his wife told he was dead? Uncle Silas telling me what a wonderful fellow Dodo is, while getting on the phone to have him roughed up and silenced? Except I got there first. A warrant issued for my arrest because I tell the D-G about it? Is this the deadly dull explanation that has the ring of truth?'

Frank looked at me. This was the first mention I'd made of Silas Gaunt's duplicity – I'd not even told Werner – and I watched Frank carefully. He nodded as if considering everything I'd said but showed no surprise. The last one certainly does,' he said grimly. 'I tore it off the printer myself this evening. Do you want to see it?'

'The old man wants me held because he's frightened that my inquiries are going to blow Fiona's cover. They got me to California just so that Bret could persuade me to forget the whole thing. They sent Charlie Billingsly to Hong Kong because of what he might have seen on the computer about Bret's bogus companies. They gave Cindy Prettyman a nice job in Strasbourg to keep her quiet. They panicked at the idea of Dodo loud-mouthing their secrets, and chose Prettyman to lean on him.'

'It's all very circumstantial,' said Frank. But I had his attention now.

'I suppose they are desperate, but I didn't realize how desperate until I landed here. When I took my questions to the D-G they couldn't think of anything to do with me except to put me in the cooler while they worked out how to shut me up.'

Frank looked at me pitifully and said, 'You'd better sit down, Bernard. There's something else you should know.'

I sat down. 'What?' I said.

'It's not like that. When the second teleprinter message came through I phoned London for clarification. I thought… under the circumstances…'

'You spoke to the D-G? This afternoon?'

'No but I had a word with the Deputy.'

'And?'

'Sir Percy told me in confidence.'

'Told you what?'

'They've opened an Orange File, Bernard.'

'On me?'

There was still a chance for him to say no but he didn't say no. He said, 'Ladbrook is coming on the plane tomorrow.'

'Jesus Christ!' I said. An Orange File is only started when someone in the Department is accused of treachery, and prima facie evidence has already been collected against them. Ladbrook is the senior interrogator. Ladbrook prepares the prosecution.

'Now do you see?' Frank asked.

'You still don't believe me do you, Frank?'

'I don't dare believe you,' he said.

'What?'

'I'd rather believe that you were guilty than believe that Fiona was over there playing a double game. Especially if you have started tongues waggling. Have you thought about what you are saying? Have you thought what it would mean for her if they tumbled to her? You'd face prison, but if she got to committee level and betrayed them they'd…' He stopped. We were both thinking of Melnikoff, who'd reported back to one of Silas' networks. Over a dozen eye-witnesses had watched Melnikoff being pushed alive into a factory furnace. The KGB had wanted it talked about. 'Be careful how you declare your innocence,' said Frank. 'You could be signing your wife's death warrant; whether what you say is true, or not true.'

I sat down. It was all happening too quickly. I felt like vomiting but I got myself under control and looked at my watch. 'I'd better get out of here.' I hated this room. All the worst things that ever happened to me seemed to happen in this room, but I suppose that was because when something bad happened to me I came running along to Frank. I said, 'Don't you think Tarrant…'

'I gave Tarrant the evening off. Is there anything…?'

'You've done your bit already, Frank.'

'I'm sorry, Bernard.'

'What's wrong with them all, Frank? Why can't they just call the dogs off?'

'Whatever the real truth may be, you'll never get a completely clean bill of health. Not after your wife defected. Surely you can see that.'

'No, I can't.'

'Whether your alarming theory is right or whether it is wrong, the Department still can't risk it, Bernard. There were voices who wanted you sacked within hours of her going. They get the wind up when you start nosing around. It scares them. You must see how difficult it is for them.'

I got to my feet. 'Have you got any money, Frank?'

'A thousand sterling. Will that be enough?'

'I didn't reckon on being an Orange File. I thought it really was some sort of mistake. Some over-zealous interpretation of the old man's suggestion…'

'It's here in the desk.' He found the money quickly, as he'd found the tumbler and the ice and the bottle of Laphroaig. I suppose he'd had everything ready. He walked with me to the front door and looked out into the Berlin night. Perhaps he was making sure there were no men on watch. 'Take this scarf, Bernard. It's bloody cold tonight.' When I shook hands with him he said, 'Good luck, Bernard,' and was reluctant to release my hand. 'What will you do now?' he asked.

I looked at the skyline. Even from here I could see the glow from the floodlights that the DDR used to illuminate their Wall. I shrugged. I didn't know. 'I… I'm sorry… about the marks on the carpet.' I nodded my thanks and turned away.

'It doesn't matter,' said Frank. 'As long as it's not grease.'

Len Deighton was born in London in 1929. He worked as a railway clerk before doing his National Service in the RAF as a photographer attached to the Special Investigation Branch.

After his discharge in 1949, he went to art school – first to the St Martin's School of Art, and then to the Royal College of Art on a scholarship. It was while working as a waiter in the evenings that he developed an interest in cookery – a subject he was later to make his own in an animated strip for the
Observer
and in two cookery books. He worked for a while as an illustrator in New York and as art director of an advertising agency in London.

Deciding it was time to settle down, Deighton moved to the Dordogne where he started work on his first book,
The Ipcress File.
Published in 1962
,
the book was an immediate and spectacular success. Since then he has published twenty books of fiction and non-fiction – including spy stories, and highly-researched war novels and histories – all of which have appeared to international acclaim.

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