Spy Sinker (15 page)

London. May 1983.

'My God, Bret, how I wish you wouldn't suddenly appear unannounced, like an emissary from the underworld.' It was a silly expression from her schooldays, hardly an appropriate way to greet Bret Rensselaer even if he had walked into her home unannounced. Yet, as she said it, Fiona realized that nowadays she was beginning to think of him as some svelte messenger from another darker world.

The idea amused Bret. He was standing in the kitchen with his hat in his hand, smiling. A summer shower glittered as sequins all over his black raincoat. He said, 'Is that how you rate me, Fiona, a go-between for Old Nick? And what form does he assume when he is not the Director-General?'

Fiona was in her apron, her hair a complete mess, emptying the dishwasher. Cutlery in hand, she smiled, a nervous twitch of the lips, and said, 'I'm sorry, Bret.' She picked up a cloth and wiped a knife blade. 'The cutlery never comes out without marks,' she said. 'Sometimes I think it would be quicker to wash everything in the sink.' She spoke mechanically as her mind rushed on to Bernard.

'Your lovely au pair let me in; she seemed to be in a hurry.' Bret unbuttoned his black raincoat to reveal black suit and black tie. 'I am looking a bit sombre I'm afraid. I've been to the service for Giles Trent.'

She didn't offer to take his coat nor ask him to sit down. 'You startled me. I was waiting for a phone call from Bernard.'

'That might be a long wait, Fiona. Bernard went over there to sort out the Brahms Four fiasco. No one knows where he's got to.'

Over there, those awful words. She went cold. 'What was the last contact?'

'Relax, Fiona. Relax.' She was standing as if frozen, ashen faced, with knives and forks in one hand and a cloth in the other. 'There is absolutely no reason to think he's run into trouble.'

'He should never have gone; they know him too well. I pleaded with him. When did he make contact?'

'You know how Bernard likes to operate; no documents, no preparations, no emergency link, no local back-up, nothing! He insists it be done that way. I was there when he said it.'

'Yes, I know.'

'Bernard likes to play the technocrat, but when he hits the road he's strictly horse and buggy.' Bret touched her arm for a moment to comfort her. 'And his track record says he's right.'

She said nothing. He watched her. Mechanically, with quick movements of the cloth, she polished the cutlery and continued to put it into the drawer, knives, forks and spoons each in their separate compartments. When the last one was done, she took the damp cloth and carefully draped it along the edge of the table to dry. Then she sat down and closed her eyes.

Bret hadn't reckoned on her being so jumpy but he had to tell her: it was the reason he'd come. So after what seemed an appropriate time, he said, 'Everything points to the notion that they will take you over there some time over the next seventy-two hours.'

'Me?'

'If they are smart, they will. They think you're blown. You'd better be ready.'

'But if they arrest Bernard…'

'Forget Bernard! He went because he's the most experienced Berlin agent we have. He'll be all right. Start thinking of yourself.'

'But if he's arrested?'

Bret stayed calm. In a measured voice he said, 'If Bernard is held, you can do more for him over there than you can sitting here waiting for the phone.'

'You're right, of course,'

'Don't try playing it by ear yourself. Leave that to Bernard. Sit down right now and make sure you have everything committed to memory: out of contact devices, the "commentary" and your own goodbye codes in case things go wrong. We'll get you home, Fiona, don't worry about that.' A cat strolled in, and standing on the doormat, looked first at Bret and then at Fiona. With her foot Fiona pushed the plastic bowl of food nearer to the door, but after sniffing it very closely the cat walked out again.

'I've learned it all and destroyed my notes.'

'Once there, you won't be contacted for several weeks. They'll be watching you at first.'

'I know, Bret.'

She sounded listless and he tried to snap her out of that. 'They will try to trick you. You must be ready for them.'

'I'm not frightened.'

He looked at her with admiration. 'I know you're not, and I think you're an extraordinary woman.'

This compliment surprised her. It was delivered with warmth. 'Thank you, Bret.' Perhaps somewhere under that smooth silky exterior there was a heart beating.

'Is there anything we've forgotten, Fiona? I keep going over it again and again. Try to imagine that you really are the agent they think you are…' He snapped his fingers. 'Money! Wouldn't you want to leave some money – maybe money for the children – and instructions of some kind? A final letter?'

'My father arranged a trust fund for the children. Letter? No, that's too complicated. Bernard would find some way of reading between the lines.'

'My God!' said Bret in real alarm. 'You think he could?'

'I've lived with Bernard many years, Bret. We know each other. Quite honestly, I don't know how we've been able to keep everything secret from him for so long.'

'I know it's been rugged at tunes,' said Bret, 'but you came through.' He looked at his watch. 'I'll leave you now. I know you well enough to know you'll want a little time alone, to think. Take time out to rest and get ready. We'll monitor your journey right up to the time we can't stay with you.'

She looked at him, wondering what would happen at the point he wouldn't be able to stay with her, but didn't ask. 'Shall I let you know if Bernard phones?'

'No need. I have someone tapping into your phone.' He looked at his watch. 'As from an hour back. If you want me I'll be at home.'

He buttoned his raincoat. 'If my guess is right, this is where it all begins.'

She smiled ruefully.

'Good luck, Fiona. And see you soon.' He was going to kiss her but she didn't look as if she wanted to be embraced, so he winked and she responded with a smile.

'Goodbye, Bret.'

'Suppose it's all a KGB caper? Suppose the Russkies grab her and keep her husband too; suppose they then ask you to do a deal?' Sylvester Bernstein was wearing a raincoat with a wool lining: the sort of garment a man buys soon after he starts surveillance duties.

'We'll worry about that when it happens,' said Bret. He shivered. He wasn't expecting it to be so cold, even in Scotland at night.

'You'd sure be behind the eight ball, old buddy. Two agents down the tube.'

'We have others.'

'Is that official policy?'

'Once deposited an agent is dead,' said Bret. 'There are no second chances or retirement plans.'

'Does Mrs Samson know that?' said Bernstein.

'Of course she does; unless she is stupid. We can't count on getting her back in one piece. Even if we do, she won't be in good shape. Even getting her set up for this task has taken a lot out of her. She used to be sweet, gentle and trusting: now she's learned to be tough and cynical.'

'Nice going, Bret,' said Bernstein. So Bret was taking it badly. This kind of nonsense was Bret's way of dealing with his worries about Fiona Samson. Sylvy had seen other case officers in similar circumstances. They often formed an emotional attachment to the agent they were running.

Bret didn't reply. He huddled closer to the wall of the ruined building in which the two men had found shelter from the cold rainy wind off the sea. It was a wild night, a Gotterdammerung that you had to be on this lonely piece of coastline to appreciate. The sea was black, but a can-opener, inexpertly used, had torn open the horizon to reveal a raging tumult of reds and mauves lit with the livid flashes of an electrical storm. What a night to bid goodbye to your homeland. What a night to be out of doors.

'This is some desolate place,' said Bernstein, who had known many desolate places in his life.

'Once it was a submarine base,' said Bret. The last time I was here that anchorage was full of ships of the Home Fleet: some big battle wagons too.'

Bernstein grunted and pulled up the collar of his coat and leaned into it to light a cigarette.

Bret said, 'The Royal Navy called this place HMS Peafowl, the sailors called it HMS Piss-up. That jetty went all the way out in those days. And there were so many depot ships and subs that you could have walked on them right across the bay.'

'How long ago was that?' said Bernstein. He blew smoke and spat a shred of tobacco that had stuck to his lip.

'The end of the war. There were subs everywhere you looked. The flat piece of tarmac was the drill field that the Limeys called "the quarter deck". The British are quite obsessed with marching and drilling and saluting: they do it to celebrate, they do it for punishment, they do it to pray, they do it for chow. They do it in the rain, in the sunshine and in the snow; morning and afternoon, even on Sunday. This… where we are now, was the movie theatre. Those concrete blocks along the roads are the foundations for the Quonset huts, row upon row of them.'

'And stoves maybe?' said Bernstein. He clamped the cigarette between his lips while he used his night-glasses to study the water of the bay.

'I can hardly believe that it's all gone. When the war was on, there must have been eight thousand servicemen stationed here, counting the engineering facilities on the other side of the bay.'

'I never had you figured for a sailor, Bret.'

'I was only a sailor for twenty-five minutes,' said Bret. He was always selfconscious about being invalided out of the service. Angry at having to divert and land him, his submarine captain told him he was a Jonah. Bret, who had falsified his age to volunteer, never forgot that Jonah label and never entirely freed himself from it.

'Twenty-five minutes. Yes, like me with Buddhism. Maybe it was long enough.'

'I didn't lose faith,' said Bret.

'You were in the US Navy?' said Bernstein, wondering if Bret had been with the British so long ago.

'No, I was in U-boats,' said Bret sourly. 'I won the Iron Cross, first class.'

'Pig boats eh?' said Bernstein, feigning interest in an attempt to pacify the older man.

'Submarines. Not pig boats: submarines.'

'Well, now you've got yourself another submarine, and it belongs to the Russkies,' said Bernstein. He looked at his watch. It was an antiquated design with green luminescent hands; another item acquired when he began surveillance work.

To the unspoken question, Bret said, They're late but they'll turn up. This is the way they always do it.'

'Here? Always here?'

'It's not so easy to find a place where you can bring a sub in close to the shore; somewhere some landlubber can launch an inflatable boat without getting swamped. Somewhere away from shipping lanes and people.'

'They sure are late. What kind of car are they in?' Bernstein asked with the glasses still to his eyes. 'A Lada? One of those two-stroke jobs maybe?'

'Deep water too,' explained Bret. 'And sand and fine gravel; it's got to have a sea bed that won't rip the belly out of you. Yes, they'll come here. It's one of the few landing spots the Soviets would dare risk a sub at night.'

'Take the glasses. I think I saw a movement on the water.' He offered them. 'Beyond the end of the jetty.'

'Forget it! You won't see anything. They won't surface until they get a signal, and they won't get a signal until their passengers are here.'

'Don't the Brits track them on the ASW… the sonar or radar or whatever they got?'

'No way. It can be done but there's the chance that the Russkie counter-measures will reveal they are being tracked. Better they don't know that we are on to them.'

'I suppose.'

'I could have asked the navy to track them with a warship but that might have scared them away. Don't fret, they will come.'

'Why not a plane, Bret? Submarines! Jesus, that's
Riddle of the Sands
stuff.'

'Planes? This is not Nam. Planes are noisy and conspicuous and too risky for anything this important.'

'And where do they go from here?'

'Somewhere close; East Germany, Sassnitz has submarine facilities. From there the train ferry could take her to Stockholm. Plane to Berlin.'

'A long way round. Why not take a train from Sassnitz to Berlin?'

'They are devious folk. They like to route their people via the West. It looks better that way,' said Bret. 'I'm going back to the car to phone. There was a car following them right from the time they left London.'

Bernstein pulled a face. His confidence in the British security and intelligence organizations, right down to their ability to follow a car, was very limited.

Bret Rensselaer walked back along the road and climbed the broken steps to where they'd left the car. It was out of sight behind the last remaining wall of the Sick Bay where, in 1945, Bret had been ignominiously deposited by his submarine captain after falling down a ladder during an Atlantic patrol.

Before getting into the car he took a look at the bay. The water was like black syrup and the horizon was getting brighter as the storm headed their way. He sighed, shut the door and phoned the other car. 'Johnson?'

It answered immediately. 'Johnson here.'

'Boswell. Where the hell have you got to?'

'A spot of trouble, Boswell. Our friends had a little collision with another car.'

'Anyone hurt?'

'No, but a lot of arguments about who was drunk. They've sent for the police.'

'How far away are you?'

'About an hour's drive.'

'Get them back on the road, Johnson. I don't care how you do it. You've got a police officer with you?'

'Yes, he's here.'

'Get him to sort it out. And do it quick.'

'Will do, Boswell.'

'And phone me when they are on their way. I'll stay in the car.'

'Will do.'

The phone gave the disengaged tone and Bret put it back in its slot. He looked up to find Bernstein standing by the car. 'Get inside and warm up,' said Bret. 'Another hour. At least another hour.'

Bernstein got into the car and settled back. 'Is it all okay? It's beginning to rain.'