Spy Line

by Len Deighton

  We drove along Heer Strasse, which on a weekday would have been filled with traffic. Every now and again there had been a dusty glint in the air as a flurry offered a sample of the promised snow. Now it began in earnest. Large spiky flakes came spinning down. Time and time again the last snow had come, and still the cold persisted, reminding those from other climates that Berlin was on the edge of Asia.

  In what was either carelessness or an attempt to impress me with his knowledge of Berlin, Teacher turned off and tried to find a shortcut round the Exhibition Grounds. Twice he came to a dead end. Finally I took pity on him and directed him to Halensee. Then, as we got to Kurfürstendamm, he sat back in his seat, sighed and said, ‘I suppose I am your keeper.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Frank might like to hear your reactions.’

  ‘Berlin is the heroin capital of the world,’ I said.

  ‘I read that in Die Welt,’ said Teacher.

  I ignored the sarcasm. ‘It all comes through Schönefeld airport. Those bastards make sure it keeps moving to this side of the Wall.’

  ‘If it all comes here, then it makes sense that someone might try sending a little of it back,’ said Teacher.

  ‘Stinnes is top brass nowadays. He’d have a lot to lose. I can’t swallow the idea that he’s having an army courier pick up consignments of heroin – or whatever it is – in the West.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Yes, there is a but. Stinnes knows the score. He’s spent a lot of time in the West. He’s an active womanizer and some types of hard drugs connect with sexual activity.’

  ‘Connect? Connect how?’

  ‘A lot of people use drugs only when they jump into bed. I could perhaps see Stinnes in that category.’

  ‘So I tell Frank you think it’s possible.’

  ‘Only possible; not likely.’

  ‘A nuance,’ said Teacher.

  ‘Once upon a time this fellow Stinnes was stringing me along…He told me he wanted to come across to us.’

  ‘KGB? Enrolled?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘And you swallowed it?’

  ‘I urged caution.’

  ‘That’s the best way: cover all the exits,’ said Teacher. He was not one of my most fervent admirers. I suspected that Frank had painted me too golden.

  ‘Anyway: once bitten twice shy.’

  ‘I’ll tell Frank exactly what you said,’ he promised.

  ‘This is not the way to Kreuzberg.’

  ‘Don’t get alarmed. I thought I’d give you lunch before you go back to that slum.’ I wondered if that too was Frank’s idea. Mr Teacher didn’t look like a man much given to impulsive gestures.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I live in Wilmersdorf. My wife always has too much food in the house. Will that be okay?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve given my expenses a beating this month. I had a wedding anniversary.’

  By the time we arrived in Wilmersdorf the streets were wrapped in a fragile tissue of snow. Teacher lived in a smart new apartment block. He parked in the underground car park that served the building. It was well lit and heated: luxury compared with Kreuzberg. We took the elevator to his apartment on the fourth floor.

  He rang the bell while opening the door with his key. Once inside he called to his wife. ‘Clemmie? Clem, are you there?’

  Her voice replied from somewhere upstairs, ‘Where the hell have you been? Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Clemmie –’

  She still didn’t appear. ‘I’ve eaten my lunch. You’ll have to make do with an egg or something.’

  Standing awkwardly in the hall he looked at the empty landing and then at me and smiled ruefully. ‘Egg okay? Clemmie will make omelettes.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘I’ve brought a colleague home,’ he called loudly.

  His wife came down the stairs, skittish and smiling. She was worth waiting for; young, long-legged and shapely. She touched her carefully arranged hair and flashed her eyes at me. She looked as if her make-up was newly applied. Her smile froze as she noticed some flecks of snow on his coat. ‘My God! When does summer come to this damned town?’ she said, holding him personally responsible.

  ‘Clemmie,’ said Teacher after she’d offered her cheek to be kissed, ‘this is Bernard Samson, from the office.’

  ‘The famous Bernard Samson?’ she asked with a throaty chuckle. Her voice was lower now and her genial mockery was not unattractive.

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said. So much for Teacher’s ingenuous inquiry about whether I was married. Even his wife knew all about me.

  ‘Take off your coat, Bernard,’ she said in a jokey flirtati ous way that seemed to come naturally to her. Perhaps the dour Teacher was attracted to her on that account. She took my old coat, draped it on a wooden hanger marked Disneyland Hotel Anaheim, California and hung it in an antique walnut closet.

  She was wearing a lot of perfume and a button-through dress of light green wool, large earrings and a gold necklace. It was not the sort of outfit you’d put on to go to church. She must have been six or eight years younger than her husband and I wondered if she was trying to acquire the pushy determination that young wives need to survive the social demands of a Berlin posting.

  ‘Bernard Samson: secret agent! I’ve never met a real secret agent before.’

  ‘That was long ago,’ said Teacher in an attempt to warn her off.

  ‘Not so long ago,’ she said archly. ‘He’s so young. What is it like to be a secret agent, Bernard? You don’t mind if I call you Bernard, do you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘And you call me Clemmie.’ She took my arm in a gesture of mock confidentiality. ‘Tell me what it’s like. Please.’

  ‘It’s like being a down-at-heel Private Eye,’ I said. ‘In a land where being a Private Eye will get you thirty years in the slammer. Or worse.’

  ‘Find something for us to eat, Clemmie,’ said Teacher in a way that suggested that his acute embarrassment was turning to anger. ‘We’re starved.’

  ‘Darling, it’s Sunday. Let’s celebrate. Let’s open that lovely tin of sevruga that you got from someone I’m not allowed to inquire about,’ she said.

  ‘Wonderful idea,’ said Teacher and sounded relieved at this suggestion. But he still did not look happy. I suppose he never did.

  Clemmie went into the kitchen to find the caviar while Teacher took me into the sitting room and asked me what I wanted to drink.

  ‘Do you have vodka?’ I asked.

  ‘Stolichnaya, or Zubrovka or a German one?’ He set up some glasses.

  ‘Zubrovka.’

  ‘I’ll get it from the fridge. Make yourself at home.’

  Left alone I looked around. It is not what guests are expected to do but I can never resist. It was a small but comfortable apartment with a huge sofa, a big hi-fi and a long shelf of compact discs – mostly outmoded pop groups – that I guessed were Clemmie’s. On the coffee table there was a photo album, the sort of leather-bound tasselled one in which people record an elaborate wedding. It bulged with extra pictures and programmes. I opened it. Every page contained photos of Clemmie: on the athletic field, running the 1,000 metres, hurdling, getting medals, waving silver cups. The pages were lovingly captioned in copperplate writing. Tucked into the back she was to be seen in already yellowing sports pages torn from the sort of local newspaper that carries large adverts for beauty salons and nursing homes. In all the pictures she looked so young: so very very young. She must have been here looking through it when she heard us at the door, and then rushed upstairs to put on fresh make-up. Poor Clemmie.

  The apartment block was new and the walls were thin. As Teacher went into the kitchen I heard his wife speak loudly, ‘Jesus Christ, Jeremy! Why did you bring him here?’

  ‘I didn’t have cash or I would have taken us all to a restaurant.’

  ‘Restaurant…? If the office hear all this, you
’ll be in a row.’

  ‘Frank said give him lunch. Frank likes him.’

  ‘Frank likes everyone until the crunch comes.’

  ‘I’m assigned to him.’

  ‘You should never have agreed to do it.’

  ‘There was no one else.’

  ‘You told me he was a pariah, and that’s what you’ll end up as if you don’t keep the swine at arm’s length.’

  ‘I wish you’d let me do things my way.’

  ‘It was letting you do things your way that brought us to this bloody town.’

  ‘We’ll have a nice long leave in six months.’

  ‘Another six months here with these bloody krauts and I’ll go round the bend,’ she said.

  There was the sound of a refrigerator door closing loudly, and of ice-cubes going into a jug.

  ‘You don’t have to put up with them,’ she said. Her voice was shrill now. ‘Pushing and elbowing their way in front of you at the check-outs. I hate the bloody Germans. And I hate this terrible winter weather that goes on and on and on. I can’t stand it here!’

  ‘I know, darling.’ His voice remained soft and affectionate. ‘But please try.’

  When he returned he poured two large measures of vodka and we drank them in silence. I suppose he knew how thin the walls were.

  It was not an easy lunch. We consumed 250 grams of Russian sevruga virtually in silence. With it we had rye bread and vodka. ‘The spring catch,’ said Teacher knowledgeably as he tasted the caviar. ‘That’s always the best.’

  Unsure of an appropriate response to that sort of remark I just said it was delicious.

  Clemmie’s mascara was smudged. She responded minim ally to her husband’s small-talk. She wouldn’t have a drink: she kept to water. I felt sorry for both of them. I wanted to tell them it didn’t matter. I wanted to tell her it was just the Berlin Blues, the claustrophobic time that all the wives suffered when they were first posted to ‘the island’. But I was too cowardly. I just contributed to the small-talk and pretended not to notice that they were having a private and personal row in silence.

  3

  ‘Keep going!’ I told Teacher as he began to slow down to let me out of the car.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Keep-going keep-going keep-going!’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, but he kept going and passed the car that had attracted my notice. It was parked right outside my front door.

  ‘Turn right and go right round the block.’

  ‘What did you see? A car you recognize?’

  I made a prevaricating noise.

  ‘What then?’ he persisted.

  ‘A car I didn’t recognize.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The black Audi…Too smart for this street.’

  ‘You’re getting jumpy, Samson. There’s nothing wrong, I’ll bet you…’

  As he was speaking a police car cruised slowly past us, but Teacher gave no sign of noticing it. I suppose he had other things on his mind. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I said. ‘I am a bit jumpy. I remember now it belongs to my landlady’s brother.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Teacher. ‘I told you there was nothing wrong.’

  ‘I need a good night’s sleep. Let me off on the corner. I must buy some cigarettes.’

  He stopped the car outside the shop. ‘Closed,’ he said.

  ‘They have a machine in the hallway.’

  ‘Righto.’

  I opened the car door. ‘Thanks for sharing your caviar. And tell Clemmie thanks too. Sorry if I outstayed my welcome.’ He’d let me have a hot shower. I felt better but couldn’t help wondering if the grime was going to block the drain. I was grateful. ‘And best wishes to Frank,’ I added as an afterthought.

  He nodded. ‘I was on the phone to him. Frank says you’re to keep away from Rudi Kleindorf.’

  ‘Forget about the good wishes.’

  He gave a grim little smile and revved the motor and pulled away as soon as I closed the door. He was worried about his wife. I took a deep breath. The air was thick with the stink from the lignite-burning power stations that the DDR have on all sides of the city. It killed the trees, burned the back of the throat and filled the nostrils with soot. It was the Berlinerluft.

  I let Teacher’s car go out of sight before cautiously returning down the street to rap on the window of the red VW Golf. Werner reached over to unlock the door and I got into the back seat.

  ‘Thank God. You’re all right, Bernie?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Werner was good at hiding his feelings but there was no doubt about his agitated state.

  ‘What does it matter?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Spengler is dead. Someone murdered him.’

  Bile rose in my throat. I was too old for rough stuff: too old, too involved, too married, too soft. ‘Murdered him? When?’

  ‘I was going to ask you,’ said Werner.

  ‘What’s that mean, Werner? Do you think I’d murder the poor little sod?’ Werner’s manner annoyed me. I’d liked Spengler.

  ‘I saw Johnny. He was looking for you, to warn you that the cops were here.’

  ‘Is Johnny all right?’

  ‘Johnny is at the Polizeipräsidium answering questions. They’re holding him.’

  ‘He has no papers,’ I said.

  ‘Right. So they’ll put him through the wringer.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Johnny’s a good kid,’ I said.

  ‘If he has to choose between deportation to Sri Lanka or spilling his guts, he’ll tell them anything he knows,’ said Werner with stolid logic.

  ‘He knows nothing,’ I said.

  ‘He might make some damaging guesses, Bernie.’

  ‘Shit!’ I rubbed my face and tried to remember anything compromising Johnny might have seen or overheard.

  ‘Get down, the cops are coming out,’ said Werner. I crouched down on the floor out of sight. There was a strong smell of rubber floor mats. Werner had moved the front seats well forward to give me plenty of room. Werner thought of everything. Under his calm, logical and conventional exterior there lurked an all-consuming passion, if not to say obsession, with espionage. Werner followed the published, and unpublished, sagas of the cold war with the same sort of dedication that other men gave to the fluctuating fortunes of football teams. Werner would have been the perfect spy: except that perfect spies, like perfect husbands, are too predictable to survive in a world where fortune favours the impulsive.

  Two uniformed cops walked past going to their car. I heard one of them say, ‘Mit der Dummheit kämpfen Götter selbst vergebens’ – With stupidity the gods themselves struggle in vain.

  ‘Schiller,’ said Werner, equally dividing pride with admiration.

  ‘Maybe he’s studying to be a sergeant,’ I said.

  ‘Someone put a plastic bag over Spengler’s head and suffocated him,’ said Werner after the policemen had got into their car and departed. ‘I suppose he was drunk and didn’t make much resistance.’

  ‘The police are unlikely to give it too much attention,’ I said. A dead junkie in this section of Kreuzberg was not the sort of newsbreak for which press photographers jostle. It was unlikely to make even a filler on an inside page.

  ‘Spengler was sleeping on your bed,’ said Werner. ‘Someone was trying to kill you.’

  ‘Who wants to kill me?’ I said.

  Werner wiped his nose very carefully with a big white handkerchief. ‘You’ve had a lot of strain lately, Bernie. I’m not sure that I could have handled it. You need a rest, a real rest.’

  ‘Don’t baby me along,’ I said. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  He frowned, trying to decide how to say what he wanted to say. ‘You’re going through a funny time; you’re not thinking straight any more.’

  ‘Just tell me who would want to kill me.’

  ‘I knew I’d upset you.’

  ‘You’re not upsetting
me but tell me.’

  Werner shrugged.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Everybody says my life is in danger but no one knows from who.’

  ‘You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, Bernie. Your own people wanted to arrest you, the Americans thought you were trying to make trouble for them and God knows what Moscow makes of it all…’

  He was beginning to sound like Rudi Kleindorf; in fact, he was beginning to sound like a whole lot of people who couldn’t resist giving me good advice. I said, ‘Will you drive me over to Lange’s place?’

  For a moment he thought about it. ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve phoned him every day, just the way you asked. I’ve sent letters too.’

  ‘I’m going to beat on his door. Perhaps Der Grosse wasn’t kidding. Maybe Lange is playing deaf: maybe he’s in there.’

  ‘Not answering the phone and not opening his mail? That’s not like Lange.’ Lange was an American who’d lived in Berlin since it was first built. Werner disliked him. In fact it was hard to think of anyone who was fond of Lange except his long-suffering wife: and she visited relatives several times a year.

  ‘Maybe he’s going through a funny time too,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Just drop me outside.’

  ‘You’ll need a ride back,’ said Werner in that plaintive, martyred tone he used when indulging me in my most excruciating foolishness.

  When we reached the street where John ‘Lange’ Koby lived I thought Werner was going to drive away and leave me to it, but the hesitation he showed was fleeting and he waved away my suggestions that I go up there alone.

  Dating from the last century it was a great grey apartment block typical of the whole city. Since my previous visit the front door had been painted and so had the lobby, and one side of the entrance hall had two lines of new tin postboxes, each one bearing a tenant’s name. But once up the first staircase all attempts at improvement ceased. On each landing a press-button timer switch provided a dim light and a brief view of walls upon which sprayed graffiti proclaimed the superiority of football teams and pop groups, or simply made the whorls and zigzag patterns that proclaim that graffiti need not be a monopoly of the literate.