Spy Line

by Len Deighton

  ‘I don’t use them,’ I said. ‘I always fly nowadays.’

  ‘Pity.’ He looked at the street map and with his pen showed me the old Berliner Ring and the route that East Berliners took when joining the Autobahn from their side of the city.

  ‘There was a general directive about us using the Autobahn,’ I reminded him gently. There was a fear that departmental employees, with heads full of secrets, might be kidnapped on the Autobahnen. It was not a groundless fear. There was a whole filing case full of unsolved mysteries: motorists who started out on the long drive to the Federal Republic and were never seen again. There was no way for the West’s authorities to investigate such mysteries. We had to grin and bear it. Meanwhile, those who could fly, flew.

  ‘I want you to drive back down the Autobahn this time,’ said Frank.

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m waiting to hear.’ His pipe stem was tapped against his nose in what I suppose was a gesture of confidentiality. ‘Someone is coming out.’

  ‘Through Charlie?’ That would mean a non-German.

  ‘No. You’ll pick them up on the Autobahn,’ said Frank. I waited for some explanation or expansion but he gave neither. He continued to look at the street map and then said, ‘Ever heard of a man named Thurkettle? American.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘You have?’ Unless Frank had been attending drama lessons since our previous meeting, he was completely taken aback by this revelation. Clearly he’d not heard about my escapade in Salzburg. ‘Tell me about him.’

  I briefly told Frank about Thurkettle without going into detail about my task in Salzburg.

  ‘He’s here,’ said Frank.

  ‘Thurkettle?’ It was my turn to be surprised.

  ‘Arrived by air last night. I told London but I got only an “acknowledgement and no further action” signal. I’m wondering if London knows all this you’ve just told me.’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ I said.

  Frank frowned. ‘We both know how signals get spiked and forgotten,’ he said. ‘They should at least let me tell the Americans and the police.’

  ‘You can tell them off the record,’ I said.

  ‘That might bounce and get me into hot water.’ Frank was something of an expert at finding reasons for inaction. ‘If Thurkettle has come here on some secret mission for the Yanks, and London has been informed in the usual way, well!…’ He shrugged. ‘They might be displeased to find I’ve told all and sundry.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ I said, ‘if Thurkettle has come to town to blow away one of the CIA’s golden boys, they might feel that one routine signal to London was an under-reaction.’

  ‘It was a confidential,’ said Frank. ‘My informant was someone who I can absolutely not name. If London, or the CIA office, demand details of the identification I will find myself having one of those wretched arguments that I hate so much.’ He looked at me and I nodded. ‘What do you think this fellow’s here for, Bernard?’

  ‘No one seems to be sure who Thurkettle works for. The prevailing wisdom – if Joe Brody is anyone to go by – is that he’s a hit man who works for anyone, that is to say anyone who comes up with the right target for the right price. Brody says the KGB have used him over the past two years. If Thurkettle was on his way to see our friends in Normannenstrasse, he’d fly into Schönefeld.’

  ‘You mean he’s targeting someone here in the West?’ Frank screwed his face up. ‘I can’t put a tail on him. I don’t know where he’s gone, and even if I did know I simply haven’t got the resources.’

  ‘West Berlin isn’t on the way to anywhere,’ I said. ‘No one comes here en route to anywhere; they come here and go back again.’

  ‘You’re right. Perhaps I should send London a reminder.’ He used his clenched fist to brush up the ends of his moustache. To the casual observer it looked as if he was giving himself two quick punches on the nose: perhaps that’s what he thought London was likely to give him if he persisted. ‘I’ll leave it for the weekend; they might respond again.’

  Good old Frank: never hesitate to do nothing. ‘Phone the old man,’ I suggested.

  ‘The D-G? He hates being disturbed at home.’ He scratched his cheek and said, ‘No, I’ll leave it for the time being. But I’m disturbed by what you told me, Bernard.’

  I realized that my description of Thurkettle’s activities had put Frank into a difficult position. Until talking with me he still had the chance to plead ignorance of anything concerning the man or the danger that he might present to Allied personnel here. I wondered if I should suggest that we both forget what I’d said but Frank could be very formal at times. Despite the friendship that went back to my childhood – or even because of it – he might consider such a suggestion treasonable and insulting. I decided not to take a chance on it.

  ‘One thing I still haven’t got clear, Frank,’ I said. He raised an eyebrow. ‘You sent Teacher to get me, and had me sit in on Larry Bower and the old apparatchik. Why?’

  Frank smiled. ‘Didn’t Larry explain that?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Larry didn’t explain anything.’

  ‘I thought it might be something that would interest you. I remembered that you were handling Stinnes at one time.’

  ‘Why not simply show me the transcript?’

  ‘Of the debriefing?’ Pursed lips and a nod, as if this was a novel and most interesting suggestion. ‘We could have done that; yes.’

  ‘Would you like to hear what I think?’ I said.

  ‘Of course I would,’ said Frank with that suppressed irony with which a doting parent might indulge a pre cocious child. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I kept thinking about it. I wondered why you would give me a close look at a still active agent. That’s not the way the training manual says it’s done.’

  ‘I don’t always go by the training manual,’ said Frank.

  ‘You are not contrary or perverse, Frank,’ I said. ‘What you do, you do with a purpose.’

  ‘What’s eating you, Bernard?’

  ‘You didn’t invite me to that safe house in Charlottenburg to hear the debriefing and see Valeri,’ I said. ‘You brought me over there so that Valeri could see me. See me close up!’

  ‘Why would I have done that, Bernard?’ He found a stray thread on his sleeve, plucked it off and dropped it into an ashtray.

  ‘To find out if Valeri could identify me as one of the people mixed up in the narcotics racket?’

  ‘There is such a thing as being too sceptical,’ said Frank gently.

  ‘Not in this business there isn’t.’

  He smiled. He didn’t deny the allegation.

  ‘You need a holiday, Bernard.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile, when do I start my trip down the Autobahn?’

  ‘Not for a few days,’ said Frank. ‘Tuesday at the earliest.’ I suppose he thought I would welcome a few days idling around in Berlin but I wanted to get back and he must have seen that in my face. ‘Look on the bright side. You’ll be able to enjoy Werner’s costume party tonight.’ When I didn’t respond to this he added, ‘It’s out of my control, Bernard. We just have to wait for the message.’

  ‘When am I to be briefed?’

  ‘There won’t be a briefing. We’re keeping it all very low-key. But Jeremy Teacher will be with you. He’s waiting downstairs. I’ll get him up here now and he’ll tell you his plans.’ Frank picked up his internal phone and said, ‘Send Mr Teacher up here, would you.’

  ‘I wasn’t delighted at the idea of having Teacher tell me his plans. ‘Let’s get this straight, Frank,’ I said. ‘Is Teacher running this show, or am I?’

  ‘No need to designate a boss,’ said Frank. ‘Teacher is easy to get along with. And it’s a simple enough job.’

  ‘Never mind all that smooth London Central talk, Frank,’ I said. ‘If I’m picking up a DDR national on DDR territory and bringing him out, that’s Operational. When did Teacher ever work in Operations?’

  ‘He di
dn’t,’ admitted Frank. ‘And he’s never been a field agent either. I suppose that’s the real thrust of what you’re saying.’

  ‘You’re damn right it’s the real thrust of what I’m saying. I’ll go alone. I don’t want to be playing nanny to some pen-pusher who wants a glimpse of life at the sharp end.’

  ‘You can’t do it alone. You’ll have a passenger. Someone will have to drive. Who knows what unexpected things might happen? We can’t risk it.’

  ‘Teacher?’

  ‘He’s the best man I’ve got.’

  ‘Let me take Werner,’ I said.

  ‘Werner is a German national cleared only for non-critical employment,’ said Frank primly.

  ‘And that bloody Teacher is…’

  There was a knock at the door and Teacher came in. Losing his wife did not seem to have done anything to improve his miserable demeanour. He brought a sulking broodiness into the room. The smile he gave as he shook hands was sour, and although the grip of his hand was firm there was something listless in the gesture. Perhaps he’d heard me before he came in.

  ‘Tell Bernard what you’ve arranged,’ said Frank.

  ‘Volkswagen van. Diplomatic plates. We meet the other car at a pull-off near the Brandenburg exit. It should be very straightforward. They don’t stop diplomatic vans.’

  ‘Bernard says when will you go?’

  ‘I’m waiting for diplomatic passports for all three of us. We can’t expect those to come through until after the weekend.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t let’s ruin anyone’s weekend.’

  Teacher looked at me and looked at Frank.

  Frank said, ‘Are you armed, Bernard?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Jeremy will have a non-ferrous pistol,’ said Frank, unable to conceal his distaste. Frank had a dislike of firearms that ill fitted his romantic notions of the army.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said. Teacher pretended I wasn’t there.

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ said Frank. ‘It’s a straightforward little job. A drive down the Autobahn, that’s all.’ I didn’t respond and neither did Teacher. If it was so bloody simple, I thought, why wasn’t Frank doing it? ‘But there is one more thing…I’ve been through this with Jeremy.’ A pause revealed that Frank was having difficulty; that’s probably why he’d left it to last. ‘There must be no question of the field agent going into custody over there. You understand?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand. We’ll be in a diplomatic vehicle you said.’

  ‘That’s not one hundred per cent, Bernard. Remember poor little Fischbein? They dragged him out of that car right in the Alex.’

  ‘I’ve been briefed,’ said Teacher.

  But I wasn’t going to let Teacher get Frank off the hook. ‘Then brief me, Frank.’

  ‘If the worst came to the worst, Bernard. The agent would have to be…eliminated.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘Yes, killed.’ Frank looked again at the map, as if searching for something, but I think he was trying to avoid my eyes. ‘Jeremy has the gun for that purpose.’

  ‘Poor bloody agent,’ I said.

  ‘All concerned are aware of what’s at stake,’ said Frank stiffly. ‘Including the agent.’

  Frank turned and looked at me now. His blunt-ended moustache was completely grey these days. Frank was too old to be involved with Operations. Too old, too squeamish, too weary, too good-hearted. Whatever it was, the strain on him showed in his face.

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ said the ever-helpful Teacher. ‘We’ll do whatever has to be done.’

  Teacher’s face was lined too, but Teacher was not old nor weary. Teacher was a tough little bastard in a way that I’d not recognized before. They’d chosen him well for this job.

  Frank seemed not to hear Teacher. It was as if it were just me and Frank in the room. ‘Okay, Bernard?’ he said softly. I looked Frank in the eyes and I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that it was Fiona who was going to be picked up on the Autobahn. It was Fiona who knew what might have to be done to prevent her being interrogated by the pro fessional torturers at Normannenstrasse. And Teacher was there in case I hesitated when it was time to pull the trigger.

  ‘Yes, Frank,’ I said. ‘It’s okay.’

  On the Sunday evening there was a big party at Lisl’s. The printed invitations said it was to celebrate the opening of the newly refurbished premises. On this pretext Werner had obtained the support of a number of his suppliers, and the invitations, like the paper napkins and some of the other objects in evidence, bore the trademarks of breweries and distillers.

  Now that it was almost summer, and the evenings had lengthened, Werner’s plan was to hold the party in a huge tent he’d had erected in the courtyard at the back of the hotel. But all afternoon the sky had darkened and by evening there was torrential rain falling from an endless overcast. Only the most intrepid guests ventured into the chilly tent, and the inauguration was celebrated indoors.

  But it was something more than the official reopening of the hotel. And it was Frank’s presence at the party at Lisl’s on Sunday evening that told me that he felt the same way. Frank was past retirement, soon he would be gone. Looking back on it afterwards, I saw that he regarded it as his very own gala finale. Frank had never shared my love for Lisl, and despite all evidence to the contrary, he persisted in blaming Werner for that old ‘Baader Meinhof’ fiasco for which Frank had taken a share of criticism. But even Frank knew that Lisl’s was the only place in Berlin to celebrate, and having decided that, he was at his most ebullient and charming. He even wore fancy costume: the Duke of Wellington!

  ‘It’s the end of an era,’ said Lisl. We were sitting in her little study. This was the room in which Lisl spent so much of her life now that walking had become so painful for her. Here she had breakfast, and played bridge and looked at the account books and gave favoured residents a measured glass of sherry when they came to pay their bills. On the wall there was a picture of Kaiser Wilhelm, on the mantelpiece a hideous ormolu clock, and around the table where she took breakfast four carved Venetian-style figure-of-eight dining chairs, all that remained of her parents’ grand dining room.

  Now she never sat in her beloved chairs; she was in a functional steel wheelchair that she could manoeuvre at such high speed that Werner had fixed a small bulb-horn to it.

  The noise of the party came loudly through the tightly closed door. I don’t know whose idea it was to use Lisl’s wind-up gramophone and her collection of ancient 78s to provide the music, but it had been hailed as the ultimate in chic, and now Marlene was purring ‘Falling in Love Again’ against a honky-tonk piano for what must have been the fifth consecutive time. Werner had predicted that it wouldn’t be loud enough but it was loud enough.

  Even Lisl had sought refuge from the dedicated and un relenting playfulness that Berliners bring to their parties. Open on the floor there was a very old suitcase that had belonged to my father. It dated from the days before designer labels, when such things were properly made. The outside was pale green canvas with leather for the handle, the binding and the corners. The lining was calico. Inside it there were his papers: bills, accounts, newspaper clippings, a couple of diaries, a silk scarf, even the British army uniform tunic that he so seldom wore. I was rummaging through it while Lisl sat in her wheelchair, sipped her sherry and watched me. ‘Even his gun,’ she said. ‘Be careful with it, Bernd. I hate guns.’

  ‘I noticed it,’ I said. I took it from its leather holster. It was a Webley Mark VI, a gigantic revolver that weighed about two and a half pounds, the sort of weapon that the British Army had been hanging on its officers since the First World War. It was blue and perfect, I doubt if my father had ever fired it. There was a box of ammunition too. Nickel jacket .455 inch rounds ‘for service use’. The label was dated 1943 and the seal was unbroken.

  ‘That’s everything. Klara made sure that all your father’s things were packed in his case. So that’s all apart from
the footstool, the mattress and the set of Dickens.’

  ‘Thank you, Lisl.’

  ‘The end of an era,’ she mused sadly. ‘Werner taking over the hotel. The changes to the rooms. You taking your father’s things. I’m a stranger here now, a stranger in my own home.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Lisl. Werner loves you. He’s only done it all for you.’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ she said sadly, not grudging him her affection but reluctant to abandon the self-pity she so relished.

  There was a sudden increase in the noise of the party as Werner came in and shut the door behind him. Werner was dressed as a knight in full armour. Expediently the armour was fashioned entirely of fabric cunningly embroidered with gold and silver wire to reproduce the intricate decoration on etched and gilt metal. He looked magnificent, even Lisl thought so. Lisl looked equally splendid in a long brightly patterned dress that – according to the rental company’s label – was that of a thirteenth-century noblewoman, and was based upon the stained glass figures of Augsburg Cathedral. It included diadem and wimple and a light but voluminous cloak. Whatever the integrity of the design she made a fine figure alongside Werner, the wheelchair providing her with an imposing throne. I thought he might have chosen his costume and hers with filial congruity in mind but he later confided that it was the only garment he could find in her size that was also bright crimson. Lisl loved vivid colours.

  ‘It’s a madhouse out there,’ said Werner as he stood against the door and caught his breath. His face was pink with excitement and exertion. ‘I brought you some more champagne.’ He had the bottle in his hand and he poured some for both of us. ‘Absolutely ghastly.’

  ‘It sounds ghastly,’ I said, although I had long grown used to the way in which Werner organized this sort of frenzied fancy dress party, and then went around all evening saying how much he hated it.

  He looked at me. ‘I wish you’d put on your costume,’ he said. He’d selected an amazing mid-nineteenth-century costume for me that was called ‘the Biedermeier gentleman’ on the box. It came complete with a frock coat and high hat. I suspected that Werner had chosen it with a certain sardonic glee that I had no intention of sustaining.