by Len Deighton
Perhaps the cruellest jest that fate had played upon him was that after seeing his father thrive in the upper middle-class circles into which he’d shoved his way, Martin – educated regardless of expense – had to find a way of living with those working classes from which his father had emerged. His rebellion had been a quiet one: the Russians gave him a chance to work unobserved for the destruction of a society for which he felt nothing. It was his secret knowledge which provided for him the strength to endure his austere life. The secret Russians and, of course, the secret women. It was all part of the same desire really, for unless there was a husband or lover to be deceived the affairs gave him little satisfaction, sexual or otherwise.
From the household next door there came the sudden sound of a piano. These were tiny cottages built a century ago for agricultural workers in the Kent fields, and the walls were thin. At first there came the sort of grandiose strumming that pub pianists affect as an overture for their recitals, then the melody resolved into a First World War song: ‘The Roses of Picardy’. The relaxed jangle of the piano completed the curious sensation Fiona already had of going back in time, waiting, trapped in the past. This was the long peaceful and promising Edwardian Springtime that everyone thought would never turn cold. There was nothing anywhere in sight to suggest they were not sitting in this parlour some time at the century’s beginning, perhaps 1904, when Europe was still young and innocent, London’s buses were horse-drawn, HMS Dreadnought unbuilt and Russia’s permanent October still to come.
‘They’re never late,’ she said, looking at her watch and trying to decide upon an explanation which would satisfy her husband if he arrived home before her.
‘You seldom deal with them,’ he said. ‘You deal with me, and I’m never late.’
She didn’t contradict him. He was right. She very seldom saw the Russians: they were all too likely to be tailed by MI5 people.
‘And when you do contact them, this is the sort of thing that happens.’ He was pleased to show how important he was in the contact with the Russians.
She couldn’t help worrying about this Russian who’d tried to defect. He’d seen that she was alone and approached her in what seemed to be an impulsive decision. Had it all been a KGB plot? She’d seen him only that once, but he’d seemed such a genuine decent man. ‘It must be difficult for someone like Blum,’ she said.
‘Difficult in what way?’
‘Working in a foreign country. Young, missing his wife, lonely. Perhaps shunned because he is Jewish.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ he said. ‘He was a third secretary in the attaché’s office: he was trusted and well paid. The little swine was determined to prove how important he was.’
‘A Russian Jew with a German name,’ said Fiona. ‘I wonder what motivated him.’
‘He won’t try that stunt again,’ said Martin. ‘And the attaché’s office will get a rocket from Moscow.’ He smiled with satisfaction at the idea. ‘Everything will go through me, as it was always done before Blum.’
‘Could it have been a trick?’
‘To see if you are loyal to them? To see if you are really a double: working for your SIS masters?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As a test for me.’ She watched Martin carefully. Bret Rensselaer, her case officer, who was masterminding this double life of hers, said he was certain that Blum was acting on orders from Moscow. Even if he wasn’t, Rensselaer had explained, it’s better we lose this chance of a highly placed agent than endanger you. Sometimes she wished she could look at life with the same cold-blooded detachment that Bret Rensselaer displayed. In any case, there was no way she could defy him, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. But what would happen now?
Martin gave a cunning smile as he reflected upon this possibility. ‘Well if it was a test, you came through with flying colours,’ he said proudly.
She realized then, for the first time, what a stalwart supporter she had in him. Martin was committed to her: she was his investment and he’d do anything rather than face the idea that his protégée was not the most influential Soviet agent of modern history.
‘It’s getting late.’
‘There there. We’ll get you to the train on time. Bernard’s coming back from Berlin today, isn’t he?’
She didn’t answer. Martin had no business asking such things even in a friendly conversational way.
Martin said, ‘I’m watching the time. Don’t fret.’
She smiled. She regretted now the way that she had snapped at him. The Russians had decided that the two of them were joined by a strong bond of affection: that Martin’s avuncular manner, as well as his unwavering political belief, was an essential part of her dedication. She didn’t want to give them any reason to re-examine their theory.
She looked round the tiny room and wondered if Martin lived here all the time or whether it was just a safe house used for other meetings of this sort. It seemed lived-in: food in the kitchen, coal by the fireplace, open mail stuffed behind the clock that ticked away on the mantelpiece, a well-fed cat prowling through a well-kept garden. A clipper ship in full sail on the wall behind spotless glass. There were lots of books here: Lenin and Marx and even Trotsky stared down from the shelves, along with his revered Fabians, an encyclopedia of socialism, and Rousseau and John Stuart Mill. Even the tedious works of his father. It was an artful touch. Even a trained security man was unlikely to recognize a KGB agent who was so openly familiar with the philosophies of the dissidents, revisionists and traitors. That was Martin’s cover: a cranky, old-fashioned and essentially British left-wing theorist, out of touch with modern international political events.
‘It’s my son Billy. His throat was swollen this morning,’ said Fiona and looked at her watch again. ‘Nanny should be taking him to see the doctor about now. Nanny is a sensible girl.’
‘Of course she is.’ He didn’t approve of nannies and other domestic slaves. It took him back to his own childhood and muddled emotions about his father that he found so difficult to think about. ‘He’ll be all right.’
‘I do hope it’s not mumps.’
‘I’m watching the time,’ he said again.
‘Good reliable Martin,’ she said.
He smiled and puffed his pipe. It was what he wanted to hear.
It was a long-haired youth who arrived on a bicycle. He propped it against the fence and came down the garden to rat-a-tat on the front door. The canary awoke and jumped from perch to perch so that the cage danced on its spring. Martin answered the door and came back with a piece of paper he’d taken from a sealed envelope. He gave it to her. It was the printed invoice of a local florist. Written across it in felt-tip pen it said: ‘The wreath you ordered has been sent as requested.’ It bore the mark of a large oval red rubber stamp: ‘PAID’.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘Blum is dead!’ he announced softly.
‘My God!’ said Fiona.
He looked at her. Her face had gone completely white.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said soothingly. ‘You’ve come out of it as pure as the driven snow.’ Then he realized that it was the news of Blum’s death that had shocked her. In a desperate attempt to comfort her he said, ‘Our comrades are inclined to somewhat operatic gestures. They have probably just sent him home to Moscow.’
‘Then why…?’
‘To reassure you. To make you feel important.’ He took a cloth from the shelf and wrapped it carefully round the bird cage to provide darkness.
She looked at him, trying to see what he really believed, but she couldn’t be sure.
‘Believe me,’ he added. ‘I know them.’
She decided to believe him. Perhaps it was a feminine response but she couldn’t shoulder the burden of Blum’s death. She wasn’t brave about the sufferings that were inflicted upon others, and yet that was what this job was all about.
She got home after half-past eight, and it was only about ten minutes later that Bret Rensselaer phoned with a la
conic, ‘All okay?’
‘Yes, all okay,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong?’
Bret had heard something in her voice. He was so tuned to her emotions that it frightened her. Bernard would never have guessed she was upset. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said carefully, keeping her voice under control. ‘Nothing we can speak about.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Usual time: usual place.’
‘Bernard’s not here yet. He was due back.’
‘I arranged something…delayed his baggage at the airport. I wanted to be sure you were home and it was all okay…’
‘Yes, goodnight, Bret.’ She hung up. Bret was doing it for her sake but she knew that he enjoyed showing her how easy it was for him to control her husband in that way. He was another of these men who felt bound to demonstrate some aspect of their power to her. There was also an underlying sexual implication that she didn’t like.
5
Somerset, England. Summer 1978.
The Director-General was an enigmatic figure who was the subject of much discussion amongst the staff. Take, for instance, that Christmas when a neat panel bearing the pokerwork motto ‘Only ignorance is invincible’ was hung in a prominent position on the wall beside his desk. The questions arising from that item were not stilled by the news that it was a Christmas present from his wife.
His office was a scene of incomparable chaos into which the cleaning ladies made only tentative forays. Books were piled everywhere. Most of them were garlanded with coloured slips of paper indicating rich veins of research that had never been pursued beyond the initial claims staked out for him by his long-suffering assistant.
Sir Henry Clevemore provided a fruitful source for Bret Rensselaer’s long-term anthropological study of the English race. Bret had categorized the D-G as a typical member of the upper classes. This tall shambling figure, whose expensive suits looked like baggy overalls, was entirely different to anyone Bret knew in the USA. Apart from his other eccentricities the D-G encouraged his staff to believe that he was frail, deaf and absent-minded. This contrived role certainly seemed to provide for him a warm loyalty that many a tougher leader would have envied.
One of the disagreeable aspects of working in close cooperation with Sir Henry was the way he moved about the country in such a disorganized and unplanned style that Bret found himself chasing after him to rendezvous after rendezvous in places both remote and uncomfortable. Today they were in Somerset. In the interests of privacy the D-G had taken him to a small wooden hut. It overlooked the sports field of a minor public school of which the D-G was a conscientious governor. The D-G had made a speech to the whole school and had lunch with the headmaster. Bret at short notice had had to be driven down at breakneck speed. There had been no time for lunch. No matter, on a hot day like this Bret could miss lunch without feeling deprived.
The school’s surroundings provided a wonderful view of mighty trees, rolling hills and farmland. This was the English countryside that had inspired her great landscape painters: it was brooding and mysterious despite the bright colours. The newly cut grass left a pungent smell on the air. Although not normally prone to hay fever, Bret found his sinuses affected. Of course it was an affliction aggravated by stress and it would be unwise to conclude that the prospect of this meeting with the Director-General had played no part in bringing on the attack.
Through the cobwebbed window two teams of white-clad teenagers could be seen going through the arcane gymnastics that constitute a cricket match. Entering into the spirit of this event, the D-G had changed into white trousers, a linen jacket that had yellowed with age, and a panama hat. He had seated himself in a chair from which he could see the game. The D-G had wiped his piece of window clear but Bret saw the scene through the grimy glass. Bret was standing, having declined to sit upon the cushioned oil drum that the D-G had indicated. Bret kept half an eye on the game, for the D-G referred to it at intervals seeking Bret’s opinions about the way it was being played.
‘Tell the husband,’ said the D-G, shaking his head sadly, ‘and it’s no longer a secret.’
Bret didn’t answer immediately. He watched the left-handed batsman thumping his bat into the ground and waiting for the ball to come. The fielders were well spread out anticipating some heavy swings. Bret turned to the D-G. He’d already made it clear that in his opinion Fiona Samson’s husband would have to be told everything: that she was a double agent and was being briefed to go over there. ‘I will see her later today,’ Bret said. He’d hoped to get the D-G’s okay and then he would brief Bernard Samson too. By tonight it would all have been done.
‘What are you doing with her at present?’ the D-G asked.
Bret walked away a couple of paces and then turned. From that characteristic movement the D-G knew that unless he nipped it in the bud he was going to get one of Bret’s renowned lectures. He settled back in his chair and waited for an opportunity to interrupt. Bret had no one else he could explain things to. The D-G knew that providing Bret with a sounding board at frequent intervals was something he could not delegate. ‘If we are going to place her in the sort of role where she will pull off the sort of coup we’re both hoping for, we can’t just leave things to chance.’
‘Bravo!’ said the D-G, reacting to a stroke that sent the ball to the far boundary. He turned to Bret and smiled. ‘We haven’t got too much time, Bret.’
‘We need ten years, Director, maybe twelve.’
‘Is that your considered opinion?’
Bret looked at the old man. They both knew what he was thinking. He wanted Fiona Samson in place before he came up for retirement. Forget the modest, self-effacing manner that was his modus operandi, he wanted glory. ‘It is, Sir Henry.’
‘I was hoping for something earlier than that.’
‘Sir Henry, Fiona Samson is nothing more than an agent in place as far as Moscow is concerned. She has never done anything. She has never delivered.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘She should be posted to Berlin. I want them to have a closer look at her.’
‘That would speed things up. They would start thinking of getting her over there quickly.’
‘No, they want her in London where the big stuff is hidden.’ Bret got out his handkerchief and self-consciously blew his nose, making as little noise as possible. ‘Forgive me, Sir Henry. I think the newly cut grass…’
‘Then why Berlin?’
‘She will have to do something for them.’
The D-G looked at him and pulled a face. He didn’t like these stunts which required that the KGB were given things. They were always given good things, convincing things, and that meant things that the Department should keep to itself. ‘What?’
‘I haven’t got as far as that, Director, but we’ll have to do it, and do it before the end of the year.’
‘Would you acquaint me with a little of your thinking? Wait one moment, this fellow is their fast bowler.’
Bret waited. It was a hot day: the grass was bright green and the boys in their cricket clothes made it the sort of English spectacle that under other circumstances Bret might have relished. The ball came very fast but bounced and went wide. Bret said, ‘Mrs Samson goes to Berlin. During her time there she gives them something substantial…’ Bret paused while the D-G winced at the thought, ‘…so that we have a big inquiry from which she emerges safe. Preferably with their help.’
‘You mean they arrange that one of their agents takes the blame?’
‘Well, yes. That, of course, would be ideal,’ said Bret.
The D-G was still watching the match. ‘I like it,’ he said without turning round.
Bret smiled grimly. It was an uphill struggle, but that was something of an accolade coming from Sir Henry Clevemore, although it could of course have been prompted by some cricketing accomplishment that Bret had failed to understand. He said, ‘Mrs Samson comes back here to London and they tell her to keep st
ill and quiet.’
‘That’s one year,’ the D-G reminded him.
Bret said, ‘Look, sir. We can deliver Mrs Samson to them right away, of course we can. She’s like a box of nuts and bolts: an all-purpose agent they can use anywhere. But that’s not good enough.’
‘No,’ said the D-G, watching the cricketers and wondering what was coming.
‘We must take this woman and clear her mind of everything she knows.’
‘Classified material?’
‘I’m already making sure she sees nothing that would affect the Department.’
‘How did she take that?’
‘We have to make our plans as if she will be interrogated…interrogated in the cellars at Normannenstrasse.’ In the silence that followed a big fly buzzed angrily against the window glass.
‘It’s a nasty thought.’
‘The stakes are high, Sir Henry. But we’re playing to win.’ He looked around the hut. It was insufferably hot and the air was perfumed with linseed oil and weed-killers for the lawn. Bret opened the door to let a little air in.
The D-G looked at Bret and said, ‘A good thunderstorm would clear the air,’ as if this was something he could arrange. Then he added, ‘You’re making me wonder whether a woman is right after all.’
‘It’s too late to change the plan now.’
‘Surely not?’ Even the D-G was feeling the heat. He mopped his brow with a red silk handkerchief that had been protruding from his top pocket.
‘Mrs Samson knows what we intend. If we change to another agent our plan is known to her. I have shown her the figures and the graphs. She knows that the skilled and professional labour force is our target. She knows that we want to bleed their essential people and she knows the sort of opposition groups we intend to support over there.’
