by Len Deighton
‘Good,’ said Moskvin.
‘Remarkable,’ said Stinnes. The black girl clapped her hands very softly. Miranda still couldn’t decide whether the girl was hostile to all of them or only to Moskvin.
‘But will you be able to do it without the recording to prompt you?’ said Moskvin.
‘I’d need to see her again.’
‘That will be arranged, and we’ll have lots and lots of recordings for you.’
‘The recordings are a help but I must see her speak too. I have to watch her mouth. So much depends upon the tongue if I am to make conversation. And I need to hear more of her vocabulary.’
‘You will be told exactly what to say. There is no need for you to be sidetracked into any conversation other than the words we want spoken. It’s simply a matter of making the voice sound natural, and imitating it accurately.’
‘Good,’ said Miranda.
‘The element of surprise will be on your side,’ said Moskvin. ‘You will have spoken to the husband and to the sister before they recover from their amazement.’
‘The phone is easy but…’
‘I have solved the other problem,’ said Moskvin. ‘Her husband will be in a car, the driver’s seat, and he’ll be prevented from turning around. That will be Harmony’s job and she’s an expert, aren’t you, Harmony?’
‘You bet your ass I am, boss,’ said Harmony, in a tone of self-mockery that Moskvin seemed not to register.
Still looking at Miranda, Moskvin said, ‘You’ll get into the back seat. You’ll be close but he won’t see you.’
‘Good. I’ll use the Arpège perfume she likes. He’ll recognize the scent of it.’
‘He’ll smell you but he won’t see you,’ said Moskvin.
‘I could never make myself look like her,’ said Miranda. ‘Just one glimpse of me and he’d…’
‘I have thought of that too,’ said Moskvin. ‘No need to make you look anything like her. On the contrary we’ll give you a black wig, dark glasses and heavy make-up. They will not be surprised that she would disguise herself to visit England. For them it will make better sense that way.’
‘That’s a load off my mind. I could never pass myself off as her. She’s very beautiful.’ She looked at the two Russians. ‘In fact I like her.’
‘We all do,’ said Stinnes. ‘We are doing this to help her.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Miranda doubtfully.
‘But she mustn’t know,’ added Stinnes.
‘Under no circumstance must she guess,’ said Moskvin, and he slammed his hand down on the table. ‘Or you’ll wish you’d never been born.’
‘Okay,’ said Miranda more calmly than she felt. She hated to admit it but Moskvin did frighten her, and she was not a person easy to frighten.
‘She gets the message,’ said Harmony. ‘Can I eat my apple now, boss man?’
15
Bosham, Sussex, England. October 1983.
Few actions within the law can provide more joy than the dispassionate evaluation of a colleague’s failure. And so it happened that the field operation that Pavel Moskvin planned against London Central became celebrated in speech and writing, and perhaps in song too, for long after Moskvin was dead and buried.
Some blamed the failure entirely upon Moskvin. He was a desk man, without the practical experience that service in the field provides (it was field agents in particular who inclined to this view). Moskvin was, undeniably, a bully; he was always in a hurry and he failed to understand the English. But then, many of his peers were bullies, very few of them were not in a hurry and even in England it was difficult to find anyone who claimed to understand the English.
A more convincing explanation of the fiasco came from less passionate observers, who located the flaw in the duality of the leadership: Pavel Moskvin, a career KGB officer too dependent upon his influence in Moscow, in partnership with Erich Stinnes, experienced field agent who, although senior to Moskvin, had no reason to expect benefit from the operation’s success.
Others looked at the two women in the team: the black Jamaican woman who had never responded to KGB discipline in all the years of her service, and the Englishwoman who had been bullied into a vital part in the operation simply because she could imitate voices. Some said the women were truculent, others that their English mother-tongue bonded the two of them and created a potential rebellion. Others, all of them men, believed that no women were suited to such jobs.
‘First prize for booboos, shit-face,’ said Harmony Jones to Moskvin. They were in a small cottage in Bosham, near the south coast of England, where Moskvin was laying his trap for Bernard Samson. ‘London to Berlin, then back to London again. This is the dumbest operation I was ever on, honey.’
Moskvin was not used to such defiance. He controlled his terrible anger and said, ‘It is all part of the plan.’
Erich Stinnes looked up from his guidebook: Chichester and the South Downs. He watched them dispassionately. It was not his operation, and even if the British caught him he’d already put out feelers to them about defection. He’d told Moscow that the first approaches came from the other side and got permission to continue his contacts, so he would survive come what may.
Pavel Moskvin had reasoned along lines of equal infallibility. This operation was going to make his name, so it had to be dramatic. He was going to entice Bernard Samson into a trap, interrogate him to the point of death and then leave his mutilated body in an SIS safe house in England! If Samson’s interrogation revealed something to question or destroy the reputation of his new superior, Fiona Samson, so much the better. Even the safe house had been chosen because Fiona Samson had revealed its existence during one of her initial debriefing sessions. Should the location prove compromised it would be Fiona Samson’s treachery, not his failure.
Miranda looked at her three colleagues and shivered. She had never expected it to be like this. Miranda had played her part exactly as briefed.
Miranda had been standing on a grass verge, on a section of road near Terminal 3 at London Airport, when she saw Bernard Samson driving a car with Harmony sitting in the seat next to him. The car stopped very near her and then she had climbed into the back seat and mimicked the voice of Fiona Samson.
There had been a moment, when she got into the car behind this man Bernard Samson, when she thought she was going to faint. But it was just like being on the stage: at that final moment her professionalism took over and it all went smoothly.
‘It’s me, darling. I hope I didn’t terrify you.’ That sweet and careful upper-class voice with just a hint of taunting in it.
‘Fiona, are you mad?’ said Samson. He didn’t look round and in any case the driving mirror had been twisted away from him. It went just as Harmony said it would. Bernard Samson, Harmony told her, was a professional; pros don’t do and die, they reason why.
Samson was convinced. It was the most successful performance of Miranda’s career: what a pity that there were only two people in the audience. But an allowance had to be made for the fact that fifty per cent of the audience was startled out of his senses and being threatened by a very nasty-looking hypodermic syringe held close against his thigh.
Miranda continued, ‘To come here? There is no warrant for my arrest. I have changed my appearance and my name…no, don’t look round. I don’t want you unconscious.’ She had rehearsed every syllable of it so many times that it was automatic. The poor devil was completely fooled. Miranda felt sorry for him. Of course he would try to follow Harmony afterwards, what husband wouldn’t?
When Miranda returned to this fisherman’s cottage, from her performace at London Heathrow, Moskvin had given no word of appreciation. Miranda hated him.
‘Suppose Bernard Samson doesn’t track Harmony’s movements?’ said Miranda. ‘Suppose he doesn’t come? Suppose he tells the police?’
‘He’ll come,’ said Moskvin. ‘He doesn’t get paid to send for the police; it’s his job to find people. He’ll trace Harmony’s movemen
ts. He’ll think his wife is here and he’ll come.’
‘Then what?’ said Miranda. She was still wearing the expensive wig and make-up that Moskvin had chosen for her. She hoped to keep the wig.
Harmony smiled sourly. She had been the one who had laid the trail for Samson, asking the way three times before buying the tickets, doing the stupid things that mere common sense would have avoided. Moskvin’s final obvious vulgarity had been to choose a beautiful black girl just in case anyone should miss her. What kind of jerk wouldn’t be suspicious following that brass band parade to get here? And her brief confrontation with Bernard Samson gave her reason to suspect that he wasn’t a jerk. She didn’t want to be here when he arrived.
‘Who cares?’ said Harmony. ‘Us girls are getting out of here. Miranda baby! Go upstairs and scrub that damned make-up off your face, and then we’ll scram. A day in Rome is what we both need after three long days with this fat fart.’ She got to her feet.
‘Give me thirty minutes,’ said Miranda.
Moskvin was annoyed at the way that Harmony Jones had sweet-talked him into routeing the two women through Rome. She’d given him persuasive operational reasons at the time but now it was clear that she just wanted to enjoy a sidetrip.
‘I might need you,’ said Moskvin, but his former ability to terrify the two women had gone, largely due to the insolence with which the black woman treated every order he gave her.
‘What you need, boss man…’ she began but then decided not to provoke him further. She took Miranda’s make-up box and went to the stairs. Miranda followed.
‘And don’t call me shit-face,’ said Moskvin solemnly as the two women went through the low door that led to the stairs.
Harmony made an obscene gesture but did it out of Moskvin’s sight. As they went upstairs Miranda began to giggle
It was a wonderful old house: the crude staircase, confined between white painted plank walls, echoed with the footsteps of the two women. At the top, the narrow latched door had a corner lopped off to accommodate the pitch of the roof. Its essential Englishness produced in Miranda a sudden but not entirely unexpected yearning to live in England again.
As the sound of the footsteps overhead revealed the movements of the women, Erich Stinnes looked up from his guidebook. ‘Did you know that Bosham village is depicted on the Bayeux Tapestry?’ he asked. ‘This is where King Canute ordered the incoming tide to go back.’
Moskvin knew that Stinnes was only trying to provoke him into a fit of anger, so he didn’t reply. He got up and went to the window. Bosham is on a tiny peninsula between two tidal creeks. From here he could see the water and the boats: motor boats and sailing boats of all shapes and sizes. When Samson was dead and finished with, they would leave by boat. Stinnes was a skilful yachtsman. Under cover of darkness they would slip away as if they had never been here. The perfect conclusion to a perfect operation.
‘I wouldn’t stand too near the window,’ said Stinnes helpfully. ‘It’s an elementary principle on this sort of operation.’
Moskvin moved away. Stinnes was right of course: he hated Stinnes.
‘The back-up team should be here by now.’
Stinnes looked at him and displayed surprise. ‘They arrived half an hour ago.’
‘Then where are they?’
‘You didn’t expect them to come and knock on the door, did you? They have a mattress: they’ll sleep in the van until they’re needed. It’s parked near the pub.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I arranged it, didn’t I? Why do you think I’ve been visiting the bathroom: did you think I had diarrhoea? From upstairs you can see the pub car park.’
‘Do you have a gun?’
Stinnes shook his head.
‘I brought a gun,’ said Moskvin. He put it on the table. It was a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum, a truly enormous pistol that Moskvin had gone to great trouble to have waiting here for him.
Stinnes looked at the colossal pistol and at Moskvin. ‘That should be enough gun for both of us,’ said Stinnes.
‘Then there is nothing to do but wait,’ said Moskvin.
Stinnes put a marker into a page of his guidebook and closed it. ‘Remember, this place – Bosham – is where King Canute ordered the tide to go back.’
‘What happened?’ said Moskvin, who had never heard of King Canute.
‘The tide kept coming in.’ Stinnes picked up his shoulder bag and said, ‘I’ll be in the way here. I’d better go down and check that the boat is gassed up and ready to sail. You know the phone number.’
‘Yes, I know it,’ said Moskvin. He’d been counting on help from Stinnes but he was determined not to ask for it.
Upstairs Miranda was wiping the make-up off her face, using lots of cold cream and peering closely at herself in the mirror.
Harmony, who was packing her case, said, ‘That bastard. I cleared everything out of the car, just the way I’ve been trained to do, and he yells at me for being late. Most of the trash belonged to Moskvin anyway. He’s an untidy swine.’ She produced a clear plastic sandwich bag into which she had carefully put everything from the rented car. There were two maps of southern England, bits of scrap paper, a broken ballpoint pen, an old lipstick, three pennies and a watch crystal. ‘Any of this junk yours, honey?’ she asked Miranda.
‘No,’ said Miranda.
‘These rental companies never clean out the cars right: a quick wipe of the ashtray and that’s it.’ She emptied the contents of the bag, to use it for her make-up.
‘I’m almost ready,’ said Miranda. ‘I think I’ll have a day or two in England. I’ll join you in Rome the day after tomorrow. Would that be all right?’
‘Suit yourself, baby,’ said Harmony Jones. ‘I have a lot of catching up to do in Rome.’
Stinnes slept on the boat that night. There were three double cabins and he made himself comfortable in one of them. He had the generator going and stayed up late reading: The White Company. He was a dedicated Sherlock Holmes fan and was persevering with his favourite author’s excursion into medievalism. The weather was good and Stinnes enjoyed the sounds and motion of the anchored boat and the smells of the wet timber and the salt water.
It was five o’clock the next morning when Moskvin called him on the phone. ‘Come immediately,’ said Moskvin, and Stinnes hurried out into the brittle pinkness of early morning and reached the cottage within eight minutes.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Stinnes.
‘He’s here,’ said Moskvin. ‘Bernard Samson arrived about midnight. The back-up team in the van spotted him. We brought him inside as easily as anything.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Upstairs. Don’t worry, he’s tied up. I let the back-up team go. Maybe that was a mistake.’
‘What do you want me for?’ asked Stinnes.
‘I’m not getting anywhere with my questions,’ admitted Moskvin. ‘I think it’s time he faced another interrogator.’
‘What have you asked him?’
Moskvin smashed his fist against his open hand in frustration. ‘I know that Samson woman is a British spy. I know it and I’ll squeeze it out of her husband if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘Oh, so that’s the line of questioning,’ said Stinnes. To him it seemed the stupid obsession of a man who had repeatedly told him how much he objected to taking orders from any woman.
There was no way that Moskvin could miss the ridicule in his colleague’s voice, but he’d become used to the superior attitude that Stinnes always showed towards him. ‘Go up and talk to him. Play mister nice guy.’
When Stinnes went upstairs, Moskvin followed him. Moskvin was not able to sit still downstairs and wait for results: he had to see what was happening. He stood in the doorway behind Stinnes.
The front upstairs room was very small and much of the space was taken up by a small bed. It was pushed against the wall and there were cushions on it so it could be used as a sofa. In the corner there was a dressing tab
le with a large mirror in which the captive was reflected.
‘I’m going to undo this gag and I want you to…’ Stinnes started and then stopped abruptly. He looked round at Moskvin and back to the captive. ‘This is not Bernard Samson,’ he told Moskvin.
The man tied to the chair was named Julian MacKenzie. He was a probationer who worked for the Department. Bernard Samson had told him to trace the movements of the black girl. He’d done so all too efficiently. MacKenzie was fully conscious and his eyes showed his fear as Moskvin waved the pistol in the air.
‘What do you mean?’ said Moskvin angrily. He grabbed Stinnes’s arm in his huge hand and dragged him back into the narrow corridor. Then he closed the door. It was dark. The only glimmer of light was that escaping from the room downstairs.
‘I mean it’s not Bernard Samson,’ said Stinnes quietly.
‘Who is it?’ said Moskvin, shaking him roughly.
‘How the hell would I know who it is?’
‘Are you positive?’
‘Of course I am. Samson is about fifteen years older than this kid. I’ve seen Samson close-to. I know him well. Of course I’m positive.’
‘Wait downstairs. I’ll find out who this one is.’
As Stinnes went downstairs he heard Moskvin shouting and there were replies from the young man that were too quiet to hear properly. Stinnes sat down in the armchair and took The White Company from his pocket but found he just kept reading the same paragraph over and over. Suddenly there was the loud bang of the .44 Magnum. A scream. More shots. Stinnes leapt to his feet, worried that the noise would wake up the whole neighbourhood. His first instinct was simply to clear out, but he was enough of a professional to wait for the other man.
Moskvin came down the stairs so slowly that Stinnes was beginning to wonder if he’d shot himself or been injured by a ricochet. Then Moskvin lurched into the room. His face was absolutely white, even his lips were bloodless. He dumped his pistol on the dresser and put out a hand to steady himself on the edge of the kitchen table. Then he leaned over and vomited into the sink.
