by Len Deighton
Had she been perfectly fit, things would have been entirely endurable. But Berlin had got to her. For Bernard it was a second home and he loved it but for Fiona it was a city of bad dreams. She had come to the conclusion that her bouts of depression and the nightmares from which she so often awoke sweating and trembling were not solely brought on by loneliness, or even by the guilt she felt at having abandoned her husband and children. Berlin was the villain. Berlin was eating her heart away so that she would not ever recover. It was nonsense of course, but she was becoming unbalanced and she was aware of it.
In the privacy of her Frankfurter Allee apartment, when she was not slaving over work or trying to improve her German and her Russian, she did sometimes find time to reflect upon the reasons why she found herself in this desperate situation. She dismissed the narrative analysis, the sort of reasoning beloved of psychologists and novelists, that would undoubtedly draw a straight cause-and-effect line through her authoritarian father, the boarding school, her secret government work and its apotheosis in this assumption of another life. It hadn’t happened like that. The ability to play out this role was something she’d worked hard to perfect: that part of her illness wasn’t a manifestation of some flaw in her personality.
She’d liberated herself from being that little girl who’d gone to boarding school shivering with apprehension, not by marching or shouting slogans but by stealth. That was why the transformation was so complete. She had actually become another person! Although she would never admit it to a living soul, she had even given a name to this tough employee who came to work in the Karl Liebknecht Strasse every day, and slaved hard for the German socialist state: the person was Stefan Mittelberg – a name she’d compiled when perusing a directory – a man’s name of course, for in the office she had to be a man. ‘Come along, Stefan,’ she’d tell herself each morning, ‘it’s time to get out of bed.’ And when she was brushing her hair in front of the mirror, as she always did at the start of each day, she would see hard-eyed Stefan looking back at her. Was ‘Stefan’ a manifestation of emotional change? Of hardening? Of liberation? Or was ‘Stefan’ the one who’d had the spontaneous love affair with Harry Kennedy? How else would one explain an act so totally out of character? Well, ‘Stefan’ was a success story; the trouble was, she loathed ‘Stefan’. No matter, perhaps in time she would learn to love this new tougher self.
In the office she concentrated upon becoming the perfect apparatchik, the sort of boss that a man such as Renn would want to work for. But she was a foreigner and she was a woman, and sometimes she needed help and advice when dealing with the devious intrigues of the office.
‘How long will the new man be working here?’ Fiona asked Renn one day when they were tidying away boxes of papers and celebrating a completely clear desk.
Renn looked at her, amazed that she could be so innocent and ill-informed. Especially since Fiona’s Russian award had now come through. She’d been given it at a little ceremony in the hall at Normannenstrasse. Renn had enjoyed a share of the glory. ‘New man?’ he said. He never rushed into such conversations.
‘The young one…yellow wavy hair…’ She paused. ‘What have I said?’
Renn found her ignorance both appalling and endearing. Everyone else in the building had learned how to recognize an officer of the political security service in Moscow. ‘Lieutenant Bakushin, do you mean?’ he asked her.
‘Yes. What is he here for?’
‘He was one of the executive officers on the Moskvin inquiry.’
‘Moskvin inquiry? Pavel Moskvin?’
‘But yes. It was held in Moscow last week.’
‘Inquiry into what?’
‘Conduct.’
‘Conduct?’
‘That is the usual style. Such inquiries are secret, of course.’
‘And is the verdict announced or is that secret too?’
‘Lieutenant Bakushin is collecting further evidence. He will probably want to talk to you, Frau Direktor.’
‘But Moskvin has just been promoted to Colonel,’ said Fiona. She still didn’t understand what Renn was trying to tell her.
‘That was simply to make it easier for him to give instructions to the Embassy people while he is in London. Here rank does not count for as much as it does in the West. It is a man’s appointment that decides his authority.’
‘And Lieutenant Bakushin’s appointment is a high one?’
‘Lieutenant Bakushin could arrest and imprison anyone in the building, without reference to Moscow,’ said Renn simply. It made Fiona’s blood run cold.
‘Have you any idea what Colonel Moskvin was accused of?’
‘Serious crimes,’ said Renn.
‘What sort of crimes are serious crimes?’
‘The charges against Colonel Moskvin are something it is better we did not discuss.’
‘I heard that the Colonel has many influential enemies in Moscow,’ said Fiona.
Renn stood still. For a moment Fiona thought he would murmur some excuse and leave the office – he’d done that before when she had persisted with questions he would not answer – but he didn’t do that. Renn went round the desk and stood by her side. ‘Major Erich Stinnes is in London leading the English secret service by the nose and creating the sort of havoc I could not even guess at; Colonel Moskvin is also in England supporting the operation. Moscow was very unhappy at the death of the Englishman in the house in Bosham: Colonel Moskvin overstepped his authority. It is because he is unavailable that the inquiry has been staged at this time. The problem the Colonel faces is that if the London operation goes well, Major Stinnes will get the credit for his courage, skill and ingenuity. If anything goes wrong Colonel Moskvin’s support will be blamed.’ Renn looked at her then hurried on, ‘And so meanwhile you are left the most powerful officer in the section.’ Renn looked at her; she still hadn’t fully understood, so he went on. ‘Lieutenant Bakushin sees that. He will take evidence from you on the understanding that you see it too.’
‘You mean Bakushin will expect me to give evidence that will help to convict Colonel Moskvin of whatever it is he’s accused of so that I take command?’
‘Frau Direktor, wild rumours are going round. Some say Colonel Moskvin has been a long-term agent for the British. Mrs Keller is also accused: perhaps you remember her from my birthday party. She fled to the West with her son, using what are believed to be forged United Kingdom passports.’ Renn smiled to relieve the tension he felt. ‘I am confident that the Moscow inquiry will find Colonel Moskvin innocent; he has friends and relatives highly placed in Moscow. I know how the system works. The Lieutenant is simply collecting evidence for the inquiry. It will be expedient to show caution when you talk with him.’
Fiona took a deep breath. ‘Have you ever read Alice in Wonderland, Herr Renn?’
‘It’s an English book? No, I think I have not read it.’ He dismissed discussion of the book politely but hurriedly. ‘But Frau Direktor, this means you must decide about the meeting in Holland. There is no one else who can sign the orders. With both Colonel Moskvin and Major Stinnes unavailable we need someone senior with fluent English. I hope it won’t mean getting someone from another unit.’
‘Not if we can avoid it,’ said Fiona. ‘But surely, Herr Renn, you understand my hesitation.’
‘You will go?’ said Renn.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Fiona. She wanted to go; a trip to the West – just to breathe the air for twenty-four hours – would give her a new lease of life.
‘If it’s the risk of arrest, I can arrange for you to travel on diplomatic papers.’
‘No.’
‘Who else is there?’
She looked at him. She’d thought about it and been tempted, but now that Renn asked the direct question she had no answer ready. ‘I would have to clear it with Normannenstrasse. They would have to know.’
Renn picked up a plastic box of floppy disks that was on Fiona’s desk waiting for the messenger and toyed with it. ‘I r
eally would advise against that, Frau Direktor,’ said Renn, his eyes averted and his face red with the embarrassment of such direct rebellion.
‘Checking with them,’ explained Fiona. ‘Technically we all come under their orders.’
‘Frau Direktor, to seek instruction from Normannenstrasse, and on a matter which is entirely operational, would be creating a very important precedent. A dangerous precedent.’ He shook the box of floppy disks: it rattled. ‘Whatever happens in the career of Colonel Moskvin and Major Stinnes this department will I hope continue to function in the way it has done for twelve years or more. But if you ask Normannenstrasse to give you permission for something as normal as the trip to Holland, you’ll be virtually putting us under their authority. What would happen in the future? No one here will enjoy anything like independence in any of the work we do. We might as well talk of closing the unit down and going to work in Normannenstrasse.’
She took the box of disks from his fingers and put it back on her desk. Then she looked down at her notepad as if returning to her work. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that, Herr Renn. You’ve already told me how much you hate that mad scramble for the Magdalenenstrasse U-Bahn.’
Hubert Renn stiffened and his lips were compressed. By now Fiona should have learned that the sort of joshing that is a normal part of the conversational exchanges in British or American offices did not go down well in Germany. ‘But, Frau Direktor…’
‘Just a joke, a silly joke,’ said Fiona. ‘I will of course do exactly as you advise, Herr Renn.’
‘I’ll prepare your papers?’
‘Yes, I’ll go.’ She watched him as he collected together the work he’d done. Hubert Renn was, despite his protestations to the contrary, a complex personality. She’d not yet got over the way in which he was able to reconcile his anti-Russian prejudices with his uncritical dedication to Marx and all his works.
Was Renn’s advice – to assume authority beyond what was really hers and use it to make the journey abroad – the bait in some new and nasty trap that her enemies were setting for her? She thought not but she couldn’t be sure. Careful, Stefan! No one could be quite sure of anything over here. That was the most important thing she’d learned.
She stood up. ‘And there remains the matter of the doctor at the Charité Hospital?’
‘Yes, Frau Direktor. These things always take a long time. There is a note on your desk.’
‘The note says only that it was all in order.’
Renn came to her side and said, ‘Yes, good news, Frau Direktor. Herr Doktor Kennedy is completely clear. Even more than clear: a fellow-traveller. We have used him for some minor tasks in London. He would probably have been used for more important work, except that he’d joined the party when he was a medical student.’
Fiona felt ill. She sat down in her chair again. For a moment she couldn’t get her breath. Then she was able to mutter, ‘The Communist Party?’ Thank God she’d never confided in Kennedy; more than once she’d felt like doing so. He seemed such a dedicated capitalist with his airplane sales and deliveries, but that of course would be a good cover and, as she knew from her day-to-day work, the KGB financed thousands of such businesses to provide cover for agents.
‘Yes. What a shame that no one saw his potential and warned him from doing that. Party members cannot, of course, be used for important tasks.’
‘Any dates?’
‘Nothing since July 1978. Mind you, we have both seen recently how slack the clerks can be when filing the amendments.’
Her head began to throb and she felt sick. ‘What did he do for us?’
‘Details of that sort are not entered on our files. London Residency would have filed that directly to Moscow. I would guess it to have been surveillance or providing accommodation or arranging references: that’s the sort of job such men are used for.’
So that was it: July 1978, a month before the ‘accidental’ meeting on Waterloo Station. She’d warned Martin off and so Moscow had simply found another way to monitor her. Yes, that would be time enough for Harry to be briefed and prepared. So Harry Kennedy had been assigned by Moscow to check up on her. Was that to be his role in Berlin too? ‘Nothing since 1978?’
‘Shall I ask Moscow if he is still under instructions?’
‘No, Herr Renn, I don’t think that would be wise.’
He looked at her and saw that she was not feeling well. ‘Whatever you say, Frau Direktor.’ He picked up some papers and tactfully left the room.
She swallowed three aspirin tablets: she had packets of them everywhere but they seldom did more than reduce the intensity of the pain. She held her hands over her eyes. By concentrating her mind upon old memories she could sometimes get over these attacks by willpower alone. Pictures of her husband and children flickered in the mind’s eye, as blurred and jerky as old film clips. For a long time she sat very still, as someone might recompose themself after stepping out of a wrecked car unscratched.
21
Berlin. March 1984.
The Director-General – restless and demanding – was on one of his unofficial flying visits to Berlin. Frank Harrington, Berlin supremo, cursed at having his daily schedule turned upside-down at short notice, but the old man was like that. He’d always been like that and lately he was getting worse. Not only did he have sudden inconvenient inspirations that everyone was expected to adapt to without question, but Sir Henry was a terrible time-waster. Ensconced in the most comfortable armchair, with a glass of vintage Hine in his hand, Sir Henry Clevemore would talk and talk, periodically interjecting that he must depart as if he was being detained against his will.
That’s how it had been that afternoon. The message from the D-G’s office had requested ‘a German lunch’. Tarrant, the old valet who had been with Frank longer than anyone could remember, arranged everything. They ate in the dining room of the lovely old Grunewald mansion that came with the job of Berlin resident. Frank’s cook did a Hasenpfeffer that had become renowned over the years, and the maid wore her best starched apron and even a lace hat. The old silver cutlery was polished and out came the antique Meissen china; the table had looked quite extraordinary. The D-G had remarked on it in Tarrant’s hearing: Tarrant had permitted himself a smug little grin.
After lunch the two men had gone into the drawing room for coffee. That was hours ago, and still the D-G showed no signs of departing. Frank wished he’d asked about the return flight, but to do so now would seem impolite. So he nodded at the old man and listened and desperately wanted to light up his pipe. The old man hated pipe tobacco –particularly the brand which Frank smoked – and Frank knew it was out of the question.
‘Well, I must be going,’ said the D-G, as he’d said it so many times that afternoon, but this time he actually showed signs of moving. Thank goodness, thought Frank. If he could get rid of the old man by seven he’d still be in time for an evening of bridge with his army chums. ‘Yes,’ said the D-G, looking at his watch, ‘I really must be getting along.’
There was a chap Frank Harrington had known at Eton who went on to be a doctor with a practice serving a prosperous part of agricultural Yorkshire. He said that he’d grown used to the way in which a patient coming to him with a problem would spend half an hour chatting about everything under the sun, get up to go and then, while actually standing at the door saying goodbye, tell him in a very casual aside what was really worrying him. So it was with the Director-General. He’d been sitting there exchanging pleasantries with Frank all the afternoon when he picked up his glass, swirled the last mouthful round to make a whirlpool and finished it in a gulp. Then he put the glass down, got to his feet and said once again that he would have to be going. Only then did he say, ‘Have you seen Bret Rensselaer lately?’
Frank nodded. ‘Last week. Bret asked my advice about the report on the shooting in Hampstead.’ Frank got to his feet and made a not very emphatic gesture with the brandy bottle but the old man waved it away.
‘May I ask what you advised?�
��
‘I told him not to make a report, not in writing anyway. I told him to go through it with you and then file a memorandum to record that he’d done so.’
‘What did Bret say?’
Frank went across the room to put the bottle away. He remained slim and athletic in appearance. In his Bedford cord suit he could easily have been mistaken for an officer of the Berlin garrison, in his mid-forties. It was difficult to believe that Frank and the D-G had trained together and that Frank was coming up to retirement. ‘I remember exactly. He said, “You mean cover my arse?”’
‘And is that what you meant?’
Frank stopped where he was, in the middle of the Persian rug, and chose his words carefully. ‘I knew you would file a written version of his verbal report to you.’
‘Did you?’ A slight lift on the second word.
‘If that was an appropriate action,’ said Frank.
The D-G nodded soberly. ‘Bret was nearly killed. Two Soviets were shot by Bernard Samson.’
‘So Bret told me. It was lucky that our people were well away before the police arrived.’
‘We’re not out of the woods yet, Frank,’ said the D-G.
Frank wondered whether he was expected to pursue it further but decided that the D-G would tell him in his own time. Frank said, ‘From what I hear in Berlin, a KGB heavy named Moskvin was behind it. The same ruffian who killed the young fellow in the Bosham safe house.’
‘Research and Briefing take the same line, so it looks that way.’ The D-G turned and came back to where he’d been sitting. Looking at Frank he said, ‘There will have to be an inquiry.’
‘Into Bret’s future?’
