Billion-Dollar Brain

by Len Deighton

  Billion-Dollar Brain

  Len Deighton

  Secret File No. 4

  Spring is a virgin, summer a mother, autumn a widow, winter a stepmother.

  RUSSIAN PROVERB

  Two mythical countries (Kalevala and Pohjola) fight a perpetual war. They both want a magic mill that grinds endless salt, corn and money. The most important figure in this conflict is an old man named Vainamoinen. He is a wizard and a wise man. He is also a musician and plays tunes upon the bones of a pike. Vainamoinen woos a lovely young girl, Aino, but she drowns herself rather than marry an old man.

  KALEVALA (a Finnish folk epic)

  Mr Paul Getty…is quoted as having said that a billion dollars is not worth what it used to be.

  NUBAR GULBENKIAN

  By Len Deighton

  FICTION

  The Ipcress File

  Horse Under Water

  Funeral in Berlin

  Billion-Dollar Brain

  An Expensive Place to Die

  Only When I Larf

  Bomber

  Declarations of War

  Close-Up

  Spy Story

  Yesterday’s Spy

  Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Spy

  SS-GB

  XPD

  Goodbye Mickey Mouse

  MAMista

  City of Gold

  Violent Ward

  THE SAMSON SERIES

  Berlin Game

  Mexico Set

  London Match

  Winter: A Berlin Family 1899-1945

  Spy Hook

  Spy Line

  Spy Sinker

  Faith

  Hope

  Charity

  NON-FICTION

  Action Cook Book

  Fighter: The True Story of the Battle of Britain

  Airshipwreck

  Basic French Cooking

  Blitzkrieg: From the Rise of Hitler to the Fall of Dunkirk

  ABC of French Food

  Blood, Tears and Folly

  Cover designer’s note

  The great challenge I faced when asked to produce the jackets for new editions of Len Deighton’s books was the existence of the brilliant designs conceived by Ray Hawkey for the original editions.

  However, having arrived at a concept, part of the joy I derived in approaching this challenge was the quest to locate the various props which the author had so beautifully detailed in his texts. Deighton has likened a spy story to a game of chess, which led me to transpose the pieces on a chessboard with some of the relevant objects specified in each book. I carried this notion throughout the entire quartet of books.

  Since smoking was so much part of our culture during the Cold War era, I also set about gathering tobacco-related paraphernalia. KGB officer Colonel Alexeyevitch Stok’s relish for caviar is only matched by his scholarly passion for the works of Robert Burns. A portrait of the poet sits beside a pack of Russian cigarettes illustrated with a map of the Soviet Union. The pack provides a haven for the “Red” pawn.

  During a visit to Moscow some years ago I returned with the small but hefty bust of Lenin. The revolutionary leader’s bronze head rests on a bed of computer punch-cards and a censored secret FBI file. A luggage label testifies to the book’s protagonist’s stay at Leningrad’s Hotel Europe, and a torn 5 Mark Finnish bank note provides a conventional ploy for our agent.

  The cigarette cards on the back cover reflect the ever-present cricket match, and also the devotion to his vintage Riley motor car of George Dawlish, the public school-educated Senior British Intelligence officer and head of WOOC(P).

  I photographed the jacket set-up using natural daylight, with my Canon OS 5D digital camera.

  Arnold Schwartzman OBE RDI

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  By Len Deighton

  Cover designer’s note

  Introduction

  SECTION 1 London and Helsinki

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  SECTION 2 London

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  SECTION 3 Helsinki

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  SECTION 4 Leningrad and Riga

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  SECTION 5 New York

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  SECTION 6 San Antonio

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  SECTION 7 New York

  Chapter 20

  SECTION 8 London

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  SECTION 9 Helsinki and Leningrad

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  SECTION 10 London

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Appendix One: Soviet military districts

  Appendix Two: Soviet Intelligence

  Appendix Three: Privately owned intelligence units

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  ‘Very few people go there. Even reporters who live there are restricted to the places they permit them to visit,’ said the lady in the travel agency. ‘And the organized bustours are for sympathetic trade union people and party members. There would be lots of food and wine but you wouldn’t get to see anything much. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘There is another way but we have never tried it. You have to pay for an interpreter who is with you all the time.’

  ‘Could I go where I liked?’

  ‘That’s what the Russians say. But your interpreter will be some kind of secret police stooge and it will be very expensive.’

  ‘I’ll try it.’

  The lady in the travel agency was right about very few Westerners going to the Baltic States. And in the frozen depth of winter visitors were non-existent. But once there the frustrations, delays and stupidity that I had suffered in getting permission to go to Latvia proved worthwhile. This satellite of the Soviet Union, deep behind the iron curtain, and in a region the Russians considered strategically vital, was astonishing. The wartime England in which I’d grown up was a dismal and deprived place but visiting Riga at that time was like a giant step back in time. The people in wartime England had never lost their underlying optimism that one day the war would be won, and good times restored. But the city of Riga was a quite different environment; a large prison camp with an occupying Russian army arresting anyone who smiled.

  My interpreter never smiled. Like ‘sinister KGB agent’ sent from Central Casting, she was a tall, middle-aged woman with the pale complexion that permanent winter confers. Her long fingers constantly fidgeted as they stroked her dark sable coat or adjusted the fit of an imposing hat of matching fur. In a country where opportunities for investment were few, valuable furs were not uncommon, but its possession still proclaimed her status. Sometimes she removed her hat to reveal hair tightly held in a bun by decorative hairpins. She puzzled about the sort of places I wanted to see as research for the book but after saving me a couple of times when I stepped out in front of speeding army trucks, and interceding when I made a rude sign to a traffic cop, she obviously decided that I was too stupid to be a spy. After a few days she went home each evening and left me to my own devices. I usually said I was going to a concert or to the opera. But an opera in Latvian is not easy to follow; trust me, I know.

  But Latvia
has its scenes and sights. Blizzards that lifted me off my feet, snow so thick it warped the landscape and cars driven far out upon the frozen sea were sights I shall never forget. I recalled the Teutonic Knights, heavy armour and flailing horses, crashing through the breaking ice in Eisenstein’s classic film, Alexander Nevsky. I could even hear Prokofiev’s music.

  My plans for this book depended upon closely linked journeys. Places change drastically with the seasons and it could prove decisive. I had discovered this long ago, when visiting battlefields. A battle that might have been won by armies hidden in the foliage of summer was lost in winter when the trees were bare. And, if you crave the respect of your readers, describing Riga, New York City or Texas at a time of year other than when you saw it is fraught with danger. So if I was to be convincing I had to move when and where my characters would. Whizzing around the globe was nothing new to me; I had been an airline steward. The only difference was that now I had to pay my fare. I made pages and pages of notes, and this story closely follows my tracks. Mario is a real person and the Trattoria Terrazza was a real restaurant. Trinity Church Square is somewhere I used to live. Nowadays I regard such detailed and truthful reporting of people and places unsuited to fiction writing. I tell people that fiction writing requires the author to create a world, not just report on it. Reporting is something for newspapers and TV. Perhaps I have become a snob.

  This was my fourth book and I needed to keep a close watch on the characters, some of whom had appeared in other books and might take part in future ones. Writing has always been hard work for me but I was beginning to enjoy the fun that made the hard work worthwhile. I am not a natural writer; I am a natural rewriter and rewriter and rewriter. I was desperately anxious to learn but I only wanted to learn how to get things the way I wanted them. If it all went wrong I could still go back to doing illustration jobs. Editors and publishers said my books were too cryptic; too fragmented and demanded too much of the reader. They all pressed me to conform to the orthodox methods of ‘popular fiction’. For instance: they were united in expecting a full description of each character at the first entrance. I resisted all this fiercely; I hadn’t followed any such rules in my previous books and I refused to be tied to them now. I reasoned that, just as one never gets to the end of discovering new aspects of old friends and relatives, so I wanted all my characters—even minor ones—to be more completely revealed as the story continued. And if that wasn’t difficult enough there is the necessity for interaction too. How did the characters see each other, and continually reappraise each other?

  I enjoyed depicting characters, places and situations through the eyes, mind and prejudices of the main character. And I enjoyed undermining him by means of authorial asides, nudges and winks to the reader. He was an overdrawn egoist, I suppose. He jumped to conclusions, derided his fellow workers, ridiculed his superiors, exaggerated his successes and edited his failures and demanded far too much of his long-suffering friends. Despite his self-restraint he sometimes lost his temper; or almost lost it. Yet he gave his loyalty as readily as he demanded it, and he was fundamentally honest and adequately truthful. Was it a self portrait? No. A wishful one perhaps? Maybe it was.

  When Conan Doyle created his Sherlock Holmes, he provided him with a Watson. I suppose this device was an old one, most story-telling devices are. But Doyle established the advantage of having a serious figure who, by means of dialogue, kept the plot on the rails and kept the reader informed. In previous books Dawlish, the boss, had been an austere icon of English middle-class probity. I had no Dawlish available for these world-wide wanderings. Harvey Newbegin, a minor character from Funeral in Berlin, my previous book, provides the second half of the double act for explanatory purposes. But few readers will hold hands with Harvey in the way that they would with Doyle’s Watson or my Dawlish. So who was there to like? The reader had only the hero. But as it turned out, I needn’t have worried. Despite his many faults the readers liked the hero, who after the films was called Harry Palmer. And Michael Caine’s brilliant depiction of him did a great deal to effect that.

  Len Deighton, 2009

  SECTION 1

  London and Helsinki

  See-saw, Margery Daw, Jacky shall have a new master.

  NURSERY RHYME

  Chapter 1

  It was the morning of my hundredth birthday. I shaved the final mirror-disc of old tired face under the merciless glare of the bathroom lighting. It was all very well telling oneself that Humphrey Bogart had that sort of face; but he also had a hairpiece, half a million dollars a year and a stand-in for the rough bits. I dabbed a soda-stick at the razor nicks. In the magnifying mirror it looked like a white rocket landing on the uncharted side of the moon.

  Outside was February and the first snow of the year. At first it was the sort of snow that a sharp PR man would make available to journalists. It sparkled and floated. It was soft yet crisp, like some new, sugar-coated breakfast cereal. Girls wore it in their hair and the Telegraph ran a picture of a statue wearing some. It was hard to reconcile this benign snow with the stuff that caused paranoia among British Railways officials. That Monday morning it was building up in crunchy wedges under the heels of shoes and falling in dry white pyramids along the front hall of the Charlotte Street office where I worked. I said ‘Good morning’ to Alice, and she said, ‘Don’t tread it in’ to me, which summed up our relationship nicely.

  The Charlotte Street building was an ancient creaking slum. The wallpaper had great boils full of loose plaster and there were small metal patches in the floor where the boards were too rotten to repair. On the first-floor landing was a painted sign that said ‘Acme Films. Cutting Rooms’, and under that a drawing of a globe that made Africa too thin. From behind the doors came the noise of a moviola and a strong smell of film cement. The next landing was painted with fresh green paint. On one door a dog-eared piece of headed notepaper said ‘B Isaacs Theatrical Tailor’, which at one time I had considered very funny. Behind me I heard Alice puffing up the stairs with a catering-size tin of Nescafé. Someone in the dispatch department put a brass-band record on the gramophone. Dawlish, my boss, was always complaining about that gramophone, but even Alice couldn’t really control the dispatch department.

  My secretary said, ‘Good morning.’ Jean was a tall girl in her middle twenties. Her face was as calm as Nembutal and with her high cheekbones and tightly drawn-back hair she was beautiful without working at it. There were times when I thought that I was in love with Jean and there were times when I thought that she was in love with me, but somehow these times never coincided.

  ‘Good party?’ I asked.

  ‘You seemed to enjoy it. When I left you were drinking a pint of bitter while standing on your head.’

  ‘You do exaggerate. Why did you go home alone?’

  ‘I have two hungry cats to support. Two thirty is definitely my bedtime.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘Truly.’

  ‘Going with you to a party is to be there alone. You plant me down, go around chatting with everyone, then wonder why I haven’t met them all.’

  ‘Tonight,’ I said, ‘we’ll go to some quiet place for dinner. Just us.’

  ‘I’m taking no chances. Tonight I’m cooking you a birthday feast at the flat. I’ll give you all your favourite things.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘To eat.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

  ‘You’d better be.’ She gave me a perfunctory kiss—‘Happy birthday’—and leaned across and put a glass of water and two Alka Seltzer tablets on my blotter.

  ‘Why not put the tablets into the water?’ I asked.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you could bear the noise.’

  She unlocked my trays and began to work steadily through the great pile of paper-work. By midday we hadn’t made much impression upon it. I said, ‘We aren’t even keeping up with the incoming.’

  ‘We can start a “pending
” tray.’

  ‘Don’t be so female,’ I said. ‘All that does is call some of it another name. Why can’t you go through it and handle some of it without me?’

  ‘I already did.’

  ‘Then sort out the “information onlys”, mark them for return to us and pass them on. That would give us a breathing space.’

  ‘Now who’s kidding himself?’

  ‘Can you think of something better?’

  ‘Yes. I think we should get a written directive from Organization to be sure we’re handling only files that we should handle. There may be things in this tray that are nothing to do with us.’

  ‘There are times, my love, when I think none of it is anything to do with us.’

  Jean stared at me in an expressionless way that might have indicated disapproval. Maybe she was thinking about her hair.

  ‘Birthday lunch at the Trat,’ I said.

  ‘But I look awful.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘I must do my hair. Give me five minutes.’

  ‘I’ll give you six,’ I said. She had been thinking about her hair.

  We lunched at the Trattoria Terrazza: Tagliatelle alla carbonara, Osso buco, coffee. Pol Roger throughout. Mario complimented me on having a birthday and kissed Jean to celebrate it. He snapped his fingers and up came Strega. I snapped my fingers and up came more Pol Roger. We sat there, drinking champagne with Strega chasers, talking, snapping fingers and discovering ultimate truth and our own infinite wisdom. We got back to the office at three forty-five and I realized for the first time how dangerous that loose lino on the stairs can be.

  As I entered my office the intercom was buzzing like a trapped bluebottle. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Right away,’ said Dawlish, my boss.

  ‘Right away, sir,’ I said, slowly and carefully.