Billion-Dollar Brain

by Len Deighton

  ‘Well, some of these files marked with secret codings are really not even confidential, but they originated in a secret file, so everything subsequently bearing that file number is automatically secret. If you will authorize me to break some of these omnibus files into sub-files with separate numbers, a lot of them will no longer be secret and can be handled downstairs. What’s more, it’s much more efficient to have sub-files because two departments can work on two aspects of the same problem at the same time if they each have a subfile.’

  ‘Genius,’ I said. ‘Now I know why I love you.’

  ‘You don’t love anyone. Not even yourself.’

  ‘You know I couldn’t help it. I had to wait until the passport was ready.’

  ‘I spent hours cooking all your favourite things; you arrived at one A.M.’

  ‘I had all my favourite things at one A.M.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m forgiven?’

  ‘We can’t go on like this indefinitely.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. Neither of us spoke for ages.

  Jean finally said, ‘I know that this sort of work…Well I wouldn’t want you to stop. Even when it’s dangerous…’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, lover. I’m not going to get myself hurt. I’m a cautious coward with too much survival training.’

  Jean said, ‘Even good drivers get killed when amateurs ram them; I think Harvey Newbegin is a clumsy amateur. You must be very careful.’

  ‘Don’t make me even more neurotic. Newbegin has a good record with the Defense Department and the State Department. The Americans don’t hang on to a man that long unless he’s worth his money.’

  ‘I just don’t trust him,’ said Jean with that stubborn feminine intuition. She came close and I put an arm around her.

  ‘Just because he pinched your bottom at the White Elephant Club,’ I said.

  ‘And a lot of help you were. You did nothing.’

  ‘That’s my speciality,’ I said, ‘I always do nothing.’

  Chapter 5

  I left the office at six that night. Jean’s brother was on one of his rare visits to London and they were going out to dinner, but Dawlish thought I should stay available. So I went back to my flat and cooked bacon and eggs and sat in front of the fire with Vol. 2 of Fuller’s Decisive Battles and read about the siege of Yorktown. It was a pleasant evening until 8.15, when the phone rang.

  The Charlotte Street operator said, ‘Scramble please.’ Before I had a scrambler fitted I had to do stand-by duties at the office. I pressed the button. Dawlish said, ‘The boy has turned up trumps apparently.’

  ‘Why apparently?’ I said.

  ‘The fellow who followed you is down on the river,’ said Dawlish ignoring my question. ‘We shall have to pass your way. We will pick you up in fifteen minutes.’ Dawlish rang off abruptly. I knew he had the same doubts about Chico’s abilities as I had, but he was determined to demonstrate to me the proper loyal attitude to one’s subordinates.

  Dawlish arrived at 8.37. He was in a black Wolseley driven by one of our ex-police drivers. With Dawlish there was Bernard, one of the brighter of the public-school boys we had recruited of late, and a man named Harriman.

  Harriman was a big, hard man who looked more like a doorman than a lieutenant-colonel from Special Field Intelligence. His hair was black and tight against his bony skull. His skin was wrinkled and leather-like, and his teeth were large and uneven. He was intellectual in a way that might be considered suspect in a regular officer. I guessed that the man we were after was going to be taken into custody because Harriman had special authorization from the Home Office to execute a warrant with minimum fuss and paperwork.

  They wouldn’t have a drink so I climbed into a raincoat and we drove off towards the docks.

  Dawlish said, ‘Young Chico has done quite a good job here.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Harriman and I exchanged a grimace. I heard the car radio-phone said, ‘OK. Switch to Channel Six for a car-to-car with Thames five.’ Then Bernard in the front seat said, ‘Are you receiving me, Thames five?’ and the police boat said it was receiving us loud and clear. Then we said we were receiving the police boat loud and clear and then Bernard asked them to report their position and they said, ‘Tower Bridge, Pickle Herring Street side.’

  Bernard said, ‘Come up to Wapping Police Station, Thames five, to take on passengers.’

  Thames five said, ‘No one in small boat answering description you gave but we’ll have another dekko at Lavender Wharf on the way back.’

  Information room said, ‘Have you finished your car-to-car?’ in a voice that suggested we had, and added, ‘I’ll show you still dealing Thames five,’ and Dawlish said, ‘What are those chaps doing out there, playing cards?’ He smiled.

  ‘This chap went all round Finchley,’ Dawlish continued imperturbably. ‘Chico kept on his tail, then about six thirty he wound up at the Prospect of Whitby. Chico has him bottled up there, so we’ll take a look at him.’

  ‘With all this entourage? I thought you were going to cordon off the area.’

  Dawlish gave me a twitch of a smile. ‘Bernard here is night duty officer. Harriman is handling a river-traffic job. We all have good reasons for being here,’ Dawlish said.

  I said, ‘And I have some great reasons for staying home but no one will listen to them.’

  As we crossed Tower Bridge I saw the police-boat heading down river through the grey choppy water. We passed the Tower of London, went round the one-way traffic system as far as the Mint, then turned into Thomas More Street: twenty-feet-high walls that twist and turn relentlessly. Each turn of the road fails to reveal the end of the street and the walls seem to get higher and higher; it was like the last reel of Dr Caligari.

  Along Wapping High Street and Wapping Wall the wharves and cranes were high, dirty and silent. The car headlights ignited the green flickering eyes of stray cats and shiny cobblestones. The Wolseley bounced over the tiny bridges of the dock entrances and under the grimy catwalks. Just behind the fences there were sudden expanses of dark water where passenger boats were twinkling with yellow lights and white-coated waiters, like the Hilton laid on its side, carved into sections and ready to tow out to sea. We dropped Bernard off at Wapping Police Station, where two policemen in waterproofs and waders were waiting for him.

  Chico was standing outside the pub. The Prospect of Whitby is a bow-fronted tourist attraction. In summer they throng here like harbour rats. But this was winter, and the window was opaque with condensation and the door shut tight against the cold. We tumbled out like the Keystone cops. Anxious excitement plastered Chico’s hair against his damp pink forehead.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ he greeted each of us in turn. Chico led the three of us inside the pub and made a big operation of buying us drinks as if he was a sixth-form boy with three house-masters. He got so excited that he was calling the barman sir.

  The interior of the Prospect is dark with artful knick-knacks and inglenooks, and the big kick is that the customers leave thousands of visiting cards, theatre tickets and associated paper pinned to the antlers, so that you feel like a bug in a litter basket. I walked right through the bar and out to the balcony that overlooks the Pool of London. The water was as turbid as oil. The waterfront was still and deserted. I heard Dawlish trying to prevent Chico from sending down to the cellar for the type of sherry that Dawlish liked. Finally, to ease the agony of the whole thing, Harriman said, ‘Four big bitters’ to the barman, who was as relieved as anyone. They followed me on to the balcony. When we were finally standing in a small Druidian circle with ritualistic foaming glasses Chico said, ‘He’s away across the river.’

  I said nothing; Harriman said nothing; so finally Dawlish said, ‘Tell them how you know.’

  Chico said, ‘I proceeded as instructed…’

  Dawlish said, ‘Just explain…’

  Chico said, ‘I watched him go inside. I followed him through to this balcony, but by that time he had gone down
this iron ladder to a rowing boat and rowed towards the far bank. I phoned the office and suggested that they alert the river police. My informant says that he was making for a large grey boat standing off Lavender Wharf. I have identified it as a Polish vessel.’

  Dawlish and Harriman looked at me, but I wasn’t keen to make a fool of myself, so I looked at Chico and wondered why he was wearing a tie with fox-heads on it.

  Dawlish and Harriman looked across the water towards the Polish ship, and Dawlish said they would leave Chico with me. They took the car and visited the Port of London Authority Police.

  Chico produced a large leather cigar-case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he said.

  ‘As long as you don’t tell me about an amusing little claret you discovered last night.’

  ‘I won’t, sir,’ Chico agreed.

  The sky was as red as an upturned hull and propping it up were great forests of cranes. From Lavender Wharf came the oily smell that pilots are said to navigate by on foggy days. Chico said, ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ I said. ‘Grannie has come along to show us how to do our job, so let him handle it.’ We drank beer and watched the slow movement of the water. A police launch came round the bend and turned towards the Rotherhithe side. I could see Bernard, Dawlish and Harriman in the rear talking to a policeman and being careful not to point at the Polish boat.

  ‘What do you think?’ Chico asked.

  ‘Let’s take it very slowly,’ I said. ‘You followed this man here. How were you travelling?’

  ‘We were each in separate taxis.’

  ‘You saw this man enter by the bar entrance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How far behind him were you?’

  ‘My cab gave his cab space to turn round, then I paid my cab and told him to wait. I was a minute behind him.’

  ‘A full minute?’

  ‘Yes, at least,’ Chico agreed.

  ‘You followed him right through the pub out to this balcony?’

  ‘Well I couldn’t see him at the bar, so the only explanation was that he walked right through and on to the balcony here.’

  ‘So that’s what you think?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t sure until I spoke to the witness on the balcony.’

  ‘And he said?’

  ‘He said that a man had walked through and down the ladder and rowed away.’

  ‘Now tell me what he really said.’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘What did you ask him?’ I said wearily.

  ‘I asked him if a man had done that and he said, “Yes, there he is, across the river. There.”’

  ‘But you couldn’t see him?’

  ‘No, I just missed seeing him.’

  ‘Go and find this joker who saw him.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Chico. He came back with a potbellied man in a brown whipcord suit and a matching flat cap. He had a large nose and heavy lips and his complexion was raw and pink. He had the hoarse, full-chested voice that men acquire when they address small crowds. I guessed him to be a bookie or a tic-tac man, especially since whipcord—which doesn’t attract animal hair—is favoured by race-track men. He extended a large hand and shook mine in over-hearty friendliness.

  ‘Tell me what you told him,’ I said.

  ‘About the feller climbing down the ladder and rowing off out to sea?’ He had a loud beery voice and was delighted with any opportunity for using it. ‘I could see he was up to no good right from…’

  ‘I’ve got a hot meal waiting,’ I said, ‘so let’s make it quick. This man went down on to the mud. How deep into it did he sink?’

  The big-nosed man thought for a moment. ‘No, he had the boat under the foot of the ladder.’

  ‘So his shoes didn’t get dirty?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he boomed. ‘Hand the gentleman a coconut, Bert. Ha ha.’

  ‘So he sat in the row boat while it traversed twenty foot of mud, to the river. Would you care to explain that a little more fully?’

  He grinned an ugly gap-toothed grin. ‘Well, squire…’

  ‘Look. Having a joke with Little Lord Fauntleroy here is one thing, but making a false statement to a police officer is a criminal offence punishable by…’ I paused.

  ‘You mean?’ He pushed a large thumb towards Chico, ‘…and you?’

  I nodded. I guessed he had a licence to lose. I was glad he had interrupted because I didn’t know what it was punishable by.

  ‘I was just sending him up. No harm meant, squire.’ He turned to Chico. ‘Nor to you, squire. Just my fun. Just my fun.’

  A little grey corrugated woman behind him said, ‘Just his fun, sir.’ The big-nosed man turned to her and said, ‘All right, Florrie, I’ll handle this.’

  ‘I understand the temptation involved,’ I said. Big-nose nodded solemnly. I tapped Chico’s shoulder. ‘This young man,’ I said to Big-nose, ‘will be back in a moment or so to buy you some beer until a couple of other gentlemen arrive. Then if you will be kind enough to explain your joke to them…’

  ‘Certainly. Certainly,’ said Big-nose.

  I walked back through the bar to the street. Chico said, ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘There’s no thinking involved. You followed this man here. He isn’t inside the bar, therefore he either went upstairs—unlikely—or he left. There is no evidence that he left via the balcony as your funster friend suggested, so it seems likely that he turned round at the rear of the bar and walked down that alley and out of the side entrance. If I had been him I would have had my own taxi waiting—I remember you said it was turning round—but before driving away I would have given the driver of your cab a quid and told him that you wouldn’t need him any more.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Chico. ‘My taxi wasn’t here when I came out again. I thought it was odd.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Well when Mr Dawlish and Mr Harriman have completed their activities perhaps you would explain those details to them.’

  I beckoned the driver of the Wolseley and he drove over to me. I got in. ‘I’ll go back to my flat now,’ I said to the driver.

  The police radio was still tuned in and it was saying, ‘…he’s a flasher Gulf one one. Ends. Origin Information Room. Message timed at two one one seven.’

  ‘How will Mr Dawlish and the rest of us get back?’ asked Chico. The driver turned the volume down but it was still audible, like the voices of a gang of midgets jammed somewhere in the engine. I said, ‘You see, Chico, Mr Dawlish likes these opportunities for a little vicarious high living; I personally prefer an evening by the fire. So next time you feel like creating an international incident complete with night boat trips and Polish ships, try and give me advance warning. To make me even happier next time you are given a surveillance task’—heaven forbid, I thought—‘just take a short length of movie that I can view in comfort.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Splendid,’ I said in reasonable likeness of Dawlish’s voice.

  The car moved slowly forward.

  ‘It was good practice anyway,’ said Chico.

  ‘“A” for effort,’ I said and went home.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday. Dr Pike was in St James’s Park before me. He was sitting on the bench near the pond reading the Financial Times exactly as arranged. So, not to spoil the fun, I asked him about the stock exchange and he lent me his paper. He was dressed more prosperously than he had been at the surgery: saxony suit, tweed fisher hat and a short reversible raincoat with knitted collar. He flipped his cuff upon a gold wristwatch as I took his newspaper.

  ‘It’s incredibly cold,’ Pike said.

  ‘I didn’t come a thousand miles to discuss the weather. Where’s the package?’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Pike. ‘It will probably be ready today, don’t fret.’

  ‘Did you have me followed yesterday, Pike?’ I asked.

  ‘Nigel, don’t put your new shoes in the water, there’s a g
ood boy. No certainly not. Why should I?’

  Nigel stopped putting his new shoes in the water and began to poke a large Labrador with his toy whistle.

  ‘Someone did.’

  ‘Not me. The doggy doesn’t like that, Nigel.’

  ‘So you won’t mind if I have him laid out?’

  ‘Couldn’t care less. He’s growling to tell you he doesn’t like it, Nigel. Have him killed for all I care.’

  ‘And you still say you don’t know who it is?’

  ‘Mr Dempsey or whoever you are: I do a job and keep my nose clean. If the people for whom we work send someone to follow you and you decide to brain the fellow, good luck. He thinks you are giving him the whistle to play with, Nigel. Good doggy, give Nigel his whistle back; good doggy, stroke him, Nigel, show you want to be friends. Anything the fellow gets will serve him right for being inefficient. Too much inefficiency in this country at the moment. People are damned slack. Brain him by all means. It might teach the top people to keep me informed.’

  Dr Pike went and retrieved Nigel’s whistle and brought Nigel back to where we were sitting.

  ‘Look at your hands.’ Pike produced a large handkerchief, held it for the child to spit on, then wiped his hands with the damp cloth. It seemed unhygienic.

  ‘Where is the package now?’

  ‘At my brother’s, I think.’ He looked at his watch again and did some sort of calculation. ‘At my brother’s. It’s tar, Nigel. I told you not to touch the fence. Tuck your scarf in; don’t want to catch cold.’

  ‘How far is that?’

  ‘There you are. A nice clean boy. Besterton, a village near Buckingham.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said.

  ‘I’d like to drop young Nigel first,’ Pike said. Me too, I thought, right into the lake.

  ‘They think you want to give them bread, Nigel. I’ll take him to his riding school. Then we’ll go on from there. It’s not far out of our way. They won’t hurt you, Nigel, nice kind ducks. Don’t be frightened, they won’t hurt you. Shall we go in my car?’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘They think you want to give them bread. Well, we’ll walk that way. No; they never hurt nice little boys. My Jaguar’s the red one. Don’t kick gravel at the ducks, Nigel, you’ll spoil your shoes.’