Mexico Set

by Len Deighton

  By the time we got near to Werner Volkmann’s apartment, the rainstorm was flooding the gutters and making great lakes through which the traffic splashed, and in which it sometimes stalled. There was a constant racket of car horns and engines being over-revved by nervous drivers. The cab moved slowly, and I watched drenched and dirty kids offering dry, clean lottery tickets that were protected inside clear plastic bags. And plenty of well-dressed shoppers had chauffeurs who could hold an umbrella in one hand and open the door of a limousine with the other. I couldn’t imagine Zena Volkmann anywhere but here in the Zona Rosa. Within the area contained by the Insurgentes, Sevilla and Chapultepec there are the big international hotels, smart restaurants, the shops with branches in Paris and New York. And in the crowded cafés that spill out on to the pavement are to be heard every new rumour, joke and scandal that this outrageous town provides in abundance.

  Zena Volkmann could live anywhere, of course. But she preferred to live in comfort. She’d learned to respect wealth, and the wealthy, in a way that only a poverty-stricken childhood teaches. She was a survivor who’d climbed up the ladder without benefit of any education beyond reading and writing and painting her face, plus a natural ability to count. Perhaps I did her an injustice but sometimes I had the feeling that she would do anything if the price was high enough, for she still had that fundamental insecurity that one bout of poverty can inflict for a lifetime, and no amount of money remedy.

  She made no secret of her feelings. Even amid the contrasts of Mexico she showed no great interest in the plight of the hungry. And like so many poor people she had only contempt for socialism in any of its various forms, for it is only the rich and guilty who can afford the subtle delights of egalitarian philosophies.

  Zena Volkmann was only twenty-two years old but she’d lived with her grandparents for much of her childhood. From them she’d inherited a nostalgia for a Germany of long ago. It was a Protestant Germany of aristocrats and Handküsse, silvery Zeppelins and student duels. It was a kultiviertes Germany of music, industry, science and literature; an imperial Germany ruled from the great cosmopolitan city of Berlin by efficient, incorruptible Prussians. It was a Germany she’d never seen; a Germany that had never existed.

  The elaborate afternoon Kaffee-Trinken that she’d prepared was a manifestation of her nostalgia. The delicate chinaware into which she poured the coffee, and the solid-silver forks with which we ate the fruit tart, and the tiny damask napkins with which we dabbed our lips were all parts of a ceremony that was typically German. It was a scene to be found in the prosperous suburbs of any one of a hundred West German towns.

  Zena’s brown silk afternoon dress, with embroidered collar and hem below the knee, made her look like a dedicated hausfrau. Her long dark hair was in two plaits and rolled to make the old-fashioned ‘earphone’ hairstyle virtually unknown outside Germany. And Werner, sitting there like an amiable gorilla, had gone to the extent of putting on his tan-coloured tropical suit and a striped tie. I was only too aware that my old rain-wet open-necked shirt was not exactly de rigueur, as I balanced the coffee-cup on the knee of my mud-splashed nylon pants.

  While Zena had been in the kitchen I’d told Werner about my trip to Biedermann’s house, about the Russians I’d seen there and Biedermann’s confession to me. Werner took his time to answer. He turned to look out of the window. On a side-table the broken fragments of a cup and saucer had been arranged in a large ashtray. Werner moved the ashtray to the trolley that held the TV. From this sixth-floor apartment there was a view across the city. The sky was low and dark now, and the rain was beating down in great shimmering sheets, the way it does only in such tropical storms. He still hadn’t answered by the time Zena returned from the kitchen.

  ‘Biedermann always was a loner,’ said Werner. ‘He has two brothers, but Paul makes all the business decisions. Did you know that?’

  It was small talk, but now Zena was with us and I was undecided about how much to say in front of her. ‘Are both his brothers in the business?’

  Werner said, ‘Old Biedermann gave equal shares to all five of them – two girls and three boys. But the others leave all the decisions to Paul.’

  ‘And why not?’ said Zena, cutting a slice of fruit tart for me. ‘He knows how to make money. The other four have nothing to do but spend it.’

  ‘You never liked him, did you, Bernie?’ said Werner. ‘You never liked Paul.’

  ‘I hardly knew him,’ I said. ‘He went off to some fancy school. I remember his father. His father used to let me steer the trucks round their yard while he operated the accelerator and brakes. I was only a tiny child. I really liked the old man.’

  ‘It was a filthy old yard,’ said Werner. He was telling Zena rather than me. Or perhaps he was retelling it to himself. ‘Full of junk and rubbish. What a wonderland it was for us children who played there. We had such fun.’ He took a piece of tart from Zena. His slice was small; she was trying to slim him down. ‘Paul was a scholar. The old man was proud of him but they didn’t have much in common when Paul came back with all those college degrees and qualifications. Old Mr Biedermann had had no proper education. He left school when he was fourteen.’

  ‘He was a real Berliner,’ I said. ‘He ran the transport business like a despot. He knew the names of all his workers. He swore at them when he was angry and got drunk with them when there was something to celebrate. They invited him to their marriages and their christenings and he never missed a funeral. When the union organized a weekend outing each year they always invited him along. No one would have wanted to go without the old man.’

  ‘You’re talking about the road transport business,’ said Werner. ‘But that was only a tiny part of their set-up.’

  ‘It was the business the old man started, and the only part of the Biedermann empire he ever really liked.’ A timer began to ping somewhere in the kitchen but Zena didn’t move. Eventually it stopped. I guessed the Indian woman was there but banished to the back room.

  ‘It was losing money,’ said Werner.

  ‘So, when Paul Biedermann came back from his American business management course, the first thing he did was to sell the transport company and pension his father off.’

  ‘You sound very bitter, Bernie. That couldn’t be why you hate Paul so much, could it?’

  I drank some more coffee. I began to have the feeling that Zena didn’t intend to leave us alone to talk about the things we had to talk about. I kept the small talk going. ‘It killed old Biedermann,’ I said. ‘He had nothing to live for after the yard closed and the company was being run from New York. Do you remember how he used to sit in Leuschner’s café all day, talking about old times to anyone who would listen, even to us kids?’

  ‘It’s the way things are now,’ said Werner. ‘Companies are run by computers. Profit margins are sliced thin. And no manager dare raise his eyes from his accounts long enough to learn the names of his staff. It’s the price we pay for progress.’

  Zena picked up the ashtray containing the broken cup and saucer. I could tell that Werner had broken it by the way she averted her eyes from him. She took the coffee-pot too and went to the kitchen. I said, ‘Dicky saw Frank Harrington in LA. Apparently London have decided to try enrolling Erich Stinnes.’ I had tried to make it unhurried but it came out in a rush.

  ‘Enrolling him?’ I was interested to see that Werner was as dismayed and surprised as I had been. ‘Is there any background?’

  ‘You mean, have there been discussions with Stinnes before. I was wondering the same thing myself but from what I got out of Dicky I think the idea is to go in cold.’

  Werner leaned his considerable weight back in the armchair and blew through his pursed lips. ‘Who’s going to try that?’

  ‘Dicky wants you to try,’ I said. I drank some of my strong coffee and tried to sound very casual. I could see that Werner was torn between indignation and delight. Werner desperately wanted to become a regular departmental employee again. But he knew that
being chosen for this job was no tribute to his skills; he was simply the man closest to Stinnes. ‘It’s a great opportunity,’ said Werner resentfully, ‘a great opportunity for failure. So Frank Harrington, and all those people who’ve been slandering me all these years, can have a new excuse and start slandering me all over again.’

  ‘They must know the chances are slim,’ I said. ‘But if Stinnes went for it, you’d be the talk of the town, Werner.’

  Werner gave me a wry smile. ‘You mean both East and West sides of it?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Zena, returning with the coffee. ‘Is this something to do with Erich Stinnes?’

  Werner glanced at me. He knew I didn’t want to discuss it in front of Zena. ‘If I’m going to try, Zena will have to know, Bernie,’ he said apologetically. I nodded. The reality was that Werner told her everything I told him, so she might as well hear it from me.

  Zena poured more coffee and offered us a selection of Spritzgebäck, little German biscuits that Werner liked. ‘It is about Stinnes, isn’t it?’ she said as she picked up her own coffee – she drank it strong and black – and sat down. Even in this severe dress she looked very beautiful; her big eyes, very white teeth and the high cheekbones in that lightly tanned face made her look like the work of some Aztec goldsmith.

  ‘London want to enrol him,’ said Werner.

  ‘Recruit him to work for London, do you mean?’ said Zena.

  ‘You recruit ordinary people to become spies,’ Werner explained patiently. ‘But an enemy security officer, especially one who might help you break his own networks, is “enrolled”.’

  ‘It’s the same sort of thing,’ said Zena brightly.

  ‘It’s very different,’ said Werner. ‘When you recruit someone, and start them spying, you paint romantic pictures for them. You show them the glamour and make them feel courageous and important. But the agent you enrol knows all the answers already. Enrolment is tricky. You are telling lies to highly skilled liars. They’re cynical and demanding. It’s easy to start it off but it usually goes sour some way along the line and everyone ends up mad at everyone else.’

  ‘You make it sound like getting a divorce,’ said Zena.

  ‘It’s a bit like that,’ I said. ‘But it can get more violent.’

  ‘More violent than a divorce?’ Zena fluttered her eyelashes. ‘You’re only going to offer Erich Stinnes a chance to defect to the West. Can’t he do that any time he wants? He’s in Mexico. Why go back to Russia if he doesn’t want to?’ There was something deliciously feminine about Zena and her view of the world.

  ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ said Werner. ‘Not many countries will allow East European nationals to defect. Seamen who jump ship, passengers or Aeroflot crew who leave their planes at refuelling stops, or Soviet delegates who walk into foreign police stations and ask for asylum find it’s not so easy. Even right-wing governments send them right back to Russia to face the music.’ He bit into a biscuit. ‘Good Spritzgebäck, darling,’ he said.

  ‘I couldn’t get hazelnuts but I tried this other sort; with honey. They’re not bad, are they? Why won’t they let them defect? They send them back to Russia? That’s disgusting,’ said Zena.

  ‘Encouraging defectors upsets the Russians for one thing,’ said Werner. ‘If Stinnes said he wanted to stay in Mexico, the Soviet ambassador would go running along to the Foreign Secretary and start pressurizing the Mexican authorities to hand him back.’

  ‘In which case doesn’t Stinnes just say go to hell?’ said Zena.

  ‘The ambassador then says that Stinnes has stolen the cash box or that he’s wanted to face criminal charges in Moscow. The Mexicans then find themselves accused of harbouring a criminal. And don’t forget that someone has to pay the defector a salary or find him a job.’ Werner reached for another biscuit.

  ‘This is Mexico,’ said Zena. ‘What do they care about the Russians?’

  Werner was fully occupied with the biscuits. I said, ‘The Russians have a lot of clout in this part of the world, Mrs Volkmann. They can stir up trouble by getting neighbouring countries to apply pressure. Cuba will always oblige, since its economy depends totally on Soviet money. They can apply economic sanctions. They can influence United Nations committees and all the rigamarole of Unesco and so on. And all of these countries have to contend with a domestic Communist Party organization ready to do whatever the Russians want done. Governments don’t offend the Soviet Union without very good reason. Providing asylum for a defector is seldom reason enough.’

  ‘There are still plenty of defectors, though,’ persisted Zena.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Many defectors are sponsored by the USA, the way that famous musicians or performers are, because of the bad publicity their escapes make for the communist system. And they can earn their own living easily enough. The remainder have to bring something worthwhile with them as the price of entry.’

  ‘Secrets?’

  ‘That depends on what you call secrets. Usually a country provides asylum to someone bringing information about the way the Soviets have been spying on the host country. For that sort of information a government is usually prepared to withstand Russian pressures.’

  ‘And for that reason,’ said Werner, ‘most of the decent Russians can’t defect and the KGB bastards can. Put all the defectors together and you’d have a ballet company and orchestra, some sports stars and a vast army of secret policemen.’

  Zena looked at me with her big grey eyes and said archly, ‘But if you two are right about Erich Stinnes, he’s a KGB man. So he could provide some secrets about spying on Mexico. So he would be allowed to stay here without your help.’

  ‘Would you like to live in Mexico for the remainder of your life, Mrs Volkmann?’ I said.

  She paused for a moment as if thinking the idea over. ‘Perhaps not,’ she admitted.

  ‘No, a man such as Stinnes would want a British passport.’

  ‘Or a US passport?’ said Zena.

  ‘American citizenship provides no right to travel abroad. A British passport identifies a British subject, and they have the right to leave the country any time they wish. Stinnes will give us quite a list of requirements if he decides to defect. He’d need a lot of paperwork so that he has a completely new identity. I mean an identity that is recorded in such a way that it will withstand investigation.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ said Zena.

  I said, ‘Things that require the cooperation of many different government departments. For instance, he’ll need a driving licence. And we don’t want that to materialize out of nowhere, not for a forty-year-old with no other driving experience on file and no record of passing a driving test. He’d need to have some innocuous-looking file in his local tax office. He’ll want a credit card; what does he put on the application? Then there are documents for travelling. He’ll probably want some freedom of movement and that’s always a headache. Incidentally he must give us some identity photos for his passport and so on. One good full-face picture will be enough. A picture of his wife too. I’ll get the copies done at the embassy.’

  Werner nodded. He realized that this was his briefing. I was talking around the sort of offer he would be able to make to Stinnes. ‘You’re assuming that he would live in England?’ said Werner.

  ‘Certainly for the first year,’ I said. ‘It will be a long debriefing. Would that be a problem?’

  ‘He’s always spoken of Germany as the only place he’d ever want to be. Isn’t that true, Zena?’

  ‘That’s what he’s always said,’ Zena agreed. ‘But it’s the sort of thing everyone says at the Kronprinz Club. Everyone is drinking German beer and exchanging news of the old country. It is natural to talk of Germany with great affection. We all do. But when you are offering someone a chance to retire in comfort, England wouldn’t be too bad, I think.’ She smiled.

  I said, ‘Dicky thinks Stinnes will jump at any decent offer.’

  ‘Does he?’ said Werner doubtfully.<
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  ‘London thinks Stinnes has been passed over for promotion. They think he’s been stuck away in East Berlin to rot.’

  ‘So why is he here in Mexico?’ said Werner.

  ‘Dicky thinks it’s just a nice little jaunt for him.’

  ‘It’s a convenient thing to say when you can’t think of any convincing answer,’ said Werner. ‘What do you think, Bernie?’

  ‘I’m convinced he’s here in connection with Paul Biedermann,’ I said cautiously. ‘But why the hell would he be?’

  Werner nodded. He didn’t take me seriously. He knew I disliked Biedermann and thought this was clouding my judgement. ‘What makes you think that, Bernie?’ he said.

  ‘Stinnes and his pal didn’t know I was listening to them out at the Biedermann house. They said they were running Biedermann and I believe it.’

  ‘Paul Biedermann has been koshering cash for the KGB,’ Werner told Zena. ‘And sending it off for them too.’

  ‘What a bastard,’ said Zena. The family property in East Prussia, which Zena had failed to inherit because it was now a part of the USSR, made her unsympathetic to people who helped the KGB. But she didn’t put much venom into her condemnation of Biedermann; her mind was on Stinnes. ‘What’s so special about Stinnes?’ she asked me.

  ‘London wants him,’ I said. ‘And London Central moves in strange and unaccountable ways.’

  ‘It’s all Dicky Cruyer’s idea,’ she said, as if she’d had a sudden insight. ‘I’ll bet it’s not London at all. Dicky Cruyer went off to Los Angeles and had a meeting with Frank Harrington. Then he returned with the electrifying news that London wants Erich Stinnes, and he’s to be coaxed into defection.’