Mexico Set

by Len Deighton

  ‘And you want nothing in return?’

  ‘I’d certainly expect you to drop this absurd business with poor old Erich Stinnes.’

  ‘What has Stinnes got to do with us?’

  ‘He’s my senior assistant. That’s what he’s got to do with us. You won’t tempt Erich with any offers of the good life waiting in the West. He’s too committed and too serious for that. But I know you, and I know the department. I know you’re likely to kidnap him if all else fails.’

  ‘And that would look bad for you,’ I said. We were coming to the airport tunnel. I wondered if the sudden darkness would give me a chance to disable the nurse before she had a chance to jab me but I decided it wouldn’t. ‘Terminal 2?’

  ‘Yes, Terminal 2,’ said Fiona. ‘If you persist with this pursuit of Erich Stinnes, I will consider any undertaking about the children null and void. Be reasonable, Bernard. I’m trying to do what’s best for Billy and Sally. How do you think I feel about the prospect of not seeing them? I’m trying to prove my goodwill to you. I’m asking nothing in return except that you don’t kidnap my senior assistant. Is that asking too much?’

  ‘It won’t be my decision, Fiona.’

  ‘I realize that. But you have influence. If you really want them to drop it, they’ll drop it. Don’t make Erich a part of your personal vendetta against me.’

  ‘I have no vendetta against you,’ I said.

  ‘I did what I knew I had to do,’ she said. It was the nearest I’d ever heard her get to apologizing.

  ‘You’re running the KGB office over there now, are you?’

  I could hear the amusement in her voice. ‘I’m giving it a completely new organization. It’s so old-fashioned, darling. But I’ll soon have it in shape. Aren’t you going to wish me good luck?’

  I didn’t answer. At least she hadn’t asked me to join her. Even Fiona knew better than that. And yet it was not like her not to try. Was it because she knew there was no chance of suborning me, or because she had other plans – such as kidnapping or even removing me permanently?

  ‘Stop behind this taxi,’ said the nurse. It was the first time she’d spoken since Fiona got into the car. I stopped.

  ‘Erich Stinnes will not defect voluntarily,’ said Fiona. ‘Tell your people that.’

  ‘I’ve told them that already,’ I said.

  ‘Then we won’t quarrel. Goodbye, darling. Best not tell the children you’ve seen me. It will only upset them. And don’t report our meeting to anyone at London Central.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I won’t contact you again, will I? Use your brains, darling.’

  ‘Goodbye, Fiona.’ I still could hardly believe what had happened – I suppose she counted on the surprise – and by the time I’d said goodbye the door had opened. It slammed loudly and she was gone. I remembered how she’d broken the hinge on the old Ford by always slamming the door too hard.

  ‘Keep your eyes this way,’ said the nurse. ‘It’s not all over yet.’ I saw her look at her watch. She had it pinned to the bib of her apron the way all nurses do.

  ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘The Aeroflot flight to Moscow or the Polish Airlines flight to Warsaw? That transits in East Berlin, doesn’t it?’

  ‘We’ll return on the A4,’ she said, ‘not the motorway, in case you got some brilliant idea about doing something very brave on the way back.’

  ‘I haven’t had a brilliant idea for a long time,’ I said. ‘And you can ask anyone about that.’

  11

  Bret Rensselaer sent for me that morning. I wasn’t there. He sent for me again and continued to send for me until finally I arrived back from my detour to the airport. Bret was in his usual office on the top floor. It was elegantly furnished – grey carpet, glass-and-chrome desk, and black leather Chesterfield – in a monochrome scheme that so well suited Bret’s hand-ground carbon steel personality.

  Bret was a hungry-looking American in his mid-fifties, with fair hair that was turning white, and a smile that could slice diamonds. Rumours said that he had applied for British citizenship to clear the way for the knighthood he’d set his heart on. Certainly he had never had to pine for the material things of life. His family had owned a couple of small banks which had been absorbed into a bigger banking complex, and that into another, so that now Bret’s shares were worth more money than he needed for his very British understated lifestyle.

  ‘Sit down, Bernard.’ He always put the accent on the second syllable of my name. Had it not been for that, and the talc he used on his chin and the ever-present fraternity ring, I think I might sometimes have overlooked his American nationality, for his accent was minimal and his suits were Savile Row. ‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘Damned late.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said.

  ‘Do I rate an explanation?’

  ‘I was having this wonderful dream, Bret. I dreamed I was working for this nice man who couldn’t tell the time.’

  Bret was reading something on his desk and gave no sign of having heard me. He was wearing a starched white Turnbull and Asser shirt with exaggerated cuffs, monogrammed pocket and gold links. He wore a waistcoat that was unbuttoned and a grey silk bow-tie. His jacket was hung on a chair that seemed to be there only so that Bret would have somewhere to hang his jacket. Finally he looked up from the very important paper he was reading and said, ‘You probably heard that I’m taking a little of the load off Dicky Cruyer’s shoulders for the time being.’

  ‘I’ve been away,’ I said.

  ‘Sure you have,’ he said. He smiled and took off his reading glasses to look at me and then put them on again. They were large, with speed-cop-style frames, and made him look younger than his fifty-five years. ‘Sure you have.’ So Bret had staked a claim to a chunk of Dicky’s desk. I couldn’t wait to see how Dicky was taking that. Bret said, ‘I just took on this extra work while Dicky went to Mexico. Just because I’m senior to Dicky, that doesn’t mean he’s not in charge of the desk. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. It was pure poetry. Just in case anyone thought Bret was assisting Dicky he was going to precede everything he did by pointing out that he was senior to Dicky. But that was only because he wanted everyone to know that he wasn’t after Dicky’s job. Who could have thought of anything as Byzantine as that except helpful unassuming old Bret Rensselaer.

  ‘So you talked with this guy Stinnes?’

  ‘I talked with him.’

  ‘And?’

  I shrugged.

  Bret said, ‘Do I have to drag every damned word out of you? What did he say? What do you think?’

  ‘What he said and what I think are two very different things,’ I said.

  ‘I spoke with Dicky already. He said Stinnes will come over to us. He’s in a dead-end job and wants to leave his wife anyway. He wants a divorce but is frightened of letting his organization know about it, in case they get mad at him.’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Does that fit in with what we know about the KGB?’

  ‘How do I find out what “we” know about the KGB?’

  ‘OK, smart ass. Does it fit in with what you know about them?’

  ‘Everything depends upon what his personal dossier says. If Stinnes has been sleeping around – with other men’s wives, for instance – and the divorce is the result of that…then maybe it would blow up into trouble for him.’

  ‘And what would happen to him?’

  ‘Being stationed outside Russia is considered a privilege for any Russian national. For instance, army regulations prevent any Jew, of any rank, serving anywhere but in the republics. Even Latvians, Lithuanians, Estonians, Crimean Tartars and people from the western Ukraine are given special surveillance when serving in foreign posts, even in communist countries such as the DDR or Poland.’

  ‘But Stinnes is not in any of those categories?’

  ‘His marriage to the German girl is unusual. Not many Russians marry foreigners. They know only too well that it will make them into s
econd-class citizens. Stinnes is an exception, and it’s worth noting the confidence he showed in doing it. His use of a German name is also curious. It made me wonder at first if he had come from one of the German communities.’

  ‘Do German communities still exist in Russia? I thought Stalin liquidated them back in the forties.’ He swung his chair round and got to his feet so that he could look out of the window. Bret Rensselaer was a peripatetic man who could not think unless his body was in motion. Now he hunched his shoulders like a prize fighter and swayed as if avoiding blows. Sometimes he raised his foot to bend the knee that was said to have troubled him since he was a teenage US Navy volunteer in the final months of the Pacific war. But he never complained of his knee. And it didn’t give him enough trouble to interfere with his skiing holidays.

  ‘The big German communities on the Volga were wiped out by executions and deportations back in 1941. But there are still Germans scattered across Russia from one end to the other.’ His back was still turned to me but I was used to him and his curious mannerisms so I continued to talk. ‘Many German communities are established in Siberia and the Arctic regions. Most big cities in the USSR have a German minority, but they keep a low profile, of course.’

  He turned to face me. ‘How can you be sure that Stinnes is not from one of those German communities?’ He tugged at the ends of the grey silk bow-tie to make sure it was still neat and tidy.

  ‘Because he is stationed in East Germany. The army and the KGB have an inflexible rule that no one of German extraction serves with army units in Germany.’

  ‘So if Stinnes applies for a divorce the chances are that he’ll be sent to work in Russia?’

  ‘And probably to some remote “new town” in Central Asia. It wouldn’t be the sort of posting he’d want.’

  ‘No matter how he beefs about Berlin. Right.’ This thought cheered him up. ‘So that makes Stinnes a good prospect for our offer.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Bret,’ I told him.

  ‘You’re a miserable critter, Bernard.’ Now he took his reading glasses off and put them on the desk while he had a good look at me from head to toe.

  ‘Forget enrolling Stinnes,’ I said. ‘The chances are it will never happen.’

  ‘You’re not saying we should drop the whole business?’

  ‘I’m not saying you should drop it. If you and Dicky have nothing better to do, go ahead. There are lots of other – even less promising – projects that the department are putting time and money into. Furthermore I’d say it would be good for Dicky to get some practical experience at the sharp end of the business.’

  ‘Is that gibe intended for me too?’

  ‘No reason why you shouldn’t get into the act. You’ve never seen a Russian close to, except over the smoked-salmon sandwiches at embassy tea parties,’ I said. ‘Stinnes is a real pro. You’ll enjoy talking to him.’

  Bret didn’t like comments on his lack of field experience any more than any of the others did, but he kept his anger in check. He sat down behind his desk and swung his glasses for a moment. Then he said, ‘We’ll leave that for the time being because there’s some routine stuff I have to go through with you.’ I said nothing. ‘It’s routine stuff about your wife. I know you’ve been asked all this before, Bernard, but I have to have it from you.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said.

  ‘I wish I was sure you did,’ said Bret. He slumped down into his chair, picked up his phone but before using it said to me, ‘Frank Harrington is in town. I think it might be a good idea to have him sit in on this one. You’ve no objection, I take it?’

  ‘Frank Harrington?’

  ‘He’s very much involved with all this. And Frank’s very fond of you, Bernard. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.’

  ‘Yes, I know he is.’

  ‘You’re a kind of surrogate son for him.’ He toyed with the phone.

  ‘Frank has a son,’ I pointed out.

  ‘An airline pilot?’ said Bret scornfully, as if that career would automatically preclude him from such paternity. He pushed a button on the phone and said, ‘Ask Mr Harrington to step in.’ While we were waiting for Frank to arrive he picked up a piece of paper. I could see it was a single page from his loose-leaf notebook. He turned it over, made sure there was no more of his tiny handwritten notes on the back of it, and then placed it on a pile of such pages under a glass paperweight. Bret was methodical. He ran his forefinger down the next page of notes and was still reading them when Frank came in.

  Frank Harrington was the head of the Berlin Field Unit, the job my father had held long long ago. He was a thin, bony sixty-year-old, dressed in a smooth tweed three-piece suit and highly polished Oxford shoes. Seen on the street he might have been mistaken for the colonel of a rather smart infantry regiment, and sometimes I had the feeling that Frank cultivated this resemblance. Yet despite the pale but weather-beaten face, the blunt-ended stubble moustache and the handkerchief tucked into his cuff, Frank had never been in the army except on short detachments. He’d come into the department largely on the strength of his brilliant academic record; Literae Humaniores was said to demand accurate speech, accurate thought and a keen and critical intellect. Unfortunately ‘Greats’ provides no inkling of the modern world and no clue to the mysteries of present-day politics or economics. And such classical studies could warp a young man’s grasp of modern languages, so that even now Frank’s spoken German had the stilted formality of a kaiserliche proclamation.

  Without a word of greeting Bret pointed a finger at the black leather Chesterfield. Frank smiled at me and sat down. We were both used to Bret’s American style of office procedure.

  ‘As I said, this is just a recap, Bernard, so let’s get it over and done with,’ said Bret.

  ‘That suits me,’ I said. Frank took his pipe from his pocket, fondled it and then blew through it loudly. When Bret glanced at him, Frank smiled apologetically.

  ‘Obviously…’ Bret looked at me to see how I reacted to his question ‘…you never suspected your wife of working for the KGB prior to your mission to East Berlin.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ I said. I looked at Frank. He had brought a yellow oilskin tobacco pouch on to his knee and was rummaging through it to fill his pipe. He didn’t look up.

  ‘Even if we go back years and years?’ said Bret.

  ‘Especially if we go back years and years,’ I said. ‘She was my wife. I was in love with her.’

  ‘No suspicions. None at all?’

  ‘She’d been cleared by the department. She’d been cleared by Internal Security. She had been vetted regularly…’

  ‘Touché,’ said Bret. Frank Harrington nodded to no one in particular but didn’t smile.

  ‘If you’re making notes,’ I told Bret, ‘make a note of that. My failure was no greater than the department’s failure.’

  Bret shook his head. ‘Don’t be stupid, Bernard. She was your wife. You brought her to me and suggested that I gave her a job. You were married to her for twelve years. She’s the mother of your children. How can you compare your failure to know what she truly was with ours?’

  ‘But finally I did know,’ I said. ‘If I hadn’t flushed her out she’d still be working here, and still be passing your secrets back to Moscow.’

  ‘Our secrets,’ said Bret Rensselaer. ‘Let’s rather say our secrets, unless you are thinking of leaving us too.’

  I said, ‘That’s a bloody offensive thing to say, Bret.’

  ‘Then I withdraw it,’ said Bret. ‘I’m not trying to make life more difficult for you, Bernard, really I’m not.’ He moved his small pages about on the desk. ‘You didn’t ever hear any phone conversations, or find correspondence which, in the light of what we know now, has a bearing on your wife’s defection?’

  ‘Do you think I wouldn’t have said so. You must have read the transcript of my formal interview. It’s all there.’

  ‘I know it is, Bernard, and I’ve already apologized for going through all th
is once more. But that interview was for Internal Security. This is to go on your report.’ Each year a report on every member of the staff was filed to the Personnel Department by his or her immediate superior. The fact that Bret was completing mine this year was just another sign of the way he was edging into Dicky Cruyer’s department.

  ‘To go on my report?’

  ‘Well, you didn’t imagine we’d be able to overlook your wife’s defection, did you? I’m supposed to report on your…’ A glance down at his notes. ‘…judgement, political sense, power of analysis and foresight. Almost every report has some sort of mention of an employee’s wife, Bernard. There is nothing special about that. The whole British Civil Service has exactly the same system of reports, so don’t get paranoid.’

  Frank finished filling his pipe. He leaned back and said, ‘The department looks after its own, Bernard. I don’t have to tell you that.’ He still hadn’t lit his pipe, but he put it into his mouth and chewed at the stem of it.

  I said, ‘I don’t think I know what you’re talking about, Frank.’

  Frank Harrington had spent a long time in the department, and this gave him certain privileges, so that now he didn’t defer to Bret Rensselaer despite Bret’s senior ranking. ‘I’m trying to explain to you that Bret and I want this to come out well for you, Bernard.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank,’ I said, without much warmth.

  ‘But it’s got to look right on paper too,’ said Bret. He stood up, put his hands in his pockets and jingled his small change.

  ‘And how does it look on paper now?’ I said. ‘Without you and Frank putting all your efforts into making it come out well for me.’

  Bret looked at Frank with a pained expression in his eyes. He was practising that look, so that he could turn it on me if I continued to be insubordinate. Bret was standing by the window. He looked at the view across the park and without turning round said, ‘The department’s got a lot of enemies, Bernard. Not only certain socialist Members of Parliament. The Palace of Westminster has plenty of publicity hounds who’d love to get hold of something like this so they could pontificate on “Panorama”, get a few clips on TV news and be interviewed on “Newsnight”. And there are many of our colleagues in Whitehall who always enjoy the sight of us wriggling under the microscope.’