by Len Deighton
Morgan, a man with a Welsh accent who had briefly tried his hand at being a reporter for one of our great national newspapers, allowed a ghost of a smile to haunt his face.
‘That hardly explains what he was doing in a departmental safe house in Bosham,’ said Tiptree.
‘Oh, we all know what he was doing there,’ I said. ‘He was lying there dead. He was lying there dead for seven days before anyone from that highly paid housekeeping department of ours bothered to check the premises.’
‘Yes, those bastards,’ said Bret. ‘Well, I shafted those lazy sons of bitches. We won’t have that trouble any more.’
‘That will be very comforting for me next time I walk into a safe house and sit down in a chair so that some KGB hood can put a .44 Magnum into my cranium.’
‘How do you know what kind of pistol it was,’ said Henry Tiptree as casually as he was able.
‘I don’t know what kind of pistol it was, Mr Tiptree,’ I said. ‘I just know what kind of bullet it was; a hollow-point one that mushrooms even when the muzzle velocity is high, so it blows people apart even when it’s not well aimed. And, before you ask me the supplementary question that I can see forming on your lips right now, I got that out of the ballistics sheet that was part of the file on MacKenzie’s death. Maybe that’s something you should read, since you are so keen to find the culprit.’
‘No one is blaming you for MacKenzie’s death,’ said Frank gently.
‘Just for Biedermann’s,’ I said. ‘Well, that’s nice to know.’
‘You don’t have to stand up and sing “Rule Britannia”,’ said Bret. ‘There’s been no suggestion of opening an orange file on you. We’re simply trying to get at the truth. You should be more keen than anyone that we do that.’
‘Then try this one on for size,’ I said. ‘Suppose everything is the way I say it is – and so far you’ve produced nothing to prove I’m wrong – and suppose my slow way of enrolling Stinnes is the best way. Then perhaps there are people in the department who’d like to see my attempt to enrol Stinnes fail.’ I paused to let the words sink in. ‘Suppose those people hope that, by hurrying me along and interfering with what I do, they’ll keep Stinnes where he is on the other side.’
‘Let me hear that again,’ said Bret. His voice was hard and unyielding.
‘You heard what I said, Bret. If Stinnes goes into London Debriefing Centre in the way I want him to go there – relaxed and cooperative – he’ll sing. I’m telling you that there might be people, not a thousand miles from here, who are not musically inclined.’
‘It’s worth thinking about, Bret,’ said Frank. I had voiced what Frank had already said to me in Berlin. He looked at me and gave an almost imperceptible wink.
‘You’re not including me?’ Bret said.
‘I don’t know, Bret. Talk it over with your analyst. I only deal in facts.’
‘No one is trying to muzzle you, wise guy,’ said Bret. He was talking directly to me now, as if there was no one else in the room.
‘You could have fooled me, Bret. The way I was hearing it, I’d handled the Stinnes enrolment with fumbling incompetence. People are throwing money at him, without even keeping me informed. I’d begun to think that perhaps I was not doing this exactly the way you wanted it done.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ said Bret.
‘You listen to me, Bret old buddy,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to you any way I choose to talk. Because I’m the file officer on the Stinnes investigation. And, just in case you’ve forgotten, we have an old-fashioned system in this department; once an agent is assigned to a file he has full powers of decision. And he continues with his task until he closes the file or hands it over. Either way he does it of his own volition. Now you put me here in the hot seat and rig this kangaroo court to intimidate me. But I’ve been over there where intimidation is done by experts. So you don’t frighten me, Bret. You don’t frighten me at all. And if this pantomime was staged to make me abandon the Stinnes file it’s been a waste of time. I’ll get Stinnes. And he’ll come back here and talk like a rescued castaway.’
They were embarrassed at my outburst. The lower ranks must not complain. That was something any decent school taught a chap in his first term. Frank coughed, Morgan tipped his head back to look at the ceiling, Tiptree stroked his hair, and Dicky had all his fingers arrayed along the edge of the table, selecting one to make a meal from.
‘But if anyone present thinks the Stinnes file should be taken away from me, now is the time to stand up and say so.’ I waited. Bret looked at me and smiled derisively. No one spoke.
I stood up and said, ‘Then I’ll take it as unanimously agreed that I remain file officer. And now I’m leaving you gentlemen to write up the minutes of this meeting any way you like, but don’t ask me to sign them. If you want me during the next few minutes I’ll be with the D-G. I’m exercising my rights under another old-fashioned rule of this department; the right to report directly to the Director-General on matters of vital concern to the service.’
Bret started to get to his feet. I said, ‘Don’t see me out, Bret. And don’t try to head me off from seeing the old man. I made the appointment this morning and he’s waiting for me right now.’
I’d got as far as the door before Bret recovered himself enough to think of a rejoinder. ‘You’d better get Stinnes,’ he said. ‘You screw up on Stinnes and I’ll have you working as a file clerk in Registry.’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘I’ve always wanted to read through the senior staff’s personal files.’
I took a deep breath when I got out in the corridor. I’d escaped the belly of the whale, but there was still a rough sea.
The meeting with the D-G was the sort of civilized formality that any meeting with him always was. I wasn’t, of course, reporting anything of vital concern to the service. I was just imposing on the D-G’s goodwill in order to say hello to him. I always tried to have an important appointment to escape to when I suspected that a meeting would go on too long.
His room was dim and smelled of leather chairs and dusty books that were piled upon them. The D-G sat by the window behind a small desk crowded with family photos, files, trays of paperwork and long-forgotten cups of tea. It was like entering some old Egyptian tomb to chat with an affable mummy.
‘Of course I remember you,’ said the D-G. ‘Your father, Silas Gaunt, was Controller (Europe) when I first came here.’
‘No, Silas Gaunt is a distant relative but only by marriage,’ I said. ‘My father was Colonel Samson; Berlin Resident when Silas was Controller (Europe).’
The D-G nodded vaguely. ‘Controller (Europe), the Iberian Desk…such ridiculous titles. I’ve always thought we sound like people running the overseas service of the BBC.’ He gave a little chuckle. It was a joke he’d made many times before. ‘And everything is going well, is it?’
The D-G didn’t look like a man who would like to hear that anything was going less than well. I had the feeling that if I implied that all was not going well, the D-G would throw himself through the window without pausing to open it. I suppose everyone had the same protective feeling when talking with the D-G. That’s no doubt why the department was something of a shambles. ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Everything is going very well.’ A brave man, that Bernard Samson, and truthful to a fault.
‘I like to keep in touch with what’s happening,’ said the D-G. ‘That’s why I sent for you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘The wretched doctor won’t let me drink at all. But it doesn’t look as if you’re enjoying that lemon tea. Why don’t you go and pour yourself a decent drink from my cupboard. What was that you said?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’ve all the time in the world,’ said the D-G. ‘I’d love to hear what’s happening in Washington these days.’
‘I’ve been in Berlin, sir. I work on the German Desk.’
‘No matter, no matter. Tell me what’s happening in Berlin. What did you say your
name was again?’
‘Samson, sir. Bernard Samson.’
He looked at me for a long time. ‘Samson, yes, of course. You’ve had this frightful problem about your wife.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mr Harrington explained your difficulties to me. Did he tell you we’re hoping to get some supplementary payment for you?’
‘Yes, sir. That would be most helpful.’
‘Don’t worry about the children. They’ll come to no harm, I guarantee it.’ The D-G smiled. ‘Promise, now. You’ll stop worrying about the children.’
‘Yes, sir. I promise.’
‘Samson. Yes, of course. I’ve always had a knack for remembering names,’ he said.
After leaving the D-G’s office I went into the toilet and found myself sharing a hot-air drier with Frank Harrington.
‘Feeling better now, Bernard?’ he said humorously.
‘Better than I was before? Or better than the people at that meeting of Bret’s?’
‘Oh, you left us in no doubt about that, my dear fellow. You made your superiority more than clear to everyone present. What did you do to the D-G, ask him for his resignation?’ He saw me look round and added. ‘It’s quite all right; there’s no one else here.’
‘I said what needed saying,’ I said defensively.
‘And you said it very well. Bret went home to change his underpants.’
‘That will be the day,’ I said.
‘You underestimate the effect of your passionate outbursts, Bernard. Bret has only himself to blame. Your little dig about a kangaroo court went home. Bret was distressed; he even told us he was distressed. He spent ten minutes singing your praises to convince us all that it wasn’t anything of the kind. But, Bernard, you’re inclined to the overkill.’
‘Is that a warning, Frank?’
‘Advice, Bernard. Advice.’
‘To guard my tongue?’
‘Not at all. I always enjoy your tantrums except when I’m on the receiving end of them. I enjoyed seeing you scare them half to death in there.’
‘Scare them?’
‘Of course. They know how easily you can make a fool of them. Bret still hasn’t forgotten that joke you made about his visit to Berlin last year.’
‘I’ve forgotten what I said.’
‘Well, he hasn’t forgotten. You said he went up the steps at Checkpoint Charlie and looked over the Wall. He didn’t like that, Bernard.’
‘But that’s what he did do. He lined up behind a busload of tourists and went up the steps to look over the Goddamned Wall.’
‘Of course he did. That’s why he didn’t join in the laughter. If Dicky had said it, or anyone else in the office without field experience, it wouldn’t have mattered. But coming from you it caused Bret a loss of dignity; and dignity means a lot to Bret.’ All the time Frank was smiling to show me what a good joke it all was.
‘But?’
‘But one at a time, Bernard, old friend. Don’t antagonize a whole roomful of people all at once. It’s a dangerous sport, old lad. They get together when they have something in common. Just one at a time in future. Right?’
‘Right, Frank.’
‘Your father would have enjoyed that shindig you put on for us. He wouldn’t have approved, of course. Not your father’s style; we both know that. But he would have enjoyed it, Bernard.’
Why did that last remark of Frank’s please me so much? Do we never shed the tyranny of our father’s love?
22
By the time I had finished my day at the office I was not in the right mood to face an aggrieved husband, even a mistakenly aggrieved one. But I’d suggested to George that we had a drink together and it was better to get it over soon. He wanted to meet at the new apartment he’d bought in Mayfair, so I went there directly from the office.
It was a huge place on two floors of a house in Mount Street towards the Hyde Park end. Although I knew that it was still unoccupied. I was unprepared for the bare floorboards and the smell of the newly plastered walls.
George was there already. He was only thirty-six years old but he seemed to do everything he could to make himself appear at least ten years older than that. Born in Poplar, where the River Thames made a mighty loop that was the heart of London’s dockland, he’d left school at fifteen to help support his crippled father. By the time he was twenty-one he was driving a Rolls Royce, albeit an old one he was trying to sell.
George’s small stature contributed to the impression of restless energy as he moved from room to room in short paces, stooping, tapping, measuring and checking everything in sight. He had heavy spectacles that constantly slipped down his nose, wavy hair that was silver grey at the temples, and a large moustache. From his appearance it was easy to believe that his parents were Polish immigrants, but the flattened vowels of his East London accent, and his frequently dropped aitches, always came as a surprise. Sometimes I wondered if he cultivated this cockney voice as some sort of asset for his car deals.
‘Well, there you are, Bernard,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. Very nice.’ He greeted me more like a prospect than like someone he suspected of dalliance with his wife.
‘It’s quite a place you have here, George,’ I said.
‘We’ll go for a drink in a moment. I must get the measuring done before the daylight goes. There’s no juice here yet, see.’ He clicked the electricity switch to prove it.
He was dressed in a flashy dark-blue suit with a pattern of chalk stripes that made him look even shorter than he really was. It was all obviously expensive – the silk shirt and floral Cardin tie, and the black brogue shoes – for George liked everyone to see immediately that he was the poor boy who’d made good. ‘I want to talk to you about Tessa,’ I said.
‘Uh-huh.’ George could make that sound mean anything; ‘yes’, ‘no’ or ‘maybe’. He was measuring the length of the room. ‘Hold that,’ he said, giving me the end of the tape measure to hold against one side of the fireplace. ‘Pale-gold carpet in here,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very elegant,’ I said. I crouched to help him measure the hearth. ‘I’m grateful that you’ve let her help take care of the children while I was away,’ I said in what I thought was a diplomatic approach.
‘She didn’t ask me,’ said George. ‘She never asks me anything. She just does what she wants.’ He wound up the tape suddenly so that it slipped from my fingers.
I stood up. ‘The nanny doesn’t like being alone at night,’ I explained.
George stood up suddenly and stared into my eyes with a pained expression on his face. ‘Five foot six inches,’ he said. He rolled up the last few inches of tape, using the little handle, and then tucked it under his arm while he wrote the measurement on his hand in bright-blue ball-point pen. ‘Do you mind?’ he said. He gave me the end of the tape and was already backing across the room to measure the width of it.
‘I thought I should have a word with you,’ I said.
‘What about?’
‘About Tessa.’ I reached down to hold the end of the tape against the wall. He pulled it taut and peered closely at the tape in the fast-disappearing daylight.
‘What about Tessa?’ said George, writing on his hand again.
‘She’s been sleeping round at my place. I thought I should say thank you.’
He looked at me and gave a wry smile.
‘I like Tessa,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t like you to get the wrong idea.’
‘What idea would be the wrong one?’
‘About me and Tessa,’ I said.
‘Your intentions are strictly honourable, are they?’ said George, pronouncing the aitch as if determined to get it wrong. He walked to the other end of the room and tested a floorboard with his heel. It creaked as he put his weight on it. He pulled a face and then went to the window and looked down into the street. ‘I just like to make sure the car is all right,’ he explained.
‘I don’t have any intentions,’ I said. I was getting irritated wit
h him and I allowed it into my voice.
‘Just talk, is it?’ His voice was only a shade louder, but from the other end of the room it seemed to pick up some echo and was resonant in the large empty room. ‘You and Tessa: you just chat together. Companionship, is it?’
‘Of course we talk,’ I said.
‘Talk about me, I suppose. You give her advice about me, I imagine. How to make our marriage work. That sort of thing.’
‘Sometimes,’ I admitted.
‘Well, that’s worse,’ he said without raising his voice. ‘How would you like it if it was your wife talking to other men about how to handle you? How would you like it, eh?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. Put like that it made me feel bad.
‘I’d rather you jumped into bed with her. A quick impersonal frolic like that can be overlooked.’ He came nearer and stroked the marble fireplace. ‘I put that fireplace in,’ he said. ‘Marble. It came out of a beautiful old house in Bristol.’ Carefully he tested the newly plastered patch on the wall where the antique fireplace had been installed. And then he stepped close to say, ‘But she has the gall to tell me how much she likes talking with you. It’s a bloody cheek, Bernard.’
It was almost as if he was having two conversations with two different people. He turned to stroke the newly prepared wall. In a quieter voice he said, ‘Pale-grey stripes this wallpaper will be, Regency pattern. It will go well with our furniture. Remember that lovely Georgian commode – the serpentine-fronted piece? It’s hidden in the hall now; you can’t get a proper look at it. Well, that’s going in a place of honour, on that far wall. And over it there’ll be an oval mirror – Georgian rococo, a great wreath of gilded leaves – a beautiful piece that I bought at Sotheby’s last week. Original mirror; the frame has been restored, but really well done. I paid a damned sight too much for it but I was bidding against a dealer. I never mind taking anything one bid beyond a dealer. After all, he’s going to mark it up fifty per cent, isn’t he?’
