Mexico Set

by Len Deighton

  ‘As one pro to another, Erich, let me admit to you that these jobs make me nervous. You will not be armed; understand? I will be armed. And the moment I see any sign of KGB heavies, or any other evidence of a stake-out, I will blow a hole in you so big that daylight will shine through you from the other side. No offence, Erich, but I felt it better to tell you that in advance.’

  ‘As one pro to another,’ said Stinnes with more than a trace of sarcasm, ‘I appreciate your frankness.’ He wasn’t looking at me as he spoke. He was looking right through the open doors of the workshop to where a jeep had stopped in the street. There were three military policemen in it, all wearing US-army-style equipment complete with helmets painted white. One of the MPs climbed out of the jeep and came through into the yard where we were parked. He stared right at us for a long time. Stinnes stopped talking until the MP turned round and went back inside. We watched him go into the large crate that Angel used as an office. The outside of the crate was covered in girlie pictures, calendars and travel posters; one said, ‘Sheraton Hotels let you move to the rhythm of Latin America.’

  After a few minutes the military policeman reappeared, buttoning his top pocket. He grinned to his driver as the jeep drove away.

  ‘It’s the same everywhere in this town. Cops even prey on the cabs taking the tourists to the airport,’ I said. ‘Everyone pays off.’

  Stinnes looked at his watch to see how long it would be before Werner returned. He said, ‘You realize how much you need my goodwill, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘London Central want to know one thing above all else. They want to know if you are Moscow’s man. If I say “yes” you’ll be finished.’

  ‘If you say I’m Moscow’s man, they will discover you are lying,’ I said calmly.

  ‘Perhaps they would; perhaps they wouldn’t.’

  ‘The debriefing panel are not stupid,’ I said, with more conviction than I truly felt. ‘They don’t use thumbscrews or electric prodders or even a bread-and-water diet, but they’ll discover the truth.’

  ‘Eventually, perhaps. But that might come too late to do you any good.’

  ‘They won’t take me out and shoot me,’ I said.

  ‘No, they won’t. But you’d be removed from your job and discredited. If they cleared you afterwards you wouldn’t be rehabilitated and reinstated.’

  ‘If I thought this was all a KGB plot to discredit me, I’d kill you now, Stinnes.’

  ‘That would make matters worse for you. If I was killed, you would immediately be suspected. Your position would be worse than having me slander you. With me alive you could argue against me, but London Central would see my dead body as convincing proof of your guilt.’

  ‘Is that how it looks to you?’

  ‘It’s how it is,’ said Stinnes. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Did my wife arrange the death of the boy at Bosham?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to know.’

  ‘He recognized her.’

  ‘But did she kill him?’

  ‘Your wife? Of course not.’

  ‘Did she authorize it?’

  ‘No, it was a local decision. Your wife was not consulted.’

  I looked at him, trying to see into his brain. ‘You’d say that anyway,’ I said.

  I could see by his face that he could not be bothered to discuss the matter. But then he seemed to realize that from now onwards he might have to get used to doing things our way. ‘Pavel Moskvin, one of my people, was trying to make himself famous.’

  ‘By murdering one of our junior staff?’

  ‘Moskvin was using my name; he was in England impersonating me. He got the idea that MacKenzie was you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He knows nothing about you, except your name and that you wanted to get into contact with me. He was in England on a routine task; he was no more than a back-up for your wife’s team. But, when MacKenzie arrived, Moskvin couldn’t resist it. He pretended he was me.’

  ‘What a fiasco,’ I said.

  ‘Moskvin is a meddling fool. He thinks it’s all so easy. Finally he killed your man rather than have to report what a mess he’d made of everything. No, your wife was not involved. Your wife is furious about it.’ A workman wheeled a trailer pump from the shop and started the motor. It made a loud thumping sound until the pressure built up. Then the man began to spray a car door. The spray gun hissed loudly as clouds of pink paint came rolling across the yard.

  ‘You came here after the Volkmanns arrived, didn’t you?’

  ‘I told her you’d guess that. Chronology is always the first element of deduction.’

  ‘The Volkmanns arrived here, and then you came and let them discover you here.’

  ‘Your wife was sure her scheme would make you run.’

  ‘Was she?’ I had my doubts about whether she’d discuss such things with Stinnes, or with anyone else. It was not Fiona’s style.

  ‘She thought London Central would be flaying you alive by now. Instead you seem to have talked your way out of trouble there. And instead of you fleeing East I am coming West. It will be a double defeat for her, and there are people in Moscow who’ll not allow her to escape without blame. She will have within her an anger that only women know. She will take revenge upon you, Samson. I would not like to be in your shoes when she seeks retribution.’

  ‘You win some; you lose some.’ I could smell the paint now. It had that acrid taste of cheap boiled sweets that all such quick-drying paints have.

  ‘You say that because you are a man,’ said Stinnes.

  ‘I say it because I’m a pro. Just as you are one, and just as my wife is. Professionals don’t take revenge; they have enough trouble doing their job.’

  ‘You may be a good agent,’ said Stinnes. ‘But you have a lot to learn about women.’

  ‘The only thing a man has to know about women is that he’ll never know anything about them. Now let me back up the car before the radiator goes pink.’

  I started up the car and moved it out of the way of the mad spray-man. Stinnes said, ‘Are you still in love with your wife?’

  ‘No,’ I said. I was getting fed up with everyone concerning themselves about how much I loved Fiona. ‘Are you still in love with Mrs Volkmann?’ I retorted.

  Stinnes was startled. His head moved as if I’d given him a slap in the face.

  ‘You’d better tell me,’ I said. ‘It could have a bearing on the enrolment.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Have you arranged to go to England with Mrs Volkmann?’

  ‘She arranged it. Your people approved.’

  ‘Did they, by God.’

  ‘She told them it must be a condition. I am in love with her. And she’s in love with me.’

  ‘Are you serious, Erich?’

  ‘I love her. Have you never been in love?’

  ‘Not with Zena Volkmann.’

  ‘Don’t try to change anything. It’s too late now. We’re going to start a new life together in England. If you tell her husband or try to interfere I will not go ahead.’

  ‘You must be a bloody fool,’ I said. ‘A man like you, listening to the sweet talk of a little chiseller like Zena Volkmann. She wants to get her hands on the money. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘It’s my business,’ he said peevishly.

  ‘Your fight with your wife…her bruised face. Was that something to do with Zena Volkmann? You didn’t punch her in the face just to make it all look right, did you?’

  ‘When I told Inge there was another woman she became hysterical. I didn’t want to hurt her but she tried to kill me. She had a metal poker.’ He sighed. ‘Zena said I must tell her. Zena insisted upon a clean break. Otherwise, she said, Inge might keep trying to find me. This way, perhaps she’ll forget me and marry again.’

  ‘You didn’t tell your wife that you were going to defect?’

  ‘I am in love, but I am not insane. No, of course I didn’t tell her.’
r />   ‘Then stay sane about Zena too,’ I said. ‘I’ll give Zena a ticket to London, for the flight after yours. You make sure you arrive alone on Friday. Or I’ll have to get rid of Zena the hard way.’

  Stinnes seemed not to take my threat seriously. He said, ‘I suppose every tourist going to London wants to see 221B Baker Street.’

  ‘What’s in Baker Street?’ I said. But even before I’d finished saying it I recognized it as the fictitious address of Sherlock Holmes. ‘Oh, yes, of course. We’ll go along there together,’ I promised.

  ‘It’s something I’ve always wanted to see,’ said Stinnes. But before he could get started about Holmes, Werner arrived in Stinnes’s car. He got out, leaving the door open, and walked over to us.

  ‘Are you finished?’ said Werner. ‘Or do you want me to give you a little more time?’

  Stinnes looked at me. I said, ‘We’re all through, Werner.’

  As Stinnes got out of the car he touched his forehead in a salutation. ‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ he said, with more than a trace of mockery in his voice. I noticed the way he’d abruptly introduced the subject of Sherlock Holmes; he hadn’t promised not to bring Zena with him.

  ‘Sayonara,’ I said. I still didn’t know what to make of him.

  ‘What’s biting you?’ said Werner as he got into the car alongside me. I looked in the mirror until Stinnes had got into his car and driven away. Then I gave Werner the Russian passport to look at. ‘Holy Christ,’ said Werner.

  ‘Yes, they were going to snatch me.’

  ‘And Stinnes prevented it?’

  ‘He’s bound to want the credit,’ I said. ‘They might just have dropped it in favour of other plans.’

  ‘London would have thought you’d gone voluntarily,’ said Werner. ‘It’s a smart idea.’

  ‘Yes, Moscow are having a lot of smart ideas about me lately.’

  ‘Fiona, you mean?’

  ‘It’s tempting to think it’s all coming from her,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to become obsessed about it.’

  ‘Did he say anything about Zena?’ said Werner.

  ‘We’ve been all through that, Werner. You make sure Zena is kept busy on Friday. You tell her nothing is planned and you’re flying her to Acapulco for a long weekend and swim and get a tan. Send her off on her own on Friday morning so you can be my back-up at the airport on Friday night. Then fly out on the late plane to join her.’

  ‘She won’t fall for that, Bernie. She knows it’s getting close.’

  ‘You convince her that you both could do with a couple of days off. Make it sound right, Werner. You know what this one means to me. I need Stinnes in London.’

  ‘And I need Zena here with me,’ said Werner grimly.

  ‘Stinnes thinks Zena is eloping with him.’

  ‘Eloping?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I said.

  ‘Zena is just stringing him along,’ said Werner. ‘She’s trying to help you, Bernie.’

  ‘She’s bloody devious, Werner. She’s your wife, I know. But she’s too bloody devious.’

  Werner didn’t deny it. ‘She’s seen that man Tiptree,’ said Werner.

  ‘Seen him?’

  ‘That’s where she went this afternoon when we were talking. She went to meet Henry Tiptree. She told me when she got back.’

  ‘What are London playing at?’ I said wearily.

  ‘Why put up with it?’ said Werner. ‘Why don’t you go and see Tiptree? Tell him to either take over the whole operation or stay out of it.’

  ‘I thought of that, Werner,’ I said. ‘But Tiptree is sure to say he’ll take over. And we both know that Tiptree might well make a botch of it. I’m convinced that Erich Stinnes is serious. If he turns up on Friday I’ll deliver him to the bloody plane; at gunpoint if necessary. I’ll get him to London or die in the attempt. If I hand it over to Tiptree, and it all goes wrong, London will say I deliberately abandoned the operation because I didn’t want Stinnes debriefed in London.’

  Werner turned away from me and wound down the window as if suddenly interested in something else. He was avoiding my eyes. I suppose he was upset at the prospect of losing Zena.

  ‘Zena’s not going anywhere with Stinnes,’ I promised him. ‘You’ll be at the airport, Werner. You can stop her if she tries.’ He didn’t reply. I started up the car and turned round in the yard. Then I drove through the workshop. The flashes of the acetylene torch lit up the wrecked cars like the flashguns of a thousand paparazzi. Outside a blue-and-white police car was parked. The driver was inside talking to Angel.

  26

  Garibaldi Square is to Mexican musicians what the Galapagos Archipelago is to wildlife. Even in the small hours of the night the square was crowded with people and the air was filled with the sound of two or three dozen groups singing and playing different songs. There is no pop, rock, soul or punk to be heard; no Elvis, no Beatles, no Elton John. This is Mexican music and, if you don’t like it, you can go somewhere else.

  ‘I’ve only been here before in the morning. I had no idea what it was really like. It’s fantastic,’ said Henry Tiptree, as we walked past five musicians in serapes and sombreros singing ‘…life is worth nothing in Guanajuato’. Tiptree halted for a moment to listen. ‘It’s not even spoiled by tourists; almost everyone here is Mexican.’

  ‘It’s right for what we want,’ I said. ‘It’s ill-lit, noisy and crowded.’ And smelly too. Trapped by the surrounding mountains, the still air was pressed down upon the city, trapping the petrol fumes and woodsmoke so that the air offended the nose and stung the eyes.

  ‘I’m not working against you, Samson,’ said Henry Tiptree suddenly.

  ‘If you say so,’ I said. Tiptree stopped to look around the square. There was music coming from every direction, and yet the effect was polyphony rather than discord. Or was I becoming inured to chaos?

  Tiptree continued to look round the square. He fingered the moustache that never seemed to grow, and spoke with that sort of confidential manner that people use to assert their self-importance. ‘You must understand,’ he said, ‘that the success of this operation will be measured according to whether we get our man to London; nothing else counts for much. That’s why London Central is determined that we do everything right.’

  ‘We all are,’ I said. ‘But who knows best what’s right?’

  ‘Very philosophical,’ said Tiptree flatly.

  ‘I am very philosophical,’ I said. ‘You get philosophical after London Central screws up for you a few times.’

  ‘London Central have confirmed that I’m in charge,’ said Tiptree. ‘I want that understood before we go a step further. You will take Stinnes to London, but here in the city we’re doing things my way.’

  ‘You’re in charge,’ I agreed. London Central? Who’d put this idiot in charge? Dicky? Bret? Morgan, perhaps. Tiptree seemed to be on very good terms with Morgan, the D-G’s factotum, who could have caught the D-G in a weak moment and got a signature from him.

  Tiptree shot me a suspicious glance. He knew my glib pledge counted for little or nothing. I didn’t risk my neck taking orders from learners. He stopped to watch another group of musicians. They were singing a song about a man who’d lost his heart to a girl from Veracruz. The men were illuminated by a hissing acetylene lamp placed at their feet. The lead singer – a very old man with a face like a walnut and a bandido moustache – had a fine bass voice that was racked with emotion. There is a passionate soul in every Mexican, so that love or revolution dominates his whole being; but only for a few minutes at a time.

  ‘What have you arranged about his money?’ I asked.

  From the corner of my eye I could see that Tiptree was looking at me, trying to decide how to answer. ‘Mrs Volkmann is meeting us at the bank,’ he said finally. ‘Stinnes wants the money paid to her.’

  Only with a great effort did I prevent myself from jumping up and down and shrieking with rage. This idiot was keeping Zena better informed than me. But very calmly I sai
d, ‘What bank is open in Garibaldi Square at this hour?’

  ‘So there are things that even you don’t know, eh, Samson?’

  He went along the pavement to find a pulqueria where even the barman looked drunk. The fermenting sap of the maguey plant smells like rancid nut-oil, but it’s the cheapest way to oblivion, and like so many such bars this one was packed. After pushing his way between the customers right to the very back, Tiptree opened a door and held it for me. I followed him into a narrow hallway, then he started to go up a steep flight of creaking stairs.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to look around. There was only a dim electric bulb to illuminate a passage that led out to the the backyard and the urinals. ‘Where are we going?’ My voice echoed as I closed the door behind me. The customers in the bar were kicking up so much noise that I could only faintly hear the music from Garibaldi Square. There was a lot about this place that I didn’t like.

  ‘I’m meeting Stinnes in the square,’ I protested.

  ‘Don’t be so nervous,’ said Tiptree. ‘The plan has been changed. Stinnes knows.’ He smiled to reassure me, but it only made me see what a conceited fool he was. He knew how much I resented this change of plan and the way that Zena had already been made a party to it. ‘It’s all arranged.’

  I touched the butt of the old pistol to be sure it was still there and then followed him up the narrow stairs. Rat-trap, fire-trap, mantrap; it was the sort of place I didn’t like at any time. But I especially didn’t like it for this sort of business. Narrow stairway with a wide well, so that a man with a Saturday-night special at the top of the house could plink an army one by one.

  Tiptree stopped on the first-floor landing. There was just enough light to see that the door looked new. It was the only new-looking object anywhere in sight. He pressed the buzzer and waited for a small panel to open. It provided someone inside with a view of Tiptree’s Eton tie. But he bent lower to see inside and whispered something that resulted in the sound of well-oiled bolts being slid back.

  ‘I don’t like surprises,’ I told Tiptree. ‘I arranged to meet Stinnes in the square.’