by Len Deighton
‘I thought I’d proved that on several occasions.’
‘Of course you have. That night when we pulled Fiona out … You were there, Bernard. I don’t have to tell you what happened.’
‘It was a muddle. I grabbed Fiona and drove away.’
‘You killed two of their people, Bernard.’
‘It’s in my report,’ I agreed.
‘And the only copy of that report is under lock and key. I don’t want them to know that you killed those two men. Two senior KGB men. You know what rotters they are, and how they feel about fatalities to their own people. If they ever discover what happened …’ He fixed me with those cold grey eyes that seemed so out of place in that chubby avuncular face. ‘Well, they won’t appoint a defence attorney for you, and warn you that you have the right to silence. I don’t have to tell you what happens, do I?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘And speaking from a purely selfish point of view, there will be hell to pay for us in London if the Stasi people decide your impulsive action was a gratuitous execution. Repercussions I mean. You’ve thought about all this sort of thing, I’m sure.’
‘It has crossed my mind.’
‘Expunge the events of that night from your memory. There is nothing on paper to say you were ever on that section of Autobahn. You and your wife were in a diplomatic vehicle with bogus diplomatic passports. At this end you were picked up in an army car and put on to an RAF transport to go to America. All without names. There is no document anywhere that places you at the site of the shooting that night. I suggest you never admit it. That you never talk about it or even think about it. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You always do that, Silas.’
‘It’s you I’m concerned about, Bernard. The Department would no doubt weather a storm of that sort, as it has weathered such storms before. It’s always the individuals who suffer.’
‘Thanks, Silas.’
‘Just forget the whole business. And forget the Kent family. Go to Fiona tonight and tell her how much you love her. Everyone in the Department wishes you well. Both of you. You know that, I’m sure. Me especially.’
‘Thanks, Silas.’
‘Fiona came out A-1 in the medical. You were pleased to hear that, I’m sure.’
‘I didn’t know,’ I said truthfully.
‘It was better that she was re-engaged and went through the regular enlistment procedures. Yes, A-1. Mind you, she’s not the little girl we used to know.’ He paused. ‘The medical examiner thinks she would benefit from a few sessions with the psychiatrist. She became a bit angry at that suggestion: you know how touchy ladies can be?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course you do. But she might change her mind. It would be much better if she did unwind with a psychiatrist. We have a top chap we regularly use: Harley Street specialist and all that rigmarole.’ In a gesture combining friendly concern and authority, he grabbed my upper arm and clutched it tightly. ‘I want you to watch her closely, Bernard. I don’t mean spy on her, but if she needs help of that sort, you are to contact me immediately.’
‘You are very kind, Silas,’ I said. I pulled away from his grasp and wondered who were the ‘we’ who regularly used this top chap in Harley Street.
He gave a deep sigh. ‘She’ll soon be herself again. But meanwhile it frightens me to think she might go unburdening herself to some little doctor man she’s gone to consult on account of not sleeping well. The Departmental secrets she holds in her head …’ He shook his head, as if thinking about that was too much to bear.
‘Damn you, Silas,’ I said without raising my voice. ‘And damn your shrink, and your bloody medical examiner. Can’t you think of anything but the Department and its bloody secrets? How many has it got left by now? I should think its secrets could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Fiona will never be herself again. Never, do you hear me? You sent her out there; you and Bret and the D-G and all the rest of you unfeeling bastards. And she’s come back crippled. I know her better than anyone and I can tell you categorically: she will never be well again.’
He looked at me and sniffed. I had gone too far. ‘Yes, well perhaps you are right, Bernard.’ He wouldn’t argue with me; that was a privilege reserved for equals. I was no more than the son of a colleague; someone to be indulged.
‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘And another mistake you make is in thinking that Kent owes us a favour for bringing him out of Hungary. A more careful scrutiny of the record would reveal that he worked for us for a long time in Hungary. Damned dangerous work: we put newly arrived agents through his surgery so that he could positively identify them by means of their dental chart. It couldn’t last: they were all going through that surgery. Eventually one of them was bound to be captured and talk. Kent was taken into custody and given the full treatment. They arrested his brother first – there was the confusion of the family name – and the brother didn’t survive the first questioning in the police station. Kent cut his way out, through the floor of a communist prison van, and escaped. He was on the run for two weeks. Then we brought him out.’
‘Perhaps I was misinformed.’ He smiled. He was a wonderful actor: the smile he gave was warm and friendly, as if he’d not heard anything I’d said. ‘I’m off then.’ He patted the belly of his knitted pullover and stifled a belch.
‘David thought you were staying.’
‘The roads are very quiet at night, and it’s Sunday tomorrow. I like to have Sundays in my own home.’ He searched his pockets to find a dented spectacle case. The cloth covering had completely worn away, so that its bared metalwork had become shiny like a bar of polished silver. After putting his glasses on, he snapped the case closed. ‘Sorry to have missed the children. Bring them to see me some time.’ He picked up his coat.
‘Thank you. I will.’
He thrust an arm into the coat, raised it into the air and, with me tugging at it, dragged the garment on to his bulky form. ‘There was some talk about everyone going to church tomorrow. I’ll be sorry to miss that of course.’
‘I’ll say a prayer for you.’
‘Would you, Bernard?’ He reached for his floppy hat and put it on carelessly. ‘I’d really appreciate that.’
After watching the lights of Silas Gaunt’s Range Rover disappear into the distance I went up to our assigned bedroom, ‘the pink room’. Fiona was sitting up reading. She had a whisky and water on the table by her side. Such was Fiona’s most cherished time of the day: reading in bed with a drink at her side. Buddenbrooks: Verfall einer Familie, carried along with a pocket-sized German dictionary upon which her glass was now standing. She was working her way through the great German literature. Bret had compiled a list for her; he fancied himself as a connoisseur of German culture.
‘What did Uncle Silas want?’ she asked. As if suddenly remembering the whisky, she picked it up and took a sip. Hardly any of it had been consumed. She didn’t really need the whisky: she just preferred to have it at her side. She was like that about the German dictionary too. She was like that about a lot of things, including me perhaps.
‘The usual bullshit,’ I said. She looked at me as if such sentiments about Uncle Silas offended her. But she didn’t respond. She went back to Buddenbrooks while I undressed. She had even remembered to pack my new pyjamas.
‘Why did Uncle Silas come here?’ she asked eventually, without looking up from her book.
‘Your father invited him to dinner.’
‘Yes, I asked Daddy about that. He hasn’t seen Uncle Silas for almost ten years. He says Silas phoned and invited himself, then said he couldn’t come, and then changed his mind again.’
I went to wash and clean my teeth. When I returned I said: ‘What’s it about then? Did Silas want to see your father?’
‘No. I was downstairs when he first arrived. I opened the door to him, and was with him while he had a drink with Mummy and chatted with Daddy. He took me in to dinner. Then after dinner, when the others were leaving, he went upstairs a
nd I heard you ask him if you could have a word with him.’
‘You’ve kept tabs on him very efficiently, darling,’ I said. It was a joke, but Fiona had to rebut it.
‘Of course not. I was dressed and ready before you were, so I went downstairs. Perhaps Silas just wanted to visit Daddy and Mummy again; they are family. He obviously didn’t want to say anything in particular to anyone.’
‘Obviously,’ I agreed.
She looked at me, as together we reached the only possible conclusion about why Silas wanted to come here. ‘What did he say to you just now?’
‘Nothing I haven’t heard a million times before,’ I said. ‘Keep the faith, keep the secrets, keep hard at work.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Forget the past, and the usual claptrap about keeping my head down when I’m in the East.’
‘Perhaps he simply wanted to avoid the rubber chicken at the convention dinner,’ said Fiona.
‘There was no antique dealers’ convention in Guildford,’ I said. ‘I checked it this afternoon; I phoned. I thought an antiques show might be an amusing outing for us. There was no antique show. Silas made a special journey to be here.’
I looked at her and waited for a reaction, but she made none. She continued reading for a moment and then, keeping the place on the page with her finger, she said: ‘Doesn’t Weib also mean wife?’
‘Only in the Bible and other fancy writing. Or “old wives’ tale” – die Altweibergeschichte.’ I pulled back the duvet and climbed between the sheets.
She read on to the bottom of the page, put a marker in and put Buddenbrooks on the bedside table. I suppose her question had been a way of changing the subject, she was adept at that.
As she settled her head on the pillow I said: ‘It might be better to let Tessa be buried over there.’
‘Darling. How could you say such a thing?’ She was very calm and seemed ready to talk sensibly about it.
‘Bringing her back will simply get everyone hysterical,’ I said.
She grunted.
‘George will ask for a post-mortem,’ I persisted. ‘Or your father will. You can see that coming a mile off.’
‘I don’t want any part of it.’
‘You were there, Fiona.’
As if in answer she reached for the master switch on the bed-head and turned off all the lights. The room was in darkness, apart from a trace of light filtering through the curtains from somewhere down in the grounds. I turned on to my face and tried to go to sleep. I left everything unspoken. I really didn’t know what construction Fiona put on the events of that night, but I knew that bringing Tessa’s body back to England would tear the family apart and I wasn’t sure Fiona could handle that amount of family discord.
‘You didn’t want to read?’
‘No,’ I said.
I didn’t go to sleep. I was thinking of everything that had been said. Sometimes it’s better to leave things unsaid; once spoken, ideas start hardening and eventually become memories. It was a long time afterwards when she spoke again. Her voice startled me, for I had felt sure she was asleep.
‘What was she like, Bernard?’ Fiona said suddenly and without warning. ‘Was she like me?’
‘Don’t let’s talk about it.’
‘We have to talk about it. I lie awake all night thinking of her in bed with you.’
‘Well, take sleeping tablets,’ I said, and then regretted my short temper. In measured words I said: ‘It was a situation of your making, darling. Your choice, your plan, your decision. I was totally unprepared for it. My dismay and consternation were a vital part of the plan. Don’t blame me because it worked so well.’
‘Were you in love with her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you in love with her still?’
‘No, no, no.’
‘Did you tell her you were in love with her?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t remember. It’s all in the past.’
‘It’s not the past for me, Bernard.’
‘Fiona, it’s all over between me and Gloria. She’s not a bad person; and I wish you’d accept that she had no animosity towards you or anyone else.’
‘I loathe her,’ said Fiona. ‘She’s determined to get you back. You know that don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t know that. Neither do you.’
‘She’s young, and young people have instinctive cunning.’
‘You should try Uncle Silas.’
‘Of course you are flattered by having a young girl’s attentions, and a loyal wife too. Why shouldn’t you be? You’re human.’
I counted to ten, debating whether to ask her if she’d been unfailing in her marriage vows. Then I said: ‘If you keep on putting us both through the wringer, everything we cherish will drain away.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Bernard.’
‘There is no threat. You are destroying yourself with all this unfounded jealousy and suspicion and hatred.’
She sighed. ‘They are my children, Bernard.’
‘No, Fiona,’ I said. ‘They are our children. And soon they won’t be children any more; they will be grown-up people. They’ll be asking us both questions that might be difficult to answer without telling them they were relegated to a lower priority than our work. This possessiveness towards them, and your possessiveness towards me, is unnatural. And it’s eating you up.’
‘They are my children,’ she said. ‘And I can’t have any more.’
‘How do you know?’ I asked. There was something in her voice that told me what she was about to say. ‘How can you say that with such assurance?’
‘I saw my gynaecologist on Thursday. He’s doing tests and so on. But he said it would be unwise.’
‘I’m sorry, Fi.’
‘You’re sorry?’ she laughed bitterly. ‘What the hell do you care? I thought you’d be delighted.’
I felt the movement of the bed-springs as she moved as far away from me as she could. I suppose I should have reached out and comforted her, but I didn’t. I hadn’t sufficient emotion to be able to spare any for Fiona.
Right now my mind was filled with anger at the realization that I’d played right into the hands of Uncle Silas. His reputation for being the most cunning and devious man the Department had ever had would not be eroded by the way he’d handled me tonight. He’d gone through an elaborate scenario to come here, bare his long fangs, and tell me to back off. Had I not gone racing upstairs after him, he might have been forced to take me aside and bully me back in line. But Silas knew me, and knew I’d want a private word. I had to bury my head deep in my pillow in order to block out the sound of him laughing his head off.
12
I ordered a car to collect me from the office at 6.30 p.m. but it had still not arrived at 6.45, and I was standing in the bitterly cold underground car park, marching round on the concrete in circles, trying to keep my blood circulating. Somewhere out of sight, at the far side of the floor, I could hear an engine turning over repeatedly but showing a melancholy disinclination to spark and start. Finally I walked along to see who it was.
It was Gloria. She had the car hood open and was bending over the engine of a little Peugeot 205. She flipped the starter motor and cursed to herself when the motor didn’t catch. As she heard my footsteps approaching, she stood up straight and looked at me. She had taken off her suede coat but her big fluffy fur hat was still on her head and there was a furious scowl on her face.
‘Bernard. Is your car on the blink too?’ She was in sweater and skirt, and now she rubbed her arms to warm up.
‘I’m waiting for a car from the pool.’
‘Transport have some kind of crisis. Everyone had trouble getting a car today.’
‘Can I use your cell phone?’ I asked her.
‘Haven’t you got your own?’
‘Dicky says phones are only for staff permanently assigned to the London roster. That’s why I haven’t got a proper office or a secretary.’
‘Poor B
ernard,’ she said, without sounding too concerned. ‘I don’t carry my phone any more. I left it in a pub last week. I was so relieved to get it back that I’ve locked it up in my desk ever since.’
‘Damn.’
‘They make you pay for them if they are lost. Fifty-five pounds.’
‘Shall I try it?’ I said, getting into the driving seat of the Peugeot. I could guess what had happened. When she had her souped-up Mini she was always flooding the carburettor. ‘Just leave it alone for a couple of minutes,’ I said. I could never make her understand that you could have too much petrol. I could never make her understand that you could have too much anything. I suppose that’s what had appealed to me when I first met her. She had a childlike determination to prove the truth of Oscar Wilde’s axiom that nothing succeeds like excess.
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ she offered.
‘I haven’t got it going yet.’
‘You will, Bernard. Cars seem to like you.’ She got her coat and put it back on.
After a suitable interval I turned the key and, with a couple of hesitant coughs, it roared into life. I stabbed the pedal to make sure the juice was flowing and then let the engine tick over as I got out of the car.
‘Wonderful!’ she yelled and clapped her hands. ‘Jump in, Bernard. Where do you want to go?’
‘I’ll wait for the car I ordered.’
‘Oh, yes? You’ll be here all night.’ She got into the car and switched the lights on.
I weakened as I saw that my sole chance of escape was about to disappear. ‘Maybe I’ll ride along with you until we spot a cab.’ I climbed into the Peugeot beside her.
‘Bayswater any good?’ she asked, driving at a hundred miles an hour to the ticket machine, raising the barrier and going up the slope with a scream of burning rubber. She plunged into the evening traffic without hesitation while using one splayed hand to discover if the heater was dispensing warmth.
‘You look like hell, Bernard. What have you been doing over the weekend?’ She grinned wolfishly.
