by Len Deighton
‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘Why wasn’t this destroyed?’
‘Destroy it now,’ I offered. I didn’t say there were plenty more where that came from, I let him figure that out for himself. He had worked for us, been paid well for his services, and now he could not deny it.
‘Get out,’ he said.
‘I’m not getting out until we’ve had a proper talk.’
‘I said get out!’
‘Not yet, Madame Xavier,’ I said.
His face froze in horror and he got to his feet and began moving about in that restless way that is a symptom of sudden shock. I hadn’t fully anticipated the profound effect that my visit was likely to have upon Fedosov. He’d kept his secret for half a lifetime. Comfortably settled in his Berlin apartment – accommodation of infinite luxury by the standards of the East – he was using his ill-gotten nest-egg to furnish himself with all the little comforts that the despicable West could offer. Suddenly a bombshell had been thrown into his world. I had arrived, not just with an accusation, but with a signed piece of cardboard that had been wrenched from his shameful past.
I had not allowed for the old man’s distress, his anger and his desperate resource. He went to the other room and I heard him busy in the kitchen, as if making coffee. I was sitting with my back to him when he came up behind me. I was expecting a hand on my shoulder, and the opening words of an angry scene. I was not prepared for the strength of the blow he delivered with some hard and heavy object. He hit me on the side of the head and the pain was awful. I clutched my head and toppled forward to fall into the stacked flower-pots and bags of plant food that were under the bench. My weight caused the bench to collapse, and all the potted plants arrayed upon it slid to the floor with a resounding crash. I blacked out for a moment, and I think the way that I remained full-length on the floor, eyes closed and limbs still, made the old man think his blow had killed me.
I tried to open my eyes. I could see his feet as he backed away from me, treading the spilled earth and broken pieces of cacti into the carpet. ‘Bastard!’ he called again and his voice revealed his fears. ‘Bastard!’ he said again as if it was a plea to some jury that was pronouncing on his unprovoked assault. ‘You deserved it. You deserved it.’
I couldn’t see properly, or hear properly either. My head was too filled with pain to leave much room for thinking. I wanted to stay where I was on the floor and be left alone until suppertime.
I heard the sound of him lifting the phone and dialling. ‘Andrey? This is your father,’ he said when the connection was made. ‘I’ve had a visitor. The Englander. The one you know about. I hit him; I think he’s dead.’ There was a silence and then his son at the other end must have said that it was better for them to speak Russian, because the old man said it all again in Russian. Before ringing off, the old man said ‘As quick as you can then’ in German and I guessed that VERDI was on his way. ‘Goodbye.’
Until that moment I had been hanging on to consciousness, but the finality of the farewell seemed to make my resolution dissolve. I floated for a moment and then drifted slowly upwards into darkness.
15
I don’t know how long it was before I was aware that my father was standing over me. He was wearing a fur coat and a fur hat. He had a stethoscope hanging loose around his neck. ‘His pulse is strong,’ my father said in German with a powerful Berlin accent. ‘I think he’s coming round. Look, his eyes are opening.’
It was not my father. He didn’t even look like him except for the moustache. A voice belonging to someone out of sight said: ‘Will he need stitches?’
‘No. It’s not bleeding very much. It’s in his hair. The scar won’t notice. He’s got lots of scar tissue already.’
I was full-length on a sofa in the inner room. They must have carried me there. Far away I could see the room in which we’d been sitting. The light filtering through the plants in the window was green and shadowy. My head hurt; it really hurt.
‘Are you in pain?’ asked the man with the stethoscope. I tried to answer but no words came. ‘He’s not in pain,’ he said, with that robust stoicism with which physicians confront their patients’ suffering.
‘Thanks, doctor,’ said a man I could not see. ‘Can he hear me?’ It was VERDI’s voice.
‘I don’t know. He’s not fully conscious but he’ll be all right. He’s not badly hurt; just concussed.’
The second man came nearer. It was VERDI. I would have recognized that voice anywhere. ‘Can you hear me, Samson?’ It was a loud domineering voice suited for addressing the infirm and demented. ‘Nod if you can hear me.’
The hell with you, VERDI. Your father has already tried to beat my head in. Nod it and it will fall off and roll under the table and I’ll get it back covered in cobwebs.
I suppose he decided to give me a few more minutes to recover, for I heard him walking with the doctor to the door and saying that he wouldn’t be needed any more. And then he used the phone to order an extra car. It should come immediately to Pankow he said, and the driver should have Russian Army credentials in case he had to go to the West Sector.
When the doctor had gone VERDI was less restrained: ‘Why did you hit him, you bloody old fool?’
‘We had such fun together when you were small,’ his father said sorrowfully. ‘I loved you then.’
‘I said, why did you hit him?’
‘Do you ever think of those days, little one?’
VERDI sighed. ‘Can’t you ever keep to the point? I am asking you a simple question.’
‘It was the Military School,’ said the old man, as if he’d never hit upon this solution before. ‘You changed after that. You came back on vacation. But you were never the same. You became a little German.’ There was a lifetime of resentment and regret behind that choice of words – little German – by a man who’d battled against the Germans, and then chosen one as a mother for this cherished only son.
‘Mama died. You were always working.’
‘Not always.’
‘Or drunk. Working or drunk. That’s what I remember of my vacations. You never had time to spare for me.’
‘You know that’s not true, little one. I gave my whole life to you. I refused jobs overseas, I lost promotions. I devoted all my life to you.’
‘If only that was the truth,’ said VERDI.
‘It is true, little one. You just don’t want to face it. You don’t wish to feel an obligation. You were always like that. You even pretended you didn’t like your toys.’
Perhaps the word ‘toys’ brought on the anger. ‘Don’t call me little one. I’m not your little one.’
There was a long silence then suddenly the old man said: ‘The Englander was threatening me. I gave them … This was many years ago. I gave them some papers. Useless waste paper. I was short of money. It was for you and Mama that I did it. This one came threatening me about it all.’
‘What did he say?’ said VERDI very quietly and calmly. I knew he was looking at me. I kept my eyes closed and remained very still.
‘He brought an English payments card. I’d signed for my money. I thought they destroyed the receipts. I only did it the once.’
‘You did it for eleven years,’ said VERDI. ‘DO you think it wasn’t reported?’
‘Reported?’
‘In those days we always managed to get someone planted in the Berlin SIS office.’
‘Just the once,’ insisted the old man.
‘I tell you we had someone there.’
‘Who? I knew them all. It was my job building our material about the Berlin rezidentura. Who did we have there?’
‘A flashy creep named Billy Walker. A homosexual. He reported on you. There was a written report sent to your battalion commander but no action was taken.’
‘I was lucky.’
‘Walker and Samson were at the top. The rezident was this one’s father. They hated each other. Our people processing the report on you probably decided that Walker was trying to make trouble
… that it was a part of the vendetta between the two Englishmen.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘I saw you with the elder Samson. You were careless.’
‘You didn’t report me?’
‘You’re my father.’
‘Thank you, little one. You are a good boy.’
‘William Walker. The English called him “Johnny Walker” after the name of the Scotch whisky. They like that sort of joke. Smart suits and signet ring and gold cigarette case: not very English: too gaudy.’
‘The bastard reported me.’
‘We had to get rid of him finally. I was in the office when it was decided. We chose our most gorgeous male prostitute to do it.’
‘I’m sorry, little one. I was stupid. It could have made bad trouble for you.’ And then, in another voice: ‘What are we going to do about this one?’
‘Samson?’ VERDI called loudly, bending over close to me. I pretended I was just coming round. I slowly opened my eyes and groaned and acted like one in pain. It wasn’t difficult. ‘Can you hear me and understand?’ he said in German. He was comfortable in German; he liked the predetermined order its syntax demanded. I recognize that preference in myself at times.
‘Yes? Yes? What?’ I said slowly in a slurred voice. VERDI walked into view. Werner was right: I wouldn’t have recognized him without a little prompting. The man I used to know was a hard-faced thug with bad teeth and frayed shirts. This one was soft and smooth and silky. Perfectly blocked soft felt hat, a dark cashmere overcoat slung over his shoulders, grey silk scarf with tassels, and hand-made Oxford shoes, even kid gloves. All looking as if it had just come from exclusive West Berlin outfitters, which it probably had. He wore it with style too, parading up and down with all the sulky mannerisms Hollywood actors use when cast as East Coast Mafia bosses. Behind him, peeking at me furtively over his son’s shoulder, there was the old man, his eyes glinting and a certain anxiety on his face. His troubles were not yet over, and he knew it.
‘You take a message back to your people,’ VERDI said softly. ‘You leave my father out of this or the deal is off. You talk to your Director-General personally. Personally. Have you got that?’
He stroked his smooth talcumed face as if making sure he’d remembered to shave, and waited for a response. He was angry and upset. I had hoped that my unannounced confrontation with the old man would upset VERDI but it hadn’t worked out the way I planned. ‘Maybe,’ I murmured.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Samson. Coming here to frighten a harmless old man. My father has a heart condition. You might have given him a shock that killed him.’
‘Your father can look after himself,’ I croaked. ‘Say what you want to say.’ I tried to sit up, but the movement sent a bolt of pain through my head and I sank back again.
‘I’ve already said what I’ve got to say. You get back to London and see Sir Henry Clevemore personally. Leave my father out of this. He’s nothing to do with it. I don’t want him threatened, do you understand? If your people have changed their mind, I’ll take it to the Americans. You make sure he knows I’m serious. Got that, Samson?’
‘They want it,’ I said. By now I was beginning to guess that London Central would be grateful for even twenty-four hours of access to the new mainframe. Anything after that would be a bonus.
‘Damned right they do,’ he said. ‘There is a lot of material on file over here, Samson. But it’s not all good news. SIS disasters. SIS cock-ups, SIS betrayals. Heads will be rolling. And there are people in London who prefer to leave things the way they are. Right?’
‘It’s always like that,’ I said.
‘And perhaps Sir Henry Clevemore is one of them.’
‘Say your say,’ I told him. ‘I’ll handle the guesswork.’
‘I’ve told Volkmann everything they need to know in London. I’ve been into the circuits and the programs. It’s all possible; just as I said it was. I’ve prepared everything important at this end. It’s up to your people from now on. But don’t stall too long or I’ll go elsewhere.’
‘What did that old bastard hit me with?’
‘Do you want a drink of water? He hit you with his crucifix,’ said VERDI. I could see it now: the large cast-iron crucifix had been replaced on the wall at a slightly drunken angle.
‘Scotch would be better,’ I said.
‘Schnapps?’
‘Okay.’ He went and poured me a shot of ice-cold Polish vodka; the one flavoured with rowan berries. I sipped it. It didn’t get rid of the pain but it made it feel more endurable – more like a hangover.
Experimentally I touched my head with my fingertips. It was very tender and already swelling. I looked at my fingers; there was no blood.
VERDI watched me. ‘You phone Clevemore,’ he said. ‘He’ll see you, I guarantee that. This is the biggest operation your people have had in years. What’s the problem?’
‘The problem is – are you on the level?’ I said, turning my head to watch the elder Fedosov kneeling by the window picking up the pieces of broken plant and pot.
‘On the level?’ he said, his voice raised in anger that may not have been simulated. ‘You’re the bastard who shot my driver dead. A good thing for you he wasn’t one of my staff. I recognized you but I left your name out of my report. I just said that an unidentified British team came in and did the hit, and got away before they could be intercepted. We let the militia and the Vopos put out the net; I knew you’d have no trouble evading those dummies. So what else do you want me to do to persuade you that I’m on the level?’
‘You’re a lovely fellow, Andrey.’
‘What’s it worth in cash?’ The old man turned his head to see us and hear better and watch my reaction to what his son had asked. ‘The Americans would give me a great deal of money.’
‘I have no authority to talk money,’ I said. ‘But you’d better know that there’s not so much dough about these days.’ The old man sighed and went back to putting his cacti back into their pots.
VERDI looked at me closely trying to decide if I was joking but seemed to think I wasn’t. ‘If it’s not worth serious money, why send that stupid fat pig to pester me? And why send you after him?’
‘I don’t know any fat pigs except you.’
‘Don’t play the fool, Samson. Tiny Timmermann.’
‘Timmermann?’
‘Are you going to sit there and try and pretend you don’t know the identity of your own field agent? The one you had sent to California so he could be briefed so carefully? Are you telling me you didn’t know the identity of that stiff you frisked in the house in Magdeburg?’
‘Timmermann? The dead man in Magdeburg?’
‘Who did you think it was?’ Now he was confused.
‘I thought that was you,’ I said truthfully.
‘You thought it was me?’ he said in a loud coarse scornful voice that took me back to when he’d been a small-time interrogator working the detention cells in the old Polizeipräsidium building in the Alex. He gave a mirthless laugh of derision. ‘So who did you think you were shooting at on the road?’
‘Timmermann? The dead man? Are you serious?’
‘You sent him,’ he said.
‘I didn’t send him. He doesn’t work for us and never has done.’
‘You got on the plane with him. In Los Angeles. You talked to him.’
I made no response, but I was impressed, and he probably saw that he’d scored a hit. Top marks, VERDI old pal. So I was under surveillance right from the time I left California.
‘Just a coincidence,’ he said in a pally aside, as if he wanted to reassure me man to man; agent to agent. ‘Just luck. Someone I knew was on the same plane.’
‘Timmermann? Who killed him? Your people?’
He didn’t deny it. ‘He stepped out of line, Samson. He went his own way asking questions about the Kosinski killing, and pushing his luck. That’s dangerous. We don’t encourage academic curiosity this side of the Wall.’
>
‘You got the wrong man,’ I said. He shook his head to show he didn’t think so, and tugged his coat so it fitted more snugly upon his shoulders. I’d always wanted to wear an overcoat like these Germans and Frenchmen do it; without putting my arms through the sleeves. But when I tried it once, coming out of the Schiller Theatre with Gloria, it fell off and Frank Harrington’s wife tripped over it and fell full-length in the street.
He looked at his watch. ‘The car will be here by now,’ he said, with the confidence that only a Stasi man in a police State would know. ‘I’ll take you as far as Checkpoint Charlie. Or through it, if you know where you want to go.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you meeting your friend Volkmann somewhere?’
‘No.’
‘So London is employing Volkmann again. They blow hot and cold, don’t they? I thought they had blacklisted him. Then all of a sudden I find I’m dealing with him.’
‘They don’t confide that sort of thing to me,’ I said. ‘I’m just an office boy.’
‘An office boy married to the boss’s daughter? Is that the way it is now, Samson?’ Without waiting for an answer, he said: ‘So where do you want to go?’
My head was singing and I didn’t feel well enough to walk back across town. But I wasn’t going to accompany him through Checkpoint Charlie in his official car. It would be noted and I’d never hear the last of it.
‘Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof.’
‘Whatever you say, Samson. But I think you mean Checkpoint Charlie. I can understand your desire to remain anonymous,’ he said with a disdainful smirk. ‘But you’re not in the right state of health to go pushing your way through the unwashed Berlin proletariat.’ He glanced at his father. ‘And at this time of day that stinking train will be crammed full of grandads and grandmas returning from their day-pass visits.’
