Spy Sinker

by Len Deighton

  ‘You looked very glamorous last night, my dear,’ said Uncle Silas.

  ‘Thank you, Silas. But to tell you the truth I can’t keep up with the smart chatter these days.’

  ‘And why should you want to? I like you when you are serious: it suits you.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘All beautiful women look their best when sad. It’s different for men. Handsome men can be a little merry but jolly women look like hockey captains. Could any man fall in love with a female comic?’

  ‘You talk such rubbish, Silas.’

  ‘Was it that dreadful architect’s prattle that pissed you off?’

  ‘No. It was a wonderful evening.’

  ‘Swimming pools and kitchens; I don’t think he can talk about anything else. I had to invite him though, he’s the only blighter who knows how to repair my boiler.’

  He laughed. It was some complicated joke that only he appreciated. He’d grown accustomed to his own company and remarks like this were solely for his own satisfaction. They were sitting in the ‘music room’, a tiny study where Silas Gaunt had installed his hi-fi and his collection of opera recordings. There was a log fire burning and Silas was smoking a large Havana cigar. He was dressed in a magnificent knitted cardigan. It had an intricate Fair Isle pattern and was coming unravelled faster than Mrs Porter could repair it, so that woollen threads trailed from his elbows and cuffs.

  ‘Now tell me what’s troubling you, Fiona.’ From the next room there was the measured and intricate sound of a piano: it was Bret playing ‘Night and Day’.

  Fiona told Silas about Tessa’s exchanges with Giles Trent, and when she had finished he went and looked out of the window. The gravel drive made a loop around the front lawn where three majestic elms framed the house. Tessa’s racing-green Rolls-Royce was parked outside the window. ‘I don’t know how your sister manages that car,’ he said. ‘Does her husband know she uses it when he’s away?’

  ‘Don’t be such a pig. Of course he does.’

  He looked at her. ‘Then it sounds as if we’ve got an orange file on our hands, Fiona.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’ An orange file meant an official inquiry.

  ‘Giles Trent: the treacherous swine. Why do these people do it?’ She didn’t answer. ‘What would you have done if Tessa had put this to you but without the special situation that you are in?’

  Without hesitation Fiona said, ‘I’d have taken it to Internal Security. The Command Rules spell it out.’

  ‘Of course you would.’ He scratched his head. ‘Well we can’t have the IS people in on this one, can we?’ Another pause. ‘You wouldn’t have mentioned it to your husband first?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You seem very sure of that, Fiona.’

  ‘It would be the same for him, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not sure it would.’

  ‘Uncle Silas! Why?’

  He turned and looked at her. ‘How can I put it to you…You and I belong to a social class obsessed by the notion of conduct. At our best public schools, we have always taught young men that “service” is the highest calling, and I’m proud that it should be so. Service to God, service to our sovereign, service to our country.’

  ‘You’re not saying that because Bernard wasn’t at public school –’

  He held up a hand to stop her. ‘Hear me out, Fiona. We all respect your husband. Me more than anyone, you know that. I cherish him. He’s the only one out there who knows what it’s like to be in the firing line. I’m simply saying that Bernard’s background, the boys he grew up with and his family, have another priority. For them – and who is to say they are in error? – loyalty to the family comes before everything. I really do mean before everything. I know, I’ve spent my life commanding men. If you don’t understand that aspect of your husband’s psyche you might get into a lot of trouble, my dear.’

  ‘Working-class boys, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not frightened to say working-class. I’m too old to care about taboos of that sort.’

  ‘Are you saying that if Tessa had taken her problem to Bernard he would have hushed it up?’

  ‘Why don’t we put it to the test? Sit your husband down next week and have Tessa tell him her story.’

  ‘And what do you think he’ll do?’

  ‘More to the point, what do you think he’ll do?’ said Silas.

  ‘I can’t see that any benefit could come of such speculation,’ said Fiona. Silas laughed at the evasion. Fiona was irritated and said, ‘You are the one making the allegations, Silas.’

  ‘Now, now, Fiona. You know I’m doing nothing of the kind. Put it to Bernard, and he’ll find some ingenious solution that will keep you and Tessa out of it.’ He smiled artfully. The word ingenious implied Bernard’s flagrant disregard, if not to say contempt, for the rule book, and that was something Silas shared with him.

  ‘Bernard has a lot on his mind right now,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Make sure you ask him to keep Tessa out of it.’ He found a loose thread, tugged it off and dropped it carefully into the fire.

  ‘How?’ said Fiona.

  ‘I don’t know how. Ask him.’ He smoked his cigar. ‘A far more important thing for the moment is that Giles Trent has obviously been used to monitor everything you’ve been telling them.’ He blew smoke, making sure it went towards the fire. Whenever Mrs Porter smelled cigar smoke she nagged him: the doctor had told him not to smoke. ‘You must have thought about that. Any worries there?’

  ‘Nothing that I can think of.’

  ‘No, I think not. We’ve kept you very very secret and given them only strictly kosher material. Whatever Trent has been reporting to them, his reports will have only increased your status with Moscow.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Cheer up, Fiona. Everything is going beautifully. This will suit our book. In fact I’ll get permission for you to visit the Data Centre again. That should make your masters prick their ears, what?’

  ‘Will you tell Bret about Tessa?’ She didn’t want to face Bret with it herself: it would become an interrogation.

  ‘Let’s tell him now.’ Having hidden his cigar in the fireplace he pressed a bellpush. Seeing the look of alarm on Fiona’s face he said, ‘Trust your uncle Silas.’ ‘Night and Day’ continued in the next room.

  When Mrs Porter put her head round the door he said, ‘Ask Mr Rensselaer if he can spare a moment. I think I heard him playing the piano.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell him right away.’

  When Bret came – eyebrows raised at seeing Fiona with Silas in what was obviously some kind of discourse – Silas said, ‘It’s good to hear the piano again, Bret. I keep it tuned but nowadays no one plays.’ Bret nodded without replying. Silas said, ‘Bret, we seem to be having another problem with our playmates.’

  Bret looked from one to the other of them and got the idea instantly. ‘This is getting to be a habit, Fiona,’ he said. Bret was huffed that she’d taken her story to Silas Gaunt and didn’t disguise his feelings.

  ‘We are all targeted,’ said Silas. ‘They focus on London Central. It’s natural that they should.’

  ‘We are talking KGB?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Silas, tapping ash into the fire. ‘This wretched Pryce-Hughes fellow has been rather indiscreet. He’s let drop the word to Fiona that they have someone else working in London Central.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ said Bret.

  ‘From the context Fiona inclines to the view that it’s a fellow called Giles Trent.’ Silas took a poker and stabbed at the burning log, which bled grey smoke. He carefully rolled it to the very back of the hearth.

  ‘Training,’ said Bret, after racking his brains to remember who Trent was.

  ‘Yes. He was shunted off to the training school two years ago, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.’

  ‘Does anyone else know?’ asked Bret.

  ‘The three of us,’ said Silas, still brandishing the poker. ‘Fiona wasn’t sure how
to handle it. She was going directly to Internal Security. It was, of course, better that she brought it to me, off the record.’

  Bret’s hurt feelings were somewhat soothed by this explanation. ‘We don’t want Internal Security involved,’ he said.

  ‘No. Better like this,’ said Silas. ‘Off duty: off the record, all unofficial.’

  ‘What next?’ Bret asked.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Silas. ‘I’ve worked out a way of doing it. No need for you to know, Bret. What the eye doesn’t see…Are you all right, Bret?’

  ‘This year my sinuses are playing merry hell with me.’

  ‘It’s that damned log fire, is it? Let me open the window a fraction.’

  ‘If there’s nothing else I’ll just go out in the garden for a moment.’

  ‘Of course, Bret, of course. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  Bret stumbled out of the room holding a handkerchief to his face. ‘Poor Bret,’ said Silas.

  ‘I won’t tell Bernard that I’ve spoken with you,’ said Fiona, still unsure of exactly what was expected of her.

  ‘That’s right. Now stop worrying. Can you persuade Tessa to tell her story to your husband?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Do that.’

  ‘Suppose Bernard goes to Internal Security?’

  ‘It’s a risk we’ll have to take,’ said Silas. ‘But I want you kept out of it. If push comes to shove, you’ll just have to deny Tessa ever told you. I’ll see you are protected.’

  ‘That smoke is affecting me now,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Get back to the others, or they’ll start thinking we have a love affair or something.’

  ‘You won’t want to talk to Tessa?’

  ‘Stop playing the elder sister. If I want to talk to her I’ll fix it.’

  ‘She gets very nervous, Silas.’

  ‘Go and walk about in the garden and get the smoke out of your eyes,’ he said.

  When she’d gone he sank down on to his favourite armchair and let out a groan. He leaned close to the fire and prodded it again. ‘Why do these things happen to me?’ he complained to the log. As if in response the smoking log burst into a flicker of flame.

  If Fiona had seen him now she would have been less confident of Silas Gaunt’s ability to make her troubles disappear. ‘We’ll have to put you into the bag neatly and quickly, Mr Giles Trent,’ he muttered, and tried to visualize the reactions of Trent’s controller when he found his man was uncovered. Would they try to pull him out and save him? Or would Moscow perceive another spy trial, in the very heart of London Central, as a triumph worth sacrificing a piece for? This might be one of those cases where both Moscow and London would agree that a favourable outcome was a permanently silent Trent. If it came to that, Silas had better make sure there was someone available to do the deed. He called to mind a tough old German war veteran who’d once worked as a barman at Lisl’s hotel, and while there had done all sorts of nasty jobs for Silas. He went over to live in the East: perfect! Who’d link such a man with London Central? What was the fellow’s name – oh yes, Rolf Mauser, a wonderful ruffian. Just the fellow for a job like this. He wouldn’t contact him directly of course, it would be imperative to keep it at arm’s length.

  10

  Maida Vale, London. April 1983.

  ‘Have you gone to sleep, honey?’ Fiona buried her head in the pillow and didn’t answer. The mattress heaved as he slid out of bed and went into the bathroom. It was a sunny spring day. Being in bed in broad daylight, behind closed curtains, made her feel guilty. What had happened to her? At least a thousand times, over the years, she had vowed never again to see Harry Kennedy, but he was so charming and amusing that he intrigued her. And then she would find herself thinking of him, or a bunch of flowers would arrive, or an advert from the ‘hair and beauty salon’, and her resolution invariably weakened and she came back to him.

  Sometimes it was no more than a quick drink at some pub near the clinic or a few words over the phone, but there were times when she needed him. Now and again it was a meeting like this and she relished every moment of it.

  She watched him walk naked across the room and open the wardrobe. He was muscular and tanned except the buttocks left pale by his shorts. Lately he’d done three delivery trips to Saudi Arabia. Across his shoulders, like a bandoleer, there were livid scars from a forced landing in Mexico ten years ago. He felt her looking at him and leered at her.

  This illicit relationship had transformed Fiona. It had thrown a bombshell into the routine of her married life. Being with Harry was exciting, and he made her feel glamorous and desirable in a way that Bernard had never been able to do. Sex had come to play an important part in it but it was something even more fundamental than that. She couldn’t explain it. All she knew was that the pressure upon her in her working life would have been unendurable without the prospect of seeing him if only for a brief moment. Just to hear his voice on the telephone was both disturbing and invigorating. She was now understanding something she’d never known, the kind of teenage love she’d only heard other girls talk about, the kind they sang about in pop tunes she couldn’t stand. Of course she felt guilty about deceiving Bernard, but she needed Harry. Sometimes she thought she might be able to eliminate some of the guilt that plagued her if they could continue their friendship on a different, platonic, basis. But as soon as she was with him any such resolve quickly faded.

  ‘Ah, so you are awake. How about a champagne cocktail? I’ve got everything right here.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Is that funny?’ he said. He put on his chequered silk dressing gown while looking at himself in the mirror and smoothing it and adjusting the knot in the belt.

  ‘Yes, darling, very funny. Tea would be even better.’

  ‘Tea? You got it.’

  After Harry went out she reached over to the bedside table and picked up the lunchtime edition of the evening paper. There on the front page a headline proclaimed the ‘Chelsea Bathroom Shooting’. An intruder had broken into Giles Trent’s house and shot him in the shower. The killer had used the plastic shower curtain to avoid being splashed with blood and washed his hands before leaving. A conveniently unnamed Scotland Yard spokesman called it ‘very professional indeed’, and one of those experts who are always ready to speak to newspapers said it had ‘all the signs of a typical New York Mafia execution’. The reporter seemed to imply that narcotics were involved. There was a blurred photo, one column wide, of a very young Giles Trent in bathing trunks, arms akimbo and broad smile. On an inside page there was a large photo of the house in Chelsea with a policeman on duty outside it.

  Thank God Bernard had kept Tessa and Fiona out of the whole business. Uncle Silas had been entirely right about Bernard. It was disconcerting that certain of his male friends understood him in a way that she had never been able to. He was so secretive. Without any discussion or explanation to her, he’d got Giles Trent to confess, and confess without mentioning Tessa. Now Trent was dead, and however ugly his death she couldn’t help but feel a measure of relief.

  There were other portentous signs. Bret had asked her to copy out a long secret document about Bank of England support for sterling. It was all in her handwriting and she never handed it over to Martin. As far as Fiona could see that meant only one thing: Bret was going to pass that to the KGB through some other agent. Why her handwriting? Only a complete fool would produce a document so incriminating unless this was going to be concrete evidence of her personal work for the other side. There was something ominous about the way Bret brushed her questions aside.

  Another forewarning came from the amount of material she’d handed over to Martin in recent weeks. Bret said that none of it was of vital importance but there was such a lot of it. London Central just wouldn’t want to keep passing it through at this rate, and yet what excuse would she be able to provide for lessening the flow? It all added up to one thing: they intended that she should go East, and go soon. She dreaded it, bu
t in some ways the waiting was even worse.

  Every day now she looked at her husband and the children with love and with longing. Each time she saw her sister she wanted to warn her that they would soon be separated, but any sort of hint or preparation was out of the question. To make it more painful, Fiona had become convinced that she’d never return. There was no logical reason, nor any evidence to support her failure of confidence. The premonition was purely instinctive and purely feminine. It was a calm fatalism that a matriarch might feel, surrounded by her family, on her deathbed.

  If only it was possible to settle some of the vital things that would now be decided without her. She kept worrying about Billy and his school. She’d always hoped that eventually Bernard would come to see the advantages that little Billy would enjoy from going to a good public school. She could get him in: her father had promised her that. But with her absent, there was no chance at all that Bernard would do anything about it. Bernard had a phobia about public schools – ‘beating, buggery and bad manners’ – and about those who’d ever attended one, or so it seemed.

  Harry came in with a tray of tea. ‘You’ve read that newspaper story at least three times, darling. Does it have some special significance?’ He leaned over and kissed her.

  ‘The eternal psychologist,’ she said and, throwing the paper aside as casually as she could manage, she took the tray on to her knees. A tiny vase contained what must have been the very last violets of the year. How delicate they looked. Lovely transparent china, silver teaspoons and two slices of the rich English fruit cake she adored. He must have had it all prepared. ‘How splendid!’ She held the tray steady as he climbed back into bed alongside her. ‘Harry, what do you know about the English public school system?’