Twinkle Twinkle Little Spy

by Len Deighton

  ‘Life is a comedy for those who think – and a tragedy for those who feel,’ I said.

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Bob Hope or Voltaire or Eichmann; does it make a difference who said it?’

  ‘I must send the signals tonight. Even if there were a million to one chance of communicating with some other worlds, it would still be a crime – a crime against science – to let it go.’

  ‘Other worlds have waited a million million years,’ I said. ‘They can wait one more night. Men who want to kill you will be tuned to 1,420 megacycles tonight.’

  ‘Yours is the voice of ignorance and suspicion. Those same thoughts and fears drag civilization back into the Dark Ages. No scientist worthy of the name can put his personal safety before the pursuit of knowledge.’

  ‘I wasn’t putting your personal safety before the pursuit of knowledge,’ I said. ‘I was putting my personal safety before it. If you want to stay here and talk to Tau Ceti and prove me wrong – OK. But why not allow the rest of us to move off into the desert?’

  ‘Because you will make for the Trans-Sahara Highway, and from there you will go north and get away. Don’t pretend you won’t.’

  ‘I can’t speak for the others,’ I said. ‘But speaking personally, I’ll try to do exactly that.’

  Bekuv frowned, got to his feet and pretended to look at his shelves of books. The daylight was fading rapidly, and the dim yellow lights in the courtyard glowed more brightly as the generators started and made the floor vibrate with a very low rumbling noise.

  ‘Your wife drives a car like no one I’ve ever seen, Professor,’ I said. Bekuv turned to me, nodded and fetched a packet of cigarettes out of a drawer in his desk. They were American cigarettes and here in Algeria they were precious. He offered one to me and I accepted it with thanks.

  ‘We were both betrayed,’ said Bekuv. ‘Your woman, and mine … they have humiliated us.’

  I looked at him but didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m going to kill them both,’ said Bekuv.

  ‘Your wife and Red Bancroft?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to kill them both. It’s the only way to regain my honour.’

  ‘How will you go about it?’ I asked.

  ‘With my own bare hands,’ he held them up and made a gesture of pincers. ‘And it will be a pleasure,’ he added.

  ‘You’re not being scientific, Professor,’ I said.

  ‘You mean I’m being childish.’ He turned to me and stared for a moment before blowing his nose.

  ‘Worse – a child who has his toys stolen runs and grabs them back; he doesn’t smash them.’

  ‘I love her, I admit it.’ He inhaled deeply and then let the smoke trickle out of him.

  ‘Miss Bancroft is your problem – eliminate her and your wife will come back to you.’

  ‘Yes, I will kill Miss Bancroft.’

  ‘That would make your wife hate you for ever.’

  ‘I will order one of these Arabs to kill the girl.’

  ‘Your wife will guess you gave the order.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray. ‘It must look like an accident.’

  I shook my head. ‘Your wife will guess. She is a very clever woman, Professor Bekuv.’

  ‘I must get rid of the Bancroft girl. I see that now. You are right. She is the evil one. It was the Bancroft woman who debauched my wife, and introduced her to those unnatural acts.’

  ‘Right!’ I said. ‘And there is only one way in which the Bancroft girl can die, and yet leave you entirely blameless in the eyes of your wife.’

  ‘You mean if you kill her.’

  ‘Now you are being really scientific,’ I said.

  Bekuv stared at me. ‘Why should I trust you?’

  I said, ‘If I double-cross you, you’d only have to tell Major Mann what I’d done, and I’d face a murder trial when I got home.’

  ‘So you want me to let you go.’

  ‘Well, you don’t think I want to stay here, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Only with an effort of will could he imagine anyone so indifferent to his precious radio telescopes.

  ‘I’ll want a dune buggy, some water and food.’

  ‘You can’t have a dune buggy.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll go on foot, but we must leave tonight. Mann is sick. He’d not make it across the desert in the heat of day. It’s a damned long way to the highway, and who knows how long we’ll wait there.’ He nodded. ‘There’s just that one thing, Professor,’ I said. ‘This has got to be done in such a way that Major Mann and Mr Dempsey – the old man – don’t know it was me.’

  Bekuv’s eyes flickered as he smiled. That wariness that is ever present in the crackpot mind appreciated such caution. He held out his hand to me. ‘The two men can go,’ he said, ‘but you will not get out of here until the Bancroft woman is dead.’

  I shook his hand on it.

  It was dark by the time I went up to the rooms where Mann, Dempsey and the two women were. Before his defection, this had been Bekuv’s living accommodation. The two men were in the sitting-room. It was a comfortable place. There were a couple of rugs to hide the cracks in the wall, a wooden floor so new that it still smelled of anti-termite spray, leather-covered armchairs, an old crucifix, a collection of records and an elaborate amplifier and speakers. A new American air-conditioner purred gently from the boarded-up window.

  Percy Dempsey said, ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ He was sitting on the sofa. Mann was there too, but he was asleep. Percy Dempsey said, ‘Your friend is sick. He should have gone back north after the car crash.’

  I went over to Mann and looked at him. He looked as if he was running a temperature, but his pulse was strong and his breathing regular. ‘He’ll be all right,’ I said.

  Percy Dempsey didn’t answer, but clearly he didn’t agree. He pulled a bright red blanket over Mann. Mann didn’t awaken. I said, ‘You can wake him and get him on to his feet. Take him down to the yard and leave through the main gate. Head due west – you’ve got a compass, haven’t you?’

  ‘Is he letting us go?’

  ‘I made a deal with him. Where are the women?’

  ‘Through the kitchen. There’s another room. I might need your help with Major Mann,’ said Dempsey.

  ‘Prod him,’ I said. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

  ‘You’ve got a compass?’

  ‘I watched the sun go down. I’ll be all right. Wait for me at the highway …’

  ‘He’s quite a weight,’ said Dempsey. He grabbed Mann’s arm and shook him roughly. ‘Come along,’ he said.

  I walked through the kitchen to find the women.

  24

  The still desert night was shattered by the ugly screams of Mrs Bekuv. She fought her way through the Arabs who were lounging in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. The violent flaying arms knocked one of the boys off balance and gave another a bloody nose. They had scarcely delayed her as she ran, hysterical and screaming, across the dimly lit compound to the big radio telescopes. The great dish shapes were only faintly discernible in the light of a waning moon and a thousand stars. Only when Mrs Bekuv reached the place where her husband was standing did her garbled cries become comprehensible. It was Russian. I could pick out a few phrases here and there: ‘The girl is dead’ … ‘… who would have done it if not you …? Who can I tell, who can I tell? … I hate you … why did she have to die? … If only it had been me …’ many of them were repeated in that grief-stricken litany with which humans numb their minds to anguish.

  ‘It wasn’t me and it wasn’t any of the Arabs,’ said Bekuv, but his voice did nothing to calm her and soon he began to contract the very hysteria that he was trying to cure.

  He shouted and slapped her across the face – very hard, the way they do it in old Hollywood films – but it only made her worse. She was struggling now, hitting, punching and kicking him, so that he had to hold her very close
to restrain her. It was like trying to cage a wildcat. Half a dozen Arabs had come out to watch the struggle and four men at the controls of the dish – Russian technicians – stopped their work to see what was happening. But none of them did anything to part the couple.

  I turned away from the window and looked at Red Bancroft. ‘She’s done you proud,’ I said. ‘No one could have asked for a better performance.’

  ‘She loves me,’ said Red Bancroft. Her voice was matter of fact.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t love anyone,’ she said. ‘My analyst says I’m bisexual. He doesn’t understand. I’m neuter.’

  ‘You don’t have to hate yourself,’ I said. ‘You’ve brought no harm to her.’

  ‘No,’ she said scornfully. ‘I’ve taken her away from her husband, she’ll never again see her grown-up son. If we all get out of this alive, she’ll be a KGB target for ever and ever. And what have I given her in return – nothing but a good time in bed and a lot of worthless promises.’

  I looked down into the central yard. Two Arab guards were restraining Mrs Bekuv. She was still talking to her husband, but I could not hear the words. Red Bancroft came to the window and looked down too.

  ‘She’ll do it,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, she’ll do it,’ said Red Bancroft. ‘She’s incredibly clever with everyone – except with me.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said.

  ‘I can’t go down that rope. I’m frightened of heights … I get dizzy just looking down into this yard here.’

  ‘I’ll tie it round you, and lower you down. Keep your eyes closed and you’ll be all right.’

  ‘Will he come up here looking for the corpse?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps – but not until he’s finished his transmission. And that will take hours.’

  She went to the other window and looked down at the sand far below. Dempsey and Mann had left already but they were not to be seen. ‘And the sentries?’

  ‘Stop worrying,’ I said. I went across to her and put my arm round her waist. It was no more than a brotherly gesture, and she did not shrink away from me as she had done earlier.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We both lost out – but now I’m beginning to think maybe I lost more than you did.’

  ‘Let’s get the rope round you,’ I said. ‘It won’t get any darker than this.’

  The night air was cool but underfoot the sand was warm, and soft enough to make progress slow and difficult. Even with the stars to guide, we lost our way after the moon disappeared. The sandhills, like some great rolling ocean transfixed for ever, shone in the dusty starlight.

  There was no sound; it must have been flying very high. There was a flash like that of an electrical storm, and a rumble like thunder. Anywhere else and we would have written it off as a thunderstorm, put up our umbrellas and waited for the rain. But this was a thousand miles deep into the Sahara.

  ‘Smart bomb,’ said Mann. ‘You put a laser beam from aircraft to target and let the bomb slide down the beam.’

  ‘Unless you can persuade the target to put up a beam for you,’ I said.

  Red Bancroft said nothing. Ever since we’d caught up with Mann and Dempsey she’d been walking a few paces behind us. Several times I saw her turning round hoping to see Mrs Bekuv there.

  The sound of the explosion rumbled across the empty desert, and then came rolling back again, looking for a place to fade away. I waited for Red Bancroft to catch up. She had discarded her shoes. I put my arm out, offering to help her, but without a word she limped past me, sliding sometimes in the soft steep dune. After the explosion she didn’t look back again.

  Cover designer’s note

  As much of the book’s action takes place in the heat of the African desert, I retrieved from my personal archive a photograph of a setting sun that I had taken some years ago while filming in the Sinai. Aside from the unusual colour palette the picture gives to the background, the sun provides a neat visual focal point.

  A Soviet Army cap badge provides an ideal device to symbolically tear apart the story’s two female characters, represented by two playing cards, one of which is the Queen of Spades, the spade being a symbol of death. The star shape of the badge is also an oblique reference to the author’s transposition of the word ‘spy’ for ‘star’ in the book’s title.

  On each front cover of this latest quartet, I have placed a photograph of the eyes of the bespectacled unnamed spy, in this instance overlaid with a marksman’s target. Our hero is a marked man for sure, but as with so many stories in which he features it is never clear who is holding the gun. The bull’s-eye of the target also offers a neat visual counterpoint with the sun above.

  To give the book’s title a Russian flavour, in recognition of Professor Bekuv and the Soviet intelligence he brings with him, I have reversed, in Ruthenian fashion, the letters ‘N’.

  Readers who have been faithfully building their collection of these reissues will by now have become familiar with my use of a linking motif on the spines of the books. Being the final foursome in the entire series of reissues, and books in which violence is never too far away, I thought it a good idea to ‘go out with a bang’, as it were. This quartet’s spines accordingly display a different handgun, as mentioned in each of the books’ texts. The example here is a .44 calibre Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver, made famous in Dirty Harry as ‘The Most Powerful Handgun in the World’.

  Another recurring feature in this quartet, to be found within each back cover’s photographic montage, is a pair of ‘our hero’s’ glasses, which look suspiciously like those worn by ‘Harry Palmer’ in The Ipcress File and other outings …

  Along with the glasses, the montage contains one of my old British passports; in keeping with the secret identity theme, the name of our bespectacled hero is hidden, as is the serial number by an artfully placed gaming die. Once again, this symbol of luck and chance seems perfectly suited to the world of espionage. To portray his minder, Major Mickey Mann, I have included a US Army major’s insignia, plus his signal corps badge. To represent some of the other locations visited in the story: an old Irish penny partly hides behind an Aeroflot boarding pass, a souvenir of my brief visit to the Soviet Union; and a greetings postcard from Portland, Maine. Finally, a CIA lapel badge sits upon a joker playing card.

  Though as to who has the last laugh, you will have to discover for yourself.

  Arnold Schwartzman OBE RDI

  Hollywood 2012

  About the Author

  Len Deighton was born in 1929. He worked as a railway clerk before doing his National Service in the RAF as a photographer attached to the Special Investigation Branch.

  After his discharge in 1949, he went to art school – first to the St Martin’s School of Art, and then to the Royal College of Art on a scholarship. His mother was a professional cook and he grew up with an interest in cookery – a subject he was later to make his own in an animated strip for the Observer and in two cookery books. He worked for a while as an illustrator in New York and as art director of an advertising agency in London.

  Deciding it was time to settle down, Deighton moved to the Dordogne where he started work on his first book, The Ipcress File. Published in 1962, the book was an immediate success.

  Since then his work has gone from strength to strength, varying from espionage novels to war, general fiction and non-fiction. The BBC made Bomber into a day-long radio drama in ‘real time’. Deighton’s history of World War Two, Blood, Tears and Folly, was published to wide acclaim – Jack Higgins called it ‘an absolute landmark’.

  As Max Hastings observed, Deighton captured a time and a mood – ‘To those of us who were in our twenties in the 1960s, his books seemed the coolest, funkiest, most sophisticated things we’d ever read’ – and his books have now deservedly become classics.

  By Len Deighton

  FICTION

  The Ipcress File

  Horse Under Water

  Funeral in Berlin
/>   Billion-Dollar Brain

  An Expensive Place to Die

  Only When I Larf

  Bomber

  Declarations of War

  Close-Up

  Spy Story

  Yesterday’s Spy

  Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Spy

  SS-GB

  XPD

  Goodbye Mickey Mouse

  MAMista

  City of Gold

  Violent Ward

  THE SAMSON SERIES

  Berlin Game

  Mexico Set

  London Match

  Winter: The Tragic Story of a Berlin Family 1899–1945

  Spy Hook

  Spy Line

  Spy Sinker

  Faith

  Hope

  Charity

  NON-FICTION

  Action Cook Book

  Fighter: The True Story of the Battle of Britain

  Airshipwreck

  French Cooking for Men

  Blitzkrieg: From the Rise of Hitler to the Fall of Dunkirk

  ABC of French Food

  Blood, Tears and Folly

  Copyright

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Harper

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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