by Len Deighton
Bret sat down. Dicky Cruyer fingered his wrist to look at his watch. Dicky had remained in Berlin to attend this meeting at Bret’s request. Dicky wanted everyone to know that he had urgent and pressing business elsewhere. Dicky’s attire had lately taken a nautical turn: a dark blue Guernsey seaman’s sweater and a red-spotted kerchief tied at his neck. He sat well back from the table, a sharpened wooden pencil in his hand. His head was tilted and his eyes fixed, like a sparrow listening for the approach of some distant predator. Augustus Stowe was there too: swollen to bursting with impatience and importance. Rumours said that he was trying to arrange that he swap jobs with Dicky. There were notepads and pencils at each place. A small table behind me held a tray with glasses and a bottle of fizzy mineral water for those who wanted such Spartan refreshment. No one did. At the centre of the table there were two potted plants that had been brought indoors for the winter. There were no blooms on them; just dark green leaves. It was going to be one of those sessions that Bret called ‘informal’ because he honestly didn’t know that for everyone else these rough-tongue exchanges, with Bret in the driving seat, were white-knuckle rides.
As if Bret had arranged it in advance, the tension created by his serious mien was relaxed for a moment while the coffee was poured and a plate of digestive biscuits circulated. An essential component of the Englishman’s diet, various brands of digestives, the coarseness of their oatmeal content, their thin or thick coatings of plain or milk chocolate, are a subject of animated discussion at almost any Departmental gathering. And sometimes the most memorable one.
‘We are looking at ongoing success,’ said Bret, continuing his leadership role from the seated position. No one spoke. Bret continued: ‘We are all party to some aspect of the long-term plan in which Fiona Samson played such a vital part. Maybe none of you know the full story, and that’s just the way it should be.’ Bret waved away the biscuits, poured cream into his coffee and drank some. His offhand self-assurance in respect of digestive biscuits revealed his transatlantic origins. ‘But there were hiccups … hiccups and tragedies. I won’t name names, and I don’t want to apportion blame. But I know that some of you have glimpsed ugly episodes. Many others may have guessed at them. Some of you have encountered questions to which you have no answer. I want to say how much I appreciate the trust and dedication you have provided to the Department in the face of painful doubt.’
The gathering remained silent. It was an opportunity for private worry. Dicky began biting his nails. I took another couple of biscuits, reasoning that the plate might not come back down the table again.
‘Things went wrong,’ Bret continued. ‘In the field we contend with disaster and learn to live with it. But when flaws are traced to London; when catastrophe is built into any operation due to faulty planning, and even fundamentally wrong strategy, we have to put the blame right where it was born: London Central.’
Bret drank some coffee, and let us all catch our breath, clear our throats, and wonder which way he was going. Frank reached out to push a coaster across the table to where Augustus Stowe was about to put the hot antique silver coffee-pot down on the polished surface. It was all right for Bret to talk about London’s disasters. Bret had been resident in California – debriefing me and Fiona – long enough to stay out of the firing line. He had chosen just the right time to return and assume the role of prosecutor, judge, juror and probation officer too. But no one said anything like that. We all chewed on our digestives, and guzzled our coffee, and thought our thoughts in a silence broken only by murmured rituals of coffee drinking.
If Bret hadn’t started speaking again I think we would all be sitting there still. ‘I know that there is no one in this room who can truthfully deny owing a debt of gratitude to Silas Gaunt. Silas was never a glory hunter. Nothing better shows his character than the way he left the Department without recognition of any sort. No knighthood, no CBE, not even the standard letter of recommendation that we give to lower ranks. And yet, with a little lobbying, there is no question that he could have obtained the recognition he deserved. But as you may or may not know, Silas Gaunt asked that he be given nothing, so that he could continue to be in close association with the Department. And for obvious reasons connection would have to be severed with any ex-employee the Department permitted to be honoured in any way.’
There were non-committal noises from the assembled party while Bret took a deep breath. ‘And so Silas worked at arm’s length for us. And continued to work at arm’s length even when he was old and unwell. It is everyone’s fault. Dozens of people were in regular contact with him. Any one of them could have shouted stop. Any one of them might have pointed out that Silas was no longer the omnipotent far-sighted strategist he’d once been. But Silas was never content with past glories: he was always looking to the future. In hindsight it’s obvious that Silas Gaunt thought the Department was languishing and slipping ever further back in our war with the Soviets. He said we hadn’t kept up to date. He said it to me, he said it to everyone he could influence. Unfortunately he didn’t sufficiently distinguish between being up to date and becoming more operational. Our traditional role of intelligence gatherer – and nothing beyond – became in his eyes an unendurable restriction. He wanted the Department to be more assertive, even if that meant sometimes being more violent.’
Bret put his hands into the praying position and sat back for ten seconds to let us think about it. Bret had gone as near to the brink as I’d ever heard a senior official go in personalizing the Department’s shortcomings.
‘I’ve now put into play checks and balances that would preclude this ever happening again,’ said Bret. ‘Even senior staff will no longer be able to give off-the-record briefings to anyone engaged in a task that could go operational. Silas Gaunt’s contacts with the Department are now severed … a thing of the past. We have now cleared up the remnants of every stratagem that Silas Gaunt had access to. Now we start afresh.’
Bret looked around to see how this monologue had been received. Augustus Stowe moved about on his chair, as if suffering cramp. It was difficult to be sure how many people present fully understood what Bret was telling us. Werner looked half-asleep; probably as a result of all the pain-killers he was taking. Frank was anxiously fingering the leaves of the potted flowers that had been brought indoors for the winter. I think he’d noticed black spot. Dicky sat with both hands in his trouser pockets, as if in a resolute attempt to stop nail-biting. Bret said: ‘Bernard has had personal involvement in this whole episode. No one blames him for breaking a few rules in his need to find out the answers to questions that kept him awake at night.’
Bret looked at me and said: ‘When you went out to the Ziesar ramp last week, and found Thurkettle’s decomposing body, you fitted into place the final piece of jigsaw puzzle.’
They all turned to stare at me. ‘Who told you I went out there?’ I said, keeping my voice pitched in a way that reserved the right to deny that it was true.
‘Don’t blow a fuse, Bernard. It’s standard procedure. Werner is under strict orders to keep me informed of any serious development … No, no, no. He’s a loyal friend of yours, I’ll tell you that. But he’s also a loyal employee of the Department.’
Werner looked at me and shrugged. Bret knew I could hardly go ape right now. This wasn’t the moment to beat Werner over the head, or start arguing the finer details of the Tessa killing. And Bret had set it up so well. He had us all convinced that his only desire was to come up with the truth. And here he was inviting me to say anything I wished.
‘Prettyman killed Thurkettle,’ I said.
Bret hesitated for a long time. Then he said: ‘Yes, I see. But can you tell us why he did it?’
‘Prettyman did what Silas Gaunt ordered him to do.’
‘But … Even killing?’
‘Not so long ago you sent me out to Washington DC to sweet-talk Prettyman into coming back to London to face an inquiry … money had gone astray and Prettyman knew the score.’
‘Sure,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘Afterwards it was all smoothed over. No money had gone missing. It was a slush fund. It was just some creative accounting to kosher away money for Fiona’s operations in the East.’
‘But I can see that you don’t believe that,’ said Bret.
‘I’m guessing. I think Prettyman made sure that a few pennies ended up in his own pocket. I think Silas Gaunt faced Prettyman with evidence of his crime, and used it to blackmail him into doing whatever the Department needed doing.’
‘Hold the phone,’ said Bret. ‘Are you hinting that Prettyman was stitched up? If that’s what you think, let’s hear it.’ Bret knew all the tricks of chairing a meeting, and the number one trick was to remain on the side of the angels.
‘That Prettyman was tempted, deliberately tempted, into stealing so that he could be trapped?’ I said. ‘Yes, that’s what I think. Prettyman was perfect for what they wanted: intelligent, quick, unscrupulous and greedy. Yes, I’m sure he was targeted. But there had to be a cut-out point. Blackmailers have to give their victims a look at the light shining at the end of the tunnel.’
‘And what was that?’
‘On the instructions of Silas Gaunt, Prettyman sought out Thurkettle – a hit man he’d heard his CIA friends talking about – and set up the killing of Tessa Kosinski. Prettyman arranged to pay off Thurkettle in person. But Prettyman was waiting out there with a gun; he killed him instead.’
Bret made a noise: ‘Sounds like a damned stupid hit man who gets killed by his client. Wouldn’t a contract killer suspect that his employer might try to kill him? And take precautions?’
I said: ‘Prettyman made it clear that he was no more than the go-between. It wasn’t Prettyman’s money and it wasn’t Prettyman’s chosen target. Prettyman was just the middleman. That way of working would reassure a hit man like Thurkettle. Remember that, as far as anyone knows, Thurkettle had always worked arm’s length for organizations. That’s how Prettyman heard about him in the first place. He’d always been paid, and always found himself dealing with an intermediary. You don’t go off and make a hit for the CIA, or the British government, and come back worrying about being gunned down.’
‘Don’t you?’ said Bret.
‘If Uncle Silas is running wild, maybe you should,’ I agreed. ‘But you know Prettyman, he was quite a wimp, and looked even more feeble than he was. It’s not easy to think of a white-faced pen-pusher like him gunning down a hit man in cold blood. It took me a little time to adjust to that idea. But of course that’s just what made it all so easy for him.’
‘So for you the story is complete, Bernard,’ said Bret.
‘Almost,’ I said. Bret made a movement of his hand urging me to continue. ‘There was always the mechanism of getting Tessa Kosinski to the place on the Autobahn where she was killed. From the party in Berlin, she went in the van I was driving. But how was she persuaded to get into it? I did all I could to make her get out. The second mystery is how she came to be in Berlin in the first place.’
‘She was with Dicky,’ said Bret. ‘That’s correct, isn’t it, Dicky?’
Dicky came bolt upright in his chair and said: ‘Yes, Bret’ in a whisper.
‘But why?’ I persisted.
Bret said: ‘I’ll save Dicky the embarrassment of revealing all the details. Tessa was given two free round-trip air tickets London to Berlin: first class. They were supposed to have come with the compliments of British Airways. In case more inducement was needed a friend of hers, called Pinky, was told to send her some desirable opera tickets. At that same weekend Dicky was told to attend a meeting in Berlin. Dicky was spending a lot of time with Tessa and it all worked out.’
‘Was Dicky ordered to take Tessa to Berlin?’ I persisted.
Bret looked at Dicky. Dicky’s face went a bright red. He said: ‘Yes.’ I suppose he couldn’t say anything else; I’m sure Bret knew the correct answer already.
‘That still leaves the question of why she got into my van,’ I said.
Dicky, pleased to move on to something other than the hotel room he’d shared with Tessa, said: ‘That was a coincidence. She was pretty high by the time she climbed into your van. I tried to get her out but you punched me in the face, Bernard.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘The van started and my hand slipped.’ Dicky had never mentioned my one and only assault upon his person until now. There were times when I even thought he might have forgotten it.
Dicky decided not to pursue it. ‘But soon after you left, the Thurkettle man arrived at the party. He was looking everywhere for Tessa. He’d arranged that she should ride on the back of his motor-bike. When he became convinced that she was in your van, he got on his bike and raced off after you.’
‘Okay,’ said Bret. ‘Now tell us, Bernard. What was Prettyman’s light at the end of the tunnel?’
‘The Swede was waiting at the plane with a box that would solve all Prettyman’s problems. This was to be Prettyman’s final job for Silas Gaunt. And it was.’
‘The evidence of his malfeasance; the accounts or whatever?’
‘I’ve got my own theory about what was in the box,’ I told him.
‘I sent Werner to get it for us,’ said Bret.
‘Steal it from Mrs Prettyman, you mean,’ I said. ‘And use Cindy Prettyman’s own keys. That was neat, Werner.’ Werner smiled. He didn’t mind how sarcastic I was, he knew it was a successful operation. And he knew that, measured in need-to-know brownie points, he outranked me.
‘Bernard knows what’s in the box file,’ said Bret with an edge of sarcasm. ‘The rest of us mortals have to guess. I asked London to look up the reference number in Registry but they say there is no record of that box file ever having been issued.’
Never been issued. Clever old Uncle Silas. ‘How are you going to look inside it then?’ I asked.
‘We are cutting the lock off,’ said Bret. ‘Then we’ll settle what’s inside. Good old Yankee know-how; isn’t that what I’m noted for?’
I had said something along those lines from time to time to all kinds of people, so I wasn’t in a position to deny it now. ‘I wouldn’t cut into that box, Bret,’ I said.
‘I already have,’ said Bret with a smug grin. ‘Tarrant has it in his workshop. I’m waiting for him to bring it up here and show us the contents.’
‘No, Bret, no,’ I said. I jumped to my feet so hurriedly that I knocked my chair backwards, and heard it hit the little table holding the tray of glasses. Everything fell to the floor with the sound of breaking crystal.
‘Where are you going?’ shouted Bret.
Like all such old Berlin houses this one had a staircase at the back so that servants could move about unobtrusively. Access to the stairs was through doors without doorknobs or locks; doors designed to conform with the wall decoration and be unnoticed by the casual observer. I knew this house well, and I went through the door to find the landing at the top of a narrow wooden staircase. I wasn’t expecting to find an elderly man sitting there in regal style on the draughty upstairs servants’ landing. Neither was this tall stranger ready for my sudden eruption through the wall. ‘Oww!’ he shouted as he sprang to his feet, responding to the way my booted foot had landed on his arthritic knee, and the jolt from my outstretched hand when it steadied itself upon his neck.
I didn’t stop to strangle him. There was no time. I ran down the stairs, and was at the next landing by the time I realized that the man I had stumbled over was the Director-General. He had been seated on an antique chair, with a woollen blanket over his knees and headphones clamped over his ears. Listening of course to everything that Bret and the rest of us were saying. We were being bugged by the Director-General in person! So that was how it was done; and no one had even been told the D-G was making one of his rare excursions to this outpost of Empire. That bloody Frank and his potted plants. And I thought he was finding black spot on them.
From above I h
eard a distant yell as the D-G recovered himself from where he had been sent sprawling across the floor. But by that time I was going down the stairs as fast as I could run. My brain had become alive. What was I doing, I asked myself. Why was I running frantically through the house, so concerned about Tarrant? I hated and despised Tarrant. He had always shown aloof hostility to me and everything I did and said. But how could I stop right here on the stairs, go back up to the others and tell them I’d changed my mind? I remembered Frank’s words at an earlier meeting: It’s always bad luck to be good at something you don’t want to do – or something dangerous. Well, Frank old daddy, you said it all.
I rushed down the final flight of stairs, pushed the door open and emerged into the hall. I slid on the loose carpet so that I almost fell full-length across the floor. Then, recovering my balance by grabbing the hall table, I ran through the drawing-room and burst out of the garden door and into the long conservatory. Rows of potted plants were lined up near the light and the whole place smelled of the onions and apples that were stored there in winter. I pulled the outside door open with such force a glass pane cracked. Then I was out into the biting cold air and the garden. I ran along the path, skirting round a wheelbarrow, the ice and gravel crunching and cracking underfoot. Tarrant, stop!’ I shouted as I ran.
I wrenched open the door of Tarrant’s sanctum. He stood at his workbench. One hand was raised as he brought the lever of a power drill down to make another hole in the steel box file that was gripped in the vice.
