Paris Spring

by James Naughtie

  ‘Ignorance is a bit of a problem in the present climate. D’you see?’

  Sam, his mouth full of bread, waved a hand. Carry on.

  ‘What they don’t know, they make up,’ Craven said. ‘And they exaggerate, of course. They imagine we have plans that, frankly, don’t exist. First strike against them, and so on. And when they panic – with every bit of trouble in Prague or Warsaw – they become even more convinced that we’re willing and ready to have a go. Which, as we know, we’re not.’

  Sam poured the wine. ‘I’m beginning to enjoy this.’

  Craven said that it had been realized a long way back, when he was in Berlin, that to prepare for a time of trouble a way had to be found to convince the other side. Ministers were no good. They were assumed to speak with forked tongue: what Soviet could believe otherwise? And as for Ingleby’s merry men, the harder they tried to persuade the eastern embassies in London, or the negotiators who clustered in Vienna, the less likely they were to be believed.

  ‘Only one thing convinces them,’ he said. ‘A secret.’

  He had been involved at the start, getting the other side to believe that they had got to the truth by their own efforts. It was important that they didn’t learn too much, and that had been the trick. Targets, missile placements, warheads – off limits, absolutely. But strategy? They were to be given a glimpse, in a way that persuaded them that they had penetrated some of the most secret places.

  ‘I was aware of something. It had the name of a bird,’ Sam said. ‘Osprey?’

  ‘Could be. No details, I hope.’

  ‘Me?’ Sam said, ‘I’m the boy who knows nothing, Freddy.’

  ‘Even now, I can’t tell you the whole thing,’ Craven said. ‘You know that, and in any case there’s much I don’t know these days. Duncan Gilfeather’s the man. We worked a ploy that fed some bits and pieces – rubbish, some of it – to the other side. Just enough. Letting them think they’d got inside. Duncan’s so good. And when Prague started to kick off, and Moscow started to panic, the thing got more urgent. They’ve got to understand Sam, what we won’t do. The plan for attack that we don’t have.

  ‘Otherwise, they might do anything.’

  The two men fell quiet. Sam crumbled the last of the bread and pulled apart the ham with his fingers.

  They spoke little as they watched the flat landscape, noting the moment they crossed the border. Sam waited until Craven was ready.

  ‘I happen to know now, conversations in London, that Will Flemyng’s brother is at the heart of this operation from the American side. I didn’t know. So you see, Bolder was tramping about on a minefield. It’s a dangerous time. The other side feels threatened, and the last thing we want is for them to be frightened into doing something stupid. So it’s not the moment to be shouting about leaks, because some of them are our own. And to stir up a panic about penetration by their spies? The worst moment.’

  Having dealt with Bolder, Craven said that he might be unhelpful, but there were others who were positively dangerous.

  ‘Who?’ said Sam.

  ‘A woman called Quincy, whom you knew, and a man called Kristof, of whom you’ve certainly never heard.’

  *

  In Pascal’s bar, Abel spoke first. Kristof, bemused, was quiet.

  ‘Let’s have a party.’

  Maria stood up and touched cheeks with Flemyng, which surprised him. She had noticed that he needed steadying. Abel was in suit and tie, and Flemyng wondered if he had been at the embassy. Kristof was in the navy jumper he had worn at Flemyng’s apartment and, far from enjoying his popularity, looked as if he was facing an inquisition. His eyes were darting around the room, and he was smoothing down his hair, anxious to smarten himself up in the absence of his white shirt and jacket. He said nothing, took out his pipe and began to stuff it with tobacco from a tin.

  Flemyng, all his plans overturned, shook hands with his brother. ‘This is slightly absurd,’ he said.

  ‘But useful,’ said Maria.

  ‘Chance has come along,’ Abel said.

  ‘What about me?’ said Kristof.

  ‘You’re going to talk,’ Flemyng said, and as he sat down the atmosphere changed.

  The German seemed ready to panic. He’d put down his pipe, unlit, and his hands were pressed on the table, marble-white. He had staring eyes – Flemyng remembered his own sketch – and he gave the impression of a man trapped. Abel went to the curtain and stood bodyguard to listen for activity on the other side, in the bar. The scene came to resemble an interrogation, with the prisoner at a table in his cell.

  Maria came to his rescue, voice low and her words carrying no hint of threat.

  ‘You will realize that each of us knows something about you – different things, I’d guess – and I want you to believe that we haven’t shared everything. You know that’s not the way it works.’

  For the first time since Flemyng had arrived, Kristof looked hopeful.

  Maria said, ‘But we’ve all been thrown together by Quincy’s death. You told me that she knew too much, and that’s why she died. So there was a threat to your people. But also – you have to realize this – to us. She said as much. What was she going to reveal?’

  From the curtain, Abel said, ‘We’ve all seen the list of names.’

  ‘So you say. That’s only the start,’ Kristof said.

  ‘Stick with the list. We don’t recognize them.’

  Kristof said that wasn’t surprising. ‘They’ve changed names. Wouldn’t you?’

  Abel took the list from his pocket, but before he could speak he was interrupted by his brother.

  In contrast to Maria, Flemyng adopted the tone of an official rather than an acquaintance. Maria realized that Abel had never seen him in the role – was he anxious, nervous? She couldn’t tell, because Abel stood with his head cupped in his hand and half turned away, in shadow. In the other hand he had the list. He was quite still.

  ‘OK,’ said Flemyng. ‘Tell us what else she had.’

  They recognized that the man before them was on the verge of collapse. His hands shook, and he was sweating.

  Neither Maria nor Abel interrupted Flemyng when he pressed on.

  ‘You’ve threatened me directly. I can do the same to you. We can blow you to smithereens, and you’ll be on a plane back to some grey barracks where, I have no doubt, your life would come to an end. Not too quickly, and painfully. You’ve been playing with us. Your friends won’t like that.’

  He pushed the box of matches towards Kristof, and he lit his pipe at last.

  Flemyng said through the first cloud of smoke, ‘Co-operate, or you’re finished. I promise.’

  Quietly, the fight gone out of him for the moment, Kristof began to speak. ‘There are many names. She got them from all over, she told me, but they are people of ours who are in the west. Unknown. There are more than you know. One or two here in Paris, and in Bonn, of course. But especially in Brussels. London, who knows?’ He tried a smile.

  ‘At NATO,’ Abel said.

  ‘Of course,’ Kristof said. ‘Their loyalty lies elsewhere.’

  ‘How many?’ Flemyng said.

  ‘Who can say?’ said Kristof. ‘Not I. But they are deep inside. Waiting.’

  ‘We know she was in touch with your people,’ Abel said. ‘Playing games. I’ll be honest. It’s time for that, at last. She was doing the same for us.’

  Kristof stared. ‘She was yours?’

  ‘Yes. For some time.’

  Kristof put his hands to his face, which had whitened. ‘What did you learn?’ he said.

  ‘A good deal,’ Abel replied, looking at his brother, who was unable to hide his shock.

  Maria resumed her role as friendly persuader, keeping the conversation on the move so that as each revelation took hold another was in the making. ‘So you see, Kristof, she had gathered information from all over the shop. This is my question. Who would have been the beneficiary of the story she was trying to write? Our side, who’d be reve
aled as weak, vulnerable to all the people you say have burrowed into the system. Penetrated. Or yours, who would have a secret network exposed. Tell us. Where do you think her interest lay?’

  ‘How can I say?’ He had recovered some strength, and managed to smile. ‘But it does mean that we both had an interest in stopping her, doesn’t it?’

  The room was quiet.

  Abel came back to the table. He leaned on his hands, his arms stretched and straight, and spoke with the same authority as his brother had shown a few minutes earlier. He was angry.

  ‘Let me tell you something. We don’t kill our own citizens with poison sprays. I’ve seen your gadgets. My friends don’t walk around with guns hidden in cigarette lighters, waiting to murder anyone who might make life difficult.’

  Kristof looked at Maria and Flemyng to catch their eyes, and said, ‘Really?’ Then he added, ‘But wouldn’t you let someone do the dirty deed for you?’

  Into the silence, Flemyng said, ‘I have another question. Tell us who you really are. I still don’t know.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  When they arrived in Paris, Sam Malachy and Freddy Craven looked like a pair of old comrades rolling home from an outing to the seaside. Perhaps a racetrack. They made a defiant splash of colour. Sam was in a striped jacket that marked him out as a good-time boy, and Craven wore his old white suit, stained and threadbare in places, broadcasting the message that he made his own rules. Sam carried both their bags across the concourse at Nord, and they made their way gradually to the line of taxis outside.

  Their appearance belied Craven’s weakness. He was slow – Sam took him to a bench to sit down before they stepped into the street – and mopped his face with a dark blue handkerchief. They didn’t get up until Sam had asked him if he felt ready, and he had to be helped into the car.

  As they drove away, Sam said, ‘Freddy, I have to tell you something.’ He was holding on to the old man’s arm. ‘I spoke to London. Sorry, but Declan O’Casey’s coming tonight. He didn’t need much persuading.’

  Craven said he probably fancied a good dinner, that was all, and laughed. Then he put his hand on Sam’s. ‘Don’t worry, you’re right. I’m done in.’

  At the apartment, Sam said, ‘I’m putting you to bed, old boy.’ Craven said they should have a drink first. After all, it was nearly five o’clock. They sat for a while, and Sam went through the story Craven had told on the train, to make sure he had it straight.

  ‘We’ve held the balance. All we can do,’ Craven said.

  Sam poured him a whisky, and they had a cigarette. The room filled with smoke, and they spoke for a while about Vienna in days when Craven’s station was the best in town. ‘I miss Will,’ said Sam, and added carefully, ‘Has he settled here? I find it hard to tell.’

  Craven’s wise eyes turned on him, ‘Yes, Sam. He’s had worries – and you know that the Quincy business has disturbed the whole place. But that will soon be over, and you’ve helped.’

  A few minutes later, when Sam had persuaded him to take to his bed, Craven said as they stood at the door, ‘There’s one more piece to fall into place. Then Will and everyone will see clearly.’

  They said goodnight. Sam went to his hotel, and rang Flemyng.

  Two hours later they were a quartet, together in his apartment.

  ‘Cards on the table,’ said Maria as if they were going to have a bridge evening. Flemyng had given them a picture of Sam before he arrived. ‘We’re both Freddy’s boys, and that’s what you need to know. He’s been with the old man in Brussels today. Trusted. Nothing should be hidden.’ Abel smiled at his brother when he said that. ‘Nothing? You mean it?’

  With Sam in his place among them, Maria said they should begin with their experience in the afternoon. Kristof and his state of mind.

  ‘He’s close to collapse,’ Flemyng said. ‘I first met him nearly three weeks ago and the man I saw in the bar this afternoon had lost all his bearings.’

  ‘Which makes him more dangerous,’ Abel said.

  ‘This is where you’ll have to indulge me,’ Sam interrupted. ‘I know from Freddy that he’s been threatening you, maybe in different ways. I want to know how, exactly.’

  Flemyng was expressionless. He was in his favourite chair, his drink balanced on a pile of poetry books on his little table. The lighting in the room was low, and he got a special glow from the lamp behind his chair. It meant that the familiar shadows on his face were emphasized, the two creases deep and dark. He didn’t respond immediately to Sam.

  Abel spoke instead.

  ‘Come on, Will.’ He smiled at his brother. ‘What do you have for me?’

  After it was all over, Maria recalled the moment as a test of Flemyng’s resolve. She had been clear from the start that he had carried a burden through the days since Quincy’s death that pulled him down. They had shared a great deal, found the list and explored some of Quincy’s mysteries, but she knew there was more.

  She spoke. ‘I do think, after this afternoon, that we need to lay it out. You said nothing would be hidden, Will.’

  ‘I did,’ he said softly, regretting it.

  ‘Maybe I can help,’ said Abel, who seemed, by contrast, to have discovered a source of energy. He was standing, back in his jeans, with a loose summer shirt, and he looked more like a figure from the Paris streets than a man in his brother’s business. Flemyng still wore his office shirt, the trousers of his dark suit, and shoes that were polished high.

  ‘I’ll tell you what Kristof said before you found us with him today, Will. He was as plain as can be. He knew I was watching his people and knew some of them by name. He pushed as far as he could go. Nearly accused me of treachery, though I guess something stopped him from going that far.’

  Released from his torment, Flemyng said, ‘He did with me.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Abel. ‘I’m not surprised.’

  Sam, hearing the brothers’ story for the first time, said that he was beginning to realize why the embassy – and the Americans in theirs, camped round the corner in Avenue Gabriel – had been on the boil.

  Abel stepped away from the others and stood by the fireplace. None of them said a word. They waited for Flemyng, and when he spoke he took them back to the beginning.

  ‘He approached me on the metro. No warning. We met again three days later.’

  He took time with detail, describing Kristof’s appearance and the sketch he had made, recalling the atmosphere in the café where they had their first conversation. ‘At first I thought he was older than me. I was surprised when I realized that he was younger. He was grey, trailing a cloud of smoke. Tired.’

  Flemyng was speaking softly, his eyes down. To the others it seemed as if he was speaking to himself.

  ‘Out of the blue, he accused you.’ He looked up at Abel. ‘It was mad. Should I have walked away? Well, I couldn’t pass up the chance that he might be offering himself as a source, or wanting to come over. I had to let him talk, whatever he said.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ Abel said. ‘I’d have done the same.’

  Flemyng still wore the most sombre expression of the four.

  ‘Come on, Will,’ Maria said, ‘the guy was saying the worst thing he could think of, to hook you. Desperate to excite you.’

  ‘As Freddy said, was he buying or selling?’ Flemyng said. ‘How was I to know?’

  Sam asked if he had asked for evidence, to call Kristof’s bluff.

  Abel intervened before Flemyng could answer. Stepping to the table and sitting alongside Maria, he spoke directly at his brother. ‘Are you saying you need my assurance, now, that it isn’t true?’

  To Sam, Flemyng looked ill.

  He held his brother’s gaze. ‘Yes.’

  Maria broke the tension. ‘For God’s sake, Will. What’s got into you?’

  Sam joined in. ‘Come on, old friend.’

  And Abel, whose face had darkened like his brother’s, said, ‘The trouble is that we’re never going to forget this moment, are w
e? Never.’

  Maria thought they had never looked more alike.

  ‘You’re right,’ Flemyng said, ‘and that’s painful.’

  ‘But you know it’s not true,’ Maria said, taking Abel’s hand in hers.

  He said, ‘Will needs to hear it from me. So let me explain what I’ve been doing.’

  His story was an echo of Freddy Craven’s conversation on the train with Sam.

  ‘I have a friend in bomb disposal,’ he began, ‘and he’s just like me. He sits with his box of tools, a surgeon with scalpels. Where does the first cut go, and what’s underneath? Where’s the artery you have to avoid? He’s slow, prodding and scraping and living on his nerves until he makes the thing safe – waiting all the time for the explosion. That’s been my life these last two years or so.’

  The problem, he said, was in finding a way of getting some information to the other side, without setting off the big bang. They had to know the truth, but only part of it.

  ‘We know we’re not going to attack them unless they move first, but they don’t believe us. I’ve been trying to find a way to convince them. So I had to make them trust me.’

  Flemyng was watching Sam, and saw no sign of surprise. His friend knew what was coming next.

  Abel said, ‘I had to get as close as I could.’

  Maria interrupted him to say, for the benefit of Flemyng and Sam, that she had known nothing. ‘This was buried deep.’ When she saw Sam’s smile, she signalled to Abel to hold back.

  And Sam said, ‘Just like our side.’

  Flemyng appeared the unhappiest of the four as Abel resumed. He sipped a drink, his head moving out of the pool of light from his standing lamp so that for a moment they couldn’t see the expression on his face. ‘You first,’ he said to his brother, and his tone was sharper. ‘All of it.’