by Len Deighton
Ferdy sniffed at MacGregor’s stew. ‘What the devil are you boiling up there, MacGregor, you hairy Scotch bastard?’
‘It’s your chance to taste Highland haggis, fatty,’ said MacGregor.
‘One of these days you’ll say that, and it really will be a haggis,’ said Ferdy.
‘Never,’ said MacGregor, ‘can’t stand the filthy muck. I would no’ have the stench of it in my house.’
‘You can put a gill of your home-made ginger wine into a double measure of your malt,’ said Ferdy.
I said, ‘Make it two of them.’
‘Finest ginger wine I ever tasted,’ said Ferdy. He grinned at me. MacGregor deplored the idea of mixing anything with his precious malts but he was vulnerable to compliments about his ginger wine. Reluctantly he took his time before he poured the measures into the glasses, hoping the while that we’d change our minds.
‘The Colonel is coming?’
‘The new Colonel is coming, MacGregor, my friend.’ It was declared now, that we all had the same employer, and yet even during my two days with him he’d not admitted it.
The wind was backing. No longer was smoke coming down into the back yard but the radio aerial gave a gentle moan. It was an uncommonly tall radio aerial, if intended only to bring in the BBC programmes.
‘I must have the power-saw ready for morning,’ said MacGregor diplomatically, for he guessed that the contents of Ferdy’s document case were only for me to see.
Ferdy had the schoolboy intensity that I never ceased to admire. He’d brought all the right documents and codes and radio procedure charts marked up for the dates of the changes. No matter how much he complained, no matter, in fact, how anyone treated him, Ferdy saw himself as Mr Reliable, and he worked hard to keep his own esteem.
He hurried through the papers. ‘I suppose Schlegel poked you away up here because he didn’t want us talking together.’ He said it casually, while giving the edges of the pages too much attention. It was a girl’s response, if I can say that about Ferdy without giving you a completely wrong idea about him.
‘No,’ I said.
‘He hates me,’ said Ferdy.
‘You keep saying that.’
‘I keep saying it because it’s true.’
‘Well, that’s a good enough reason,’ I admitted.
‘I mean, you know it’s true, don’t you.’ Again it was an adolescent’s wish to be contradicted.
‘Hell, Ferdy, I don’t know.’
‘And don’t care.’
‘And don’t care, Ferdy. Right.’
‘I’ve been against the Americans taking over the Centre, right from the start.’ He paused. I said nothing. Ferdy said, ‘You haven’t, I know.’
‘I’m not sure the Centre would still be functioning if the Americans hadn’t pumped life into it.’
‘But is it recognizable? When was the last time we did a historical analysis?’
‘You know when, Ferdy. You and I did the PQ17 convoy in September. Before that, we did those Battle of Britain variable fuel load games. You wrote them up for the journal. I thought you were pleased with what we did?’
‘Yes, those,’ said Ferdy, unable to conceal the irritation which my answers gave him. ‘I mean a historical game played right through the month – computer time and all – with full staff. Not just you and me doing all the donkey work. Not just the two of us scribbling notes, as if it was some new boxed game from Avalon Hill.’
‘Who pays the piper …’
‘Well I don’t like the tune. That’s why I first started telling Toliver what was happening.’
‘What?’
‘Only after they started the surveillance submarines.’
‘You mean …’ I paused as I thought about it. ‘You mean you were reporting all that classified material back to Toliver?’
‘He’s one of the senior people in intelligence.’
‘For God’s sake, Ferdy, even if he was, what’s that got to do with it?’
Ferdy bit his lower lip. ‘I had to make sure our people knew.’
‘They knew, Ferdy. We are a combined services outfit. They knew. What good could it possibly do, telling Toliver?’
‘You think I did wrong?’
‘You can’t be that stupid, Ferdy.’
‘Let Schlegel down?’ Ferdy said angrily. He shook an errant curl off his forehead. ‘Is that what I did?’
‘How could they …’ I stopped.
‘Yes,’ said Ferdy. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Well, what makes you so sure that Toliver is not working for the Russians? Or the Americans, come to that. How do you know?’
Ferdy went ashen. He ran his splayed fingers through his hair a couple of times. ‘You don’t believe that,’ he said.
‘I’m asking you,’ I said.
‘You’ve never liked Toliver. I know you haven’t.’
‘Is that why he deserved the analysis every month?’
Ferdy huffed and puffed, fidgeting with the curtain to get more light in the room, and picking up my Agatha Christie and reading a line or two. ‘You reading this?’ he asked. I nodded. He put it back on the mantelshelf, behind the broken jug in which MacGregor kept the unpaid bills. ‘I wish I’d spoken with you about this before, Patrick,’ said Ferdy. ‘I nearly did. Lots of times I nearly told you.’ The blue jug was safely positioned on the mantelpiece but Ferdy pushed it close against the mirror, as though it might leap into the fireplace and smash into a thousand fragments just to spite and embarrass him. He smiled at me. ‘You know about this sort of thing, Patrick. I’ve never been awfully good at the public relations side of it.’
‘Thanks a lot, Ferdy,’ I said, without working hard at making my appreciation shine through.
‘No offence.’
‘And none taken, but if you think that is public relations …’
‘I didn’t mean public relations exactly.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘You think old Mac would let us have some tea?’
‘Now don’t change the subject. Schlegel will be here in a moment.’
‘Oh, he’ll be chasing as fast as he can go. He won’t relish the idea of us working against him.’
‘Then that makes two of us.’
‘Don’t be odious, Pat. I can help you. I mean, these people are trying to get at both of us, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Am I right in saying that you’ve seen this fellow before, for instance?’ He unclipped the lining of his document case and produced a large envelope from which he took a photo. He passed it to me.
‘Seen him before?’
I took the picture. It was a small print, rephotographed from another print, judging by the fuzzy quality and the reflection. I’d seen it before, all right, but I wasn’t going to say so.
‘No.’
‘Would you be surprised if I told you that he was Rear-Admiral Remoziva?’
‘No.’
‘You know what I’m getting at?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Remoziva is Chief of Staff, Northern Fleet.’
‘A real, live Red Admiral.’
‘A real, live Red Admiral,’ said Ferdy.
He looked at me, trying to see what reaction his information had produced. ‘Murmansk,’ he added finally.
‘Yes, I know where the Russians keep the Northern Fleet, Ferdy.’
‘One of the best submarine men they have. Rear-Admiral Remoziva is the favourite for the First Deputy’s department next year. Did you know that?’
I walked across to where he was standing. He was pretending to look out of the window to where MacGregor’s dog was sniffing along some invisible track that circled the coal store. The window had frosted, making the dog no more than a fluffy growl. Ferdy breathed upon the glass and cleared a small circle, through which he peered. Over the sea the sky looked like a bundle of tarry rope but there were strands of red and gold plaited into it. Tomorrow would be a fine day.
‘Did you know it?’ Fer
dy asked again.
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘No, Ferdy,’ I said, and I pulled him round to face me, then grabbed his coat collar in my hand and twisted it so that the cloth tightened against his throat. He was a bigger man than me. Or so he’d always seemed. ‘I didn’t know that, Ferdy,’ I told him very quietly. ‘But,’ and I shook him gently, ‘if I find that you …’
‘What?’
‘Are anything to do with it.’
‘To do with what?’ His voice was high, but who knows whether it was indignation, fear, or just bewilderment.
‘What?’ he said again. ‘What? What? What?’ He was shouting by this time. Shouting so loud that I only just heard the door slam as MacGregor came back into the house.
‘No matter.’ I pushed Ferdy angrily, and stepped back from him as MacGregor came into the room. Ferdy straightened his tie and coat.
‘Did you want something?’ said MacGregor.
‘Ferdy was wondering if we could get some tea,’ I said.
MacGregor looked from one to the other of us. ‘You can,’ he said. ‘I’ll brew it when the kettle boils. It’s on the fire.’
Still he watched us both. And we watched each other, and in Ferdy’s eyes I saw resentment and fear. ‘Another trip so soon,’ said Ferdy. ‘We deserved a longer break.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. MacGregor turned and went back to the power-saw.
‘So why does Schlegel want to come?’
‘He wants to find out how the subs work. It’s a new kind of department for him.’
‘Huh!’ said Ferdy. ‘He doesn’t give a damn about subs. He’s from the CIA.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Leave me alone,’ he said.
‘Sent to harass you, you mean?’
‘You’re a hard bastard, Pat.’ He straightened his tie. ‘You know that, don’t you? You’re a hard bastard.’
‘But not hard enough,’ I said.
‘And I’ll tell you something else, Patrick. This business with this Russian – this is Schlegel’s pet project. I keep my ears open and I can tell you, it’s Schlegel’s pet project.’ He smiled, anxious to be friends again – a schoolgirl quarrel, soon mended, soon forgotten.
MacGregor called from the bar. ‘Car coming.’
We both turned to the window. Already it was getting dark, although the clock said it was not much past four in the afternoon.
‘Schlegel,’ said Ferdy.
‘In a space ship?’ The bright yellow, futuristic car made me smile. What a character.
‘It’s his new sports car – you buy the kit and assemble it. You save a lot of tax.’
‘There had to be a reason,’ I said. Schlegel brought it into the park, and revved-up before switching off, in the way that racing motorists are reputed to do. The silence lasted only a few minutes. Even before Schlegel had the car door open, I heard MacGregor’s power-saw stammer and then roar into action. Nothing dared not work, once Schlegel had arrived.
‘Oh boy,’ said Schlegel. ‘When I choose, I choose a lulu.’
‘What?’
‘Spare me the static.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Why didn’t you lay it on me, about working for the goddamn Brits?’
I said nothing.
Schlegel sighed. ‘I was bound to find out. You made me look like a creep, do you know that, Pat?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sure. You’re sorry. You don’t get the flak. You spent years working for the goddamn intelligence service, and you let me put a screening request to them just like you are a two-bit clerk, and now you say you’re sorry.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were screening me.’
‘Don’t get smart with me, Patrick.’
I raised the flat of my hand and lowered my eyes. I owed him an apology and there was no doubt about it. They’d make his face burn red for a couple of months, if I knew anything about those megalomaniacs at Joint Service Records. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What do you want me to do: commit hari-kari with a blunt screwdriver?’
‘I might,’ said Schlegel, and he was still very mad.
Ferdy came outside then, so I knew the Colonel would drop it. He did, too, but clearly it would be a little time before he came around to being our happy laughing leader again.
‘Both the bags?’ said Ferdy.
‘Jesus, don’t fuss round me,’ said Schlegel, and Ferdy flinched like a whipped dog and gave me a look to tell me that it was no more and no less than he’d expected.
‘Let’s go. Let’s go,’ said Schlegel. He picked up his baggage, including equipment for both golf and tennis, and strode into the bar parlour.
‘And what will it be, Colonel, sir?’ said MacGregor.
Schlegel looked him up and down. ‘Are you going to be another of these smart-arse Brits?’ said Schlegel. ‘Because I don’t need it, pal. I don’t need it.’
‘I want to give you a drink, man,’ said MacGregor.
‘Can you fix a Martini, American style?’ asked Schlegel.
‘I can,’ said MacGregor.
But Schlegel wasn’t going to let him get away as easily as that. ‘I’m talking about a stem glass from the ice-box, really cold Beefeater and no more than seven per cent dry vermouth.’
‘I can,’ said MacGregor. He turned away to start fixing it.
‘And I mean cold,’ said Schlegel.
‘You can sit in the freezer and drink it, if you want to,’ said MacGregor.
‘Listen,’ said Schlegel. ‘Make it a double Scotch will you. Less chance you’ll screw up on that one.’
It was after the second round of drinks that MacGregor came into the back room laughing. ‘I’ve just seen a remarkable sight,’ he said. We turned to look at him, for he was not a man who was often surprised. And even less likely to admit it.
‘A hearse – driving past like a mad feller.’
‘A hearse? Where was he going?’ said Ferdy.
‘Where was he going,’ said MacGregor. ‘Hah. I’d like to know the answer to that one myself. He was driving up over the high road. There’s nothing along that way.’
‘Except the submarine base,’ I said.
‘Aye, except the submarine base. It would be a detour of fifteen miles for him to go that way to the Glen, or any of the villages.’
‘Some kid stealing a ride home,’ said Schlegel. He had not even looked up from his drink.
‘At this time of day?’ said MacGregor. ‘Coming back from some local night club you mean?’
‘Something like that,’ said Schlegel, unabashed at MacGregor’s sarcasm. ‘What else, I’d like to know?’
‘A burial at sea,’ I offered. MacGregor gave a great booming laugh as though I’d made a fine joke.
‘Did it have a body in it?’ asked the ever-practical Ferdy.
‘Well, it had a coffin in it,’ said MacGregor.
We ate in the front bar that night. We sat on the stools and faced Mac across his highly polished bar counter. It was a good stew – a man’s cooking: great chunks of beef with whole potatoes and beans, too. And Mac’s best beer to go with it. And as we finished eating, the sky threw a handful of snow at the window, and the wind rapped twice so that we couldn’t fail to notice.
18
… history does not prove games wrong, any more than games prove history so.
‘NOTES FOR WARGAMERS’. STUDIES CENTRE. LONDON
The navies of the world have decreed that, although submarines are called boats, nuclear submarines are ships. To see one of these monsters, well over a hundred yards long, weigh anchor and creep out to sea, is to understand why. Inch by inch we moved through the anchorage, past pale grey mother ships and the tiny conventional submarines alongside them. We passed through the anti-submarine booms, nets and anti-frogman barrier, thankful for the brief snatches of bright sun that shone from a cloudy sky and reminded everyone aboard that we were heading into the continuous Arctic night.
The US submarin
e Paul Revere was a huge vessel by any standards, space to spare for laundry rooms, cinema, library and a comfortable lounge. Just a perfunctory tour of the ship took over an hour. No sooner had we changed into USN khakis than Schlegel was off, investigating every nook and cranny. We heard his progress through the departments, making jokes, poking fingers, shaking hands and introducing himself. ‘Colonel Chuck Schlegel, US Marine Corps, buddy, and don’t you forget you’ve got a gyrene on this tub. Ha, ha.’
These intelligence submarines did not have the usual banks of sixteen missiles. Instead, the amidships section was crammed with electronic counter measures (ECM) and radio monitoring and recording apparatus. Certain recorded intercepts were taken back to STUCEN and fed into the computer. Thus we could array on the Games Table up to date ‘dilemma assessment’ which is the pre-game stage of each simulated conflict.
In a corner of the lounge, there was the ship’s doctor, laying down the cards for a complicated bridge game that he claimed he could play all by himself.
‘What’s it like up there?’ he said. He was a worn-out little man with balding head and heavy-lidded eyes.
‘Bright sunshine, but we are running into sea mist.’
‘How about taking a bridge hand?’
I shook my head. ‘I promised my mother,’ I said.
The great submarine threaded its way out through the Sound. The Seal Beach lighthouse bellowed at us, and a sea mist clamped down upon the gap between the northern end of Ardvern and the tiny island of Lum, that sticks its black head out of the water like an inquiring seal, its neck garlanded with a ruff of white water.
It was radar weather after that. The skipper came down from the sail. Schlegel had been up there with him. When he came into the wardroom his face was blue with cold, in spite of the big US Navy anorak he was wearing.
He slipped the anorak off his shoulders. ‘Oh boy!’ said Schlegel.
The doctor looked up from his bridge game. Schlegel was wearing his old Marine Corps sun-tans: short sleeves, rank insignia and pilot’s wings, and starched like a plank.
I was standing by the coffee machine and I poured him some.
‘Jesus, it’s pretty scary,’ Schlegel said. ‘We came past that damned reef so close I could have snatched a seagull off the foreshore.’ He looked around to where Ferdy was sitting, feet on the table and half asleep, over a copy of The Brothers Karamazov.