by Len Deighton
‘Of course I’m right. I know how these things work.’
‘You’d want me to continue my meetings with him?’
‘Exactly. You’d be working for us. You’d be making a fool of him.’
Trent smiled; he liked that.
After I’d been through my piece a couple of times, Trent became friendly enough to press a couple of drinks on me and thank me for my kindness and consideration. He repeated my instructions earnestly and thankfully, and he looked up to wait for my nod of approval. For by now – in about an hour of conversation – I had established the role of father-confessor, protector and perhaps saviour too. ‘That’s right,’ I said, this time letting the merest trace of warmth into my voice. ‘You do it our way and you’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. This could even mean a step up the promotion ladder for you.’
8
What wife, at some time or other, has not suspected her husband of infidelity? And how many husbands have not felt a pang of uncertainty at some unexplained absence, some careless remark or late arrival of his spouse? There was nothing definite in my fears. There was nothing more than confused suspicions. Fiona’s embraces were as lusty as ever; she laughed at my jokes and her eyes were bright when she looked at me. Too bright, perhaps, for sometimes I thought I could detect in her that profound compassion that women show only for men who have lost them.
I’d been trying to read other people’s minds for most of my life. It could be a dangerous task. Just as a physician might succumb to hypochondria, a policeman to graft, or a priest to materialism, so I knew that I studied too closely the behaviour of those close to me. Suspicion went with the job, the endemic disease of the spy. For friendships and for marriages it sometimes proved fatal.
I’d returned home very late after my visit to Giles Trent and that night I slept heavily. By seven o’clock next morning, Fiona’s place alongside me in bed was empty. Balanced upon the clock-radio there was buttered toast and a cup of coffee, by now quite cold. She must have left very early.
In the kitchen I could hear the children and their young nanny. I looked in on them and took some orange juice while standing up. I tried to join in the game they were playing but they yelled derision at my efforts, for I’d not understood that all answers must be given in Red Indian dialect. I blew them kisses that they didn’t acknowledge and, wrapped into my sheepskin car coat, went down into the street to spend fifteen minutes getting the car to start.
Sleet was falling as I reached the worst traffic jams, and Dicky Cruyer had parked his big Jag carelessly enough to make it a tight squeeze to get into my allotted space in the underground garage. Don’t complain, Samson, you’re lucky to have a space at all; Dicky – not having fully mastered the technique of steering – really needs two.
I spent half an hour on the phone asking when my new car was going to be delivered, but got no clear answer beyond the fact that delivery dates were unreliable. I looked at the clock and decided to call Fiona’s extension. Her secretary said, ‘Mrs Samson had an out-of-town meeting this morning.’
‘Oh, yes – she mentioned it, I think,’ I said.
Her secretary knew I was trying to save face; secretaries always guess right about that kind of thing. Her voice became especially friendly as if to compensate for Fiona’s oversight. ‘Mrs Samson said she’d be late back. But she’ll phone me some time this morning for messages. She always does that. I’ll tell her you called. Was there any message, Mr Samson?’
Was her secretary a party to whatever was going on, I wondered. Was it one of those affairs that women liked to discuss very seriously or was it recounted with laughter as Fiona had recounted to me some of her teenage romances? Or was Fiona the sort of delinquent wife who confided in no one? That would be her style, I decided. No one would ever own Fiona; she was fond of saying that. There was always a part of her that was kept secret from all the world.
‘Can I give your wife a message, Mr Samson?’ her secretary asked again.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just tell her I called.’
Bret Rensselaer liked to describe himself as a ‘workaholic’. That this description was a tired old cliché didn’t deter him from using it. He liked clichés. They were, he said, the best way to get simple ideas into the heads of idiots. But his description of himself was accurate enough; he liked work. He’d inherited a house in the Virgin Islands and a portfolio of stock that would keep him idling in the sun for the rest of his days, if that was his inclination. But he was always at his desk by 8.30 and had never been known to have a day off for sickness. A day off for other reasons was not unusual: Easter at Le Touquet, Whitsun at Deauville, the Royal Enclosure in June and the Dublin Horse Show in August were appointments marked in red pencil on Bret’s year-planner.
Needless to say, Rensselaer had never served as a field agent. His only service experience was a couple of years in the US Navy in the days when his father was still hoping he’d take over the family-owned bank.
Bret had spent his life in swivel chairs, arguing with dictating machines and smiling for committees. His muscles had come from lifting barbells, and jogging around the lawn of his Thamesside mansion. And one look at him would suggest that it was a good way to get them, for Bret had grown old gracefully. His face was tanned in that very even way that comes from sun reflected off the Pulverschnee that only falls on very expensive ski resorts. His fair hair was changing almost imperceptibly to white. And the eyeglasses that he now required for reading were styled like those that California highway patrolmen hang in their pocket flap while writing you a ticket.
‘Bad news, Bret,’ I told him as soon as he could fit me into his schedule. ‘Giles Trent is coming in this morning to tell us just what he’s been spilling to the Russians.’
Bret didn’t jump up and start doing press-ups as he was said to have done when Dicky brought him the news that his wife had walked out on him. ‘Tell me more,’ he said calmly.
I told him about my visit to Kar’s Club and overhearing the conversation, and that I’d suggested that Trent report it all to us. I didn’t say why I’d visited Kar’s Club or mention anything about Tessa.
He listened to my story without interrupting me, but he got to his feet and spent a little time checking through his paperclip collection while he listened.
‘Three Russians. Where were the other two?’
‘Sitting in the corner, playing chess with two fingers, and saying nothing to anyone.’
‘Sure they were part of it?’
‘A KGB hit team,’ I said. ‘They weren’t difficult to spot – cheap Moscow suits and square-toed shoes, sitting silent because their English isn’t good enough for anything more than buying a cup of coffee. They were there in case the flashy one needed them. They work in threes.’
‘Is there a Chlestakov on the Diplomatic List?’
‘No, I invented that part of the story for Trent. But this one was a KGB man – expensive clothes but no rings. Did you ever notice the way those KGB people never buy rings in the West? Rings leave marks on the fingers that might have to be explained when they are called back home, you see.’
‘But you said that in the club members’ book they are all described as Hungarians. Are you sure they are Russians?’
‘They didn’t do a Cossack dance or play balalaikas,’ I said, ‘but that’s only because they didn’t think of it. This fat little guy Chlestakov – a phoney name, of course – was calling Trent “tovarisch”. Tovarisch! Jesus, I haven’t heard anyone say that since the TV reruns of those old Garbo films.’
Bret Rensselaer took off his eyeglasses and fiddled with them. ‘The Russian guy said, “This is just a crazy idea that comes into my head. Take everything down to the photocopying shop in Baker Street…”?’
I finished it for him: ‘“…the same place you got the previous lot done.” Yes, that’s what he said, Bret.’
‘He must be crazy saying that in a place where he could be overheard.’
‘That’s it, Bret,’ I sa
id, trying not to be too sarcastic. ‘Like the man said, he’s a KGB man who acts upon a crazy idea as soon as it comes into his head.’
Bret was toying with his spectacles as if encountering the technology of the hinge for the first time. ‘What’s eating you?’ he said without looking up at me.
‘Come on, Bret,’ I said. ‘Did you ever hear of a Russian making a snap decision about anything? Did you ever hear of a KGB man acting on a crazy idea that just came into his head?’
Bret smiled uneasily but didn’t answer.
‘All the KGB people I ever encountered have certain well-engrained Russian characteristics, Bret. They are very slow, very devious and very very thorough.’
Bret put his wire-frame glasses into their case and leaned back to take a good look at me. ‘You want to tell me what the hell you’re getting at?’
‘They did everything except sing the “Internationale”, Bret,’ I said. ‘And it wasn’t Trent who did anything indiscreet. He played it close to the chest. It was the KGB man who came on like he was auditioning for Chekhov.’
‘You’re not telling me that these guys were just pretending to be Russians?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘My imagination doesn’t stretch to the idea of anybody who is not Russian wishing to be mistaken for a Russian.’
‘So you think these guys staged the whole thing for your benefit? You think they just did it to discredit Giles Trent?’
I didn’t answer.
‘So why the hell would Giles Trent confess when you confronted him?’ said Bret, rubbing salt into it.
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.
‘Just four beats to the bar, feller. Okay? Don’t get too complicated. Save all that for Coordination. Those guys get paid to fit the loose ends together.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But meanwhile we’d better send someone along to turn Trent’s place over. Not just a quick glance under the bed and a flashlight to see around the attic. A proper search.’
‘Agreed. Tell my secretary to do the paperwork and I’ll get it signed. Meanwhile assign someone to it – someone you can rely on. And by the way, Bernard, it’s beginning to look as though we might have to ask you to go to Berlin after all.’
‘I’m not sure I could do that, Bret,’ I said with matching charm.
‘It’s your decision,’ he said, and smiled to show how friendly he could be. Most of the time he was Mr Nice Guy. He opened doors for you, stood back to let you into the lift, laughed at your jokes, agreed with your conclusions, and asked your advice. But when all the pleasantries were over he made sure you did exactly what he wanted.
I was still thinking about Bret Rensselaer when I finished work that evening. He was different from any of the other Department heads I had to deal with. Despite those moments of brash hostility, he was more approachable than the D-G and more reliable than Dicky Cruyer. And Bret had that sort of laidback self-confidence that you have to be both rich and American to possess. He was the only one to defy the Departmental tradition that only the D-G could have a really big car, while the rest of the senior staff managed with Jaguars, Mercedes and Volvos. Bret had a bloody great Bentley limousine and a full-time uniformed chauffeur to go with it.
I saw Bret’s gleaming black Bentley in the garage when I got out of the lift in the basement. The interior lights were on and I could hear Mozart from the stereo. Bret’s driver was sitting in the back seat tapping his cigarette ash into a paper bag and swaying in time to the music.
The driver, Albert Bingham, was a sixty-year-old ex-Scots Guardsman whose enforced silence while driving resulted in a compulsive garrulity when off duty. ‘Hello, Mr Samson,’ he called out to me. ‘Am I parked in the way?’
‘No,’ I said. But Albert was out of his car and all ready for one of his chats.
‘I wondered if you would be taking your wife’s car,’ he said. ‘But on the other hand I guessed she’d be coming back here to collect it herself. I know how much she likes driving that Porsche, Mr Samson. We were having a chat about it only last week. I told her I could have it tuned up by a fellow I know at the place I get the Bentley serviced. He’s a wizard, and he has a Porsche himself. A secondhand one, of course, not the latest model like that one of your wife’s.’
‘I’m going home in this elderly Ford,’ I said, tapping the glass of it with my keys.
‘I hear you’re getting a Volvo,’ he said. ‘Just the right car for a family man.’
‘We’re too squeezed in my wife’s Porsche,’ I said.
‘You’ll be pleased with the Volvo,’ said Albert in that tone of voice that marks the Bentley driver. ‘It’s a solid car, as good as the Mercedes any day, and you can quote me on that.’
‘I might quote you on that,’ I said, ‘if I ever try trading it in for a Mercedes.’
Albert smiled and took a puff at his cigarette. He knew when he was being joshed and he knew how to show me he didn’t mind. ‘Your wife wanted to drive Mr Rensselaer in her Porsche, but he insisted on the Bentley. He doesn’t like fast sports cars, Mr Rensselaer. He likes to be able to stretch his legs out. He was injured in the war – did you know he was injured?’
I wondered what Albert could be talking about. Fiona had arranged to go to Tessa’s and sort through some house agents’ offers. ‘Injured? I didn’t know.’
‘He was in submarines. He broke his kneecap falling down a companionway – that’s a sort of ladder on a ship – and it was reset while they were at sea. A sub doesn’t return from patrol for a little matter of an ensign hurting his leg.’ Albert laughed at the irony of it all.
Where had Rensselaer gone with my wife? ‘So you nearly got an evening off, Albert.’
Gratified to see I hadn’t climbed into the driving seat and fled from him, as most of the staff did when he started chatting, Albert took a deep breath and said, ‘I don’t mind, Mr Samson. I can use the overtime, to tell you the honest truth. And what do I care whether I’m sitting at home in my poky little bed-sitter or lying back in that real leather. It’s Mozart, Mr Samson, and I’d just as soon listen to Mozart here in an underground garage as anywhere in the world. That stereo is a beautiful job. Come over and listen to it if you don’t believe me.’
They couldn’t have gone far, or Albert would not have brought the Bentley back to the garage to wait for them. ‘Much traffic in town tonight, Albert? I have to go through the West End.’
‘It’s terrible, Mr Samson. One of these days, it’s going to lock up solid.’ This was one of Albert’s standard phrases; he said it automatically while he worked out an answer to my question. ‘Piccadilly is bad at this time. It’s the theatres.’
‘I never know how to avoid Piccadilly when I’m going home.’
Albert inhaled on his cigarette. I had given him the perfect opening on his favourite topic: shortcuts in central London. ‘Well –’
‘Take your journey tonight,’ I interrupted him. ‘How did you tackle it? You knew there would be heavy traffic…when did you leave…seven?’
‘Seven-fifteen. Well, they went for a drink in the White Elephant Club in Curzon Street first. They could have walked from there to the Connaught, I know, but it might have started to rain and there’d be no cabs in Curzon Street at that time. The table at the Connaught Hotel Grill Room was for eight o’clock. No place for a big car like mine in Curzon Street. They’re double-parked there by seven on some evenings at this time of year. I got there via Birdcage Walk, past Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park Corner…a long way round, you say. But when you’ve spent as many years driving in London as I have you…’
I let Albert’s voice drone on as I asked myself why my wife told me she was spending the evening with Tessa when really she was having dinner in a hotel with Bret Rensselaer. ‘Is that the time?’ I said, looking at my watch while Albert was in full flow. ‘I must go. Nice talking to you, Albert. You’re a mine of information.’
Albert smiled. I could still hear Cosí fan tutte from the Bentley’s stereo when I was driving up the exit ra
mp.
I watched her as she took off her rain-specked headscarf. She wore a silk square only when she wanted to protect a very special new hairdo. She shook her head and flicked at her hair with her fingertips. Her eyes sparkled and her skin was pale and perfect. She smiled; how beautiful she seemed, and how far away.
‘Did you eat out?’ she said. She noticed the dining table with the unused place setting that Mrs Dias had left for me.
‘I had a cheese roll in a pub.’
‘That’s the worst thing you could choose,’ she said. ‘Fat and carbohydrates: that’s not good for you. There was cold chicken and salad prepared.’
‘So did Tessa find another house?’
Alerted perhaps by the tone of voice, or by the way I stood facing her, she looked into my face for a moment before taking off her raincoat. ‘I couldn’t get to Tessa’s tonight. Something came up.’ She shook the raincoat and the raindrops flashed in the light.
‘Work, you mean?’
She looked at me steadily before nodding. We had a tacit agreement not to ask questions about work. ‘Something Rensselaer wanted,’ she said, and kept looking at me as if challenging me to pursue it.
‘I saw your car in the car park when I left but Security said you’d already gone.’
She walked past me to hang her coat in the hall. When she’d done that, she looked in the hall mirror and combed her hair as she spoke. ‘There was a lot of stuff in the diplomatic bag this afternoon. Some of it needed translation and Bret’s secretary has only A-level German. I went over the road and worked there.’
Claiming to be in the Foreign Office as an explanation of absence was the oldest joke in the Department. No one could ever be found in that dark labyrinth. ‘You had dinner with Rensselaer,’ I said, unable to control my anger any longer.
She stopped combing her hair, opened her handbag and dropped the comb into it. Then she smiled and said, ‘Well, you don’t expect me to starve, darling. Do you?’