Spy Story

by Len Deighton

  ‘Very flattering.’

  Dawlish shook his head. ‘There’s a lot of dust still in the air. I was hoping to soft-soap your Colonel this evening but I judged it not opportune. He’ll be angry, of course.’ He tapped the polished wooden dashboard. ‘They don’t make them like that any more.’

  ‘Why should he be angry?’

  ‘Why indeed, but that’s how it always is, you know that. They never thank us for getting onto these things … slack security, the change of directors, your trip, the empty flat, no proper co-ordination: it’s the old story.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There will probably be a trial, but their lawyers will do a deal if they have any sense. Don’t want it all over the papers. Delicate situation at the moment.’

  ‘Schlegel asked me how I got the job at the Centre.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I bumped into Ferdy in a pub …’

  ‘Well, that’s right isn’t it?’

  ‘Can’t you ever give a straight answer?’ I said angrily. ‘Does Ferdy know – must I pry every last syllable … Schlegel is quite likely to bring it up again.’

  Dawlish waved away his cigar smoke. ‘Don’t get so agitated. Why the devil should Foxwell know anything?’ He smiled. ‘Foxwell: our man at the Studies Centre, you mean?’ He laughed very softly.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that exactly.’

  The front door of the house opened. In the rectangle of yellow light, Toliver swayed as he tied his scarf and buttoned his overcoat to the neck. I heard the voices of Toliver and Ferdy as the two men walked across to Toliver’s shiny new two-door green Bentley. It was icy underfoot and Toliver grabbed Ferdy’s arm to steady himself. In spite of the closed windows I heard Ferdy’s ‘Goodnight. Goodnight. Goodnight.’

  Dawlish had made it sound ridiculous. Why would Dawlish have an agent in the Studies Centre when he could have the analysis delivered every month merely for the asking.

  He said, ‘Another extraordinary thing, after all the procedures we’ve been through, we’ve gone right back to routing our phone connections through the local engineers into Federal exchange.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, I don’t want to hear about it,’ I said. I opened the catch of the car door. It made a loud click but he gave no sign of noticing it.

  ‘Just in case you want to get in touch,’ he said.

  Write in today for the Dawlish system: sent in a plain sealed envelope and it might change your life. But not for the better. I could see it all now. The Dawlish gambit – a piece sacrificed and then the real move. ‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Not. A. Chance.’

  And Dawlish heard that new tone in my voice. He frowned. On his face there was bewilderment, hurt feelings, disappointment and a sincere attempt to understand my point of view. ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Just forget it.’ You may never want to change partners again, sang Sinatra, but he had an arranger and a big sobbing string section.

  Dawlish knew then that I’d slipped the hook. ‘We’ll have lunch one day,’ he said. It was as near to admitting defeat as I’d ever seen him. At least, I thought so at the time. For a moment I didn’t move. Toliver’s car leaped forward, almost stalled and then swung round, missing the next car by only inches. It revved loudly as Toliver changed gear and then lumbered out through the gate. After only a few moments the Austin 2200 followed it.

  ‘Nothing’s changed,’ I said, as I got out. Dawlish continued smoking his cigar. I’d thought of all the things I’d rather have said by the time I got to the front door. It was ajar. From the end of the corridor there was the music of the piano: not Mozart but Noel Coward. It was Ferdy doing his fat-rich-boy-makes-good act. ‘The Stately Homes of England …’ sang Ferdy gaily.

  I helped myself to another cup of coffee. Dawlish hadn’t followed me. I was glad of that. I didn’t believe Dawlish’s glib explanations specially designed so that I had to drag the lies out of him. But the fact that Dawlish was even interested made me nervous. First Stok and now Dawlish …

  ‘Shall I tell you something?’ said Schlegel. He was rocking on the two rear legs of the delicate gilt chair and beating time to the music with his cigar. ‘This is a whole new side of Foxwell. A whole new side of him.’

  I looked at Ferdy, who required all his concentration to play the piano and remember the words too. He fitted in a hasty smile as he came to the end of the line. Somewhere under that Savile Row evening suit with the silk collar there was a history graduate, farm owner, man about town and skilled amateur strategist, who could talk for an hour about the difference between digital and analog computers. No wonder the suit didn’t fit very well.

  ‘To prove the upper classes always have the upper hand.’ He sang it with all the astringent bravura of the maestro, and Helen Schlegel called encore so enthusiastically that he did a repeat performance.

  I went to sit next to Marjorie. She said, ‘He wasn’t trying to sell you that hideous car, was he?’

  ‘I’ve known him for ages. We were just chatting.’

  ‘Did that awful Toliver drive himself home?’

  ‘I don’t know where he was headed, but he was sitting behind the wheel when he left here.’

  ‘It would serve him right if he was caught. He’s always half-cut.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He’s on the hospital board. He’s constantly in and out of our place. He tries to recruit staff for his nursing home.’

  ‘He’d be a delight to work for.’

  ‘Good pay, they say.’

  ‘It would have to be.’

  As if by magic, when Ferdy’s piano music stopped a servant came in with jugs of coffee and chocolate. It was a gracious way of telling your guests to go home. Schlegel was enthusiastic about Ferdy’s piano playing. I formed the impression that Ferdy was going to spearhead Schlegel’s attempt to squeeze more funds out of CINCLANT. I could imagine Ferdy being paraded through a schedule of Norfolk, Virginia, parties. With Schlegel announcing him like a fairground barker.

  I said that to Marjorie on the way home but she would have none of it. ‘Give me the Schlegels every time,’ she said. ‘At present in my department there is a row going on about teaching payments – there’s always a lot of teaching in the pathology departments – and the professor isn’t speaking to the senior assistant and the staff have divided into two camps and no one will say honestly that it’s all about money. They want to pretend they are arguing about the extension to the mortuary. Give me the Schlegels every time.’

  ‘Extension to the mortuary. It sounds like a title for a Hammer film. How can you like working in pathology?’

  ‘Pat, I’ve told you a thousand times, I hate working there. But it’s the only department I can get into which gives me a normal nine to five day. And you know how unbearable you are about my shift work.’

  ‘That Toliver!’ I said. ‘Boy can he pack it away: second helpings of everything and always it’s not quite salty enough, or not quite as good as he gets in the south of France.’

  ‘He looks ill,’ said Marjorie, overtaken by professionalism.

  ‘He certainly does. I can understand him coming in the Path Lab. What I don’t understand is how they let him out.’

  ‘Last week I heard him having a terrific row with my professor.’

  ‘My professor now, is it? I thought he was the one you called Jack the Ripper. Row about what?’

  ‘Oh, a death certificate or a post-mortem or something.’

  ‘Good old Toliver.’

  ‘They went into the office and closed the door but you could still hear them. Toliver was shouting about how important he was and he’d take the whole matter to the board of governors. I heard him say that he was doing this for “a certain department of state that shall remain nameless”. Pompous old fool. Trying to pretend he was something to do with the Secret Service or something.’

  ‘He’s been watching late-night television,’ I said.

  ‘He’s been watching the world through the bottom
s of empty glasses,’ said Marjorie. ‘That’s his problem, and everyone knows it.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘But just out of vulgar curiosity, could you find out exactly what Toliver wanted?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m just curious. He wants Ferdy to go into business with him – a new clinic or something – I’d like to know what he gets up to.’ It was a feeble improvisation, but Marjorie said she’d try to find out. I suppose she was curious about it too.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten that tomorrow we’re having lunch, darling.’

  ‘How could I, you’ve reminded me every hour on the hour.’

  ‘Poor darling. We don’t have to talk – we can just eat.’ She hugged me. ‘You make me feel like a terrible shrew, Patrick, and I’m not. I’m really not. I can’t help being possessive. I love you.’

  ‘We’ll talk,’ I said.

  9

  Chess. A pejorative term used of inexperienced players who assume that both sides make rational decisions when in full possession of the facts. Any history book provides evidence that this is a fallacy and wargaming exists only because of this fallacy.

  ‘GLOSSARY FOR WARGAMERS’.

  STUDIES CENTRE. LONDON

  If the phone rings in the middle of the night it’s always for Marjorie. That’s why we keep it on that side of the bed. That night, full of wine and cognac and Dawlish, I came only half awake, snorted and turned over. ‘It’s for you,’ said Marjorie.

  ‘It’s me. Ferdy. I’m in my car.’

  ‘I’ve had this one fitted in the bed – pretty wild, eh?’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m awfully sorry but I’ve got to talk with you. Will you come down and open the front door?’

  ‘And it couldn’t wait until morning?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be a pig,’ said Marjorie. ‘Go down and let him him.’ She yawned and pulled the bedclothes up over her face. I couldn’t blame her, she seldom had the luxury of seeing me turned out in the middle of the night.

  ‘It’s life and death.’

  ‘It had better be,’ I said, and hung up.

  ‘You talk to him as though he’s a child,’ said Marjorie. ‘He’s much older than you are.’

  ‘He’s older, richer and better-looking. And he smokes.’

  ‘You haven’t started again? I’m proud of you, darling. It’s nearly two months isn’t it?’

  ‘Sixty-one days, five hours, and thirty-two minutes.’

  ‘It’s not even fifty days.’

  ‘Must you ruin my best lines?’ I shook the token box of matches on my bedside table and put it back unused. There wasn’t a pack in the house or I might have succumbed. I’d even refused the cigars at Ferdy’s. It was sometimes difficult not to feel very proud of myself. I pulled on some clothes: evening-dress trousers and a turtle-neck sweater. ‘I’ll talk with him in the sitting-room,’ I said, switching off the bedside lights.

  There was no answer. Marjorie had acquired the knack of instant sleep. I yawned.

  I let Ferdy in and sat him down in the sitting-room. There was last night’s cocoa in the saucepan. I lit a flame under it and set up cups in the kitchen so that I had an excuse for waking up in easy stages. Ferdy paced the sitting-room carpet in enough agitation to make his hands shake as he lit the inevitable cigar.

  ‘Just don’t offer me one,’ I said.

  He stirred the cocoa dutifully but did not even sip it. ‘Now perhaps you will believe me,’ he said. He fixed me with a beady stare but revised his opening each time he opened his mouth. ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he said.

  ‘For God’s sake, sit down, Ferdy.’

  He was wearing his impresario’s overcoat: black loden with a collar of curly astrakhan. Ten years ago it would have been old-fashioned. He sat down and slipped it back off his shoulders in a matronly gesture. ‘This is a rum district.’

  ‘It’s a lousy neighbourhood,’ I agreed. He looked round the dust-covered room, at the wad of paper that levelled the clock, the stains on the sofa, the burned carpet and the books that all had bargain prices pencilled on the flyleaf. ‘You could do better than this over my way.’

  ‘I was thinking that, Ferdy. Why don’t you legally adopt me?’

  ‘You don’t know what happened tonight.’

  ‘Schlegel kicked Boudin?’

  ‘What? Oh, I see.’ He scowled and then gave a perfunctory smile to acknowledge that it was a joke. ‘They’ve attacked poor old Tolly.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Toliver. Ben Toliver the MP. You were with him tonight.’

  ‘Who attacked him?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Patrick.’

  ‘We’ve got all night.’ I yawned.

  ‘The bloody Russians attacked him. That’s who.’

  ‘You’d better start at the beginning.’

  ‘The phone went tonight just before you left. Toliver was followed. He has a phone in his car so he called me on his way back. When you’d gone, I took Teresa’s car and went to meet him.’

  ‘You sound pretty bloody calm about it. Why didn’t you phone the police?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve started at the wrong place. I should have told you that Toliver works for the Secret Service … now, don’t pull a face. I’m telling the absolute truth, and you can ask anyone …’

  ‘What do you mean, I can ask anyone? How the hell would anyone know?’

  ‘Anyone who is anyone knows,’ said Ferdy primly.

  ‘OK, Ferdy, that puts me down. But this no one remains unconvinced.’

  ‘Just for a moment suspend your hatred of Toliver …’

  ‘I don’t hate Toliver … It’s just his teeth.’

  ‘Yes, you do, and I understand why you do, but if you really knew him, you’d like him.’

  ‘On account of him being in the Secret Service.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell you?’

  ‘I’m not desperate about it, Ferdy. I was asleep when all this car-telephoning started.’

  ‘Forget the car-telephoning,’ said Ferdy. ‘I know that irritates you, too.’

  ‘For God’s sake get on with it.’ From the next room Marjorie shouted for us to make less noise. I whispered, ‘Toliver runs the Secret Service and was being followed while he phoned you from his Bentley. Let’s move on to where you arrived. What sort of car was following him?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly a car,’ said Ferdy doubtfully. ‘It was an enormous eight-wheeled lorry. I know you won’t believe me but I saw it.’

  ‘And he was in the Bentley? He could do a ton in that job without putting his foot on the floor.’

  ‘At first there was an old Humber Estate behind him. He realized that it was following him, so he slowed right down trying to make it overtake. It was then that the big ten-ton job overtook both cars. He was sandwiched. The lorry was doing fifty or more; while the Humber pushed him close, the lorry swung out to prevent him overtaking.’

  ‘Nice fellows.’

  ‘The Humber was hitting the back bumper. Tolly was scared stiff.’

  ‘You could hear him on the phone?’

  ‘Yes, he’d put it on the seat but he was shouting. Then the truck slammed on the brakes. It was a wonder that they didn’t kill Tolly.’

  ‘They weren’t trying to do that.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I can’t be sure, Ferdy, but people who’d go to all that trouble and expense … well, it would be easier to make it a fatal accident than a non-fatal one.’

  ‘Tolly always has his seat belt on.’

  ‘Where were you all this time?’

  ‘I came up behind the Humber right at the end. They were too busy to notice.’

  ‘What happened when they stopped?’

  ‘I stopped too, well ahead, and ran back. They still didn’t see me. They had opened the doors of Tolly’s car and were trying to drag him out.’

  ‘He was fighting them?’

  ‘No,’ said Ferdy. ‘Tolly was unconscious. He still is. That’s why
I came to you. If Tolly had been well enough I would have asked him what to do. They were speaking Russian. You think I’m joking but they were speaking good Russian: regional accents of some sort but only slight. They were townspeople – some Polish vowels in there somewhere – forced to guess I might say Lvov.’

  ‘Never mind the Professor Higgins stuff, Ferdy. What happened then?’

  ‘Yes, I should have told you. The ten-tonner clipped the Bentley close as he pulled ahead trying to make him stop. Ripped Tolly’s offside wing off … shook Tolly, I should think.’

  ‘It would gain anyone’s attention.’

  ‘A police car came past just after we all stopped. They thought it was an accident. The whole side of the Bentley was dented and torn … the wing bent back. No one could have missed seeing it.’

  ‘And what did the Russians do when the police arrived?’

  ‘So now you’re beginning to see they are Russians – good.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘You know what they do – licences, insurance, breathalyser tests.’

  ‘But Toliver was unconscious.’

  ‘They let me take him home. The others were all with the police when I left. I pretended that I’d arrived at the same time as the police. None of them realized I knew what it was all about.’

  ‘Drink your cocoa.’

  I know you think I treat him badly, but I knew Ferdy Foxwell of old. I’m telling you, we could well be talking about a perfectly normal traffic shunt: two drivers with powerful scouse accents arguing with a drunken Toliver who’d nearly killed them going through a red light.

  ‘I got the registration numbers both for the Albion lorry and the Humber Estate. Will you find out about it? And see what the police did with the Russians?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And, Patrick. You must remember that Toliver really is working for the British Secret Service.’

  ‘What difference will that make?’

  ‘What I mean is … don’t let your prejudice mislead you.’