London Match

by Len Deighton

  ‘No, don’t tell me, Bret.’ I held one hand to my head as if on the verge of remembering something important. ‘The “honeymoon” and the “post-honeymoon gloom”…I recognize the magical syntax…there’s a touch of Hemingway there, or is it Shelley? What golden-tongued wordsmith told you that Stinnes was in the – how was it he put it? – “post-honeymoon gloom”? I must write that down in case I forget it. Was that the Deputy Governor, the bearded one with the incontinent dachshund that craps on his carpet? Jesus, if I could only get stuff like that into my reports, I’d be D-G by now.’

  Bret looked at me and chewed his lip in fury. He was mad at me, but he was even madder at himself for repeating all that garbage that London Debriefing staff trot out to cover their manifold incompetence. ‘So where can we move him to? Technically, London Debriefing have custody of him.’

  ‘I know, Bret. And this is the time that you tell me again about how necessary it is to keep up the pretence that he’s being questioned about my loyalty, in case the Home Office start making noises about him being transferred to M15 facilities.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ said Bret. ‘Never mind how much you don’t like it, the truth is that you’re our only excuse for holding onto Stinnes.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ I said. ‘Even if the Home Office started asking for him today, the paperwork would take three months going through normal channels, four or five months if we were deliberately slow.’

  ‘That’s not so. I could tell you of three or four people handed over to Five within two or three weeks of entering the UK.’

  ‘I’m talking about the paperwork, Bret. Until now we’ve mostly let them go because we don’t want them. But the paperwork that makes the transfer necessary takes an average of three months.’

  ‘I won’t argue with you,’ said Bret. ‘I guess you see more of the paperwork from where you sit.’

  ‘Oh boy, do I.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘If they don’t arrive by nine, we’ll have to do this later in the day. I’m due at a meeting in the conference room at nine forty-five.’

  But as he said it, Dicky Cruyer and Morgan came through the door, talking animatedly and with exhilarant friendliness. I was disconcerted by this noisy show, for I detested Morgan in a way I didn’t dislike anyone else in the building. Morgan was the only person there whose patronizing superiority came near driving me to physical violence.

  ‘And what happens if I get you home later than midnight?’ said Dicky with that fruity voice he used after people had laughed at a couple of his jokes. ‘Do you turn into a pumpkin or something?’ They both laughed. Perhaps he wasn’t talking about Tessa, but it made me sick in my stomach to think of her being with Dicky Cruyer and of George being miserable about it.

  Without a word of greeting Bret pointed a finger at the black-leather chesterfield and the two of them sat down. This seemed to sober them and Dicky was even moved to apologize for being late. Morgan had a blue cardboard folder with him; he balanced it on his knees and brought out a plain sheet of paper and a slim gold pencil. Dicky had the Gucci zipper case that he’d brought back from Los Angeles. From the case he brought a thick bundle of mixed papers that looked like the entire contents of his in-tray. I suspected that he intended dumping it upon me; it was what he usually did. But he spent a moment getting them in order to show how prepared he was for business.

  ‘I have an important appointment in just a little while,’ said Bret, ‘so never mind the road show; let’s get down to business.’ He reached for the agenda sheet and, after adjusting his spectacles, read it aloud to us.

  Bret was determined to establish control of the meeting right away. He had unchallenged seniority, but he had everything to fear from both of them. The insidious tactics of Morgan, who used his role of assistant to the D-G to manipulate all and sundry, were well known. As for Dicky Cruyer, Bret had been trying to take over the German desk from him and been rebuffed at every stage. Watching the way that Dicky was ingratiating himself with Morgan I began to see how Bret had been outmanoeuvred.

  ‘If you have to get away, Bret, we can adjourn to my office and finish off,’ offered Morgan affably. His face was very pale and rotund, with small eyes, like two currants placed in a bowl of rice pudding. He had a powerful singsong Welsh accent. I wondered if it had always been like that or whether he wanted to be recognized as the local boy who’d made good.

  ‘Who would sign the minutes?’ said Bret in an elegant dismissal of Morgan’s attempt to shed him. ‘No, I’ll make certain we’ll finish off in the allotted time.’

  It was a run-of-the-mill meeting to decide some supplementary allocations to various German Stations. They’d been having a tough time financially, since appropriations hadn’t been revised through countless upward revaluations of the Deutschemark. Bret put on his glasses to read the agenda and pushed the meeting along at breakneck speed, cutting into all Dicky’s digressions and Morgan’s questions. When it was all over, Bret got to his feet. ‘I’ve accepted the D-G’s invitation to supervise the Stinnes interrogation,’ he announced, although by that time everyone in the room – if not everyone in the building – knew that. ‘And I’m going to ask for Bernard to assist me.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said Dicky, reacting like a scalded cat. Dicky suddenly glimpsed the unwelcome prospect of actually having to do the work of the German desk, instead of passing it over to me while he tried to find new things to insert into his expense accounts. ‘Bernard has a big backlog of work. I couldn’t spare him.’

  ‘He’ll have time enough for other work as well,’ said Bret calmly. ‘I just want him to advise me. He’s got some ideas I like the sound of.’ He looked at me and smiled, but I wasn’t sure what he was smiling about.

  Morgan said, ‘When I offered help, I didn’t mean senior staff. Certainly not technical people such as Bernard.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know you ever offered me anything,’ said Bret coldly. ‘I was under the impression that the D-G still ran the Department.’

  ‘A slip of the tongue, Bret,’ said Morgan smoothly.

  ‘Bernard is the only person who can unlock the problems Debriefing Centre is having with Stinnes.’ Bret was establishing the syntax. The problems with Stinnes would remain LDC’s problems, not Bret’s, and a continuing failure to unlock those problems would be my failure.

  ‘It’s just not possible,’ said Dicky Cruyer. ‘I don’t want to seem uncooperative, but if the D-G keeps pushing this one, I’ll have to explain to him exactly what’s at stake.’ Translated, this meant that if Bret didn’t lay off, he’d get Morgan to pretend the order to lay off came from the D-G.

  ‘You’ll have to tackle your problem by getting some temporary help, Dicky,’ said Bret. ‘This particular matter is all settled. I talked to the D-G at the Travellers’ Club yesterday – I ran into him by accident and it seemed a good chance to talk over the current situation. The D-G said I could have anyone. In fact, I’m not sure it wasn’t Sir Henry who first brought Bernard’s name into the conversation.’ He looked at his watch and then smiled at everyone and removed his speed-cop glasses. He got to his feet, and Dicky and Morgan stood up too. ‘Must go. This next one is a really important meeting,’ said Bret. Not like this meeting he was leaving, which by implication was a really unimportant one.

  It was Morgan’s turn to be obstructive. ‘There are one or two things you are overlooking, Bret,’ he said, his lilting Welsh accent more than ever in evidence. ‘Our story to the world at large is that we are holding Stinnes only in order to investigate Bernard’s possible malfeasance. How can we explain Bernard’s presence at Berwick House as one of the investigating officers?’

  Bret came round from behind his desk. We were all standing close. Bret seemed at a loss for words. He rolled his sleeves down slowly and gave all his attention to pushing his gold cuff links through the holes. Perhaps he’d not reckoned with that sort of objection.

  Although until this point I’d had reservations about joining Bret Rensselae
r’s team, now I saw the need to voice my own point of view, if only for self-preservation. ‘What lies you are telling in order to hold Stinnes is your problem, Morgan,’ I said. ‘I was never consulted about them, and I can’t see that operating decisions should be made just to support your insupportable fairy stories.’

  Bret took his cue from me. ‘Yes, why should Bernard roll over and play possum to get you out of the hole?’ he said. ‘Bernard’s the only one who’s been close to Stinnes. He knows the score, like none of the rest of us. Let’s not have the tail wagging the dog. Eh?’ The ‘eh’ was addressed to Morgan in his role as tail.

  ‘The D-G will be unhappy,’ threatened Morgan. He smoothed his tie. It was a nervous gesture and so was the glance he gave in Dicky’s direction. Or what would have been Dicky’s direction, except that Dicky had returned to the sofa and become very busy collecting together, and counting, the bundle of papers that we hadn’t got round to discussing. Even if they were just papers that Dicky carried with him in order to look overworked, on contentious occasions like this he knew how to suddenly become occupied and thus keep apart from the warring factions.

  Bret went to the chair where his jacket was arrayed and took his time about putting it on. He shot his cuffs and then adjusted the knot of his tie. ‘I talked this over with him, Morgan,’ said Bret. He took a deep breath. Until now he’d been very calm and composed, but he was about to blow his top. I knew the signals. Without raising his voice very much Bret said, ‘I never wanted responsibility for the Stinnes business; you know that better than anyone because you’ve been the one pestering me to take it on. But I said okay and I’ve started work.’ Bret took another breath. I’d seen it all before; he didn’t need the deep breath so it gave nervous onlookers the impression that he was about to start throwing punches. In the event, he prodded Morgan in the chest with his forefinger. Morgan flinched. ‘If you screw this up I’ll rip your balls off. And don’t come creeping back here with some little written instruction that the old man’s initialled. The only thing you’ll succeed in changing is that I’ll hand your lousy job right back to you, and it’s not the job upon which careers are built. You’ll discover that, Morgan, if you’re misguided enough to try taking it over.’

  ‘Steady on, Bret,’ said Dicky mildly, looking up briefly from his papers but not coming within range of Bret’s wrath.

  Bret was really angry. This was something more than just a Bret tantrum, and I wondered what else might be behind it. His face was drawn and his mouth twitched as if he was about to go further, and then he seemed to change his mind about doing so. He reached his fingers into his top pocket to make sure his spectacles were there and strode from the room without looking back at anyone.

  Morgan seemed shaken by Bret’s outburst. He’d seen these flashes of temper before, but that wasn’t the same as being on the receiving end of them, as I well knew. Dicky counted his papers yet again and held on tight to his neutral status. This round went to Bret, but only on points, and Bret was not fool enough – or American enough – to think that a couple of quick jabs to the body would decide a match against these two bruisers. Winning one little argument with the public-school mafia at London Central was like landing a blow on a heavy leather punching sack – the visible effect was slight, and two minutes later the pendulum swung the whole contraption back again and knocked you for six.

  There was a silence after Bret departed. I felt like Cinderella abandoned by the fairy godmother to the mercies of the ugly sisters. As if to confirm these fears Dicky gave me the papers, which were indeed the contents of his in-tray, and said would I have a look at them and bring them back this afternoon. Then Dicky looked at Morgan and said, ‘Bret’s not himself these days.’

  ‘It’s understandable,’ said Morgan. ‘Poor Bret’s had a tough time of it lately. Since he lost the Economics Intelligence Committee he’s not been able to find his feet again.’

  ‘Rumour says Bret will get Berlin when Frank Harrington resigns,’ said Dicky.

  ‘Not without your say-so, Dicky,’ said Morgan. ‘The D-G would never put into Berlin someone whom you’d find it difficult to work with. Do you want Bret in Berlin?’

  Ah! So that was it. It was obvious what Dicky might gain from keeping Morgan sweet, but now I saw what Morgan might want in exchange. Dicky muttered something about that all being a long way in the future, which was Dicky’s way of avoiding a question that Morgan was going to ask again and again, until he finally got no for an answer.

  10

  ‘When you’re felling a forest, the chips must fly,’ said Bret. He was quoting Stinnes, but he might have been referring to the brush he’d had with Morgan that morning and to what might come of it. We were sitting in the back of his chauffeur-driven Bentley purring along the fast lane to visit Stinnes. ‘Is that a Russian proverb?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But a Russian remembers it also as the widely used excuse for the injustices, imprisonments, and massacres by Stalin.’

  ‘You’re a goddamned encyclopedia brain, Samson,’ said Bret. ‘And this guy Stinnes is a tricky little shit.’

  I nodded and leaned back in the real leather. For security reasons the senior staff were expected to use the car pool for duty trips, and the only chauffeur-driven car was that provided to the Director-General, but Bret Rensselaer cared nothing for all that. The Belgravia residence his family had maintained in London since before World War I came complete with servants and motorcars. When Bret became a permanent fixture at London Central there was no way to ask him to give up his pampered lifestyle and start driving himself around in some car appropriate to his departmental rank and seniority.

  ‘And here we are,’ said Bret. He’d been reading the transcript of his previous talks with Stinnes and now he put the typewritten pages back into his case. His reading hadn’t left him in a very happy mood.

  Berwick House, a fine old mansion of red brick, was built long before that building material became associated with new and undistinguished provincial colleges. It was an eighteenth-century attempt to imitate one of Wren’s country mansions. But the War Office official who chose to commandeer the whole estate just after World War II started was no doubt attracted by the moat that surrounded the house.

  The house couldn’t be seen from the road; it only came into view after the car turned in at the weathered sign that announced that Berwick House was a Ministry of Pensions training school. I suppose that was the most unattractive kind of establishment that the occupiers could think of. There was a delay at the gate lodge. We went through the outer gate and then pulled into the gravel patch where there were detection devices to check every vehicle. They knew we were coming and Bret’s shiny black Bentley was well known to them, but they went through the formal procedure. Ted Riley even wanted to see our identification and that of Albert the chauffeur. Ted was an elderly man who had long ago worked for my father. I knew him well but he gave no sign of recognition.

  ‘Hello, Ted.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ He was not a man who would presume on old friendships.

  Ted had been an Intelligence Corps captain in Berlin after the war, but he got involved with some black-market dealers in Potsdamer Platz and my father had transferred him out uncomfortably quickly. Ted had given my mother whole Westphalian hams from time to time, and when my father discovered that Ted had dabbled in the black market, he was furious at what he thought was some kind of attempt to involve us. Ted was white-haired now, but he was still the same man who used to give me his chocolate ration every week when I was small. Ted Riley waved us through. The second man opened the electric gates and the third man phoned to the guard box at the house.

  ‘They’re rude bastards,’ said Bret, as if his definition was something I should write down and consult at future visits.

  ‘They have a bloody awful job, Bret,’ I said.

  ‘They should use Defence Ministry police down here. These people are full of crap. Identity. They know me well enough.’

>   ‘Ministry of Defence police look like cops, Bret. The whole idea is that these people wear civilian clothes and look like civilians.’

  ‘This bunch look like civilians, all right,’ said Bret scornfully. ‘They look like senior citizens. Can you imagine how they’d handle a real attempt to break into this place?’

  ‘At least they’re reliable and don’t attract attention locally. They’re all carefully vetted, and Ted Riley, who’s in charge, is a man I’d stake my life on. The number-one priority here is that we have people on guard duty who won’t take bribes from newspaper reporters or smuggle gin for the inmates.’ When he didn’t answer I added, ‘They’re not supposed to be able to repulse an armoured division.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me,’ said Bret sarcastically. ‘That makes me feel much better about them.’ He stared out as we passed the Nissen huts where the guards lived and at the slab-sided grey structures that were sometimes used for conferences. The landscape was brown and bare, so that in places the alarms and wires had become visible.

  We went over the old bridge across the moat. It was only when the car turned into the courtyard at the rear of the building that its true condition could be seen. It was like a film set: the east wing was little more than a façade supported by huge slabs of timber. This side of the house had been burned to the ground by incendiary bombs jettisoned by a Luftwaffe pilot trying desperately to gain height. He’d failed and the Heinkel crashed, six miles away after taking a small section of steeple from the village church.

  London Debriefing Centre was an updated version of what used to be called the ‘London District Cage’, the place where the War Crimes Investigation Unit imprisoned important Nazis awaiting trial. Signs of those days hadn’t entirely disappeared: there were still the remnants of old wartime posters to be seen in some of the offices, and defacing the walls of some of the subterranean ‘hard-rooms’ – a polite departmental euphemism for prison cells – there were the curious runelike marks that prisoners use to keep track of time.