London Match

by Len Deighton

  ‘I’ll come with you to the door,’ she prompted. ‘We’re getting very security conscious nowadays. Would you like to go out through the Number Ten door? Most people do, it’s rather fun, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re quite certain?’ I said. ‘No chance you’ve got it wrong?’

  ‘No chance at all. I checked it twice against my list. I can’t show it to you, I’m afraid, but I could get one of the security people to confirm it…’

  ‘No need for that,’ I said.

  It was raining now and the gardeners had abandoned the idea of planting the roses. They’d put the plants back into their box and were heading towards the house for shelter.

  Mrs Hogarth watched them sorrowfully. ‘It happens every time they start on the garden. It’s almost like a rainmaking ceremony.’

  In the front hall of Number Ten there was a bored-looking police inspector, a woman in an overall distributing cups of tea from a tray, and a man who opened the door for me while holding his tea in one hand. ‘I appreciate your help, Mrs Hogarth,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about not having the official chit.’

  She shook hands as I went out onto that famous doorstep and said, ‘Don’t worry about the chit. I have it already. It came over this morning.’

  13

  ‘It’s our anniversary,’ said Gloria.

  ‘Is it?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised, darling. We’ve been together exactly three months tomorrow.’

  I didn’t know from what event she’d started counting, but out of delicacy I didn’t enquire. ‘And they said it wouldn’t last,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t make jokes about us,’ she said anxiously. ‘I don’t mind what jokes you make about me, but don’t joke about us.’

  We were in the sitting room of an eleventh-floor flat near Notting Hill Gate, a residential district of mixed races and lifestyles on the west side of central London. It was eight-thirty on a Monday evening. We were dancing very very slowly in that old-fashioned way in which you clasped each other tight. The radio was tuned to Alan Dell’s BBC programme of big-band jazz, and he was playing an old Dorsey recording of ‘Tea for Two’. She was letting her hair grow longer. It was a pale-gold colour and now it was breaking over her shoulders. She wore a dark-green ribbed polo-neck sweater, with a chunky necklace and a light-brown suede skirt. It was all very simple, but with her long legs and generous figure the effect was stunning.

  I looked around the room: gilded mirror, silk-lined lampshades, electric-candle wall lights and red velvet hangings. The hi-fi was hidden behind a row of fake books. It was the same elaborate clutter of vaguely nineteenth-century brothel furnishings that’s to be seen in every High Street furniture shop throughout Britain. The curtains were open, and it was better to look through the window and see the glittering patterns of London by night. And I could see us reflected in the windows, dancing close.

  Erich Stinnes was thirty minutes overdue. He was to stay here, with Ted Riley in the role of ‘minder’. Upstairs, where Stinnes would spend most of his time, there was a small bedroom and study, and a rather elaborate bathroom. It was a departmental house, not exactly a ‘safe house’ but one of the places used for the clandestine accommodation of overseas departmental employees. It was the policy that such people were not brought into the offices of London Central. Some of them didn’t even know where our offices were.

  I had come here to greet Stinnes on his arrival, double-check that Ted Riley was in attendance, and take Stinnes out to dinner to celebrate the new ‘freedom’ he’d been so reluctantly granted. Gloria was with me because I’d convinced Bret, and myself, that her presence would make Stinnes more relaxed and soften him up for the new series of interrogations that were planned.

  ‘What happened about that chit for Number Ten?’ I said as we danced. ‘Your friend over there said she’d already had one. How could she have got a chit? I didn’t even apply for one.’

  ‘I told her a tale of woe. I said that after it was all signed and approved I’d lost it. I told her that I’d get the sack if she didn’t cover for me.’

  ‘You wicked girl,’ I said.

  ‘There’s so much paperwork. If we didn’t bend the rules now and again, we’d never get everything done.’ As we danced she reached out and stroked my head. I didn’t like being stroked like a pet poodle, but I didn’t complain. She was only a child and I suppose such corny little manifestations of endearment were what she thought appropriate to her role as a femme fatale. I wondered what she’d really like me to do – bury her in long-stem red roses and ravish her on a sable rug in front of a log fire in the mountains, with gypsy violins in an adjoining room?

  ‘You’re worrying about Bret Rensselaer, aren’t you?’ she asked softly.

  ‘You’re always saying that, and I’m always replying that I don’t give a damn about him.’

  ‘You’re worried about what you discovered,’ she said. She accepted my little bursts of bad temper with equanimity. I wondered if she realized how much I loved her for doing that.

  ‘I’d feel a hell of a lot better without having discovered it,’ I admitted. The music came to an end and there was some chat about trumpet and the tenor-sax solos before the next record started: Count Basie playing ‘Moonglow’. She threw her head back, twisting her head so that her long pale hair flashed in the light. We began dancing again.

  ‘What are you going to do about it? Report it?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s not much I can report. It’s all very slight and circumstantial except for the Cabinet memo, and I’m not going to stride into the D-G’s office and report that. They’ll want to know why I didn’t report it when I first got it. They’ll ask who gave it to me, and I don’t want to tell them. And they’ll start digging deep into all kinds of things. And meanwhile I’ll be suspended from duty.’

  ‘Why not tell them who gave it to you?’

  ‘All my sources of information and goodwill would dry up overnight if I blew one of them. Can you imagine what sort of grilling Morgan would arrange for the man who’d got hold of Bret’s copy of the memo?’

  ‘In order to get rid of Rensselaer?’

  ‘Yes, to get rid of Rensselaer.’

  ‘He must be a wonderful man, your contact,’ she said wistfully. I hadn’t told her anything about Posh Harry and she resented my secrecy.

  ‘He’s a slippery bastard,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t deliver him to Morgan.’

  ‘It might be him or you,’ she said with that ruthless simplicity that women call feminine logic.

  ‘It’s not him or me yet. And it’s not going to be him or me for a long time to come.’

  ‘So you’ll do nothing?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘But how can it be Bret?’ she asked. It was the beginning of the same circle of questions that whirled round in my head day and night. ‘Bret takes your advice all the time. He’s even agreed to moving Stinnes here from Berwick House at your suggestion.’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ I said.

  ‘And you’re having second thoughts about his coming here. I know you are. Are you worried that Bret might try to kill him or something?’

  ‘At Berwick House they have guards and alarms and so on. They’re not installed there solely to keep the inmates in; they keep nasty people out.’

  ‘So send him back there.’

  ‘He’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘Send him back tomorrow.’

  ‘How can I do that? Think what a damned fool I’d look going into Bret’s office, cap in hand, to tell him I’ve changed my mind about it.’

  ‘And think what a damned fool you’d look if something happened to Stinnes.’

  ‘I have thought about that,’ I said with what I thought was masterful restraint.

  She smiled. ‘It is funny, darling. I’m sorry to laugh, but you have brought it on yourself by telling Bret how incompetent the Debriefing Centre staff are.’

  ‘I’m wondering to what extent Bret manoeuvred me i
nto that one,’ I said.

  She hooted. ‘That’ll be the day, beloved. When you’re manoeuvred into one of your tirades.’

  I smiled too. She was right, of course; I had walked right into this one, and the consequences were entirely of my own making.

  She said, ‘But if Bret is a KGB agent…’

  ‘I’ve told you there’s nothing…’

  ‘But let’s play “if”,’ she persisted. ‘He’s placed himself into a wonderful position of power.’ She hesitated.

  Her hesitation was because any conjecture about Bret and Stinnes inevitably made me look a fool. ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘If Bret Rensselaer is a KGB agent, he’s done everything just right. He’s been pushed into taking over the Stinnes debriefing without showing any desire to get the job. Now he’s going to isolate the best intelligence source we’ve had for years and do it at your suggestion. All the Stinnes intelligence will pass through him, and if anything goes wrong, he has you as the perfect scapegoat.’ She looked at me but I didn’t react. ‘Suppose Bret Rensselaer knows you have the photocopy of that Cabinet memo? Did you think of that, Bernard? Maybe Moscow knows what’s happened. If he’s a KGB agent, they would have told him.’

  ‘I did think of that,’ I admitted.

  ‘Oh, Bernard, darling. I’m so frightened.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be frightened about.’

  ‘I’m frightened for you, darling.’

  I heard the apartment front door bang and an exchange of voices as Ted Riley let Stinnes step past him into the hallway and then double-locked the door.

  I let go of Gloria and said, ‘Hello, Ted.’

  Ted Riley said, ‘Sorry we’re late. Those bloody Berwick House people can’t even understand their own paperwork.’ He went across to the window and closed the curtains. Ted was right of course; I should have kept them closed when the lights were on. We were high in the sky and not overlooked, but a sniper’s rifle could do the job all right. And Moscow would think Stinnes worth that kind of trouble.

  Erich Stinnes watched us with solemn and sardonic respect. Even when he was introduced to Gloria his reaction was a polite smile and a bow in the German fashion. Over his grey suit he wore a stiffly new raincoat and a soft felt hat, its brim turned down all round in a way that made him look very foreign.

  ‘You’ll probably be anxious to get away to your gut-bash,’ said Riley, throwing his coat onto a chair and looking at his watch.

  ‘It won’t be crowded,’ I said. ‘It’s just a little family place.’ Stinnes looked up, realizing that I was warning him not to expect a banquet. My available expenses did not extend to a lavish treat, and with Gloria along, the modest dinner for three was going to have to sound like a big dinner for two if I was going to reclaim it all.

  Before we left I took Stinnes upstairs to show him his study. There was a small desk there with an electric typewriter and a pile of paper. On the wall there was a map of the world and over his desk a map of Russia. There was a shelf of assorted books – mostly Russian-language books including some fiction and English-Russian and English-German dictionaries. On his desk there was the current copy of The Economist and some English and German newspapers. There was a small shortwave radio receiver too, a Sony 2001 with preset and scan tuning. Instead of using batteries it was plugged into the mains via a power adapter and I warned him that if he unplugged it there was a danger that the adapter would burn out, but he seemed to know that already. Not surprising since the 2001 had long since been standard issue for KGB agents.

  ‘Eventually you’ll be able to go out alone,’ I told him. ‘But for the time being, Ted Riley will have to accompany you wherever you want to go. But if he says no, it’s no. Ted’s in charge.’

  ‘You have gone to a lot of trouble, Samson,’ Stinnes said as he surveyed the room. The suspicion that was to be seen in his eyes was in his voice too.

  ‘It wasn’t easy to arrange, so don’t let me down,’ I said. ‘If you bolt, I’ll get all the blame…all the blame.’ I said it twice to emphasize the truth of it.

  ‘I have no plans to bolt,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ I said, and we went downstairs to where Ted was unpacking his overnight bag and Gloria was holding the curtain aside, staring out at the London skyline. Bad security, but you can’t live your entire life by rules and regulations. I know: I’d tried.

  ‘We won’t be late, Ted,’ I promised.

  Ted looked at Gloria who closed the curtains and put on her coat. Ted helped her into it. ‘At midnight he turns into a frog,’ he told her, indicating me with a movement of his head.

  ‘Yes, I know, but he’s seeing someone about it,’ she said affably.

  Ted laughed. He guessed that I’d asked for him to do this job and it seemed to have given him a new lease on life.

  To entertain Erich Stinnes, my first choice would have been a German restaurant or, failing that, a place that served good Russian food. But London, almost alone among the world’s great cities, has neither Russian nor German restaurants. Gloria suggested a Spanish place she knew in Soho, but my dislike of Spanish and Portuguese cooking is exceeded only by my dislike of the fiery stodge of Latin American. So we went to an Indian restaurant. Erich Stinnes needed guidance through the menu. It was an unusual admission; Stinnes was not the sort of man who readily admitted to needing assistance in any circumstance, but he was a great ladies’ man and I could see he liked having Gloria describe to him the difference between the peppery vindaloos and the milder kormas. Gloria was what gossip columnists call a ‘foodie’: she liked talking about food and discussing restaurants and recipes even more than she liked eating. So I let her order the whole spread, from the thick puree of dhal to crispy fried papadoms and the big bowl of boiled rice that comes decorated with nuts and dried fruit and edible bits of something that looks like silver paper.

  I watched them, heads close together, as they went muttering their way through the long menu. For a moment I felt a pang of jealousy. Suppose Erich Stinnes was a KGB plant – I’d never entirely dismissed the idea, even when he was at his most cooperative – then what an extra laugh for Fiona if I lost my girlfriend to one of her field agents. Gloria was fascinated by him, I could see that. It was strange that this sallow-complexioned man with his hard face and balding head could attract women so effortlessly. It was his evident energy, of course, but now and again, when he thought I wasn’t observing him, I could see signs of that energy flagging. Stinnes was growing tired. Or old. Or frightened. Or maybe all three. I knew the feeling.

  We drank beer. I preferred an Indian meal partly because no one was expected to drink anything strong with a curry. This wasn’t going to be the right time to get Stinnes boozed to the point of indiscretion. And it wasn’t going to be the right expense account either. At this first outing, Stinnes would be wary of such tactics, but his first sip of the fizzy water that the British call lager allayed all such fears. He pursed his lips in distaste, but didn’t complain about the watery beer or anything else.

  The decor was typical of such places: red-flock wallpaper and a dark-blue ceiling painted with stars. But the food was good enough, flavoured with ginger and paprika and the milder spices. Erich Stinnes seemed to enjoy it. He sat against the wall with Gloria next to him, and although he supplied his due amount of small talk, his eyes moved constantly, looking to see whether any of the other customers, or even staff, looked like departmental employees. That’s the way Moscow would have done it; they always have watchers to watch the watchers.

  We had been talking about books. ‘Erich likes reading the Bible,’ I announced for no real reason other than to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Is that true?’ she said, turning to Erich Stinnes.

  Before he could answer, I explained, ‘He was with Section 44 back in the old days.’

  ‘Do you know what that is?’ he asked her.

  ‘The KGB’s Religious Affairs Bureau,’ she said. It wasn’t easy to catch her out; she knew her way around
the files. ‘But I don’t know exactly what they do.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something they do,’ I said to her, ignoring the presence of Stinnes for a moment. ‘They desecrate graves and spray swastikas on the walls of synagogues in NATO countries so that the Western press can make headlines speculating about the latest upsurge of neo-Nazi activity and get a few extra votes for the left-wingers.’

  I watched Stinnes, wondering if he’d deny such outrages. ‘Sometimes,’ he said gravely. ‘Sometimes.’

  I’d finished eating, but now she picked up a crisp papadom I’d not eaten and nibbled at it. ‘Do you mean you’ve become a dedicated Christian?’

  ‘I’m not a dedicated anything,’ said Stinnes. ‘But one day I will write a book comparing the medieval Church to applied Marxist-Leninism.’

  This was just the sort of talk she liked: an intellectual discussion, not the bourgeois chitchat, office gossip, and warmed-up chunks of The Economist that I served her. ‘For instance?’ she said. She furrowed her brow; she looked very young and very beautiful in the dim restaurant lighting, or was that British lager stronger than I thought.

  ‘The medieval Church and the Communist state share four basic dictums,’ he said. ‘First and foremost comes the instruction to seek the life of the spirit: seek pure Marxism. Don’t waste your efforts on other trivial things. Gain is avarice, love is lust, beauty is vanity.’ He looked round at us. ‘Two: Communists are urged to give service to the state, as Christians must give it to the Church – in a spirit of humility and devotion, not in order to serve themselves or to become a success. Ambition is bad: it is the result of sinful pride…’

  ‘But you haven’t…’ said Gloria.

  ‘Let me go on,’ said Stinnes quietly. He was enjoying himself. I think it was the first time I’d seen him looking really happy. ‘Three: both Church and Marx renounce money. Investment and interest payments are singled out as the worst of evils. Four, and this is the most important similarity, there is the way in which the Christian faithful are urged to deny themselves all the pleasures of this world to get their reward in paradise after they die.’