by Len Deighton
Bret said, ‘So we thought we’d break the meeting up into one-to-one discussions. The prime discussion will be about your man Stinnes. We can discuss procedure at the same time, in the hope that we’ll reach agreement. Are you the senior officer?’
‘Yes,’ said Fiona. She drank some champagne. She knew what was coming, of course, but she kept very serious.
‘Our senior negotiator is Mr Samson,’ said Bret.
There was a long silence. Pavel Moskvin didn’t like it. He’d not touched his champagne, which was going flat on the dining table. He showed his hostility by folding his arms and scowling. ‘What do you think, Colonel Moskvin?’ Fiona asked. Colonel Moskvin, was it…look out, Major Stinnes, I thought.
‘Better we all stay together,’ said Moskvin. ‘No tricks.’
‘Very well,’ said Bret. He motioned for them to sit at the circular dining table. The waiter topped up the glasses. The blond youth put his chair behind Fiona so that he could sit with his notepad on his knee.
‘What is it you want?’ said Moskvin, as if trying to take over from Fiona, who sat back and said nothing. His folded arms strained his jacket across the back and showed where he had a pistol stowed under his armpit.
‘We have your man Stinnes,’ said Bret. ‘It was a good try but it failed. So far we’ve held the press at bay, but there’s a limit to how long we can do that.’ The blond youth translated for Moskvin. Moskvin nodded.
‘Is that why you brought him to Berlin?’ said Fiona.
‘Partly. But the Germans have newspapers too. Once the story breaks, we’ll have no alternative but to hand him over to the DPP and then it’s out of our hands.’
‘DPP?’ said Moskvin. ‘What is this?’ Obviously he could understand enough English to follow most of what was said.
‘The Director of Public Prosecutions,’ said Bret. ‘The British state prosecutor. It’s another department. We have no control over it.’
‘And in return?’ said Fiona.
‘You’ve arrested Werner Volkmann,’ I said.
‘Have we?’ said Fiona. It was very Russian.
‘I haven’t come here to waste time,’ I said.
My remark seemed to anger her. ‘No,’ she said with a quiet voice that throbbed with hatred and resentment. ‘You have come here to discuss the fate of Erich Stinnes, a good and loyal comrade who was shamelessly kidnapped by your terrorists, despite his diplomatic status. And who, according to our sources, has been systematically starved and tortured in an attempt to make him betray his country.’ Fiona had quickly mastered the syntax of the Party.
It was quite a speech and I was tempted to reply sarcastically, but I didn’t. I looked at Frank. We both knew now that I was right, and I could see the relief in Frank’s face. If the official KGB line was going to be that Erich Stinnes had been kidnapped, starved, and tortured, Stinnes would be reinstated in his KGB rank and position. Even the most thick-skulled men in London would then have to accept the fact that Stinnes had been planted to make trouble. ‘Let’s not make this meeting a forum for political bickering,’ I said. ‘Werner Volkmann for Major Stinnes; straight swap.’
‘Where is Comrade Stinnes?’ said Fiona.
‘Here in Berlin. Where’s Werner?’
‘Checkpoint Charlie,’ said Fiona. It was strange how after all these years the Communists still used the US Army name for it.
‘Fit and well?’
‘Do you want to send someone over to see him?’ she asked.
‘We have someone at Checkpoint Charlie. Shall we agree to do that while we go on talking?’ I asked. She looked at Moskvin. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Very well. And Comrade Stinnes?’ said Fiona. I looked at Bret. The exchange was Bret’s worry.
‘We have him here in the hotel,’ said Bret. ‘But you must nominate one of your number to see him. One. I can’t let you all go.’ Good old Bret. I didn’t know he had it in him, but he’d pipped that one on the wing.
‘I will go,’ said Fiona. Moskvin was not pleased, but there was little he could do about it. If he objected, she’d send him and then she’d still have a chance of speaking to me in private.
Erich Stinnes was in a suite along the corridor. Frank’s men had virtually abducted him from Berwick House waving authorizations and a chit signed by Bret in his capacity as chairman of the committee, a position which technically he still held. But I took us to an empty suite next door to the one where Stinnes was being held.
‘What’s the game?’ said Fiona. She looked around the empty rooms; she even rummaged through the roses looking for a microphone. Fiona was very unsophisticated when it came to surveillance electronics. ‘What is it?’ She seemed anxious.
‘Relax,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to demand my conjugal rights.’
‘I came to see Stinnes,’ she said.
‘You came because you wanted a chance to talk in private.’
‘But I still want to see him,’ she said.
‘He’s down the corridor waiting for us.’
‘Is he well?’
‘What do you care if he’s well?’
‘Erich Stinnes is a fine man, Bernard. I’ll do what I can to prevent his dying in prison.’ Stinnes feigning illness was a part of their plan. That became obvious now.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We both know that Erich Stinnes is as fit as a fiddle. He’ll go home and get his chestful of medals.’
‘He’s a good man,’ she said, as if convincing me of it was important to her. She didn’t deny that he was fit. His sickness was all part of the scenario – Fiona’s touch no doubt; a way to give Stinnes an easier time.
‘We haven’t got time to waste talking about Stinnes,’ I said.
‘No, you’ve come to talk about your precious Werner,’ she said. Even now that she’d left me, there was still an edge of resentment in her voice. Did all wives fear and resent the friendships that had come before marriage?
‘Wrong again,’ I said. ‘We have to talk about the children.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about. I want them for a holiday. It’s not much to ask. Did Tessa speak to you?’
‘She did. But I don’t want you to take the children.’
‘They’re mine as much as yours. Do you think I’m not human? Do you think I don’t love them as much as you do?’
‘How can I believe you love them the way I love them when you’ve left us?’
‘Sometimes there are allegiances and aspirations that go beyond family.’
‘Is that one of the things you’re going to explain to little Billy when you take him round the Moscow electric stations and show him the underground railway?’
‘They’re my children,’ she said.
‘Can’t you see the danger of taking them with you? Can’t you see the way in which they’ll become hostages to your good behaviour? Isn’t it obvious that once they’re there you’ll never again be allowed to come West all together? They’ll always keep the children there to be sure you do your duty as a good Communist and return East as every good Soviet citizen must.’
‘What of their life now? You’re always working. Nanny spends her life watching TV. They’re shunted from your mother to my father and back again. Soon you’ll take up with some other woman and they’ll have a stepmother. What sort of life is that? With me they could have a proper home and a stable family life.’
‘With a stepfather?’
‘There is no other man, Bernard,’ she said very softly. ‘There will be no other man. That is why I need the children so much. You can have other children, dozens of them if you wish. For a man it’s easy – he can have children until he’s eighty – but I’ll soon be past the suitable age for motherhood. Don’t deny me the children.’ Like all women she was tyrannized by her biology.
‘Don’t take them to a country which they won’t be able to leave. Fiona! Look at me, Fiona. I’m saying it for your sake, for the children’s sake, and for my sake too.’
‘I have t
o see them. I have to.’ Nervously she went to the window, looked out, and then came back to me.
‘See them in Holland or Sweden or on some other neutral ground. I implore you not to take them to the East.’
‘Is this another one of your tricks?’ she said harshly.
‘You know I’m right, Fi.’
She wrung her hands and twisted the rings on her fingers. Her marriage band was there still and so was the diamond I’d bought with the money from my old Ferrari. ‘How are they?’ It was a different voice.
‘Billy’s got a new magic trick and Sally is learning to write with her right hand.’
‘How sweet they are. I got their letters and the drawings. Thank you.’
‘It was Tessa’s idea.’
‘Tess has grown up suddenly.’
‘Yes, she has.’
‘Is she still having those stupid love affairs?’
‘Yes, but George is reading the riot act to her. I think she’s beginning to wonder if it’s worth it.’
‘What’s the trick?’
‘What trick?’
‘Billy’s.’
‘Oh! You cut a piece of rope into two halves and then make it whole again.’
‘Is it convincing?’
‘Nanny still can’t work it out.’
‘It’s in the family, I suppose.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure what sort of trickery she was referring to, or whether she meant my sort of trickery or her own.
‘Will they arrest me if I come to England on my old passport?’ she asked.
‘I’ll find out,’ I promised. ‘But why not see the children in Holland?’
‘You’d better not become an accessary, Bernard.’
‘We are conspiring together right now,’ I said. ‘Which of our masters would tolerate it?’
‘Neither,’ she said. It was a concession, a minuscule concession, but the first one she’d made.
‘I miss you, Fi,’ I said.
‘Oh, Bernard,’ she said. Tears welled up in her eyes. I was about to take her into my arms but she stepped back from me. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said. I don’t know exactly what I meant and she didn’t ask; it was no more than an abstract noise that intended comfort and she accepted it as such.
‘They won’t let Werner go,’ she said. She looked around the room, anxious about being recorded.
‘I thought it was agreed.’
‘Pavel Moskvin has the power of decision. He’s in charge of these negotiations, I’m not.’
‘Werner did nothing of any importance.’
‘I know what he was doing. The Miller woman’s been under permanent surveillance since last week. We were waiting for Werner to make contact.’
‘The Stinnes operation is all washed up. It’s finished, discredited, done for. What Werner said to the Miller woman is of no importance.’
‘Keep calm. I know. But I’m under orders.’
‘No Werner, no Stinnes,’ I said.
She said nothing, but her face was white and tense and she was breathing in that way she did when stress got too much for her.
I said, ‘Moskvin killed the little MacKenzie kid in the safe house in Bosham.’
She shrugged.
‘What did he have to do that for?’ I persisted. ‘MacKenzie couldn’t swat a fly without reciting the Miranda warnings.’
She looked at me and gave a deep sigh. ‘You’ll have to take him out, Bernard.’
‘What?’ I said.
Petulantly and with a gabbled haste that was not typical of her she said, ‘You’ll have to take him out – Moskvin.’
For a moment I was speechless. Was this my wife speaking? ‘How? Where?’
‘It’s the only way. I’ve got Werner down to the bus park at Checkpoint Charlie. I told Moskvin that you might want to see him waving to be sure he was fit and well. That was before you got Moskvin’s agreement to your sending your man over there.’
‘How will you explain it?’ I said.
‘Rid me of that man and I won’t have to explain anything.’
I still wasn’t sure. ‘Kill him, you mean?’
She was nervous and excited. Her answer was shrill. ‘People get killed. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone was killed at the Wall, would it?’
‘No, but I can’t start shooting at a delegation like yours. They’re likely to bring up the tanks. I don’t want to be the man who starts World War Three. I’m serious, Fi.’
‘You must do it personally, Bernard. You mustn’t order anyone else to do it. I don’t want anyone else to know it was discussed by us.’
‘Okay.’ I heard myself agreeing to it.
‘Promise?’ I hesitated. ‘It’s Werner; your friend,’ she said. ‘I’m doing everything I can. More than I should.’ Because it suited her, I thought. She wasn’t doing it for Werner, or even for me. And what was she doing anyway? I was going to be the one putting my neck on the block. And now she wanted to deprive me of the chance of explaining it to my masters.
‘I promise,’ I said desperately. ‘Put him and Stinnes in the last car and let me ride with them. But the children stay with me. That’s a condition, Fi.’
‘Be careful, Bernard. He’s a brute.’
I looked at her. She was very beautiful, more beautiful than I ever remembered. Her eyes were soft and the faint smell of her perfume brought memories. ‘Stay here, Fi,’ I said. ‘Stay here in the West. We could fix everything.’
She shook her head. ‘Goodbye for the last time,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll send Werner back. And I won’t take the children from you for the time being.’
‘Stay.’
She leaned forward and kissed me in a decorous way that would not smudge her lipstick; I suppose they’d all be looking at her for such signs. ‘You don’t understand. But one day you will.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Let’s go and see Comrade Stinnes,’ she said. And now her voice was hard and resolute once more.
29
I’d allowed for a lot of varied possibilities arising from my meeting with Fiona, but her demand that I kill Pavel Moskvin, one of her senior staff, caught me unawares. And yet there could be no doubt that she was serious. As Bret and Frank had already agreed just a few minutes before the meeting, my friendship with Werner was damned important to me. If killing a hood like Pavel Moskvin could rescue Werner from a prospect of twenty years in a gulag, I wouldn’t hesitate. And Fiona knew that.
But there were a lot of unanswered questions. I found it difficult to accept Fiona’s explanation at face value. Would she really ask me to kill Moskvin just so she could keep to her side of the bargain? It seemed far more likely that Moskvin was an obstacle to her ambitions. But it was difficult to believe that Fiona would go that far. I preferred to think that her desire to have him dead came from somewhere higher up in the echelons of the KGB – Moscow Centre, in all probability.
But why didn’t they try him, sentence him, and execute him for whatever he’d done? The obvious answer to that was blat, the Russian all-purpose word for influence, corruption and unofficial power. Was Moskvin the friend or relative of someone that even the KGB would rather not confront? Was getting rid of him in the West – and so attributing his death to the imperialists – a clever scheme whereby Moscow kept their hands clean? Probably.
Werner Volkmann was still in the roadway on the wrong side of Checkpoint Charlie – our man could see him clearly from the observation post on Kochstrasse. According to what was being said on the radiophone, Werner was wearing his grey raincoat and pacing up and down, accompanied by a guard in civilian clothes.
As arranged with Fiona, I was in the last of the three KGB Volvos when they pulled away from the front of the Steigenberger. There were plenty of policemen there, some in civilian clothes, but not so many that the KGB party attracted any more attention than would the departure from the hotel of any minor celeb
rity. At the front of the line of three black Volvos there was a white VW bus, an unmarked police vehicle, and a motorcycle cop. Behind us there was another white VW bus containing Frank Harrington, Bret Rensselaer, and three members of the Berlin Field Unit. It was our communications van, two whiplash antennas and an FM rod on the roof.
The convoy of cars moved out into the traffic and past the famous black, broken spire of the Memorial Church, incongruously placed amid the flashy shops, outdoor cafés, and swanky restaurants of the Kurfürstendamm. There were no flashing lights or police sirens to clear our way. The cars and their two escorting buses eased into the lanes of slowly moving traffic and halted at the traffic signals.
I turned my head to see the white van behind us. Frank was in the front seat, next to the driver. I couldn’t see Bret. The cars followed the motorcycle cop, keeping a distance between them so that it didn’t look as if we were all together. We attracted less attention that way.
Along Tauentzienstrasse the traffic thinned, but we were stopped by red lights at the big KaDeWe department store. The lights turned green and we began rolling forward again. Then someone stepping into the road threw a plastic bag of white paint at the car I was in. Whether this was part of Fiona’s plan or the action of some demonstrator who’d seen the Volvos – with their DDR registration plates – parked outside the Steigenberger, I never discovered. Neither did I ever find out if Pavel Moskvin had been prepared by stories of danger and possible attempts on his life. But as the bag of white paint hit our car and splashed across the windscreen, the driver hit the brakes. It was then, without any warning, that Pavel Moskvin opened the door and jumped out into the road. I slid across the seat and scrambled out after him as the traffic raced past. A red Merc hooted and almost ran over me; a kid on a motorbike swerved round Moskvin and almost hit me instead.
Moskvin ran for the old U-Bahn station that stands in the middle of the traffic there at Wittenbergplatz. I was a long way behind him. There were cops everywhere. I heard whistles and I noticed that one of the other black Volvos had stopped on the far side of the traffic circus.
Obviously Moskvin didn’t know the city well. He ducked into the entrance to the U-Bahn expecting some escape route, but then, realizing he would be trapped, he dashed out again and raced into the fast-moving traffic, jumping between the cars with amazing agility. He ran along the pavement pushing and striking out with his fists to punch people out of his way. He was a violent man whose violence provided a spur for his energy, and, despite his bulk and his middle age, he ran like an athlete. It was a long run. My lungs were bursting and my head spun as I pounded after him.