by Len Deighton
‘I went in to get VERDI,’ I explained.
‘I heard.’
‘They wasted him before he could talk.’
‘How is Dicky taking that?’
‘Dicky Cruyer?’
‘VERDI is his baby, isn’t he?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Not especially? How long have you been away, Bernie? Don’t you know that VERDI is a big man these days?’
‘VERDI was a big man, you mean.’
‘Do I? Okay – was a big man, then.’ He brought out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. I thought for a moment he was going to serve me up with all the rigmarole about Banner Party No. 5 scaling the heights of the Reichstag, but he mercifully passed over that episode and gave me what sounded more like the real cause of Dicky’s distress. ‘VERDI went to work in Moscow some time back. When he returned to Berlin he was put in charge of communications security – protection of KGB communications. Not just Stasi ones. You’re listening?’
‘I’m listening, Werner.’
‘A job like that brings a man into contact with codes, cryptographic machines and all the other gimmicks and gizmos.’
‘Well, he was never much good at the sharp end,’ I said, remembering VERDI and a couple of noteworthy bungles of which I’d taken advantage when he was in the field.
‘Yes, well don’t let it go to your head, Bernie. VERDI’s job as communications supremo made him a hundred times more important than you or I ever could be.’
‘And enrolling him was Dicky’s baby?’ I mused aloud as I thought about the tangled knot of frustration Dicky’s face had been during that meeting in Frank’s study.
‘No, I think the offer came from VERDI originally, but you know how these things are. It’s difficult to know how they begin. London was all set. The rumours are that they’d already sold-on some participation to Washington.’
‘Everything’s got to be run on businesslike lines nowadays, Werner,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Even London Central.’
Werner gave a small close-lipped smile. He liked lighting the fuse and watching me explode. ‘What did you do to your face?’
‘I fought off a KGB hit man on the way down here. The son of a bitch nearly killed me.’
‘What was he using, this hit man: his handbag or his high-heel shoes?’
‘Very funny, Werner. He gave me a lift and waited until I was dozing.’
Werner indicated an almond slice with his fork. ‘Do you want that one?’ he asked.
‘No, you have it,’ I said.
Had Werner showed a little more concern I might not have been tempted to tell him in detail about the assault I’d suffered, but with him sitting there eating the almond slice and smiling like a brass Buddha I described exactly what had happened.
‘You think he was a KGB hit man?’ asked Werner at the end of my story, showing neither sympathy nor alarm.
‘Or Stasi.’
‘You’re crazy, Bernard. They’re not recruiting from the football hooligans; not yet anyway. That truck driver was nothing like a professional hit man; you know that if you are honest with yourself.’
‘Why?’
‘Who did we ever know who would flap and flounder around like that? Tell me one example of the other side sending some muscle-bound lunatic to take out an experienced field agent. A pro with a gun could have got rid of you in one minute.’
‘And left holes in his cab?’
‘So he tells you to get out … or maybe uses a prussic-acid vapour-gun, and the coroner would swear you died of a coronary. You know these people, Bernie. They are not like this weirdo you’re telling me about.’
‘So who was he?’
‘How do I know who he was? My guess is that you crossed the path of a madman. There are plenty of them about these days: pathological killers who just want to maim and murder at random and for no real reason.’
‘You think that’s the answer?’
‘Yes, I do. The Autobahnen are dangerous for hitchhikers. Don’t you ever read the newspapers?’
‘I need Valium before I can face the newspapers these days. Is Zena coming back here?’
‘She had to go to the beauty shop or somewhere.’
‘Can you spare me some Swiss money?’
‘The hairdresser I think it was,’ he said, and looked over his shoulder furtively before taking out his wallet and putting a dozen or more 100-franc bills on the table.
‘Thanks, Werner. Can you wait a week? I’ll send you a cheque.’
‘You think I’m a fool, don’t you?’
‘Your personal life is none of my business, Werner.’ I picked up the money and put it in my wallet.
‘Be honest.’
‘You seemed happy running the hotel with Ingrid. You seemed to suit each other. You told me you were in love with her, and Ingrid loved you, didn’t she?’
‘I told you I loved Ingrid?’ His voice rose in incredulity.
‘Don’t hedge, Werner. We came back from London together. You told me then.’
He thought about it. ‘Perhaps I was in love with Ingrid at one time. I still like Ingrid. But Zena understands me. Isn’t it better to have a woman who understands you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Certainly not. It’s the worst thing that can happen to any man.’
‘You’re a bastard,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do about those two women of yours? Are you going to divorce Fiona?’
‘Fiona is still not fully recovered,’ I said, remembering the way she bit me when we said farewell. ‘I thought she was going to have a complete nervous breakdown. Everyone thought that, even the doctor. She doesn’t want a divorce. She wants to give marriage another try and so do I. In California we got along just fine. I’m reluctant to abandon her: Fiona can’t handle rejection.’
‘And Gloria can?’
‘Take it easy, Werner.’
‘You’ll have to face it.’
‘Gloria is younger and sexy. Men are lining up to marry her; they always have been. She doesn’t have to worry about that.’
‘How convenient for you,’ said Werner. ‘More coffee?’
‘No.’
‘If you ask my advice, you should stop worrying so much about Fiona and start worrying about yourself.’ I looked up. ‘Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately? You look like you’ve just been rescued from the Atlantic Ocean after ten days in a lifeboat. Never mind about Fiona almost going down with a nervous breakdown. Why don’t you go and have a complete physical check-up? Because my guess is that you need attention.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘You’re worrying about your kids. You’re worrying about your job. You’re worrying about your women. I wouldn’t be in your shoes … not for anything.’ Werner flagged down a waitress and ordered two more coffees. He was like that. He turned to study me again and said: ‘You can’t face going to London, can you? You only came here in order to put off the moment of facing those two women of yours.’
‘Crap! And I wish you wouldn’t keep calling them “those two women of yours”, they’ve got names.’
‘So why did you come here then?’
‘I wanted you to tell me if the VERDI deal was on the level.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were waiting for us in Magdeburg. When we were on a convenient stretch of road they got nasty.’
‘And you think they set all that up for you?’
‘Or for anyone else that London Central sent to make contact.’
‘But VERDI asked for you.’
‘Did he?’
‘You said he did.’
‘I didn’t say that VERDI asked for me.’
‘But he did?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes he did. But that might have been set up too.’
‘And when they don’t get you the first time, they send this Dutch lunatic after you?’
‘It’s possible isn’t it?’
‘You’re getting old and paranoid, Bernie.’
<
br /> ‘You weren’t there, Werner.’ The coffee arrived. ‘I shouldn’t have any more coffee; it gives me indigestion.’
‘Coffee didn’t used to give you any problems,’ said Werner.
‘What do you want to hear me say: that I’m getting older?’ I pushed the sugar in his direction and he automatically grabbed it and spooned a lot into his coffee.
‘London Central have put out an alert for you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘At noon today.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The alert said you were expected in London and didn’t arrive.’
‘Dicky Cruyer knew I was coming to Zurich. He checked the airline passenger lists.’
‘Did you do that again?’ Werner laughed. ‘And Dicky fell for it? That Dicky never learns, does he? No wonder he got mad and put out an alert.’ He laughed again. My subterfuge seemed to put him in a better mood. It was more like the Werner I’d known in the old Berlin days.
‘Let’s not personalize it,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s just the computer. It’s like that in London nowadays: clocks tick, chips do whatever chips do, and the computer issues an alert or an arrest warrant, airline ticket or a medal or a month’s leave with full pay.’
‘An all-stations alert,’ said Werner grimly. ‘Dicky is mad and he’s shitting on you.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You fouled up the VERDI contact and Dicky’s getting even.’
‘I didn’t foul up anything. I had one of Dicky’s dumb protégés with me. It was all over long before we arrived there.’
‘See it the way Dicky sees it.’ He was tense. He poured cream in his coffee, risking Zena’s wrath.
‘Dicky knew I was coming here.’
‘Don’t drag me into it,’ Werner said. ‘I’ll help you all I can – you know I will – but don’t use me to clobber Dicky.’
‘You think VERDI was a genuine offer?’
‘You know what I think.’
‘No, I’ve just heard you avoid the question.’
‘You’ve been away too long, Bernie.’ Werner alined his coffee and hunched over it to watch the cream swirl around. Without looking up at me, he said: ‘The KGB and the Stasi are undergoing agonizing times: re-appraisals and re-evaluations. All the most cynical, ruthless, ambitious roughnecks who clawed, backstabbed and sometimes murdered their peers and superiors to get important jobs and high ranks are exactly the ones who are now prepared to destroy their peers and superiors to become rich and successful working for the West.’
‘So you think VERDI was for real?’
‘How do I know?’
‘And that’s why they killed him?’
‘What’s the use of sitting around guessing, Bernard?’
‘Let me know if you hear anything new.’
‘Sure I will. Has Gloria got a fax machine in her apartment?’ he said archly.
‘Lay off me, Werner. We’ve both got woman troubles, haven’t we?’
For a moment I thought he was going to deny it. ‘Would you like me to pay for the coffees?’
‘I haven’t got small change, Werner, you know that.’ He gave a prim smile, looked at the bill and put some coins on the table.
‘That was hard on Fiona,’ he said. ‘Losing her sister like that must have been devastating.’
‘That’s the word, all right.’
‘I was in my car on the Munich Autobahn when they told me Fiona had been killed,’ said Werner. ‘That’s what they told me, at first. It was ages afterwards that I finally discovered that Fiona was with you in California. Everyone was saying that you’d run off with Tessa. People were even saying you’d been seen together in Australia and so on – you know how the rumours circulate in our business.’
‘I saw Tessa killed,’ I said.
‘The DDR people misidentified the body? Is that what happened?’ Werner was sounding me out.
‘You know how slowly they work over there.’
‘But that suited London, I suppose,’ said Werner archly. ‘It gave them time to use Fiona’s secret material, while the Stasi thought the secrets had died with her. And Dicky too. In those first few hours they were saying that Dicky had been shot.’
‘Dicky! I wish someone had shot him! It was all his fault. He took Tessa to Berlin. He shared a hotel room with her and registered in my name.’
‘But Dicky wasn’t at the shoot-out?’
‘No. It was another London man. A fumbling amateur. The whole thing was a typical London Central balls-up,’ I said.
‘Or a very artful plan,’ said Werner.
He got up and paid. We both put on our overcoats and in silence pushed through the doors and out into the cold street. ‘It’s going to snow,’ I said.
‘How are you going to handle Dicky Cruyer?’ he said as we began our walk back towards the hotel.
‘The hell with Dicky,’ I said.
‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ said Werner, and stopped walking.
‘Get what?’
‘Look,’ said Werner, almost bursting with suppressed vexation. ‘London Central sends you to contact VERDI. You go back to Dicky and Frank, and tell them he’s dead. What are they supposed to think?’
‘Think?’
‘My God, Bernie, but you are dumm! They are going to think that you killed him or at least arranged the killing.’
‘Of VERDI?’ It was of course exactly what Frank had warned me about, but I’d dismissed it as just another manifestation of Frank’s paternalism.
‘And then you come to Zurich to find me and talk to me. Didn’t you know that London Central are telling the world that I’m a double, working out of Berlin and selling London’s secrets?’
‘No one believes that, Werner.’
‘Dicky does, Frank does. All those coordination and research zombies in London do. They all think I’m a double. And now they’ll think you’re a double too.’
‘Because I’ve come here to talk with you?’
‘Well ask yourself. They’ll say I’m your case officer and you came to be debriefed. It all fits together, doesn’t it?’
‘Not to me it doesn’t.’
‘Well you’re not working in London Central.’
‘But I will be,’ I said.
‘Don’t count on it, Bernie,’ said Werner sadly. ‘Dicky has been dreaming of the day he’d get rid of you, and you’ve served him every excuse he needs on a silver platter.’
‘Why would I want to murder VERDI instead of bringing him back? There’s no motivation, Werner.’
Werner gave an angry grunt and said: ‘Save those stories for Frank and Dicky, and all those desk-bound schlemiels in London. I was there that day when they brought you in, Bernard. That day in Berlin. Remember?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘VERDI is the cold-blooded creep who had you thrown out of the Warsaw–Berlin Express. You’re not going to deny it, are you, Bernard?’
‘Better we don’t resurrect old mishaps.’
‘Mishaps? I was there when they brought you in. Your dad almost went berserk. The surgeon was asking one of the nurses to find out what religion you were, and get hold of a priest.’
‘You always exaggerate, Werner. There’s no conclusive evidence that VERDI had anything to do with that. And if London Central start thinking he had, they’ll really start believing I might have wasted him.’ He didn’t reply. I slapped him on the back and said: ‘See you around, Werner.’
I left him at Paradeplatz, standing at the roadside like a forlorn bear watching Goldilocks stealing off with his bowl of porridge. Although the traffic signals were against me, I hurried across the road, glancing back to give him a final wave. I was almost on the pavement when some stupid kid on a little motor bike came roaring around the corner and brushed close enough to make me lose my balance as I jumped to safety. As I straightened up, I shouted after the man on the motor bike, who shouted back and turned out to be a shrill and angry young woman. Then I smoothed my coat and pushed my hat into place and looked
back in the hope that Werner had not witnessed the incident.
‘They keep trying,’ Werner called, and grinned at me. It seemed to amuse him that I’d almost been knocked over. Had I not known him so well I might have thought he was gloating. But that was never Werner’s style, and our partnership went back too far for that: from the time that we were children. But there was no mistaking the fact that Werner’s stance, the burly figure, feet apart, and one hand deep in overcoat pocket and the other holding his walking stick, showed reserves of power and confidence in a way I did not remember. I had always dominated our partnership. I had always been the forceful one, with Werner cautious, temporizing and needing me as a nursemaid. Now I was chagrined to find it the other way round: Werner was calm and amused and calling the tune, and I was anxious and asking advice and narrowly avoiding getting killed in the traffic.
6
‘So – here is pain?’ I felt the dental probe touch the molar.
‘No,’ I said.
‘This is all then,’ said the dentist. ‘Nothing wrong!’ He held the probe aloft for a moment, like a conjuror with a wand, before placing it back on the tray with a serried array of other instruments. Then he swung the illuminated magnifier away from the dental chair. ‘Now you will rinse the mouth.’ The girl, with that mask of professional inscrutability that nurses wear at work, stretched out a hand to give me a paper towel, a pink one that doesn’t show the blood.
I had no desire to rinse the mouth but I did so dutifully, as his Swiss patients no doubt rinsed when commanded. Zurich dentists seem to enjoy full appointment books; this one had only agreed to see me because I said it was an emergency. And in the middle of the night, in the hotel room, it had seemed like an emergency. I awoke in panic unable to remember where I was. My jaw had ached and I thought all my teeth were about to fall out. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ I said, remembering the scowls and glares from the patients in the waiting-room as I was admitted to the surgery ahead of them.
‘The teeth are in good condition,’ proclaimed the dentist as he washed his hands. ‘Cleaning and scaling needed, yes. Also two old fillings that must soon be made again.’ He nodded to his nurse and said in Swiss-German: ‘Who’s out there?’ Thus dismissed, I climbed out of the dental chair and held out my billfold in an age-old gesture of repentance.