Faith

by Len Deighton

  ‘Even if it’s all above board?’

  ‘Above board? They’re having an affair, Duncan.’

  ‘How old-fashioned you are, Bernard. How does a puritan such as you survive in our big bad world?’ He looked at me, trying to discern some motive in my face. ‘Does Cruyer know what a good friend he has in you?’ It was an exploratory query.

  ‘Shit, Duncan. I don’t want Dicky to find out what’s going on. I want to break it up because that’s easier than deciding who to report it to.’

  ‘We all like to play God, Bernard,’ he said, nodding as if in warm approval. He was a sardonic bastard; I’d forgotten that.

  ‘How will you start?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll say I’m from Customs and Excise. I’ll tell him he’s been named in a confession by someone caught with hard drugs. That keeps all our options open.’

  ‘That sounds okay,’ I said.

  ‘He’ll probably leave the country eventually,’ said Duncan. ‘That’s my experience.’

  ‘Even if he knows it’s a total fabrication?’

  ‘Oh, yes, especially then. If he’s a foreigner he’ll figure he’s being framed by whatever department of government he’s most frightened of.’

  ‘Suppose he’s got a UK passport? Suppose he toughs it out?’

  ‘Look, Bernard, old chap. If this Romeo of ours is likely to be packing an AK-47, this would be the appropriate time to mention it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t send you unprepared into a knock-over competition.’

  ‘You are the one who put me into Guy’s Hospital for three weeks last year!’

  ‘Wait a minute, Duncan. That job didn’t come from my Department. I phoned you. I stuck my neck out telling you to unload that one; you insisted upon doing it personally. And it wasn’t last year, it was the year before that.’

  ‘Ouch! Forgive me, Bernard, you’re right. And I shouldn’t be complaining; it’s all part of the job. And I was careless. But you haven’t answered my question.’

  I could see all the hesitations. He didn’t want to turn the job down, lest I crossed him off the list. But this was the sort of job that Churcher felt should be done cautiously, step by step. He didn’t like being rushed, and in other circumstances I might have agreed with him.

  ‘This is a quick little routine job, Duncan. I’m only using you because I’m in a hurry. Even if it’s a probe by the other side, it will only be a pretty boy making first contact. Take him aside, grab him by the ankles and shake him until his teeth fall out. Then the other side will back off. Have you got the idea?’

  ‘The customer is always right. I’ll ship him off on the Tuesday night ferry boat, and bring you a lock of his hair at crack of dawn Wednesday morning,’ said Duncan deadpan. Maybe he wouldn’t have ended up in a senior post in the Leeds Constabulary.

  ‘You may not like it, but we haven’t got time to be subtle, Duncan.’

  ‘I’m beginning to get your message, old boy.’ He smiled. I recognized it as the sort of smile I gave Dicky when he was sending me off to do something he couldn’t do himself. And that I couldn’t do either.

  I looked at my watch to see how close it was to my appointment with Bret. We both stood up. ‘That’s a good one, don’t you think?’ said Churcher. He was pointing to a framed cartoon on the wall. The drawing depicted a distraught old man writing on a postcard. The message said: ‘White Queen to King’s Knight 6 and Checkmate.’ The old man was writing: ‘Not known at this address’ across the postcard.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Checkmates don’t work if there’s no one answering the door.’

  Churcher nodded and got his tweed coat and umbrella from the rack and handed me my coat. ‘Message for the work-force. Is that what you mean, Bernard?’

  ‘Maybe.’ There were more muted noises from the chess room as the next devastating gambit began. The champion was going to win; everyone knew that, even the loser.

  Duncan followed me upstairs and out into the lifeless street. Not even the Arctic offers a landscape more desolate than Soho on a Sunday morning. Stacked high outside the eating places were black bags bulging with last night’s chef’s specials, and in the hard daylight the glittering adult cinemas were exposed as tawdry little hovels.

  ‘Charing Cross Road will be our best bet for a cab,’ he said. As we headed in that direction he added: ‘You can’t bear it, can you, Bernard?’ I smiled and waited for the rest of it. ‘You can’t bear passing this kind of job on to anyone, can you?’

  ‘I’d just like to see what he looks like,’ I admitted. ‘But I can’t do it myself, she’d recognize me.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the only reason you’re letting me do it.’ While walking down Old Compton Street a cab came along. Churcher hailed it with the ear-splitting bellow that such public-school rugby players use when ordering beer. He insisted that I took it. Opening the cab door he ushered me in. ‘I won’t screw it up, dear boy. I’ll waltz him around the floor with my usual exquisite delicacy. I won’t get you fired, Bernard, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  ‘Let me worry about my job security,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you inviting him to dance; stamp on his toes.’

  ‘You have made yourself quite clear, Bernard,’ he said with a sigh.

  ‘In your spiked shoes.’

  As the cab pulled away, I looked out of the window and saw Churcher holding up his rolled umbrella in a silent farewell that was not without a trace of mockery. I could read him like a book. Duncan had all the signs of being too old for this sort of job; I’d let my doubt about his capability show, and he was offended.

  19

  I got to the office a few minutes before eleven. When you spend all your life among Germans, you form the habit of getting to appointments ahead of time. The lower-floor offices were empty except for the security guards and the night staff who also fill in the weekend duties.

  I found the other three in the D-G’s room on the top floor. Werner was early too. He was wearing his best suit, sitting with Bret and Sir Henry Clevemore, balancing upon his knee a cup of the China tea that was Sir Henry’s favoured refreshment. Sir Henry was wearing a well-worn Fair-Isle pattern cardigan and carpet slippers.

  Bret was peering around the D-G’s office as if he’d never been there before. It was in its usual state of total confusion. No matter how many secretaries Sir Henry employed, or how hard they worked, there was no chance that they’d ever keep up with the chaos that he created around himself. Unread reports; unanswered mail; discarded balls of paper that had failed to reach the paper bin; a bird’s nest of shredded paper overflowing from the secret waste. Along one wall, and almost lost in the wintry gloom, there was a marquetry cabinet with an elaborate design of flowers and birds. I’d often wondered whether it was a priceless original or a nineteenth-century reproduction. One day I would muster the courage to go and examine it, but I sensed that this was not a suitable moment.

  It wasn’t a particularly large room: Dicky’s was bigger. There were books stacked high on every side. The D-G’s desk was covered with so many framed photos of his children and grandchildren that there was scarcely room for his blotter and pen set. Today the desk-top was also holding a large wooden tea-tray with a simple brown china teapot under a knitted cover, milk jug, sugar and cups. It was typical of the D-G that all the chinaware was of a cheap traditional design that one would find in almost any home in the country. In his choice of clothes, and domestic possessions, Sir Henry Clevemore exhibited that artless self-confidence that is the hallmark of the British landowning classes.

  ‘Find somewhere to park yourself,’ the D-G commanded. His books were at the heart of the problem. With no room on the bookshelves, he customarily placed books on chairs. When a chair was needed, his visitors removed books in order to sit down, putting the books on the floor. For this reason there was always a barricade of books stacked high around the room. I now built the barricade a little higher and sat down.

  Sir Henry sat behind his rather ugly kidney-shaped pedes
tal desk. His big black Labrador sprawled under it with proprietorial nonchalance, so that Werner, Bret and myself – sitting facing him – had to take care not to kick the animal which, from time to time, stirred in its sleep and made disgusting noises.

  ‘Ah, Collins! Good,’ said the D-G, looking up at me when I was finally seated. ‘Pour yourself some tea.’

  ‘Samson,’ Bret told the D-G. Bret could not bear misunderstandings, especially chronic ones. This made his job difficult, for our work depended upon them.

  ‘No, you are Rensselaer,’ the D-G told him firmly.

  ‘Yes, but this is Bernard Samson,’ said Bret.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said the D-G irritably, and cleared his throat as if about to cough.

  ‘You said Collins,’ said Bret, who never knew when to retire gracefully.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said the D-G. ‘Now can we please get on?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course,’ said Bret.

  ‘It is Sunday,’ said the D-G testily. ‘We all owe it to our families to get this meeting over as soon as possible.’

  ‘Shall I brief Samson about the decisions we reached this morning?’

  ‘I wish you would,’ said the D-G, as if he had been fretting under Bret’s delay.

  I reached over to the desk, removed the tea-cosy and poured myself a cup of tea from the brown china teapot.

  ‘The Director has decided that the operation based upon information passed to us by agent VERDI should go ahead,’ said Bret.

  ‘They know that,’ said the D-G. ‘Get on, or we shall be here all day.’

  ‘The next stage is to bring VERDI into a meeting with our electronics experts,’ said Bret. He looked at me and then at Werner, who was sitting there gaping. Werner had never been on the top floor before, let alone in its sanctum sanctorum, the room of the Director-General himself. The look on his face was of utter consternation and bewilderment. He simply couldn’t believe that Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service was controlled by this quixotic tea-partying Mad Hatter.

  ‘Who are they?’ I said. I drank some tea: it must have been brewing for hours, for it tasted like paint-remover. I poured a lot more milk into it but it wasn’t much improved. ‘Who are these electronics experts?’

  ‘We’ll have to bring GCHQ in,’ said Bret. Having told Dicky that at the very beginning I merely nodded.

  ‘VERDI,’ said the D-G.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Under the table, the dog half-awakened at the sound of its master’s voice. It scratched itself lazily before making a loud moan and sinking back into a deep slumber.

  ‘Bring him to London,’ said the D-G.

  ‘The Director is uneasy that this whole operation is at present dependent upon one person.’

  ‘VERDI, you mean?’ I said. The D-G nodded.

  ‘Yes, VERDI,’ said Bret. ‘It could all be a crackpot idea in his head. Or just a way of gouging cash from us.’

  ‘I thought most of the preliminaries had been cleared away.’

  ‘No,’ said Bret.

  I looked past Bret to Werner, and said: ‘I thought you’d talked about the technical problems?’

  Werner glanced at Bret apprehensively before contradicting him: ‘Yes, some of them.’

  ‘Dicky said the ideas had been checked out. He said we know it could work,’ I persisted.

  ‘Yes, in theory,’ said Werner. I could see he felt self-conscious about his English, as well as about arguing against Bret.

  ‘There is no need to subject the whole operation to scrutiny,’ said Bret in an admonitory tone. ‘Your job, Bernard, is to get him to London.’

  ‘Is he in danger?’ I asked.

  ‘He will be once the Soviets realize what he’s up to,’ said Bret. ‘And that will take them thirty minutes at the most.’

  ‘Something wrong with that tea?’ said the D-G, glaring at me and then at my cup. He seemed not to have heard Bret’s sardonic aside.

  ‘No, sir. It’s delicious.’ I leaned forward to get my teacup again, and in doing so trod on the dog. It jumped up and gave a loud yelp.

  ‘The only thing you need to know, Bernard, is that he’s your pigeon.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Getting VERDI here safely,’ said Bret.

  The Labrador was licking its foot where I’d trodden on it. I leaned down to stroke the dog but when I did, it growled and bared its teeth.

  The D-G must have heard the dog growl. He said: ‘C! Behave, C. Do you hear: behave.’

  Was the dog really named C?

  Bret, who was watching this exchange, looked at me without expression and said: ‘There’s one other aspect of this operation, Bernard. This man Fedosov has had direct involvement in the investigation of the death of Tessa Kosinski.’ He let that sink in. ‘The Director-General is most anxious that we should use his presence here to get to the bottom of that incident. He wants it cleared up once and for all.’

  ‘Good,’ I said.

  ‘Werner will do all the contacting. No need for you to go over there, just in case it’s some sort of trap. All you have to do is collect him from Werner and bring him here. Or perhaps you both should go. You and Werner can work out the details.’

  Werner said: ‘VERDI wants his father brought out too.’

  I looked at Werner. It was a new development and I wished Werner hadn’t sprung it as a total surprise.

  Bret said: ‘Any problem about that?’

  ‘Is there some official line of contact with him that I’m not a party to?’ I asked. VERDI was clearly in regular contact with someone who wasn’t telling me what was happening.

  Werner said to Bret: ‘No. Bernard and I will work it out somehow.’

  ‘It’s a need-to-know situation, Bernard. Just for once, do it the way we want it,’ said Bret. ‘Just toss this goon in the trunk of your car and bring him back here, Bernard. Don’t start opening cans of worms.’

  We were right back to the beginning again. It was a full circle back to Kinkypoo offering me handcuffs and sticky-tape to bring back VERDI alive and kicking.

  Fiona arrived back from her parents’ house in the late afternoon. ‘Werner is here,’ I called. ‘He’s staying for dinner. How are the children?’

  She came in looking radiant. ‘It was such a gorgeous day, Bernard. Hello, Werner. You are looking well.’ I gave her a kiss.

  ‘You should have stayed longer,’ I said.

  ‘It was very tempting but I knew you’d be waiting for me. The children can be so funny. We laughed and laughed all day.’

  ‘Where was your father?’

  ‘He’s been looking at horses. I think he’ll be hunting again before the month is out. That bad fall shook him but I told him that if he doesn’t get on a horse again soon, he may not ride again. What’s that you’re drinking? Beer? Uggh.’

  ‘Shall I phone for an Indian take-away?’

  ‘Oh, so that’s why you are drinking beer. Yes, do. I’m starved. But would Werner like that?’

  ‘If you order it,’ said Werner. ‘I don’t understand the menus.’

  ‘What are you drinking, darling?’ I asked her.

  ‘Nothing at all. I drank too much last night.’

  ‘Sit down, darling. I’ll order the curry.’ But she preferred to order it herself. She had the names of the Indian dishes we liked best written in her notebook in the kitchen, and she hated some of the hot ones.

  Our dinner arrived as a dozen mysterious tinfoil trays. Fiona stacked them into the fan oven for twenty minutes – just enough time to fill the entire apartment with the pervasive smells of hot curry – then tipped them separately into incongruous and expensive chinaware.

  ‘Billy fell off his bicycle last week, and frightened Mummy half to death … he came running in with blood on his shirt. But it was only a few scratches. Perhaps I will have a beer. But Sally has amazed everyone at school by winning all the swimming races. I think some of the elder girls were not pleased to be outdone by a little shrimp. She might even wind up school champion.�
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  ‘Good for Sally. I’ll phone her.’

  ‘She’s so like you, Bernard,’ said Fiona as we ate the meal. ‘So single-minded and tough.’

  ‘Is that what I’m like?’

  ‘And I’m like Billy … always stumbling and falling and getting hurt.’

  ‘Really?’ I looked at her with amazement. I’d always thought it was so obviously the other way round. Billy with his clumsy, ill-judged attempts to be a success was reliving my life, while cool calm and dedicated Sally effortlessly won all the prizes, and got all the praise, and was exactly like Fiona. But I didn’t say that exactly; I said: ‘But you are the tough one, Fi.’

  ‘I wish it was true,’ she said. ‘When I was working in the East I was driven to inventing a fictitious personality for myself, a sort of Doppelgänger. It was a male named Stefan Mittelberg -I got the name at random from a directory – and he helped.’

  ‘Helped? Helped how?’ I said.

  ‘I was all alone, Bernard. I needed guidance and I got it from a person I invented, a hard-nosed self-assertive male. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, I pretended I was this Stefan character, and did whatever he would have done.’

  ‘Sounds like a desperate last resort,’ said Werner, half in jest.

  She smiled. ‘Sometimes I pretended I was Bernard. But sometimes I needed someone even harder than him.’

  ‘Even harder than Bernie?’ said Werner in pretended surprise.

  ‘There were nice people too,’ she said, as if remembering it all for the first time, for I’d never heard her talk like this before. ‘My assistant, at the KGB/Stasi command unit on Karl Liebknechtstrasse, was an elderly man named Hubert Renn. A dedicated Marxist but a thoroughly decent man. I planned to arrange everything when the time came for me to escape so that Renn would be completely eliminated from any suspicion of complicity. But when the time came … it … I wasn’t ready …’ She got up from the table and hurried into the kitchen.