by Len Deighton
‘Anyway,’ added Bernard, ‘you won’t be in London for a bit, will you?’
‘No, that’s right.’ She sat back on her heels and sipped her tea as if unconcerned. ‘I was forgetting that.’
‘I told Dad that you are going out tonight. He wants me to go to some little farewell party at the Club and have dinner with him afterwards. Is that okay?’
She could have laughed. After all the trouble she’d gone to to arrange the secret meeting with Bret Rensselaer this evening, she now found that her husband was completely uninterested in her movements. She told him anyway. ‘I’m at a familiarization briefing. Someone is coming from London.’
Bernard was hardly listening to her. To his father he said, ‘If Frank will be there, I’ll return some books I borrowed from him.’
‘Frank will be there,’ said his father. ‘Frank loves parties.’
‘Too bad you’re not free, darling,’ Bernard told his wife.
‘Farewell parties are usually more fun without wives,’ said Fiona knowingly.
‘Another drink, Dad?’ said Bernard and got to his feet.
His father shook his head.
‘Where will you have dinner?’ she asked.
‘Tante Lisl’s,’ announced Bernard with great pleasure. ‘She is cooking venison specially for us.’ Tante Lisl owned a hotel that had once been her home. Brian Samson, and his family, had been billeted upon her when the war ended. It had become a sort of second home for Bernard, and old Tante Lisl a surrogate mother. Bernard’s undisguised delight in the old house sometimes gave Fiona a feeling of insecurity. She felt that now.
Bernard came over and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Goodbye, love. I might be late.’ As he went out with his father he said, as if to himself. ‘I mustn’t forget to take those flowers for Lisl. She loves flowers.’
As she heard the front door close behind the two men Fiona closed her eyes and rested her head back in the armchair. Of course the flowers were not for her: how could she have imagined they were? The flowers were for that dreadful old woman against whom Bernard would hear no word said.
Bernard could sometimes be the archetypal selfish male. He took her for granted. He was delighted at the prospect of spending an evening with his father and his cronies, drinking and telling their stories. Stories of secret agents and daring deeds, exaggerated in the course of time and in the course of the evening’s drinking.
It said a great deal about their relationship that Bernard would have been uncomfortable with her at such a gathering. Bernard respected her, but if he really loved her he would have wanted her with him whatever the company he was in. Secretly she lived for the day when he would be forced to see her for what she was: someone who could play the agent game as well as he could play it. Perhaps then he would treat her as she wanted to be treated: as an equal. And if meantime she’d used the same sort of secrecy to steal a little happiness for herself, could she be blamed? No one had been hurt.
She looked round the room at the mess that Bernard had left for her to tidy up. Was it any wonder that she had found such happiness in the short and foolish love affair with Harry Kennedy? He had given her a new lease of life at a time when she was almost in despair. During the time she’d had with Harry she had stopped the tablets and felt like a different person. Harry treated her with care and consideration and yet he was so wonderfully outgoing. He wasn’t frightened to tell her how much he adored her. For him she was a complex and interesting human being whose opinions counted, and with him she found herself exchanging personal feelings that she had never shared with Bernard. When it came down to hard facts: she loved Bernard and put up with him, but Harry loved her desperately and he made her feel deeply feminine in a way she’d never experienced before.
Now that was all over and finished with, she told herself. She could look back soberly and see the affair with Harry for what it was: the most glorious luxury; a release in time of stress, a course of treatment.
She looked at the time. She must have a bath and change her clothes. Thank heavens she’d brought with her some really good clothes. For this evening’s meeting she would need to look her best as well as have her wits about her. Fiona Samson’s appointment was in Kessler’s, a family restaurant in Gatower Strasse, Berlin-Spandau. Its premises occupied the whole house, so that there were dining rooms on every floor. Downstairs old Klaus Kessler liked to supervise his dining room waiters in person. He stood there in his long apron amid dark green paintwork, red checked gingham table-cloths and the menu written on small slates. Kessler described it as a ‘typical French bistro’, but in fact its decor, and the menu too, showed little change from the Berlin Weinstube where the family had been serving good simple food since his grandfather’s time.
Up the narrow creaking stairs there was a second dining room, and above that three upper rooms were more elaborately furnished, and with better cutlery and glass, linen cloths and handwritten menus without prices. These were booked for small and very discreet dinners. It was in one of them that Fiona had dinner with Bret Rensselaer that evening.
‘You got away all right?’ Bret said politely. She offered her cheek and he gave her a perfunctory kiss. There was champagne in an ice bucket: Bret was already drinking some.
The waiter took her coat, poured her a glass of champagne and put a menu into her hands.
‘There was no problem,’ said Fiona. ‘Bernard is at a party with his father.’
‘I hear the venison is good,’ said Bret, looking at the menu.
‘I don’t like venison,’ said Fiona more forcefully than she intended. She sipped her champagne. ‘In fact I’m not very hungry.’
‘Kessler says he’ll do a cheese souffle for us.’
‘That sounds delicious.’
‘And a little Westphalian ham to start?’ Anticipating her approval he put down the menu and whipped off the stylish glasses that he wore when reading. He was vain enough to hate wearing them but his attempts to wear contact lenses had not worked out well.
‘Perfect.’ Neither of them were interested enough in the food to read the menu all through. It was a relief, thought Fiona. Bernard could never sit down in a restaurant without cross-examining the waiter about the cooking in its most minute details. What was worse, he was always trying to persuade Fiona to try such things as smoked eel, tongue or – what was that other dish he liked so much? – Marinierter Hering.
‘How are you enjoying Berlin?’ Bret asked.
‘Having Bernard with me makes a difference.’
‘Of course. His mother went to England to look after the children?’
‘It was sweet of her but I miss them awfully,’ she said. A platter of ham arrived garnished with tomatoes and pickles, and there was a lot of fussing about as the waiter offered them a selection of bread rolls and three different types of mustard. When the waiter had departed she said, ‘I suppose at heart I’m a housewife.’ She spread butter on her black bread but she watched Bret’s reaction. Exactly a week ago she’d decided that she would not be able to go through with this mad project of defecting to the KGB as some sort of superspy.
Fiona’s life had become too complex for her. The clandestine meetings with Martin Euan Pryce-Hughes had not been too stressful. She was a sleeper: they met rarely. Her assignment had provided her with a smug feeling of serving her country, and the Department, while demanding little or nothing from her. Then had come the bombshell from Bret Rensselaer that the Prime Minister had asked the D-G for a long-term commitment to getting someone into the top echelons of the enemy intelligence service. Of course she hadn’t entirely dismissed the thought that Bret had exaggerated the way it had happened, especially now that she saw the gain in prestige – and self-esteem too – that her planned mission brought to Bret.
Perhaps she could have handled the secret meetings with Martin and Bret, especially since at first Bret had been so understanding and sensitive about the strain on her. But that totally unexpected coup de foudre that had smitten
her after the chance meeting with Harry Kennedy was the last straw. And while the meetings with Martin and with Bret could be kept to a minimum, cancelled at short notice with no questions asked, and no recriminations, the meetings with Harry were something quite different. She sometimes ached to see him. On the days when they were to meet, she became so consumed by the prospect that she could think of nothing else. It was amazing that no one – not Bernard, not Bret nor her sister Tessa – had seen the turbulence within her. Well, it all had to stop. No more Martin, no more Bret and no more Harry. She was even considering resigning from the Department. If Bret put up any sort of resistance to letting her go free she would do exactly that. She had enough money from her father to tell them all to go to hell. Bret would argue, whine and maybe yell, but she only had one life and what she did with it was going to be her decision.
When a woman reaches her thirties, she starts to ask herself some demanding questions. What was she doing with her life that was more important than having a real home and looking after her husband and her children? How could she contemplate prolonged separation from them? Let them send some other agent to the East. There must be dozens who wanted to make their name by such an operation. But not she.
She ate some ham and a piece of the warm bread roll. Since Bret had not spoken, she said it again. ‘I suppose at heart I’m a housewife.’
If Bret guessed what was in store he gave no immediate sign of it. ‘We’re changing the name of my department. Instead of the European Economics Desk it’s officially to be the Economics Intelligence Section and I am named “Department Head”. Rather grand, isn’t it?’ It came as no surprise to either of them. When Bret had told her about his master plan – Sinker – for bringing down the German Democratic Republic by targeting the respectable middle class, she knew it was right. Anyone who’d read a history book could see that Hitler gained power by wooing the German middle classes while the communists disdained them.
‘So congratulations are in order?’ she asked.
‘They surely are,’ he said and they raised their glasses and drank. She smiled; how proud Bret was of his new appointment. She would never really understand him; she wondered if anyone did. He was so perfect and yet so contrived, right down to that perfect suntan. His navy blue cashmere jacket and grey slacks were probably chosen to show her how informal he could be but, together with the silk bow tie and starched shirt complete with cuffs long enough to reveal onyx links, he looked like a fashion plate. He was highly intelligent, charming, and, although no longer young, handsome; and yet he remained completely devoid of any sort of sexual attraction.
‘Have you seen Frank?’ she asked.
‘About the big panic? Yes, I spent this afternoon with him.’
‘Is there going to be a row?’
‘Maybe but I don’t think so. For us, in fact, it provides a perfect opportunity.’
‘To fire Frank?’ It was a mischievous and provocative question that she knew Bret would let pass.
Impassively Bret asked, ‘Were you there when the intercept came in?’ She nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘It was in the small hours of the morning – I can look it up in the log if you want it timed exactly. The duty cipher clerk brought it, they’d deciphered it very quickly. It came through the Russian Army transmitter at Karlshorst with the authorization of the commanding general’s office. It was an order that some military airfield in southwest Czecho be kept on a twenty-four-hour operational status.’
‘Did Frank see it?’
‘It was handed to him. Frank pooh-poohed it at first and then did his usual sitting on the fence routine.’
‘Who was in charge of communications room security?’
‘You must have got all this from Frank.’
‘Who was in charge?’
‘Werner Volkmann.’
‘Bernard’s German buddy?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Good. It will all work nicely.’
‘What will?’
‘You’re going to take a copy of that intercept and give it to Pryce-Hughes.’
‘Give it to Martin?’
‘That’s what I said. Be precise. I’ve written down exactly what I want you to say.’
She drank some champagne. ‘You know what will happen?’
‘Tell me what will happen, Fiona.’
‘Moscow will tell Karlshorst immediately, they’re very touchy about military signals. No matter what I stipulate about secrecy, they’ll send an intercepted traffic warning to the commanding general’s office and change everything.’
‘Yes, they’ll change the codes and ciphers. We could live with that,’ said Bret.
‘I’m not an expert on signals,’ said Fiona. ‘But surely they change the codes and ciphers three or four times a week anyway? For a penetration like this they will change the system.’
‘Whoever gave approval must know what they’ll do,’ said Bret, without concern for anything but his own plans.
‘What is this all about?’
‘I’m going to make you a star,’ said Bret. ‘I’m going to get the Soviets to sprinkle you with Stardust and start thinking of you as a potential big-shot.’
‘I don’t like it, Bret.’
She was expecting him to ask why but he dismissed her reservations with a wave of his hand. ‘I had to get the D-G’s authority for this one, Fiona. It’s a big concession and it shows that the old man is really convinced.’
‘Won’t NATO make a fuss? Moscow will change everything. Everything.’
‘There is no question of confiding our secrets to NATO,’ said Bret. ‘You know what we decided.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She was about to tell him of her decision to pull out when there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs and Kessler himself came with the souffle. It was magnificent, a great yellow dome of beaten egg, with flecks of browned cheese making a pattern all over it.
Fiona made the appreciative ohhs and ahhs that old Kessler expected and Bret added his compliments in hesitant German. Kessler served the souffle and the side salad and offered bread rolls and butter and topped up their glasses until Fiona wanted to scream.
Once the old man had gone she tried again. ‘I’ve been thinking of the whole operation: thinking hard and very carefully.’
And now you want out?’ He looked at her and nodded before probing into the souffle on his plate. ‘It’s exactly right. Look at that, soft in the middle but not raw.’
She didn’t know how to react. ‘Yes, I do, Bret. How did you guess?’
‘I know you well, Fiona. Sometimes I think I understand you even better than your husband does.’
She drank, nodded nervously but didn’t answer. That had always been Bret’s angle. He understood her: it was the style that any sensible case officer adopted to the agent he ran. She’d seen it all from the other side so she knew the way it was done. She needed a drink and emptied her glass of champagne greedily.
Bret took her glass to refill it. He brought the bottle from its ice bucket, holding it fastidiously as the water dripped from it. Then he poured carefully so that it didn’t foam too much. ‘Yes, I understand,’ he said without looking up from the glass.
‘I’m serious, Bret.’
‘Of course you are. It’s a strain, I know that. I worry about you. You surely must know I worry.’
‘I can’t do it, Bret. For all sorts of reasons…if you want me to explain…’ She was angry at herself. She had decided before coming here that she wouldn’t put herself in the position of a supplicant. She had nothing to apologize for. Circumstances had changed. She simply couldn’t continue with it.
‘There is nothing to explain, Fiona. I know what you’re going through.’
‘I won’t change my mind, Bret.’
He looked up at her and nodded with an affectionate, paternal indifference.
‘Bret! I won’t change my mind. I can’t go.’
‘It’s the build-up,’ he said. ‘That’
s what makes it so stressful, this long time of preparation.’
‘Bret. Don’t think you can just let it go and that I’ll reconsider it and eventually it will all be on again.’
‘Ummm.’ He looked at her and nodded. ‘Maybe a big glass of champagne is what I need too.’ He poured more for himself. It gave him something to do while she fretted. ‘Every agent goes through this crisis, Fiona. It’s not any failure of nerve, everyone gets the jitters sometime or other.’ He reached across and touched the back of her hand. His fingers were icy cold from holding the champagne bottle and she shivered as he touched her. ‘Just hang on: it will be all right. I promise you: it will be all right.’
It was anger that restored to her the calm she required to answer him. ‘Don’t patronize me, Bret. I’m not frightened. I am not on the verge of a nervous breakdown, neither am I suffering from premenstrual tension or any other weakness you may believe that women are prey to.’ She stopped.
‘Get mad! Better you blow a valve than a gasket,’ said Bret, smiling in that condescending way he had. ‘Let me have it. Say what you have to say.’
‘I’ve worked in the Department a long time, Bret. I know the score. The reason that I’m not going ahead with the plan – your plan I suppose I should say – is that I no longer feel ready to sacrifice my husband and my children in order to make a name for myself.’
‘I never, for one moment, thought you might be motivated by the prospect of making a name for yourself, Fiona.’
The way he maintained his gentle and conciliatory tone moderated her anger. ‘I suppose not,’ she said.
‘I knew it to be a matter of patriotism.’
‘No,’ she said
‘No? Is this the same woman who told me,
“There is but one task for all –
One life for each to give.
Who stands if Freedom fall?