by Len Deighton
‘She went over there in eighty-three, so it must be about four years,’ said Sir Henry Clevemore. The two men had worked wonders and were rightly proud of what they had achieved. The East German economy was cracking at the seams, the government had become senile and could muster neither will nor resource to tackle the problems. Fiona’s information said that the Russian troops would be confined to barracks no matter what political changes came. The USSR had problems of its own. Bret Rensselaer’s heady prediction about the Wall coming down by 1990 – considered at the time no more than the natural hyperbole that all SIS projections were prone to – now looked like a real possibility.
They had got some fine material from Fiona Samson that had enabled the two of them to master-mind the campaign as well as facilitating contact with the most level-headed opposition groups. To protect her they had given her a few little victories and a few accolades. Now they were enjoying the feeling of great satisfaction.
These two were alike in many ways. Their family background, education, bearing and deportment were comparable, but Silas Gaunt’s service abroad had made him cosmopolitan, which could never be said of the aloof and formal Sir Henry Clevemore. Silas Gaunt was earthy, wily, adaptable and unscrupulous, and despite their years together Sir Henry always had reservations about his friend.
‘Do you remember when young Volkmann came knocking at your door in the dead of night?’ said Silas.
‘The bloody fool had forgotten my phone number.’
‘You were in despair,’ said Silas.
‘Certainly not.’
‘I’m sorry to contradict you, Henry, but when you arrived here you said that Fiona Samson had made a dire error of judgement.’
‘It did seem somewhat ominous.’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘It was the only damn thing he had to commit to memory, and he’d forgotten it.’
‘Volkmann turned up trumps. I didn’t know he had it in him.’
‘I’ll get him something,’ said the D-G. ‘When it’s over I’ll get him some sort of award. I know he’d like a gong; he’s that sort of chap.’
‘You know his banking business is being wound down?’ said Silas, although he’d briefed the D-G on that already.
‘He’s taking over that flea-bitten hotel run by that dreadful old German woman. What’s her name?’
‘Lisl Hennig.’
‘That’s the one, an absolute Medusa.’
‘All good things come to an end,’ said Silas.
‘There were times,’ said the Director-General, ‘When I thought we would simply have to pull Mrs Samson out and give up.’
‘Samson’s a bull-headed young fool,’ said Silas Gaunt, voicing what was in the minds of both men. They were sitting in the little-used drawing room of Gaunt’s house, while in the next room workmen were slowly rebuilding the fireplace of Gaunt’s little study. This room had been virtually unchanged for a hundred years. Like all such farmhouse rooms, with thick stone walls and small windows, it was gloomy all the year round. A big sideboard held well-used willow-pattern plates, and a vase filled with freshly cut daffodils.
Upon the lumpy sofa Silas sprawled, lit by the flickering flames of a log fire. Above him some steely-eyed ancestor squinted through the coach varnish of a big painting, and there was a small table upon which, for the time being, Silas Gaunt was eating his meals. Sir Henry Clevemore had made the journey to Whitelands after hearing that Silas was recuperating after falling from a horse. The old fool shouldn’t have gone near a horse at his age, thought the D-G, and had resolved to say as much. But in the event he hadn’t done so.
‘Samson?’ said the D-G. ‘You mustn’t be hard on him. I blame myself really. Bret Rensselaer always said we should have told Samson the truth.’
‘I never thought I’d hear you say that, Henry. You were the one who…’
‘Yes, I know. But Samson could have been told at the end of that first year.’
‘There’s nothing to be gained from a post-mortem,’ said Silas. There was a tartan car-blanket over him, and every now and again he pulled at it and rearranged it round his legs. ‘Or is this leading up to the suggestion that we tell him now?’
‘No, no, no,’ said the D-G. ‘But when he started prying into the way the bank drafts came from Central Funding, I thought we’d be forced to tell him.’
Silas grinned. ‘Trying to arrest him when he arrived in Berlin was not the best way to go about it, D-G, if you’ll permit me to say so.’
That fiasco was not something the D-G was willing to pursue. He got to his feet and went to the mullioned window. From here there was a view of the front drive and the hills beyond. ‘Your elms are looking rather sick, Silas.’ There were three of them; massive great fellows planted equidistant across the lawn like Greek columns. They were the first thing you saw from the gatehouse, even before the house came into view. ‘Very sick.’
Suddenly Silas felt sick too. Every day he looked at the elms and prayed that the deformed, discoloured leaves would become green and healthy again. ‘The gardener says it’s due to the frost.’
‘Frost fiddlesticks! You should get your local forestry fellow to look at them. If it’s Dutch elm disease they must be felled immediately.’
‘The frost did terrible damage this year,’ said Silas, hoping for a reprieve, or at least reassurance. Even unconvincing reassurance, of the sort the resourceful Mrs Porter his housekeeper gave him, was better than this sort of brutal diagnosis. Silas pleaded, ‘You can see that, Henry, from the roses and the colour of the lawn.’
‘Get the forestry expert in, Silas. Dutch elm disease has already run through most of the elms in this part of the world. Let it go and you’ll make yourself damned unpopular with your neighbours.’
‘Perhaps you’re right, Henry, but I don’t believe it’s anything serious.’
‘There are still a lot of unanswered questions, Silas. If the time has come to pull her out why don’t we just do it without ceremony?’
Silas looked at him for a moment before being sure he was talking about Fiona Samson. ‘Because we have a mountain of material that we can’t use without jeopardizing her. And when finally she comes back she’ll bring more material out with her.’
‘We’ve had a good innings, Silas,’ said the D-G, returning to the chintz-covered armchair where he’d been sitting, and giving a little grunt as he dropped into it.
‘Let’s not cut and run, Henry. In my memory, and privileged knowledge, Fiona Samson has proved the best agent in place the Department has ever had. It wouldn’t be fair to her to throw away what is still to come.’
‘I really don’t understand this plan to keep her alive,’ said the D-G.
Silas sighed. The D-G could be rather dense at times: he’d still not understood. Silas would have to say it in simple language. ‘The plan is to convince the Soviets she is dead.’
‘While she is back here being debriefed?’
‘Exactly. If they know she’s alive and talking to us they will be able to limit the damage we’ll do to them.’
‘Convince them?’ asked the D-G.
‘It’s been done in the past with other agents.’
‘But convince them how? I really don’t see.’
‘To give you an extreme example; she is seen going into a house. There is an earthquake and the whole street disappears. They think she’s dead.’
‘Is that a joke, Silas? Earthquake?’
‘No, Director, it is simply an example. But the substitution of a corpse is a trick as old as history.’
‘Our opponents are very sophisticated these days, Silas. They might tumble to it.’
‘Yes, they might. But if they did, it would not be the end of the world. It would be a set-back but it wouldn’t be the end of the world.’
‘Providing she was safe.’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean,’ said Silas.
The D-G was silent for a moment or two. ‘The Americans are going to be dejected at the prospect of losing the source.’
&nbs
p; ‘You don’t think they guess where it’s coming from?’
‘I don’t think so. Washington gets it from Bret in California, and by that time anything that would identify her is removed.’
‘That business with Bret worked out well.’
‘He took a dashed long time before he understood that I couldn’t have called off that arrest team without revealing the part he played in running Fiona Samson.’
‘I didn’t mean that, so much as the way he went to convalesce in California.’
‘Yes, Bret has organized himself very well over there, and using him as the conduit distances us from the Berlin material.’
‘I shouldn’t think Fiona Samson submits anything that would identify her,’ said Silas. He never handled the material and there were times when he resented that.
‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ said the D-G, to indicate that he didn’t directly handle the material either. ‘She is an extremely clever woman. Will you use Bernard Samson to pull her out?’
‘I think he should be involved,’ said Silas. ‘By now I think he guesses what is going on.’
‘Yes,’ said the D-G. ‘That’s why you want to bring her home, isn’t it?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Silas. ‘But it is a part of it.’
‘The Soviets would leave someone like that in place for ever and ever,’ said the D-G.
‘We are not the Soviets,’ said Silas. ‘Are you feeling all right, Henry?’
‘Just a palpitation. I shouldn’t have smoked that cigar. I promised my doctor I would give them up.’
‘Doctors are all the same,’ said Silas, who had abstained and sniffed enviously while the D-G went through a big Havana after lunch.
The D-G sat back and breathed slowly and deeply before speaking again. ‘This business…this business about switching the corpse. I don’t see how we are going to handle that, Silas.’
‘I know of an American…A very competent fellow.’
‘American? Is that wise?’
‘He’s the perfect choice. Free-lance; expert and independent. He’s even done a couple of jobs for the opposition…’
‘Now wait a moment, Silas. I don’t want some KGB thug in on this.’
‘Hear me out, Henry. We need someone who knows his way around over there; someone who knows the Russian mind. And this chap is on the CIA’s “most wanted” list, so he’ll not be telling the story to the chaps in Grosvenor Square.’
Sir Henry sniffed to indicate doubt. ‘When you put it like that…’
‘Persona grata with the KGB, unconnected with the CIA and arm’s length from us. The perfect man for the job. He’ll take on the whole show for a flat fee.’
‘The whole show? What does that mean?’
‘There will be blood spilled, Henry. There’s no avoiding that.’
‘I don’t want any repercussions,’ said the D-G anxiously. ‘I’m still answering questions about the Moskvin fracas.’
Silas Gaunt painfully lowered his feet to the floor and leaned across to the table to find some bone-handled knives in the cutlery drawer. He put three of them on the table and picked them up one by one. ‘Let me improvise a possible outcome. Body number one; slightly burned but easily identified. Body number two; badly burned but identified by plentiful forensic evidence.’ He looked at Sir Henry before picking up the third knife. ‘Body number three; burned to a cinder but dental evidence proves it to be Fiona Samson.’
‘Very convincing,’ said the D-G after a moment’s reflection.
‘It will work,’ said Silas, grabbing the knives and tossing them into the drawer with a loud crash.
‘But isn’t someone going to ask why?’
‘You have been following the reports about Erich Stinnes and his drug racket?’
‘Drugs. It’s true then?’
‘Our KGB colleagues have wide-ranging powers. Security, intelligence, counter-intelligence, border controls, political crimes, fraud, corruption and drugs have become a very big worry for the Soviets.’ He didn’t want to go into detail about the drugs. It was a vital part of the operation: it ensnared Stinnes as a trafficker and Tessa Kosinski as an addict, but the D-G would get very jumpy if he knew everything about the drugs.
‘Stinnes,’ said the D-G. ‘Has he given us any decent material since going back there?’
‘He’s playing both ends against the middle. He feels safe from arrest by us, and safe from his KGB masters too. That’s what led him into his drug racket I suppose. He must be making a fortune.’
‘I think I see what you have in mind: some drug-running gangsters engage in a shoot-out and Fiona Samson disappears.’
‘Precisely. That’s why we have to time events to coincide with the shipment of drugs. When Stinnes brings the consignment of heroin from the airport we’ll bring Mrs Samson to one of his contact points on the Autobahn – still in the DDR of course – and have Samson there waiting for her. Stinnes will believe it’s simply a rendezvous to tranship the drugs. We’ll supply a vehicle: a diplomatic vehicle would be best for this sort of show.’
‘And send Samson to get her?’
‘Yes. But not Samson alone. Deserted husband and errant wife reunited after all that time: a recipe for trouble. I’ll have someone else, someone calm and dependable, there to make sure it all goes smoothly.’
‘And you say we have to bring in this American fellow? Couldn’t we do it with our own people?’
Silas looked at him. ‘No, Henry, we couldn’t.’
‘May I ask why, Silas?’
‘The American has had dealings with Stinnes already.’
‘Drug dealings you mean?’
Silas hesitated and suppressed a sigh. He didn’t want to go into details. There would be problems getting everyone there. They would all have to be told a different story and Silas hadn’t yet worked it out. Like the rest of them in London Central, Sir Henry had only the barest idea of what went on in the field. Silas had been closer. ‘Let me give you an idea of what’s entailed, Henry. We will have to have a body there to substitute for Mrs Samson, the body of a youngish woman. I don’t propose we take a dead body through the checkpoints, especially not in a diplomatic vehicle, because if something happened the publicity would be horrendous. We’ll also need to leave there a skull with the right dentistry. We don’t want the Russians to start asking why there is an extra skull so the body will have to be decapitated. Decapitated on the spot.’
‘So how will you get the body there?’ said the D-G still puzzling over it.
‘The body will walk there, go there, drive there…I’m not sure yet.’
‘You mean alive?’ Sir Henry was deeply shocked. His body stiffened and he sat bolt upright. ‘What woman? How will he do this?’
‘Better you don’t ask, Henry,’ said Silas Gaunt gently. ‘But now you see why we can’t use our own people.’ He waited for a moment to let the D-G regain his composure. ‘Bernard Samson will be there of course, but we’ll use young Samson simply to bring his wife out. He will see nothing of the other business.’
‘Won’t he…?’
‘The American sub-contractor will stay behind and make sure the evidence is arranged to tell the story we want the Soviets to believe.’
‘And you’ll deal with this American direct?’
‘No, Henry. I think that would reveal the Department’s participation too obviously. I’ll use a go-between. There is a fellow named Prettyman whom Bret uses for rough jobs. He’s done a couple of things for us in the past. Very able, although not quite right for what I have in mind. I shall use him as a contact. No one will be told the full story, of course. Absolutely no one.’
‘As long as you think you can manage this end.’
‘Without Bret Rensselaer looking over my shoulder, you mean?’ Silas pulled a face. ‘We’ve managed this long.’
‘I’ll be glad when it’s all done, Silas.’
‘Of course you will, Henry. But we two old crocks have shown the youngsters a thing or two, haven’t
we?’ They exchanged satisfied smiles.
There was a knock at the kitchen door and Mrs Porter brought tea for them. Tea was an elaborate affair at Whitelands, thanks to Mrs Porter. She arranged it on Silas’ little table and the D-G pulled a chair up to it. There was buttered toast and honeycomb and caraway seed cake that only Mrs Porter could make so perfectly. That seed cake took the D-G back to his schooldays: he loved it. She poured the tea and left them.
For a few minutes they happily drank their tea and ate their toast like two little boys at a picnic.
‘What was the truth about Samson’s father?’ the D-G asked as Silas poured more tea for them both. ‘The real story, I mean. About the two Germans he was supposed to have shot?’
‘Well, that’s going back a bit. I…’
‘There’s no harm now, Silas. Brian Samson is dead, God rest his soul, and so is Max Busby.’
Silas Gaunt hesitated. He’d kept silent so long that some of the details were forgotten. At first the D-G thought he was going to refuse to talk about it, but eventually he said, ‘You have to remember the atmosphere back in those days when Hitler was newly beaten. Europe was in ruins and everyone was expecting Nazi “werewolves” to suddenly emerge from the woodwork and start fighting all over again.’
‘I remember it only too well,’ said the D-G. ‘I wish I could forget it. Or rather, I wish I were too young to have been there.’
‘The Americans had no real intelligence service. Their OSS people were wasting their time looking for dead Nazis; Martin Bormann was at the top of the list.’
‘Berchtesgaden. It’s coming back to me now,’ said the D-G. ‘There was some sort of trap?’
‘They had captured a Nazi war criminal named Esser –Reichsminister Esser – in a mountain hut near Hitler’s Berghof. There had been a lot of Reichsbank gold found in that neighbourhood. Tons and tons of it was stolen by middle-rank US officers and never recovered. After they took Esser away, the Counter Intelligence Corps kept the hut –it was a house, really, a rather grand chalet in fact – kept it under observation. Martin Bormann’s house was between Hitler’s Berghof and this place they found Esser. The story was that there was penicillin and money and God knows what else hidden there for Martin Bormann to collect and get away to South America. It was all nonsense of course, but at the time it didn’t seem so unlikely.’