by Len Deighton
‘No messages? Nothing? She must miss the children.’
I said, ‘She’d be crazy to have the children there with her. It wouldn’t be good for them, and her new bosses would hold the children ransom if she ever strayed out of line.’
‘Fiona is probably trusted, Bernard. She gave up a lot: children, husband, family, home, career. She gave up everything. It’s my guess they trust her over there.’ He fiddled with the controls of the exercise bicycle. It was like Bret; he always had to fidget with something. Always had to interfere, his critics said. He pushed the pedal down so that the mechanism made a noise. ‘But a lot of people find it impossible to live over there. Don’t give up hope yet.’
‘Well, I guess you didn’t have me come all the way to California to talk about Fiona,’ I said.
He looked up sharply. Years back I’d suspected him of having an affair with Fiona. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company in a way that I envied. I was no longer jealous – we’d both lost her – but my suspicion, and his awareness of it, cast a shadow upon our relationship. ‘Well in a way, yes I did.’ Big smile. ‘I had some papers for London. Someone had to come, and they sent you, which makes me very happy.’
‘Don’t give me all that shit,’ I said. ‘I’m grown up now. If there’s something to say, say it and get it over with.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do I mean? I’ll tell you what I mean. First, Harry Strang, not being in on the joke, whatever the joke is, told me that I was assigned at the particular request of the Washington Field Unit. Secondly, when I get here and open my suitcase, I find that it’s all been searched very carefully. Not hurriedly ransacked and turned over the way a thief does it, or the orderly and systematic “authorized” way customs do it. But turned right over just the same.’
‘Airport security,’ said Bret sharply. ‘Don’t be so paranoid, Bernard.’
‘I thought you’d say that, Bret. So what about my hand baggage? What about the chatty Mr Woosnam or whatever his real name was, who just happens to get the seat next to mine and goes through my bag while I’m in the toilet?’
‘You can’t be sure,’ said Bret.
‘Sure it happened? Or sure it was the Department?’
Bret smiled. ‘Bernard, Bernard, Bernard,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief. I was paranoid: the matter of my baggage was another example of my foolishness. There was nothing to be gained from trying to pursue the subject. ‘Sit back, and let’s talk.’
I sat back.
‘Years ago – before Fiona took a walk – I was given a job to do. Operation Hook it was called. It was designed to move some money around the globe. In those days I was always liable to get saddled with those finance jobs. There was no one else upstairs who knew anything about nuts-and-bolts finance.’
‘With Prettyman?’
‘Right. Prettyman was assigned to me to oversee the facts and figures.’
‘Prettyman was on the Special Operations Committee with you.’
‘I wouldn’t make too much of that,’ said Bret. ‘It might have looked good on his CV but as far as that Committee was concerned he was just a glorified book-keeper.’
‘But he reported back to Central Funding,’ I said. ‘Reported directly back to them. In effect Prettyman was their man on the Committee.’
‘You have been doing your homework,’ said Bret, piqued that I should have known anything about it. ‘Yes, Prettyman reported back directly to Funding, because I suggested that we did it that way. It saved me having to sign everything, and answer routine questions, at a time when I was out of London a lot.’
‘Operation Hook? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘And why should you? Almost no one heard of it. It was very “need to know”…the D-G, me…even Prettyman didn’t know all the details.’
I looked at him waving his hands about.
‘Prettyman signed the cheques,’ I said.
‘I don’t know who told you that. It’s true he counter-signed the cheques. But that was just a belt-and-braces device the D-G added, to monitor spending. The cheques had the amount and the date filled in – so that Prettyman could watch the cash-flow – but he wasn’t a party to the rest of it, payees and so on.’
‘And suddenly Prettyman goes to Codes and Ciphers. Fiona defects. Prettyman goes to Washington. Is it all connected in some way I don’t see? What was it all for?’
‘It’s still going,’ said Bret. ‘It’s still damned hot.’
‘Going where?’ I said.
He hesitated and wet his lips. ‘This is still very touchy stuff, Bernard.’
‘Okay.’
Another hesitation and more chewing of the lip. ‘Embassy penetration.’
‘I thought Ravenscroft had taken all that embassy stuff across the river. He’s got a dozen people over there. What do they do all day?’
‘Hook is quite different. Ravenscroft knows nothing about it.’
‘So Ravenscroft and his people were moved because they were compromised?’
He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say. Embassy penetration work is constantly compromised. You know that. A defector goes, and they tighten up, and Ravenscroft’s life becomes more tricky for a while.’ He looked at me. ‘But Hook is not in Ravenscroft’s class. A lot of money is involved. Hook is for really big fish.’
‘I learn more from you in five minutes than I find out in the office after a year of asking questions.’
‘Because I want you to stop asking questions,’ said Bret. A new firmer voice now, and not so friendly. ‘You’re poking into things that don’t concern you, Bernard. You could blow the whole show for us.’ He was angry, and his angry words turned into a cough so that he had to pat his chest to recover his breath.
‘Is that why I was sent here?’
‘In a way,’ said Bret. He cleared his throat.
‘Just let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘You set up a lot of companies and bank accounts for this “Hook” business so you could move cash without Central Funding having any record?’
‘Embassies,’ said Bret. ‘East European embassies. Not many people. Even I don’t have the details. That’s how it’s run. And it makes sense that way. Because if someone in Funding had the ledgers every one of our sources could be endangered.’ I looked at him. ‘Big fish, Bernard…’
‘And Prettyman knew about all this?’
‘Prettyman knew only what he had to be told, plus whatever he could guess.’
‘And how much was that?’
‘Only Prettyman can answer that one.’
‘And Prettyman is dead.’
‘That’s right,’ said Bret. ‘He’s dead.’
‘And you want me to forget the whole thing?’
‘Some bloody fool of a book-keeper got his figures wrong. Panic. And suddenly it seemed like getting Prettyman back to London was the best way to sort out the muddle.’
‘But now it’s sorted out?’
‘It was an accountant’s mistake. A glitch like that happens now and again.’
‘Okay, Bret. Can I go now?’
‘It’s no use getting tough,’ warned Bret. ‘This business is nothing to do with you. I don’t want you prying into it. I’m asking you to back off because lives are at stake. If you’re too dumb to see there’s no other way…’
‘Then what?’
‘This is official,’ he said. ‘It’s not just me asking you on a personal basis, it’s an official order.’
‘Oh, I’ve got that one written down and learned by heart,’ I said. ‘My baggage wasn’t turned over because there was any chance of finding something I was hiding. I’m too long in the tooth for that one. My checked baggage was searched to show me that you were on the side of the angels. Right, Bret? Was that your idea, Bret? Did you ask London Central Operations to turn me over? Harry Strang was it? Harry’s a good enough fellow. Tough, efficient and experienced enough to arrange a small detail like that. And near enough to his pension not to be tempted to confid
e in me that it was going to happen. Right, Bret?’
‘You’re your own worst enemy, Bernard.’
‘Not while you’re around, Bret.’
‘Think it over, Bernard. Sleep on it. But make quite sure you know what’s at stake.’ He turned his eyes away from me and found an excuse to fiddle with the bicycle.
‘Innocent lives, you mean?’ I asked sarcastically. ‘Or my job?’
‘Both, Bernard.’ He was being tough now: all that Benevolent Fund script was shredded. This was the real Bret: steely-eyed and contemptuous.
‘Is this the sort of ultimatum you put to Jim Prettyman?’ I asked. ‘Was he his own worst enemy, until you came along? Did he give your “official order” a thumbs down so you had to have some boys from out of town blow him away in the car park?’
The shake of his head was almost imperceptible. Bret’s expression had locked up tight. The gold had gone from the sunlight; he looked old and tired and wrinkled. He’d never come back and work in the Department again, I was certain of that. Bret’s time had come and gone. His voice was little more than a whisper as he said, ‘I think you’ve said enough, Bernard. More than enough, in fact. We’ll talk again in the morning. You’re booked on the London flight tomorrow.’
I didn’t answer. In a way I felt sorry for him, doing his exercises every day, and trying to keep in touch with the Department, and even interfere in what went on there. Telling himself that one day it would all be like it was before, and hoping that his chance of a knighthood wasn’t irretrievably lost.
I stood up. So it was the stick and carrot. Play ball with Bret and I even get help with the mortgage: but keep looking into things that don’t concern me and I’ll lose my job, and maybe lose it the way Jim Prettyman lost his job. Feet first.
Or had I misunderstood him?
15
Disorientated and jet-lagged, my mind reeling with memories, I slept badly that night. That damned house was never quiet, not even in the small hours. Not only was there the relentless whine and hum of machinery close by but I heard footsteps outside my open window and muttered words in that thick accented Spanish that Mexican expatriates acquire in Southern California. I closed the window, but from behind the house there came the sounds of guard dogs crashing through the undergrowth and throwing their weight against the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the house and kept the animals in the outer perimeter. Perhaps the animals sensed the coming storm, for soon after that came the crash of thunder, gusting winds and rain beating on the window and drumming against the metal pool furniture on the patio.
The storm passed over rapidly, as storms out of the Pacific so often do, and about four o’clock in the morning a new series of loud buzzes and resonant droning of some nearby machines began. It was no good, I couldn’t sleep. I got up to search for the source of the noise. Dressed in one of the smart towelling robes that Mrs O’Raffety thoughtfully provided for her guests, I explored the whitewashed corridor. Here were doors to the pantry, the larder, the kitchen and various store rooms. The main lighting was not working – perhaps the storm had caused a failure – but low-wattage emergency lights were bright enough for me to see the way.
I passed the boiler room and the fuse boxes and the piled cartons of bottled water that Mrs O’Raffety believed was so good for the digestion. The mechanical sounds grew louder as I got to the low wooden door next to the kitchen servery. The key was left in a big brass-bound lock. By now I’d come far enough around the house to be behind the guest rooms.
I opened the door and stepped cautiously inside. The hum of machinery was louder now and I could see a short flight of worn steps leading down into a low-ceilinged cellar. Along one wall there were four control panels lit with flickering numbers and programs. The glimmer of orange light from them was enough to reflect the large puddles that had formed on the uneven flagstones of the floor. It was the laundry room, with a battery of washing and drying machines. On the top of one of the dryers there was an empty beer can and some cigarette butts. The machines were aligned along the wall that I guessed must back on to mine. From somewhere close by I heard a cough and an exclamation of anger. It was one of the Mexicans.
I went past the machines to find another room: the door was ajar and there was bright light inside. I opened the door. Four men were seated round a table playing cards: three Mexicans and Buddy. He was wearing his stetson. It was tilted well forward over his brow. There was money on the table, some cans of beer and a bottle of whisky. Propped against the wall there was a pump-handle shotgun. The machinery sounded loud in here but the men seemed to be inured to it.
‘Hi there, Bernard. I knew it was you,’ murmured Buddy. He hadn’t looked up from his cards. The three Mexicans had turned their heads and were studying me with a passive but unwelcoming curiosity. All three of them were men in their mid-thirties; tough-looking men with close-cropped hair and weather beaten faces. ‘Want to sit in?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘I wouldn’t go strolling around at this time of night,’ said Buddy, rearranging the cards he was holding. ‘The night-shift guards are too damned trigger-happy.’
‘Is that so?’ I said.
Now, for the first time, he looked up and studied me with the same discontent that he’d given to his hand of cards. ‘Yes, Bernard. It is so.’ He wet his lips. ‘We had a break-in last month. Some young punk got past our little soldiers, over the outer fence, past the dogs, cut his way through the inner fence using bolt-cutters, opened the security bolt on Mr Rensselaer’s office, and tried to lever open the goddamned desk. How do you like that! Mrs O’Raffety fired the whole army. She said they were asleep or drunk or spaced-out or something. She’s wrong about that, but new brooms sweep clean. These new recruits are hungry, and raring to do things right. Know what I mean?’
‘I didn’t know Mr Rensselaer had an office,’ I said.
‘A kind of sitting room,’ amended Buddy and shrugged. ‘If you want to see my cards…’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘These guys are taking me to the cleaners,’ complained Buddy light-heartedly. He poured himself a drink and swallowed it quickly.
‘What happened to the kid?’ I said.
‘The kid? Oh, the punk who got in. I’m not sure, but he won’t be operating bolt-cutters in the foreseeable future. An excited soldado with a shotgun was a bit too close. Both barrels. He’d lost a lot of blood by the time we got him to the hospital. And then of course there was hassle about whether he had Blue Cross insurance before they’d take a look at him.’
‘That was a tough decision for you,’ I said.
‘Nothing tough about it,’ said Buddy. ‘I’ll make damn sure Mrs O’Raffety doesn’t find herself paying the medical bills for any stiff who comes up here to rob her. It was bad enough clearing up the blood, and repairing the damage he did. So I told the night nurse I found him bleeding on the highway, and I had these guys with me to say the same.’ He nodded at the three Mexicans.
‘You think of everything, Buddy.’
He looked up and smiled. ‘You know something, Bernard. That joker wasn’t carrying a weapon, and that’s darned unusual in these parts. He had a camera in his pocket. Olympus: a darn good camera too, I’ve still got it somewhere. A macro lens and loaded with slow black and white film. That’s the kind of outfit you’d need to photograph a document. I said that to Mr Rensselaer at the time but he just smiled and said maybe.’
‘I’ll try sleeping again.’
‘What about a shot of Scotch?’
‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to give it up.’
I went back to bed and put a pillow over my head to keep the sound of the machines from my ears. It was getting light when eventually I went to sleep. A deep sleep from which I was roused by the buzzing of my little alarm clock.
The next morning brought a sudden taste of winter. The temperature had dropped, so that I went digging into my bag for a sweater. The Pacific Ocea
n was greenish-grey with dirty white crests that broke off the waves to make a trail of spray. Overhead the dark clouds were low enough to skim the tops of the hills, and even the water in the pool had lost its clarity and colour.
Time passed slowly. The London plane was not due to depart until the early evening. It was too cold to sit outside, and there was nowhere to go walking, for beyond the wire the dogs ran free. I swam in the heated pool which steamed like soup in the cold air. By ten o’clock the rain had started again. I drank lots of coffee and I read old issues of National Geographic Magazine. The ‘family room’ was big, with dark oak beams in the ceiling and a life-size painting, in Modigliani style, of Mrs O’Raffety in a flouncy pink dress. Mrs O’Raffety was there in person, and so were Bret and Buddy. There was not much talking. A jumbo-sized TV, tuned to a football game, had been wheeled into position before us. No one watched it but it provided an excuse for not speaking.
We sat sprawling on long chintz-covered sofas, arranged around a low oak table. On it there stood a gigantic array of flowers in an ornamental bowl that bore the gold sticker of a Los Angeles florist. In a huge stone fireplace some large logs burned brightly, their flames fanned by the wind that howled in the chimney and was still fierce enough to whip the palm fronds.
Both Mrs O’Raffety and Bret missed lunch. Buddy and I ate hamburgers and Caesar salad from trays that we balanced on our knees as we all sat round the fire. They were huge ’burgers, as good as I’ve ever tasted, with about half a pound of beef in each one. But Buddy only picked at his meal. He said he’d slept badly. He said he was sick but he managed to eat all his French fries.
Outside the weather got worse and worse all morning until the grey cloud reached down and enveloped us, cutting visibility to almost nothing, and Mrs O’Raffety made Buddy phone the airport to be sure the planes were still flying.
For the rest of the afternoon Mrs O’Raffety – in red trousers and long pink crocheted top – exchanged small talk with her son-in-law, politely including me in the exchanges whenever a chance came along. Bret turned his head as if to show interest in what was said but contributed very little. He looked older and more frail. Buddy had confided that Bret had bad days and this was obviously one of them. His face was lined and haggard. His clothes – dark blue open-neck linen shirt, dark trousers and polished shoes – worn in response to the colder weather emphasized his age.