Spy Hook

by Len Deighton

  ‘If you want my advice…’ She slid off the bed and stood up. Having eased her shoes half off her feet she squeezed back into them, putting all her weight on first one foot then the other. ‘You should stop beating your head against a brick wall.’

  ‘You make it sound like I enjoy beating my head against a brick wall.’

  She smoothed her lapels and reached for her coat. ‘I think you want to destroy yourself. It’s something to do with Fiona leaving you. Perhaps you feel guilty in some way. But all those theories you dream up…I mean, they never come to anything do they? Don’t you see that inside you there is some kind of worm that is eating you up? I suppose you desperately want to believe that all the world is wrong, and only Bernard Samson is right.’ She snapped her handbag lock closed. ‘Forget all this crap, Bernard. Life is too short to rectify all the world’s wrongs. It took me a long time to see that, but from now on I live my life. I’m not going to change the world.’

  ‘There’s one small thing you could do before you go to Strasbourg.’

  ‘Not before I go, and not after I get there either. I don’t want to know, Bernie. Do I have to draw a diagram for you?’

  I looked at her and she stared back. She was not in any way hostile, not even tough. She was just a woman who’d made up her mind. There was no way to change it. ‘Okay, Cindy. Have a good time in Strasbourg.’

  She smiled, visibly relieved by my friendly tone of voice. ‘God willing, I’ll find some nice young sexy Frenchman and get married.’ She drew the window curtain aside to see if it was raining. It was. She buttoned up her coat. ‘Do you want to buy the Mercedes, Bernard? Dark green 380 SE. It’s only two years old; it does twenty-five to a gallon.’

  ‘I can’t afford it, Cindy.’

  ‘That’s on the motorway, of course. In town, more like twenty.’ When she got to the doorway she stopped. Just for a moment I thought she was going to say she’d help after all but she said, ‘The steering is on the wrong side for the Continent, and I can buy a tax-free car when I’m there, so I’ll have to sell it.’

  We walked down the stairs in silence. When we got to the brightly lit foyer she stopped and delved into her handbag until she found a white plastic rain hat. There was no one there, even the reception desk was unmanned. Cindy walked over to look in the mirror and be sure her hair was tucked away. ‘Everything else I’m taking with me,’ she said while looking at herself in the mirror. ‘Furniture and TV and video and hi-fi. That sort of thing is very expensive in France.’

  ‘Your TV won’t work in France,’ I said. ‘They have a different system.’

  She didn’t look at me. She turned and pushed the main door open and went out into the night without saying goodbye. The heavy doors slammed behind her with a soft thud. She thought I was trying to annoy her.

  It was a long walk to where I’d left the car. The street was noisy and crowded with people and cruising traffic of all kinds. Young couples, skinheads, punks, freaks, whores of all sexes, cops and robbers too. Painted faces whitened under the bright neon. I found my car still in one piece. No sooner had I pulled away from the kerb than another car was taking my place in the narrow parking slot.

  The rain got heavier. My old Volvo stuttered and choked in the heavy downpour. Maybe they didn’t have rain in Sweden. So I thought about Cindy’s Mercedes all the way home: British racing green; paintwork waxed so that even Mr Gaskell approved, and a Vee-eight engine. I wondered what she was asking for it.

  When I got to Balaklava Road the downstairs lights were out. The children were in bed and nanny was watching a TV play in her room. Gloria wasn’t there. I’d forgotten that she’d changed the night for visiting her parents to Friday. She probably never had the slightest intention of joining me and Cindy for our little drink and discussion in town. Gloria knew she could depend upon me to forget which evenings she went out.

  I opened a tin of sardines and a bottle of white burgundy. I put a tape of Citizen Kane in the video and ate my supper from a tray on my knees. But I spent all the time thinking about Bret Rensselaer’s anger, Jim Prettyman’s murder, Dodo’s diatribe and Cindy Matthews’ sudden change of mind.

  By the time Gloria got home I was in bed. I wasn’t surprised that she was late. I guessed that it was something to do with this ‘crisis’ that her mother said threatened their marriage.

  Whatever domestic crisis she’d attended, Gloria didn’t arrive back low-spirited. In fact she was bubbling with excitement. I knew what she’d be like even before she came into the house. Her old yellow Mini could only just be fitted into the space between the kitchen and the fence to which our neighbour’s cosseted wistaria clung. Even then it meant squeezing out on the passenger side. This tricky feat was not something that Gloria always felt willing to attempt, but on this night I heard her bump over the kerb and, with no slackening of speed, on to the garden path and stop with a squeal of brakes. She gave the accelerator a little jab of satisfaction before switching off the ignition. I could visualize the smile on her face.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said as she tiptoed into the bedroom still carrying the plastic bag that I knew contained one of her mother’s Hungarian walnut cakes and a tub of home-made liptoi cheese, pickles and all sorts of other things that her family felt she needed regular supplies of when not living at home. ‘How was Mrs Prettyman?’

  ‘Suddenly silent.’

  Gloria looked at me, trying to read the expression on my face. ‘Has someone put a gun at her head?’

  I laughed. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘A golden gun. Suddenly she’s been offered a plum job with the Strasbourg bureaucrats, lots of money, little or no tax. God knows what else.’

  ‘You don’t think…’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be trying to bribe her,’ said Gloria.

  ‘Because she’d ask for more than you had to offer?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. I just think she’d be touchy. I’d worry that she might write it all down and take it to the newspapers.’

  ‘It’s just a soft job in Strasbourg,’ I said. ‘Not even the reporters from the tabloids could make that into a bribe, unless Cindy declared herself so incompetent that the offer was ridiculously inappropriate.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She put the bag of Hungarian delicacies on the dressing table and began to undress.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, for she had the sort of self-satisfied grin on her face that usually meant I’d done something careless, like locking the cat in the broom closet or absent-mindedly picking up the milkman’s money and putting it in my pocket.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, though I could tell by the wanton abandon with which she disrobed and threw aside her clothes that there was some kind of joke to share. But I thought it would be something about her parents or the latest about the egregious Dodo, who’d now been given temporary rent-free use of a comfortable little house near Kingston on Thames.

  ‘That bank,’ she said as she got between the sheets and huddled against me. ‘Guess who owns that bank?’

  ‘Bank? Schneider, von Schild…’

  ‘And Weber,’ she supplied still grinning at her cleverness and at the joke that was to come. ‘Yes, that’s the bank, my darling. Guess who owns it.’

  ‘Not Mr Schneider, Mr von Schild and Mr Weber?’

  ‘Your precious Bret Rensselaer, that’s who.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I knew that would bring you fully awake.’

  ‘I was already fully awake.’

  ‘At least, it belongs to the Rensselaer family.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I didn’t have to raid the Yellow Submarine, darling. It’s public knowledge. Even German banks have to make ownership declarations. My teacher at the Economics class got it from an ordinary data-bank listing. He phoned me back in half an hour and had its history.’

  ‘I should have checked that out.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t; I did,’ she chuckled like a baby.

&
nbsp; ‘You’re such a clever girl,’ I said.

  ‘So you’ve noticed?’

  ‘That you’re a girl? Yes, I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Don’t do that…at least, don’t do it yet.’

  ‘The Rensselaer family?’

  ‘Are you ready for the details? Hold on to your hat, lover, here goes. Back in 1925 a man named Cyrus Rensselaer bought shares in a California bank group. Bret and his brothers worked for them, I guess they had directorships or something. I can get more details…Then, sometime in the Second World War, the old man died. Under the terms of his Will the shares went into a trust, of which Bret’s mother was the beneficiary. In a complicated share issue and merger in 1953 the Californian bank became a part of Calibank (International) Serco which began large-scale buying of other banks. One shareholding they acquired gave them a majority holding in Schneider, von Schild und Weber.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Anything else, he says! My darling, you’re insatiable. Has anyone ever told you that?’

  ‘I plead the Fifth Amendment,’ I said.

  20

  Only desperation would have provoked me to set out on a journey to see Silas Gaunt that Saturday. He’d retired from the Department many years before but he remained one of the most influential individuals in what Dicky Cruyer delicately called ‘the intelligence community’. Uncle Silas knew everything and knew everyone. He had been close to my father over many years; was distantly related to my mother-in-law, and was Billy’s godfather.

  Perhaps I should have visited him more regularly, but he was devoted to my wife Fiona, and her departure had distanced Silas from me. He wasn’t likely to appreciate my arriving arm in arm with Gloria, and yet it was a damned long journey to do alone. Now I was doing it alone, and as I drove through a pale prostrate landscape that had still not loosened the shackles of winter, I had a chance to think about what I might say to him. How did I start? Jim Prettyman was dead and Bret Rensselaer was suddenly alive, but neither metamorphosis was going to help me. Dodo was telling anyone who’d listen that I’d been conspiring with Fiona to swindle the Department; while my prime helper, Cindy Prettyman, was suffering the selective amnesia that valued promotion sometimes brings.

  ‘Uncle’ Silas lived at ‘Whitelands’, a middle-sized farm in the Cotswolds, a picturesque place of tan-coloured stone with ill-fitting doors, creaking floorboards and low beams that split the skulls of the tall and unwary. Silas must have been exceptionally wary, for he was a giant of a man and so fat that he was scarcely able to squeeze through some of the narrower doors. Some nineteenth-century tycoon had redone the interior to his own taste, so that there was a surfeit of mahogany and ornamental tiles, and a scarcity of bathrooms. But it suited Silas, and somehow it was difficult to imagine him in any other environment.

  In the day time he kept busy. There were discussions with his farm manager, and his house-keeper Mrs Porter, and with the lady from the village who came in to deal with his mail but who seemed unable to deal with any telephone caller without coming downstairs and dragging Silas upstairs to the one and only phone.

  I was sitting waiting for Silas to return from upstairs. The narrow stone-framed windows let in only a thin slice of grey afternoon light. The log fire burning brightly in the big stone hearth filled the air with a smoky perfume and provided the light by which to see the drawing room with its battered old sofa and uncomfortable chairs, their shapes only vaguely apparent under the baggy chintz covers. In front of the fire there was a tray with the remains of our tea: silver teapot, the last couple of Mrs Porter’s freshly made scones and a pot of jam with a handwritten label saying ‘Whitelands –strawberry’. It might have been a hundred years ago but for the big hi-fi speakers that stood in the far corners of the room. This was where Silas spent his evenings listening to his opera records and drinking his way through his remarkable cellar.

  ‘Sorry about these interruptions,’ he said as he fiddled to close the ancient brass door latch. He clapped his hands and then went to warm them at the fire. ‘Fresh tea?’

  ‘I’ve had enough tea,’ I said.

  ‘And it’s too early for a drink,’ said Silas.

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘You tell me a lot of things,’ he said, pouring the last tepid remains of the tea into his cup. ‘And you want me to make them fit together nicely, like pieces of a jigsaw.’ He sipped the cold tea but pulled a face and abandoned it. ‘But I don’t see any causal connection.’ Sniff. ‘Either it’s much colder today or I’m getting flu…or maybe both. So this accountant fellow, Prettyman, was killed in Washington by some hooligan, and now his wife has been promoted? Well, jolly good, I say. Why shouldn’t the poor woman be promoted? I’ve always thought we should look after our own people to the best of our ability.’

  There was a long silent rumination until I helped him remember the rest of it. ‘And then there was Bret Rensselaer,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, poor Bret. An awfully good chap, Bret; injured on duty. An episode in the very best traditions of the service, if I may say so. Yet, you seem indignant that he’s survived.’

  ‘I was surprised to see him arise from the dead.’

  ‘I can’t see what you’re getting at,’ said Uncle Silas. ‘Aren’t you pleased by that either?’ He scratched his crotch unselfconsciously. He was a strange old devil; fat and dishevelled, with a coarse humour and biting wit that was not funny to those who found it directed at them.

  ‘There are too many things happening…funny things.’

  ‘I really don’t follow your reasoning, Bernard.’ He shook his head. ‘I really don’t.’ Uncle Silas had always been able to twist the facts to suit a hypothesis. ‘It’s not a bit of good, you sitting there glaring at me, dear boy.’ He paused to take out a big red cotton handkerchief and blow his nose violently. ‘I’m trying to prevent you making a bloody fool of yourself.’

  ‘By doing what?’

  ‘By bursting in on poor old Dodo and giving him the third degree.’ Old Silas must have been the last living person still using expressions like third degree.

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Yes, I remember him well,’ said Silas, sitting back in his armchair and staring into the fire. ‘His real name was Theodor – Theodor Kiss – so he preferred to be Dodo. A keen worker: bright as a button. A good science degree at Vienna University and a good administrative knack. Lots of languages and dialects too. Dodo could effortlessly pass himself off as a German. Or as an Austrian. Effortlessly!’

  ‘Amazing,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I know you can do the same thing, Bernard. But it’s quite an unusual feat. Not many Germans can do it, as I know to my cost. Yes, Dodo was a remarkable linguist.’

  ‘He worked for Gehlen,’ I said, to remind Silas that this paragon was an ex-Nazi.

  ‘Most of the best ones had worked for him. They were the only experienced people available for hire. Of course, I never used any of them,’ said Silas, perhaps wanting to deflect my wrath. ‘Not directly. I stayed clear of Gehlen’s ex-employees. Lange Koby took him away with the rest of his gang…What did he call them…?’

  ‘Prussians,’ I supplied.

  ‘Yes, “Koby’s Prussians”, that’s right. How could I forget that? My memory is going wonky these days.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Your father too. He wouldn’t go near any of them. He was upset when you worked for Lange Koby.’

  ‘I teamed up with Max,’ I said. ‘Koby came as part of the deal.’

  Silas sniffed. ‘You should have stayed with your father, Bernard.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. He’d touched a nerve.

  We sat silent for a few minutes. ‘Your Dodo is all right,’ said Silas, as if he’d been thinking deeply about it. ‘Perhaps a bit too keen to demonstrate his valour, but so were all the ones who’d changed sides. But Dodo, when he settled down he became a loyal, sensible agent; the sort of fellow I would have expected you to be specially sympathetic towards. A man like th
at must be excused an indiscretion now and again. What?’ He got out his handkerchief and wiped his nose.

  ‘Indiscretion?’

  ‘I’d say the same for you, Bernard,’ he added before my indignation boiled over. ‘Have said it, in fact,’ he persisted, to make sure I knew I was indebted to him.

  He stopped, perhaps waiting for some gesture of appreciation or agreement. I nodded without putting too much into it. Ever since arriving here I had been considering ways to ask him about the mad allegations about my father. Silas had known my father as well as anyone still alive. They’d served together in Berlin, and in London too. Silas Gaunt could solve just about any mystery that arose out of my father’s service if he wanted to. If he wanted to; there’s the rub. Silas Gaunt was not a man much given to revealing secrets, even to those entitled to know. And this wasn’t the time to ask. That much was clear just from looking at the old man’s face. He was not enjoying my visit, despite all the smiles and nods and pleasantries. Perhaps he was just worried about me. Or about Fiona or about my children. Or about Dodo. ‘I know you have, Silas,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘I want you to promise not to go in there ranting and raving,’ said Silas. ‘I want you to promise to go along there and talk to him in a conciliatory manner that will make him see your point of view.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said.

  ‘We all have a lot of old comrades in common: the Gebhart twins, “Baron” Busch who took you to Leipzig, Oscar Rhine who said he could swim across Lübeck Bay but couldn’t…’ Silas had tried to make light of his list of departed colleagues but couldn’t maintain the levity. He wiped his nose and tried again. ‘We all grieve for the same old friends, Bernard: you, me, Dodo…No sense in quarrelling amongst ourselves.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘He’s been in the business even longer than you have,’ said Silas, ‘so don’t start talking down to him.’ This was Silas at his avuncular worst. Sometimes I wondered if he ever spoke to the D-G like this, for I knew that Silas regarded all of us as children attempting the man’s job at which he’d excelled.