by Len Deighton
‘No, Silas,’ I said, and I must have allowed some trace of my scepticism to show, for there was a twitch of the face that I’d learned to recognize as a sign of anger to come.
But the anger didn’t come, or at least it didn’t show. ‘Tell me again about Bret Rensselaer; is he coming back to work?’
‘No chance,’ I said. ‘He’s too sick and too old.’
‘They say he wanted Berlin,’ said Silas.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘At the time the rumours said Frank would get his K and retire, and Bret would get Berlin.’
‘And then Bret would get his K and retire,’ said Silas, completing the scenario that everyone had said was inevitable up to the time that things went wrong and Bret got shot. ‘So what was the long-term plan for Berlin?’
I looked at him and wondered what everyone in the Department must have wondered at some time or other: why Silas Gaunt had never got the knighthood that usually came with such retirements. ‘Come along, Silas,’ I said. ‘You know more about what goes on in the minds of the men on the top floor than I will ever get to find out. You tell me.’
‘Seriously, Bernard. What do you think was the plan? If Frank had been bowler-hatted and replaced by Bret, Bret could only have had that job until his retirement came up. And they could hardly have asked for special dispensation to keep Bret there.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ I said. ‘I never get to thinking about such long-term possibilities.’
‘Then that’s a pity,’ said Silas, lowering his voice as if saying something confidential and important, a trick he’d developed from his briefing days. ‘Perhaps if you gave your mind to such things you wouldn’t be getting yourself into such deep water as you are now in.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘Could Dicky Cruyer hold down the Berlin job?’ His voice was still soft.
‘He wants it,’ I said.
‘Dicky has no German contacts does he? None that are worth a damn anyway. The Berlin job must have someone with a flair, someone with a feeling for the streets, someone who can smell what’s going on, quite apart from the departmental input.’
‘Someone like Frank?’
‘Frank, like your father, was a protégé of mine. Yes. Frank has done well there. But age slows a man down. Berlin is a job for someone more resilient, someone younger who gets out and about. Frank spends too much time at home playing his damned gramophone records.’
‘Yes,’ I said, and nodded seriously. Gramophone records? Silas knew about Frank’s extra-marital amours as well as I did but he preferred to tell the story his way. He was always like that.
‘I get the idea, Silas,’ I said. The idea was that if I was a good little chap, and didn’t keep spreading alarm and despondency with my extra-curricular questions, I might get Berlin. I didn’t believe it.
‘Do you? I’m so glad,’ he said. I got to my feet. ‘As a favour to me, Bernard, could you hold off for a couple of days or so…? On the Dodo fellow.’
‘I was going over there tonight. He’s always home on a Saturday evening,’ I said. ‘There’s some programme he watches on TV.’
‘Just until next week. A cooling off period, eh? Better for all concerned, dear boy.’
I looked at Silas. He was giving me good advice but I was wound up tight and ready to confront the little swine. He stared at me, not giving an inch. ‘If you insist,’ I said reluctantly.
‘You won’t regret your decision,’ said Silas. ‘I’ll talk to the old man about it. And about you.’
‘Thanks for giving me your time, Silas.’
‘Why don’t you hang on for supper? We’ll have a game of billiards.’ He held his handkerchief in front of him as if transfixed. For one awful moment I thought he was having a heart attack or some other serious affliction, but then his nose twitched and he sneezed.
‘You should be in bed, Silas,’ I said. ‘You’ve got flu.’
He didn’t persist. Silas was old and set in his ways. He didn’t like visits at short notice and he didn’t want unscheduled dinner guests. He wiped his nose and said, ‘No news from your wife?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It must be difficult for you but don’t give up,’ said Silas. ‘When are you going to bring the children to see me?’
I looked up in surprise. It had never occurred to me that Silas would welcome such an intrusion into his jealously guarded little world. ‘Any time,’ I said awkwardly. ‘Today week? Lunch?’
‘Splendid!’ He looked out of the window and said, ‘I’ll tell Mrs Porter to be sure the sirloin is underdone. And a Charlotte Russe to follow? Billy likes that, doesn’t he?’
The old man’s eye for detail could still astound me; so he’d noticed Billy’s appetite for Mrs Porter’s rare roast beef and the Charlotte Russe. ‘Yes, we all do,’ I said.
‘We don’t have to tempt you; you like everything,’ said Silas dismissively. ‘Sometimes I wish you were more selective.’
I took it as a comment upon aspects of my life other than my appetite for Charlotte Russe, but I didn’t pursue it.
At the time I undertook not to see Dodo I meant it. But it was a resolve hard to stick to as I drove back to London, turning over in my mind everything that had happened.
By the time I got to the outer suburbs I had decided to disregard Silas’ request to lay off Dodo. All my instincts told me to go for him and go now.
Dodo had emerged as a truly remarkable freeloader, so I was not surprised that he’d obtained the rent-free use of a house. It belonged to a Hungarian couple he’d met through Gloria’s parents. The owners were having a winter holiday in Madeira. It was an elegant old house in Hampton Wick. Positioned between the river and the grounds of Hampton Court Palace, it stood in a quiet back street of early Victorian houses of varying shapes and sizes.
It was growing dark by the time I arrived, the sky purple with that hazy moon that is said to portend rain. The street lamps showed that number eighteen stood alone and back from the road. Rising over its eight-foot-tall garden wall I could see its intricate ironwork balcony, complete with curving pagoda-style top. The contrived seclusion, and the delicacy of the design, immediately suggested it as the sort of villa in which some alluring concubine might have passed her long lonely days.
The wrought-iron gate gave on to a small front garden. I stood there a moment and looked again at the house. The curtains were carelessly closed so that chinks of light were to be seen in almost every window. It was a bitterly cold night and the only sounds to be heard came from cars going along the main road towards Kingston Bridge.
I went up the steps to the bright green front door. There was no doorbell so I hammered loudly, using a brass lion’s-head knocker. There was a long time before I heard movement inside. I had the feeling that someone might have gone to one of the upstairs windows to see who it was. Eventually the door opened to reveal Dodo. He was dressed in a white roll-neck sweater, grey cotton jacket, grey cord slacks and loafers with leather tassels. ‘Ahhh! Good evening!’ he said. ‘So you tracked me down.’
‘Can I come in?’
He didn’t answer immediately. He clung to the door edge and looked me up and down. ‘Very well,’ he said without much enthusiasm. ‘Come in and have a drink.’
He led the way through the hall, past the bentwood coat-stand and the big mirror. He didn’t suggest that I should take off my overcoat. He ushered me into a room at the back. It was a large room with a grand piano, a couple of easy chairs and some small antique tables cluttered with an array of snuff boxes and chinaware. The Victorian wall-paper provided a jungle of printed vegetation and the only light came from a brass fixture that directed all its rays upon the sheet music displayed on the piano.
The room smelled musty and unused, the window was shuttered and the piano wore a grey sheen of dust. Dodo turned to face me. ‘Now what is it?’ he said. His voice was hard and belligerent and his eyes glittered fiercely. I guessed he’d been on the booze but you could never be sure of anything with
Dodo.
‘Listen, Dodo,’ I said. ‘We’d better get one thing straight…’
He had moved as if reaching past me, but smoothly and without warning he straightened, and bringing his fist forward slammed me in the guts with enough force to wind me. As I bent forward, choking for air, the edge of his hand came down upon the side of my neck. It was a very well-placed karate chop and the pain of it set fire to every nerve in my body.
As I was doubled over and coughing my dinner up he lashed out with a vicious kick. But with my head down I saw his foot coming and lurched aside so that his shoe did no more than graze my arm.
My overcoat had protected me against the full effect of his blows. Had Dodo got me to take off my overcoat in the hall I would by then have been laid out. Another kick but wide of the mark this time. I reached out in the hope of grabbing his foot but he was too fast for me. Too fast and too experienced. I had underestimated Dodo all along the line: underestimated his brains, his influence, his malevolence and his physical strength.
Still in pain I straightened up. I backed away from him and felt the piano behind me. I welcomed the support it provided and for a moment rested against it and waited for Dodo’s next move. The light from the piano was fully in his eyes. His kicks and punches had caused him some exertion but he was reluctant to give me any chance to recover. He came at me again, slower this time, his hands high and his feet well apart. I took a deep breath; I knew that if he placed them right, a couple of those chops would put my lights out.
‘Gaah!’ He gave a sudden cry and lunged at me. Or was it just a feint to see how I’d react? I sank down a little and kicked out at his guts but didn’t connect. My foot made an arc in empty air but the threat of it made him hesitate. Then he ducked his head and reached out with a jab that hit my arm and sent a pain down to my hand. But I went for him then. I went in close swinging my fist, embracing him with a punch that landed in his kidney and produced an angry little grunt of pain. For a moment we stood grappling like partners on the dance floor, then he pushed away, hammering a couple of blows at my chest as we broke.
He stepped back and was almost lost in the shadows of the dark room. We stood apart panting heavily and staring at each other. The element of surprise was gone and I was getting his measure. Dodo was no boxer. If I could get him toe to toe, trading blows, I could knock him unconscious. But that was a big if. From the street there came the sound of a car moving slowly. Dodo cocked his head to listen but after a moment or two the car revved up and moved on.
Click! The flick-knife was in his hand, and as he inched forward the light shone on the blade. He was holding it low and pointed upwards, the way a man holds a knife when he means business. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson, Samson,’ he promised in that low growl he produced when being especially venomous. ‘Slice you up!’ His face was flushed and he was over-salivating.
I moved sideways. Now the support that the piano had provided became a trap. I didn’t want to be impaled. I dragged my scarf from my neck and flipped it around my hand to provide a flimsy glove. I edged sideways more. From the corner of my eye I chose the largest glass ornament within reach, a big cut-glass pineapple with silver leaves. I grabbed it and threw it with all my force. It hit him in the chest and he grunted and reeled back, banging against a table so that a dozen pieces of chinaware went crashing to the floor. But it didn’t provide me with the chance I was hoping for. Dodo swore softly, some Hungarian curse, and kept his balance without looking round to see what he’d done.
When he came at me again I was trying to unlock the old-fashioned shutters and get to the french windows that opened on to the garden. I turned back to face him and kicked high trying to knock the knife from his hand but he was ready for that. He avoided the blow and smiled with satisfaction.
He closed again. My back crashed against the shutter and behind it a pane of glass cracked like a pistol shot. Dodo’s knife came at me, ripping through my coat. I grabbed at his wrist and for a moment held it. We were close: he stank of whisky. He wrenched hard to get free and desperately I butted him in the face. ‘Bastard!’ he called as he escaped my grip and backed off. A tiny red worm crawled from his nostril, slid over his mouth and dripped from his chin. ‘Bastard!’ he said again. He moved the flick-knife to his left hand and reached under his jacket. Now there was a gun in his hand, a silly little toy designed for a lady’s handbag but it would be enough to settle things.
And that was also the moment when I realized I couldn’t beat him. Dodo had the staying power, the confidence, the ruthless determination to win at any cost that makes an Olympic champion.
And it was at that moment that I had the feeling that Dodo had known I was coming. He was prepared for me. He hadn’t wanted to talk with me, he didn’t ask me what I was there for. He put a gun and a knife in his belt and waited for me to arrive. How could he have guessed that I was on my way?
‘Say your prayers, Samson.’ With studied glee he took the gun into his left hand. He wanted me to understand what he meant by it. The gun was to be his insurance policy: Dodo was going to use the knife on me. He moved closer but he was wary now. He wouldn’t be caught again by my kicks, butts or jabs. I tried to guess his intentions. He would have to cripple me with the knife lest I wrench the gun from him. ‘Say your prayers,’ he whispered softly.
I was frightened and he could see it. I had no plan to tackle him: he’d chosen his position well. There were no more objects handy for me to throw at him, no rugs under him, no doors or windows for me to escape through. And the sole light was no longer in his eyes; it was in mine. That was why I didn’t see clearly what happened next.
Over Dodo’s shoulder I saw a figure coming silently through the door behind him. The intruder moved quietly and with the grace of a dancer. A slim man, wearing a short black car coat and a close-fitting cap. In a balletic movement he raised his hand high in the air, as if trying to touch the ceiling. And he brought it down in a vertical movement that ended with the thud of something hard hitting Dodo’s skull.
Dodo gave a gasp like the air escaping from a balloon and collapsed to sprawl senseless upon the carpet. Then suddenly the dark room seemed to be full of men. Someone pushed me flat against a wall and frisked me while others were searching the house and searching Dodo’s body too.
‘Sit down, Bernie. Sit down and catch your breath.’ Someone handed me a glass of whisky and I drank gratefully.
‘That was a close one, eh?’
I knew the voice. Prettyman. ‘Jim!’ I said. ‘Jesus! Is it really you, Jim? What…? Why…?’
I looked at him but he gave no sign of friendliness. ‘Deep cover, Bernie.’
‘Cindy thinks you’re dead. What’s it all about?’ Outside in the hall I could hear the squawks and hisses of a two-way radio. Drawers were being pulled open and doors closed. ‘What in hell is it all about?’
‘You know better than to ask me that, Bernie.’
‘For the Department?’ He didn’t answer.
He stared at me. His skin was white and his face hard like a waxwork figure. He said, ‘I’ve got to get you out of here. Can you drive yourself home?’
I couldn’t resist leaning forward and touching his arm. ‘Is this why you sent me that box of ancient scripts and stuff? To keep for you? Was I supposed to guess that you weren’t really dead?’
He flinched away from my touch. He got up and looked round the shadowy room. ‘Maybe,’ he said. He was near the piano. Reflectively he reached down and picked out a few bass notes. The room was dark, so that the lamp on the piano made a hard light upon the keyboard and his seemingly disembodied fingers.
‘Jim,’ I said. ‘Who ordered you to disappear? Is it something to do with Fiona?’
Unhurriedly he hit a few more notes to complete a doleful little melody. Then he looked up and said, ‘Bernie, it’s time you realized that the Department isn’t run for your benefit. There’s nothing in Command Rules that says we have to clear everything with Bernard Samson before an Operation is o
kayed.’
‘I’m talking about my wife, Jim,’ I said angrily.
‘Well, I’m not talking about her: not to you, not to anyone. Now shut up and get out of here. Go home and forget everything, and leave me to sort out this bloody mess you’ve created.’
‘Or else?’
There was a pause. I met his gaze. ‘Or else I include you in the report. You were told not to contact Dodo but you can’t leave anything alone, can you, Bernie? You’ve just got to keep poking that nose of yours into everything.’
‘So Silas Gaunt sent you here?’
He played a minor chord and held it. ‘I told you to get going, so get going.’ He closed the piano. ‘Think you can drive?’
I gulped the rest of the whisky and got to my feet. I was still shaky. ‘Okay, Jim,’ I said.
‘Just for old times’ sake, I’ll keep you out of it. Don’t forget now. If anyone wants to know – and I do mean anyone – you went straight home.’ He was watching me and now, for the first time, he smiled, but he didn’t put a lot of energy into it. ‘Don’t drop me into it.’ I thought he would offer his hand but he turned away and prodded Dodo’s inert shape with the toe of his shoe. ‘Come on, Dodo,’ he said. ‘The fight is over.’
21
‘Go to jail!’ It was not unexpected. There is a measure of inevitability to every game of chance.
I sometimes wonder if the reservations and doubts that my generation showed for capitalism were the legacy of being bankrupted and humiliated by our parents in those Sunday afternoon Monopoly games. Billy and Sally will not be similarly assailed; for them Monopoly games are simply a time when family discussions, reminiscences, stories and jokes (Waiter, waiter, this Peking Duck is rubbery. Chinese waiter: thank you, sir) are punctuated by desultory throws of the dice.
‘Go to jail, go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred pounds.’ Oh, well.