by Len Deighton
I grabbed Tarrant’s shoulders to spin him around. Then I used both hands on the small of his back to propel him through the door and out into the garden. He went flying, his feet scarcely touching the ground. I was following behind him, thinking all the time of what a fool I would look if my calculations proved wrong.
But I had no need to worry on that account. As Tarrant and I hit the frosty lawn, and rolled over in the snow with Tarrant shouting his objections, the bang came.
Tarrant’s brick-built play-pen was just what the Semtex needed. It constrained the force of the explosion enough to make sure it really went with a noise that echoed round the neighbourhood. The workshop door was already open, but the force wrenched it off its hinges and sent it bowling across the grass like a rectangular wheel. The window disappeared in a red flare and became broken glass and firewood.
‘Oh my God,’ shouted Tarrant. ‘I’m dying.’
I stayed where I was on the cold ground. Now that it was over I was shivering, and it wasn’t entirely due to the weather. I also felt an almost overwhelming need to vomit. Getting angry and screaming abuse at Tarrant enabled me to overcome these symptoms.
‘How did you guess?’ Bret asked me after I’d had a stiff drink, and been checked over by Frank’s tame doctor. It was just Bret and me. And we were not sitting near any of Frank’s potted plants.
‘There was no other explanation.’
‘Ah, yes, Sherlock Holmes: when you have eliminated the impossible, the remaining improbable explanation must be right.’
‘Something like that,’ I said. Bret was not a Sherlock Holmes fan: his favourite reading matter was the sports pages of the International Herald Tribune.
‘But why wait so long before confiding it to us?’ said Bret. He was distressed. He was good at hiding his emotions, but Bret was always dismayed by the cadenzas of violence that brought discordant counterpoint to the formal harmonies of office life in Whitehall.
‘I needed to know who else was in on the secret,’ I explained. ‘I had to see how you and Werner and Frank saw it all coming undone. And I wanted to see how you all reacted to the prospect of opening the box file. I wanted to find out who was in this with Silas.’
‘And did you find out?’
‘Well, I bumped into the Director-General,’ I said.
Bret acknowledged this joke with one of his well-known flickering smiles. ‘Did Prettyman know what was in the box?’
‘I wonder. He must have had some strange sort of worry about it. But what could he do?’
‘He could hope his wife forced it open,’ said Bret.
‘It’s tempting to think that he wanted her to steal it and break into it. But when you see how difficult it was to open without a key it’s clear that if someone got blown away opening it, it wouldn’t be Mrs Prettyman but some poor bloody technician in Brussels. And I’m not sure Prettyman would try that on his ex-wife. I was surprised that he found the nerve to kill Thurkettle.’
‘Well, ex-wives sometimes generate considerable motivation along those lines,’ said Bret, who had suffered chronic ex-wife angst. ‘What made it explode?’ he said. ‘Tarrant had been struggling with it for half an hour.’
‘Some sort of composite fuse. A trembler wouldn’t have been suitable. It had to be a fuse that could take rough treatment. My bet would be a light-sensitive fuse: a photoelectric cell, set so it would be triggered by light.’
‘I’ve never heard of a gadget like that.’
‘The Luftwaffe used them on time-delay bombs dropped on London during the war. They were put into the delay circuit as a back-up. If the time-fuse failed, the light-sensitive one would explode when the bomb disposal team dismantled it to look inside.’
‘A secondary fuse?’
‘Two fuses would be in keeping with the purpose of the device.’
‘Would it?’
‘It was designed to make sure the Swede, his plane and Prettyman would disappear for ever. With Thurkettle already dead, that would have eliminated any possibility of the truth ever coming to light.’
‘Silas Gaunt,’ said Bret sadly. ‘Don’t let’s be mealy-mouthed about it. Silas Gaunt set up the Kosinski killing and the Thurkettle killing. And then wanted to make certain the killers were all dead too. It was almost the perfect …’
‘The perfect crime?’ I supplied.
‘The perfect solution,’ said Bret.
‘What will happen now?’
‘No one was hurt,’ said Bret. ‘What do you want to happen? Do you want to sue Silas Gaunt?’ he asked caustically.
‘He wasn’t the only one,’ I said. ‘He is simply the one who will get all the blame. They will dump every mistake and crime the Department committed on to Silas Gaunt. They did the same with my father.’
‘He’ll never be released.’ Bret didn’t argue with my verdict.
‘I think he knows that,’ I said.
‘He is seriously disturbed,’ said Bret.
‘He seemed quite rational when I saw him.’
‘I know. Sometimes he seems absolutely normal. No one suspected the truth for a long time. He simply lost all sense of right and wrong. I blame the D-G in some ways. He put far too much on to Silas’s shoulders at a time when Silas should have been resting and having counselling.’
‘You said you wanted to see me, Bret,’ I reminded him. ‘Was there something else to tell me?’
Bret looked at me in a very solemn way and said: ‘Last weekend I asked Gloria to marry me.’
‘Congratulations, Bret.’
‘She told me yes.’
‘That’s great.’ So that look in his eyes hadn’t just come from eating too much sugar.
‘This is it, Bernard. No fancy weekends in country hotels. Nothing sneaky. I want this to be the one thing I do just right. Love and cherish; for better or for worse; happy ever after, and all that.’ He looked at his hands. In what was probably some significant signal of what was in the deepest recesses of his mind, he twisted his gold signet ring round, so it looked like a wedding band. ‘Freud said that a man can be in love with a woman for many years without realizing that he’s in love.’
‘Yes, well, when you read those books of his, you can tell he had a lot of things on his mind.’
‘I figured I should clear our plans with you first. Gloria thought the same. One of the reasons I came here to Berlin was so that I could see you and make sure it was okay by you.’
‘I’m not your prospective father-in-law, Bret. You do it the way you want. She deserves a break.’
‘I told her that I didn’t want a wife who was yearning for some other guy. I had one of those wives the last time around. Gloria said there was no one else.’
‘She’s right as far as I’m concerned. It was obvious from the start. I knew it would never work: we both knew.’ I gave a sincere smile and reached out and shook his hand in a grown-up, calm and dignified way. ‘Congratulations, Bret. It will be just fine. You’re a lucky man; she’s quite a girl.’
‘Whatever she is, I love her, Bernard. I need her.’
‘I’m a married man, Bret,’ I said, to stem his confession.
‘I know. It will all work out for you too, Bernard. Fiona’s something special. All marriages go through a really bad patch some time.’
‘How long does it last?’
‘If it’s any help, I can tell you that the Department plan to offer you a proper contract … pension and so on.’
I nodded.
‘The Department owes you that at least. And I owe you a great deal too.’
‘Do you? What?’
‘Have you forgotten that night I came to you at the Hennig place? That night when Five sent a K7 man to caution me and put me under house arrest. I phoned the D-G …’
‘And the D-G just happened to be on a train to Manchester,’ I supplied. ‘Yes, I remember. The D-G becomes conveniently restless when a bitter row is in the offing.’
‘I was desperate. You were the only one I knew wouldn’t
turn me in, Bernard.’
‘You were taking a chance,’ I said.
‘No, I wasn’t. I knew you would go out on a limb for me, Bernard. You are your own man. I’ve cursed you for that many times. But I admire it too. That’s why I want to do everything right by you.’
‘Okay, Bret.’
‘I’ll pull out all the stops to get Frank’s job for you when he goes. Not because I owe you a favour but because you are the best man for the job. My guess is that he will resign, and go out to Australia with his son. You know how Frank feels about him.’
I nodded my thanks.
‘I can’t promise of course. They might have bowler-hatted me by then. I’m on a handshake arrangement. When they get someone younger and more suited for the Deputy’s job, I will go back to California.’
‘With Gloria?’
‘Oh, sure. I will always have my home there. She’s never been, but I know she will love it. There’s a real big age disparity but …’
‘Forget it. You’ll be very happy together,’ I said. ‘Gloria likes older men.’
‘You have all the answers, Bernard.’
‘Us people with all the answers always get a few of them wrong.’
‘You don’t have to get all of them wrong. You are the luckiest man in the world, Bernard. You’re married to Fiona.’
‘She’s married to her work,’ I said.
‘You two just don’t communicate at all, do you? You couldn’t be more wrong about Fiona. Look, I have spent a lot of time worrying about this … worrying whether I should show it to you. But I can’t see any alternative.’
Bret took a sheet of writing paper from his pocket. The letterhead was La Buona Nova, the California estate where Fiona and I had spent so long being debriefed by Bret. The note was creased, as if it had been read, re-read, folded and refolded many many times. It was Fiona’s handwriting:
Dear Bret,
I can’t go on day after day of talking about my past. At first I expected it to become a sort of therapy that would heal me and make me whole. But it’s not like that. You are considerate and kind but the more I talk the more dispirited I become. I’ve lost Bernard. I realize that now. And when I lost Bernard, I lost the children too, for they adore him.
It’s not Bernard’s fault, it’s not anyone’s fault except my own. I should have known that Bernard would find someone else. Or that someone else would find him. And I should have known that Bernard was not the sort of man who can jump into bed and out of it again. Bernard is serious.
Bernard would never admit it but he is a romantic. It is what made me fall in love with him, and stay in love. And now he’s serious and romantic and madly in love with Gloria, and I know I will never be able to compete with her. She’s young and gorgeous and sweet and kind. And clever. She loves our children and from what I hear, she says only complimentary things about me. What can I offer him that is better? Bernard hungers for her all the time, and perhaps he’s right to love her. I know him so well that I can see every thought that is written in his face. And it devastates me. He’s desolate at being separated from her. He gave me some money the other day and there was a tiny photo of Gloria folded inside. He keeps it with his money so that I never see it, I suppose. I placed it on the floor in the dressing-room and he found it there and thought I’d never seen it.
It was my affair with Kennedy that destroyed our marriage of course. I was a fool. But Kennedy could never have become a ‘Gloria’ in my life. He was in love with Karl Marx. I soon guessed that he was spying on me, and that everything was secondary to his ‘duty’. And I knew that if he discovered that I was still working for London Central he would turn me in without a flicker of hesitation, or a moment of remorse.
I learned that life’s unendurable tests come in the shape of memories, not experiences. That night when Tess died and when I saw Bernard shoot Kennedy … the confusions and the shouting, the dimly lit roadside and my fears. These all anaesthetized my emotions and feelings. For a few days I felt able to deal with it. But when the memories of that night visited me I saw it for the first time. For the first time, I felt the warm blood that spattered upon me. For the first time the hatred and despair was so evident that I could smell the emotion. And each time the memories return they are more fearful. Like all intruders they come unexpected in the night. They drag me slowly from deep drug-induced sleep, to an interim state of half-awake nightmare from which I struggle to awaken.
After the nightmares started, I saw Bernard in a new way. Bernard gave me everything he had to give. Throughout our married life I had blamed him for not being demonstrative, at a time when I should have been thanking him for never burdening me with the hell he’d been through. Bernard has spent all his life doing a job for which he was never really suited. He is not tough. He is not insensitive. He is not violent. His brain is quicker and more subtle than that of anyone I’ve ever met. And this is why he decided he must keep his nightmares all to himself. Now I have discovered how much it costs to be alone with such terrors. But for me it is too late.
How can I ever make Bernard love me again? Don’t say I can’t. Life without Bernard would not be worth living. No one will ever love him as I have. And do. And always will.
Goodnight, Bret. Thank you for more than I can ever say.
Fiona
I folded up the letter and handed it back to Bret. It had disturbed me very much. ‘I’m grateful, Bret,’ I said.
‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ said Bret. ‘Can’t you read?’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘When I got to her room she had taken a whole load of tablets. She got them from the doctor two or three at a time, and saved them up. And she drank half a bottle of vodka.’
‘Fiona had? Vodka and pills?’
‘You were away in Santa Barbara that night. I pushed her into the car and got her to the hospital. They were great. They did all the things they do, and they saved her. I knew the director there. We told everyone she was there for tests.’
‘I remember when she was having tests. Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’
‘I promised her I wouldn’t. She left a note for you; I burned it. I promised I’d never tell you. Now I’m breaking that promise. But how can I stand by and let the pair of you tear each other apart? I’m too fond of you both to permit it without doing something.’
‘I love her, Bret. I’ve always loved her.’
‘You are a callous brute. Forget all that stuff about you being a romantic; that’s just a measure of how much she loves you. You are brutal.’
‘Towards Fi?’
‘Can’t you see what you do to her? She’s not married to her work, Bernard. She’d give it up tomorrow if you gave her the kind of love and understanding she needs. She’s a woman, Bernard, she’s your wife. She’s not a drinking buddy. She works non-stop because you drive her out of your life. Can’t you see that, Bernard? Can’t you see that?’
‘How do you know?… know what she feels?’
‘She talks to me because she can’t talk to you. You’re a smart talker, Bernard, a beau parleur. You can talk your way through any situation if you have a mind to. Fiona is not like that. The more important it is to her, the more tonguetied she becomes. She can’t express her deepest feelings to you. She would love to have the children with her all the time. But you’ve got to be with her too. Not time-wise but with her in spirit. How can you expect her to commit herself to you, while you are still sending long-stem red roses to Gloria?’
‘I hope you’re right, Bret,’ I said. ‘Last night I wrote to Fiona: a long letter. I want to start again.’
‘Good! That’s good, Bernard. Let’s make at least one good thing come out of this mess.’
‘I asked her to come and live with me in Berlin. And send the children to a German school. Have them grow up the way I did.’
‘She will jump at it, Bernard. I know she will.’
Fiona was right: and happiness too comes more often from
memories than from experiences. My happiness came in the shape of a perfect day long ago. I was with my schoolfriends, Werner and Axel. We were running down to the canal, and then along it to Lützowplatz. I ran and ran until I got to Dad’s office on Tauentzienstrasse. What a hot summer day it was: only Berlin enjoys such lovely days. I opened Dad’s desk and found the chocolate bar, his ration, that he left there for me. He always saved it for me. Today there were two bars: that’s why I remember it so vividly. We shared the chocolate between us and then climbed up the mountain of rubble. It filled the middle of the whole street, as high as three floors. From the top – sitting on an old piece of box – we went sliding down the steep slope, bumping in clouds of dust. The next stop was the clinic where the salvaged bricks, bottles and pieces of timber were cleaned and sorted and arranged with a care that only Germans could give to such things. We worked there for an hour each day after school. Then we would go swimming. The sky was blue and Berlin was heaven.
‘I hope she will,’ I said.
About the Author
Len Deighton was born in 1929. He worked as a railway clerk before doing his National Service in the RAF as a photographer attached to the Special Investigation Branch.
After his discharge in 1949, he went to art school – first to the St Martin’s School of Art, and then to the Royal College of Art on a scholarship. His mother was a professional cook and he grew up with an interest in cookery – a subject he was later to make his own in an animated strip for the Observer and in two cookery books. He worked for a while as an illustrator in New York and as art director of an advertising agency in London.
Deciding it was time to settle down, Deighton moved to the Dordogne where he started work on his first book, The Ipcress File. Published in 1962, the book was an immediate success.
Since then his work has gone from strength to strength, varying from espionage novels to war, general fiction and non-fiction. The BBC made Bomber into a day-long radio drama in ‘real time’. Deighton’s history of World War Two, Blood, Tears and Folly, was published to wide acclaim – Jack Higgins called it ‘an absolute landmark’.