by Len Deighton
pawn will attack en passant. Similarly only a
pawn can be captured in this manner.
Thursday, October 10th
When I left Hallam I drifted north. The Saddle Room was rocking until the spurs jingled and a girl with a back-combed bouffon of red hair was twisting with obsessive grace on a table top which put her ten inches above floor level, not allowing for the back-combing. Her feet knocked the glasses to the floor with rhythmic abandon. No one seemed to mind. I walked as far as the stairs and peered into the smoke and noise. Two girls with large but tight sweaters narcissistically twisted back to back. I poured two or three double whiskies into the back of my throat, watched the floor and tried to forget what a crummy trick I had pulled on Hallam.
It was still raining outside. The doorman and I looked around for a taxi. I found one, gave the doorman a florin and climbed in.
‘I saw it first.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘I saw it first,’ said the girl with the back-combed bouffon. She said it slowly and patiently. She was about five foot ten, light in complexion, nervous of movement, dressed with skilful simplicity. She had a rather wide, full mouth and eyes like a trapped doe. Now she kneaded her face around while querulously telling me yet again that she’d seen the cab before I had.
‘I’m going towards Chelsea,’ she said, opening the door.
I looked around. The bad weather had driven cabs into hiding. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘hop in. We’ll do your journey first.’
The cab pulled into a tight lock and my new friend eased her back-combing on to the leatherwork with a sigh.
‘Cigarette?’ she said and flicked the corner of a pack of Camels with a skill that I can never master. I took one and brought a loose Swan Vesta match from my pocket. I dug my thumbnail into the head and ignited it. She was impressed and stared into my eyes as I lit the cigarette. I took it pretty calmly, just like I didn’t have a couple of milligrammes of flaming phosphorus under the nail and coming through the pain threshold like a rusty scalpel.
‘Are you in Advertising?’ she said. She had a soft American accent.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m an account executive with J. Walter Thompson.’
‘You don’t look like any of the Thompson people I know.’
‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘I’m the vanguard of the button-down shirt mob.’ She gave a polite little laugh. ‘Where in Chelsea?’ the driver called. She told him. ‘It’s a party,’ she said to me.
‘Is that why you have that bottle of Guinness in your pocket?’ I asked.
She tapped it to make sure it was still there. ‘Ghoul,’ she said smiling. ‘That’s to wash my hair in.’
‘In Guinness?’ I said.
‘If you want body,’ she said patting her hair.
‘I want body,’ I said. ‘Believe me, I do.’
‘My name is Samantha Steel,’ she said politely. ‘People call me Sam.’
Chapter 13
Roman Decoy: a piece offered as bait to save a
hazardous situation.
London, Friday, October 11th
Charlotte Street runs north from Oxford Street and there are few who will blame it. By midmorning they are writing out the menus, straining yesterday’s fat, dusting the plastic flowers and the waiters are putting their moustaches on with eyebrow pencils.
I waved to Wally who runs the delicatessen across the road before turning into the doorway marked, among other things, ‘Ex-Officers’ Employment Bureau’, by a smooth polished brass plate. In the hall the same floral wallpaper had moved ever nearer autumn. The first-floor landing smelled of acetone and from behind a doorway marked ‘Acme Films Cutting Rooms’, I could hear the gentle purr of a movie projector. The next floor pretended to be a theatrical tailor so that we could buy, alter or make any kind of uniform we needed. This is where Alice sat. Alice was the cross between librarian and concierge. Anyone who thought they could do anything in that building without having Alice’s approval should just try doing it.
‘You are late, sir,’ Alice said. She was thumping the lid into a caterer’s-size Nescafé tin.
‘Right as always, Alice,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’ I climbed towards my office. From the dispatch department came the mournful trombone solo of ‘Angels Guard Thee’ as the CWS Brass Band played their part in the dispatch department’s ceaseless record recital. Jean was waiting on the stairs. ‘Coming in late,’ she said.
‘It’s one of the B-flat cornets,’ I explained, ‘clipping the notes.’
‘I mean you are coming in late.’ She put my old raincoat on a wooden hanger that had the words ‘stolen from typing pool’ burned into the surface.
‘How do you like it?’ Jean said, ‘the office.’
I looked around at the balding carpet, Jean’s teak desk and the gleaming new IBM typewriter, and then I saw it. There was a large spiky indoor plant on the window sill.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said. The leaves were long and prickly, the bright green giving way to a dull yellow at the thorny edge. All it did as far as I could see was block just a little more of the already inadequate grey London daylight. ‘Lovely,’ I said again.
‘Mother-in-law’s Tongue,’ said Jean, ‘that’s what it’s called.’
‘Don’t stretch my credulity too far,’ I said.
‘That’s what Dawlish said when he saw your expense sheet for last month.’
I unlocked my ‘In’ tray. Jean had already sifted most of it. The worst was the political reading matter. Long foolscap translations of excerpts from L’Unità, Party Information1 and two other information sheets had been waiting there for nearly a week. It was a job no one else could do for you.
‘It was that bill at The Ivy,’ said Jean. I signed the two information sheets as read and put them into the ‘Out’ tray. It was the only way to fight it down.
‘I told you he would notice that it was my birthday,’ Jean said.
‘Stop gnawing your knuckles,’ I said. ‘I can handle Grannie.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Jean. ‘Well, don’t fire him.’
‘I’ll make the jokes,’ I said. ‘What have you done about this Paul Louis Broum business?’
‘I’ve passed the request for documents to Home Office. I then sent Interpol a blue2 with instructions for a Bertillon if they find anything. No reply so far. Grannie wants you to go down to Acme Films at ten fifteen when they will screen all the film we have of Red Army people who work for the Karlshorst Security Control Area. Dawlish himself would like you to see him after that at eleven o’clock. You have no lunch appointments. I will order some sandwiches from Wally’s if you wish. Hallam at the Home Office phoned and wanted to see you. I said you would call to see him between ten and ten thirty tomorrow morning. You are confirmed on tomorrow evening’s flight to Berlin and I have checked with your hotel there. All OK.’
I said, ‘You wonderful creature.’
Jean put a dozen letters on my desk, her arm brushed my shoulder and I caught the faint drifting perfume of Arpège.
‘I can’t make it tonight,’ I said.
‘The top three should be ready for the eleven o’clock collection. The requisitions don’t matter.’
‘I was looking forward to it,’ I said, ‘but there’s this damn business with the Steel girl.’ Jean walked towards the door. She stood there for a moment looking at me. I detected the faint angry flush in her cheek only because I knew her so well. The severity of her straight-style dress emphasized her feminine stance.
‘I am Circe,’ she said. ‘All who drink of my cup turn into swine.’ She turned to go. ‘You are no exception.’ She threw the word over her shoulder like spilled salt.
‘Be reasonable, Jean,’ I said, but she had gone.
Dawlish had the only office with two windows in the building. You didn’t need dark glasses there but on the other hand you didn’t need a flashlight either. Dawlish was always buying pieces of antique furniture. Every now and again he would say he
had business to attend to and everyone would know that he was coming back with a writing-desk or an aspidistra-stand from Portobello Road.
So Dawlish’s office was like a junkshop. There was an antique umbrella stand and an antique desk under a green-shaded Victorian lamp. Across one wall stood a bookcase with glass doors; inside was a shiny leather set of Dickens with only Martin Chuzzlewit missing. Dawlish got the set for twentyfive shillings. Martin Chuzzlewit wasn’t one of Dickens’s best as Dawlish was always saying. On the other wall, where the big IBM machine stood, there were two cases of butterflies—one had a cracked glass—and photographs of various Civil Service cricket teams in which the granular wrinkled face of Dawlish could be recognized.
On October 1st the coal fires were lighted. A freezing September or a scorching October made no difference. A small cardboard box marked ‘OMO’, bulging with coal eggs, stood in coal dust in the hearth. I pulled the leather armchair nearer to the flickering fire. This tiny fireplace had been built when Britain’s fleet steamed the world on coal and when diplomacy largely consisted of sending them somewhere.
Dawlish read my report. He pinched the bridge of his nose and without looking up said, ‘I notice everyone’s getting at you again.’
Alice brought coffee, set it down on Dawlish’s desk and left without a word.
‘Yes,’ I said.
Dawlish passed me a cracked cup with pink flowers around the rim. ‘Tell me about Stok,’ he said. ‘Ginger biscuit?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m getting too fat,’ I said. ‘Stok is just doing a job.’
Dawlish was holding his cup and saucer at eye level.
‘Not bad for one-and-six each,’ he said. ‘They are German porcelain: quite old.’
I watched the little islands of Nescafé powder spin ever smaller in the swirl of hot water.
‘Don’t you think they are beautiful?’ Dawlish said.
‘They aren’t exactly the Portland vase but they’re OK for Nescafé.’
‘Is Stok good at his job?’
‘I think he is,’ I replied. ‘Much too good to think that I’d go for that clumsy cover story about his wife being dead. Either he wanted me to discover the lie so that I’d be more likely to believe his subsequent story—’ Dawlish brought his coffee across to the chair near the fire and sat down. ‘Or?’ he said. He took his pipe to pieces and blew loudly through each component.
‘Or he thought I wasn’t bright enough to…’ Dawlish was looking at me with a particularly stupid expression.
‘Very funny,’ I said.
Dawlish assembled his pipe.
‘And this description that the Gehlen people want on the document.’ He looked at the flimsy green teleprinter message. ‘What’s wrong with Broum as a cover name for Semitsa?’
‘Nothing except that I don’t like being pushed around. I don’t mind them mentioning one or two things they want—I understand that they are preparing other documents—but this sheet they’ve given us is almost a biography.’
‘You are just piqued personally.’ Dawlish produced a two-pound bag of sugar.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I said. ‘I don’t like the Gehlen mob treating me like an employee.’
‘But what would be their purpose in wanting such documents? Not to sell them, they have plenty of money.’
I shrugged and put three spoonfuls of sugar into my coffee.
‘That’s how you put on weight,’ said Dawlish.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘And the girl?’ said Dawlish. ‘What have you found out about the girl, Samantha Steel?’
‘It’s probably a phoney name anyway but there are no green or white cards at the Yard.3 Nor anything at Central Register.4 She’s American; I’ve put a teleprinter request through to Washington.’
‘What a performance,’ said Dawlish. ‘You never think of the expense. It’ll all end up like that other girl. In the end you found she had a press agent just dying to send biography and pictures to anyone who asked for them.’
‘This girl followed me,’ I said. ‘It was clumsy and it was obvious; we can’t just ignore it.’
‘You are quite sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ I said.
‘Umm,’ said Dawlish grudgingly. ‘Well, you may be right; we can’t be too careful. Check on her.’
‘I already am,’ I said patiently.
‘And see her again,’ said Dawlish.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘I may as well get something out of this job, if it’s only entertainment.’
‘Did you check on Mr Vulkan’s playmate?’ asked Dawlish.
‘Yes,’ I grinned. ‘There is no Major Bailis. US Army Records said the description fitted a civilian layabout named Wilson. He was there just to impress me, I suppose. He’s a character, that Vulkan.’
‘He’s a rogue,’ said Dawlish. He grabbed his bag of sugar and got up. ‘Well, this won’t do. Everything else OK?’
‘My electric fire doesn’t work,’ I said. ‘I’m freezing downstairs and Jean said you were unhappy about my expenses. Was I too extravagant?’
‘Being extravagant is just a state of mind, my boy,’ he said, ‘and so is being cold. Just see what you can do about both.’
I was a bit relieved. ‘What I’d like is an interestfree loan of eight hundred quid to buy a new car,’ I said.
Dawlish gently packed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a match. He put the pipe into his mouth before looking up at me.
‘Yes,’ he finally said. He lit the pipe with great care.
‘Yes I want it or yes I can have it?’ I said.
‘Yes, everything they say about you is true,’ said Dawlish. ‘Go away and let me work.’
‘What about the decision on Stok’s forty thousand pounds?’ I said.
‘Ah,’ said Dawlish. ‘That’s what has been giving you ideas above your station.’ He let go with a great puff of smoke.
‘We might lose him,’ I said. Dawlish prodded the match into the pipe bowl.
I added, ‘The Egyptian Intelligence people will buy Semitsa like a shot if they get wind of it.’
‘That’s what worrying me,’ said Dawlish, showing no trace of worry whatsoever. ‘The Egyptians collect German scientists, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Our Zürich people had better watch MECO5—that’s who will be handling the deal if there is one.’
‘Yes,’ I said again.
‘Very well,’ said Dawlish. ‘Keep an ear to the ground. If you send Jean up with a War Office Armoury chit I’ll give you a signature for a pistol.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. It was unprecedented. If Dawlish thought I needed a gun, I was living on borrowed time.
‘For God’s sake be circumspect with it. It’s a hell of a responsibility for me.’
‘I’ll bear you in mind if anyone starts shooting at me,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it over to HQ and bump off Hallam tomorrow morning for a start.’
‘Hallam.’ Dawlish looked up suddenly. ‘Leave Hallam alone,’ he said. ‘You haven’t been threatening him, have you?’
‘I leaned on him a tiny bit,’ I admitted. ‘We nearly had HQ running this whole project.’
‘Don’t do anything like that,’ said Dawlish. He took out a large white handkerchief and polished his spectacles. ‘I don’t care what else you do; but treat Hallam with kid gloves.’
‘I think he’d go more for green velvet with sequins,’ I said, but Dawlish just puffed smoke. I went downstairs and tried to get the Ministry of Works fire going. Chico came in.
‘I’ve got a file from AEASD.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Atomic Energy Authority, Security Department.’ Chico said.
‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘You’ve been watching those spy films on TV again. So what?’
‘What do I do with it?’
‘Pass it on somewhere,’ I said.
‘It’s marked immediate.’
‘Then pass i
t on immediately.’ Chico smiled sheepishly, tucked the file under his arm and walked across to the window. He really only wanted to kill time till lunch. Chico was a delicate bloom from an old family tree. He had too much forehead and not enough chin to be handsome and he carried himself in that sort of crouch that Englishmen adopt to avoid humiliating their more stunted brethren. He looked round my office furtively.
‘Is it true about the old man’s garden?’
‘Is what true?’ I grunted without looking up, although I guessed what was coming.
‘One of the chaps across at the War House said that Grannie grows weeds.’ Jean came in to get something from the filing cabinet; she waited for my reply.
I said, ‘Mr Dawlish has achieved considerable status as an amateur botanist. He’s written a number of books including Forest Marsh and Moor Plants and The Dehiscent Capsule of the Pennycress in the Seeding Cycle. Has become something of a specialist on meadow and hedgerow flowers. What do you expect him to grow in his garden? Tomatoes?’
‘No sir,’ said Chico. ‘Golly, I didn’t know he was an expert on weeds.’
‘Hedgerow flowers we usually say. And don’t call Mr Dawlish “Grannie”.’
‘Yes, hedgerow flowers. Those friends of mine didn’t know that.’
‘One of these days, Chico,’ I said, ‘you are going to face up to the fact that those friends of yours in what you persist in calling the War House know nothing about everything. They are as ignorant as you are. You should do something about it. Go down to the library and read a book.’
‘Do you have any particular book in mind, sir?’
‘Start at A or the shelf nearest the door and see what you can learn by Christmas.’
‘You’re joking, sir.’
‘I never joke, Chico. The truth is quite adequately hilarious.’ Jean found the file and left the office without saying anything, which is generally a bad sign in one way or another.
Chico came round the desk. ‘What are you marking?’ he said.
‘Confidential,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got no work to do, fix the electric fire. The plug has gone wrong.’
‘Yes sir. I’m rather good at that sort of thing.’