by Len Deighton
Mrs Bekuv pushed her cup aside and got to her feet.
'See you later,' said Mann affably.
Mrs Bekuv left the room without replying.
We were still sitting there when Bessie and Red phoned us from Waterbridge. They were almost through at the hairdressers, and the new dresses were gift-wrapped and ready for collection. All we had to do was to bring our chequebooks into town, and take them somewhere smart for lunch. To my surprise Mann readily agreed. He even invited the Bekuvs to go with us, but Andrei was going to record a Christmas concert on his Sony radio-recorder and Mrs Bekuv shook her head without looking up from Dr Zhivago. Downstairs in the dining-room the hotel staff were hanging ancient tin toys and celluloid dolls upon a Christmas tree. On the stage a ten-piece orchestra from Chicago were arguing with Mr Pierce about where the coloured spotlights should point.
Mann drove all the way to the end of the property and half-way up' the hill before speaking. 'You don't approve of my little talk with Frau Bekuv?'
'I wouldn't put it into an anthology of psychological triumphs.'
'What did I do wrong?'
'Nothing,' I said. 'You obviously want her to put the finger on the 1924 Society, so that you've got an excuse to turn them, over. Well, I'm sure she got that message and she will probably oblige you.'
'Why would that make you so mad?'
'If you are sure that the leak is through the crackpots on the 1924 Society, why not move in on them right away? If you are not sure, you are only confusing the situation by using Mrs Bekuv like a glove puppet.'
'Ah!' said Mann. 'Why not move in on the 1924 Society right away, you say. Well, I knew it was only a matter of time before you handed me a question I could answer.' He turned his eyes away from the road long enough to stare at me. 'The 1924 Society is a secret society, kiddo. No one's exactly sure who is a member of the 1924 Society.'
'Except the other members.'
'Like the Bekuvs. Yes, well now you're getting the idea, pal.'
'Suppose that, while we're all away, the Bekuvs call a cab and scram?'
Mann smiled as we pulled to a halt in a newly vacated parking-space in front of a pawnshop filled with saxophones and shotguns. I could see the hairdressers' a few doors away. 'You got a couple of quarters?' he said.
I gave him some change for the meter but he didn't get out of the car immediately. He said, 'I've put a couple of my boys to watch the back door.'
'You'd like them to skip,' I said accusingly.
'It would simplify things,' said Mann.
'Unless they succeeded,' I said.
Mann pulled a face and got out.
The Bekuvs were still in the hotel when we arrived back. Mozart's Jupiter was on the hi-fi. Andrei was still doing the calculations that would put messages into outer space and his wife was sleeping with Dr Zhivago. Mann dropped on to the sofa and heaved a sigh.
It's one of the many things I don't understand about women that the moment they return from some expensive hair-crimping parlour they stand in front of a mirror and comb the whole thing out again. Red and Bessie did that while Mrs Bekuv, evidently having decided that she'd missed out on a good thing, joined in the fun.
With seeming reluctance, she allowed herself to be persuaded into a new hair-style too. Red swept her hair up into a styling of the 'forties, and held it while they both admired it. Deftly Red pinned it into position and arranged the curls and the fringe with loving care.
Mann watched it all with interest, but his wife seemed strangely disquieted. It provided a revealing insight into Mrs Bekuv — and a portent of Red too, but I didn't see that at the time.
I ordered tea for us all, but even before I'd put the phone down, Mann's autocratic manner told his wife that he wanted a private word with the Bekuvs. Bessie said she'd prefer to take her tea into her room, and even Red — no admirer of Mann's patriarchal moods — meekly agreed to do the same, even to the extent of leaving Mrs Bekuv's hair-do unfinished. That didn't please the Russian lady, and after the others had gone she fixed Mann with a steely stare, told her husband to switch the music down, and said, 'Dr Henry Dean. He lives at a house called La Grange in the village of St Paul Chauvrac, Bretenoux, 46 Lot, France. Do you want to write that down?'
Mann said, 'Dr Henry Dean, La Grange, St Paul Chauvrac, Bretenoux, 46 Lot, France. No, I don't want to write it down.'
'He is not a scientist,' said Mrs Bekuv, 'not an important one, anyway. But he is the contact between the 1924 Society and Moscow.' She smiled and twisted a strand of blonde hair in her fingers. It was the artless gesture of the ingenue, inappropriate for this Rubenesque wife and mother, and yet she had more than enough charm to carry it off.
'That's fine,' said Mann tonelessly. He turned to me. 'Get on to that, will you.'
I looked at him closely. There was something in his voice that I could not recognize.
'I'll do what I can,' I said. I knew that my request to Langley for archive searches at five o'clock on a Christmas Eve would not be received with great enthusiasm.
'Don't try too hard,' said Mann. 'I wouldn't like to be ready to go by tomorrow morning.'
Mrs Bekuv looked from one to the other of us, 'You will go to France?'
'Dr Henry Dean, you say. Well, that's interesting,' said Mann. He said it in a louder voice. It was obviously intended to bring Andrei Bekuv into the conversation.
Andrei Bekuv nodded but did not turn round to meet Mann's eyes. He was toying with his new radio-recorder and trying to pretend he was nothing to do with the conversation.
Mrs Bekuv said, 'Andrei and I were talking about the investigation.'
'And I appreciate that,' said Mann.
She ignored his sarcasm. She went on. 'Our complete cooperation would not only be good for America, it would be very good for you too.'
'I'm not sure that I'm following your implications,' said Mann who was not only following the implications but well ahead of them. He pressed a splayed hand upon his heart. I saw now that what I had always thought was a spiritual gesture was done to check that his collar was buttoned down.
'Promotion and a better pay-scale, more power, a better posting… you know what I mean,' said Mrs Bekuv. This first name we give you freely but if you want more we must have a new agreement.'
Mann grinned. 'You mean you want your share of the prosperity — promotion, and pay-scale.'
'Otherwise,' said Mrs Bekuv, 'we will simply say nothing, until you are fired and a new team sent to work on us.'
'How do you know that I won't get out the rubber truncheons long before I get fired?'
Andrei Bekuv shifted uneasily and fiddled with the volume control so that a few chords of Mozart escaped and ran across the carpet. 'We'll have to take that risk,' said Mrs Bekuv.
'How much?'
'We didn't realize how expensive it is to live in New York,' said Mrs Bekuv immediately. 'With all those smart people at the university, I'm going to have to look my best, you know.' She smiled as if we all shared some secret joke.
'I'll see what I can do,' said Mann.
'I couldn't resist all these new clothes, Major Mann,' she said. 'After all those years in the Soviet Union I was dazzled by the shop-windows, and Andrei insisted that I bought a whole new wardrobe, from shoes to underwear. He said it was all part of our starting our new life.'
'I understand,' said Major Mann.
'Forget what I said just now. With or without an increase in the money, we will both help you all we can.' Mrs Bekuv slapped a menu into Dr Zhivago and slammed the book closed. Then she stood up and smoothed her cornflower-blue silk dress, running her fingers down over hips and thighs in the sort of gesture used by nervous contenders in amateur beauty competitions. She smiled at both of us, and was still smiling as she leaned over her husband and kissed the top of his head.
The waiter arrived with a tray of tea and toast just as Mrs Bekuv went out of the room. Mann took the tray from him and began to pour the milk, and offer the home made cherry cake. Andrei Bekuv took a slice of lemon
in his tea and declined the cake. 'My wife gets very nervous, Major Mann,' he said. 'She misses the boy.'
'You knew your son would never join you. He'll be taking his exams next year… you wouldn't want us to try and bring him out against his will.'
'No, no, no,' said Andrei Bekuv. 'What you say is true.. but it doesn't change the facts. My wife can't get used to the idea of never seeing her son again.' He looked away. 'And to tell you the truth, I can't either.'
'Sure,' said Mann. 'Sure.' He patted Bekuv's arm as one might try to calm an excited poodle.
Emboldened by this gesture of friendship, Bekuv opened his loose-leaf notebook. 'I have completely changed my work on interstellar communication.'
'Have you?' said Mann. 'That's good. No more humming hydrogen, you mean?'
Bekuv made some vague noises while pointing at the pages of closely written numbers. 'At first we were looking for some means of communicating through the galactic plasma without dispersion. Obviously this meant using electromagnetic waves. We knew X-rays were no good…'
'Why?' I said in an attempt to join in.
'They can't be focused,' said Bekuv, 'and gamma rays have too limited a range.'
'How limited?' I asked.
'About one hundred thousand miles,' said Bekuv. Mann pulled a face. Bekuv smiled and said, 'But now I am beginning to believe that we should abandon the idea of any sort of electromagnetic waves. After all, we will never be able to converse with another civilization, because each message will take twenty years getting there and another twenty to get back.'
'Sounds like the British telephone system,' said Mann.
'Now I believe we should simply seek to make a mark in the universe… a mark that some other civilization will detect and so know there is some kind of sophisticated life on planet Earth.'
'What kind of mark?' said Mann.
'Not ploughing patterns in fields. There has been a lot of talk about that but it is absurd. The canals on Mars that Schiaparelli reported in 1887 and the Mariner spacecraft revealed as a complete misinterpretation have ruled out that idea.' He turned the page to where there were diagrams and more calculations. 'I am thinking of a cloud of material that will absorb a chosen wavelength of light. This would leave a pattern — no more than a line perhaps — in the spectrogram of a star's light. This would be enough to tell any civilization that there was scientific achievement here on Earth.'
I looked at Mann. He raised his eyebrows. 'What is the next step?' Mann asked, with trepidation evident.
To put this before your Government,' said Bekuv. 'It will cost quite a lot of money.'
Mann was unable to completely suppress a sigh. 'Well, you'd better put this all to me in the form of a report. Then I will see what I can do.'
'I don't want it filed away and forgotten,' said Bekuv. 'I want to talk to someone about it. You have a Senate Committee on International Co-operation. Could I talk to them?'
'Perhaps,' said Mann, 'but you'll have to write it all down first.'
'One more thing/ said Bekuv. 'It's Christmas Eve, could I take my wife to the midnight mass tonight?'
'It doesn't say you are Catholics on the dossier,' said Mann. He was disconcerted, and slightly annoyed. Or perhaps he was feigning annoyance.
'We have lapsed in our church-going, but not in our faith,' said Bekuv. 'Christmas Eve 'has always been a special time for us.'
'Someone will have to go with you,' said Mann.
'I'll go,' I said.
Bekuv looked at Mann. Mann nodded.
'Thank you,' said Bekuv. 'I will go and tell Katinka. Thank you both.' He went away wagging his tail.
'Sometimes I don't know how I keep my hands off that jerk,' said Mann.
'And it shows,' I told him.
Mann sat down in the soft armchair and closed his eyes tight.
'Are you all right?' I asked.
'I'm all right,' said Mann but his face had gone grey, and he looked as if old age had overtaken him very suddenly. I waited for him to speak. I waited a long time.
'Henry Dean.' I reminded him of the name Mrs Bekuv had given us. 'Dr Henry Dean.'
'Hank Dean,' said Mann. He tightened his tie.
'You've heard of him?' I asked.
'Hank Dean: airline executive's son, born in Cotton-wood, South Dakota. High school athlete; track star, truly great pitcher, tipped for pro baseball until he got injured.'
'How do you know so much about him?' I asked.
'We grew up together in a village just outside Cleveland. My dad was a pilot and his was sales manager for a tinpot airline, flying contract mail between Chicago and New York City. The airline families lived alongside the airfield, and the village kids beat shit out of us. The war came, we both went into the army. Hank was a bright kid, came out a captain in the airborne, but he'd done a few drops in civilian clothes. At the end of the war, the army kept him on, but sent him to M.I.T. to get his masters. He wound up with a Ph.D. before he got back into uniform. Next thing I heard he was working in Berlin for a little company that made high-voltage electrophoresis machines for medical labs… you're beginning to get the picture?'
'I get the picture,' I said. This little engineering company had a very lenient policy about employees who disappeared for long weekends, and came back with their hair slightly ruffled and a hole in the hat.'
'Yeah, a C.I.A. front, and a very active one. Henry Dean was making quite a name for himself. They switched him back into the army and gave him the police desk in Berlin. Then they began saying that Dean would be running Operations in Langley before he was thirty-five — that kind of crap, you know.'
'I know.'
'But Dean got into the juice. His old man was a lush, I remember. That's why his dad quit flying and went to sales. Hank was very close to his dad: he used to hide the bottles, argue with him, plead with him, but it was no use. Poor Hank — and Berlin is a bad place for a guy who is easily tempted.'
'Yes,' I said.
Mann passed a hand across his eyes as if trying to see into the past. When he spoke again it was the voice of a man half asleep. 'Got into the juice. There was some kind of foul-up… a row about some documents being given to the East Germans… there was an inquiry. I don't know the details but Dean was never the same again after that. They gave him a second chance. The next thing was a back-up assignment for a routine crossing. It was unlikely that he'd be needed, but suddenly he was, and they dug him out of a bar on the Ku-damm, stoned out of his mind. There was a lot of static from Langley, and a lot of promises from Dean. But it was the third time that ended his career.
'Berlin in the late 'fifties — it was heavy stuff, and two really good guys went that night. Those two had a lot of friends, and the friends blamed Hank Dean. He was finished for that kind of field-work. He went back to Washington but he couldn't handle a scene like that — it needs a light touch — Washington "A list" hostesses, all that muscle from the satellite embassies, too many whizzkids chasing your job. No, that wasn't Hank Dean.'
I tried to pour some tea. There was only a trickle left, and that was cold. There were no lights on in the sitting-room, and Mann was no more than a silhouette against the darkening sky. The silence lasted.so long that when he spoke again it made me start.
'He stayed on the wagon for years,' said Mann. 'And then finally Special Services found something for him in Vietnam. They wanted me to sign a chit sponsoring him…' Mann sighed. 'I thought about it all day and all night. I was sure he'd foul-up and spatter me with shit.. so I said no.'
I tried to ease some of the guilt off his back. 'Hindsight reveals a wise decision,' I said.
It did nothing to cheer Mann. Against the wintry light from the window, I saw him pinch the bridge of his nose. He was slumped lower now, his chin almost on his chest. 'Can't be sure of that, can we?' he said. 'Maybe if I had signed it we wouldn't be running our pinkies down the Christmas airline schedules.'
'Maybe,' I agreed.
'There comes a time in your life when you have to
do the human thing — make the decision the computer never makes — give your last few bucks to an old pal, find a job for a guy who deserves a break, or bend the rules because you don't like the rules.'
'Even in this job?'
'Especially in this job, or you end up as the kind of dispassionate robotic bastard that communism breeds.'
'Are you going to bring Dean back, or try to turn him?'
'I've embarrassed you, have I?' said Mann bitterly.
'Because if you are going to bring him back, there will be a lot of paperwork. I'll want to get started on it as soon as possible.'
'You like baseball?' Mann asked. 'He was second baseman. I saw the whole thing… a double play and this little fink put a set of sharpened cleats into his knee. He would have turned pro, I'm sure. He'd never have come into this lousy racket.'
'Turn Dean,' I said, 'and perhaps we could do without the Bekuvs.'
'Hank Dean… big noisy lummox… full of farts and funny stories… untrimmed beard, dirty dishes in the sink, rot-gut in flagons, and a sleeping-bag in the bathroom if you're too drunk to drive home. You'd never recognize him for this bright kid who got the sharpened cleats in his leg. Funny how a thing like that can change a man's whole life.'
'This is just a way of getting at you,' I said.
'It looks like it,' said Mann. 'I wonder how long ago they started working on it."
'What are you going to do?'
'Poor old Hank. A K.G.B. operation — I can smell it from here, can't you? Payments into his bank balance, witnesses who can identify him, microdots pasted into his copy of Thunderball, you know what they get up to. Jesus! — and I've got the choice of handing over to another investigating officer, the way the book tells it, or of bending the rules and try and make it easy on him.'
'If the K.G.B. have set it up, they will have dotted every i and crossed every t. They dare not risk something like this blowing up in their faces.'
'They've not necessarily framed him,' said Mann calmly. 'They might have just offered him enough dough to get him working for them.'
'You don't believe that.'
'I don't want to believe it,' said Mann. 'Do you know something.. For a moment there I wasn't even going to tell you that I knew Dean. I was just going to press on with the investigation and keep stumm.'