"London Match" - читать интересную книгу автора (Deighton Len)

9

I identified with Stinnes. He was a cold fish and yet I thought of him as someone like myself. His father had been a Russian soldier with the occupation forces in Berlin and he'd been brought up like a German, just as I had. And I felt close to him because of the way our paths had overlapped since that day he had me arrested in East Berlin. I'd talked him into coming over to us; I'd reassured him about his treatment, and I'd personally escorted him to London from Mexico City. I respected his professionalism, and that coloured all my thoughts and my actions. But I didn't really like him, and that affected my judgement too. I couldn't completely understand the undoubted success he enjoyed with women. What the devil did they see in him? Women were always attracted by purposeful masculine strength, organizing ability, and the sort of self-confidence that leaves everything unsaid. Stinnes had all that in abundance. But there were none of the other things one usually saw in womanizers: no fun, no flamboyance, no amusing storks, none of the gesturing or physical movements by which women so often remember the ones they had once loved. He had none of those warm human characteristics that make a love affair so easy to get into and so hard to escape, no self-mockery, no admitted failings; just the cold eyes, calculating mind and inscrutable face. He seemed especially cold-blooded about the work he did. Perhaps that was something to do with it. For the womanizer is destructive, the rock upon which desperate women dash themselves to pieces.

But there was no denying the dynamic energy that was evident in that seemingly inert body. Stinnes had an actor's skill, an almost hypnotic will that is turned on like a laser beam. Such heartless dedication is to be seen in the great Hollywood stars, in certain very idealistic politicians, and even more often as a brutal streak in comedians who frighten their audience into laughing at their inadequate jokes.

I didn't feel like that about Bret Rensselaer, who was an entirely different personality. Bret wasn't the hard-eyed pro that Stinnes was. Quite apart from his inadequate German, Bret could never have been a field agent; he would never have been able to endure the squalor and discomfort. And Bret could never have been a good field agent for the same reason that so many other Americans failed in that role: Bret liked to be seen. Bret was a social animal who wanted to be noticed. The self-effacing furtiveness that all Europeans have been taught, in a society still essentially feudal, does not come readily to Americans.

Bret seemed to have had endless women since his wife left him, but his ability to charm was easy to understand, even for those who were impervious to it. Despite his age, he was physically attractive, and he was generous with money and was amusing company. He liked food and wine, music and movies. And he did all those things that rich people always know how to do: he could ski and shoot and sail and ride a horse; and get served in crowded restaurants. I'd had my share of differences with Bret; I'd suffered his insulting outbursts and grudgingly admired his stubbornness, but he was not a heartless apparatchik. If you got him at the right moment, he could be informal and approachable in a way that none of the other senior staff were. Most important of all, Bret had the uniquely American talent of flexibility, the willingness to try anything likely to get the job done. Yet Bret got jobs done, and for that I gave him due credit; it was on that account that I trod warily when I first began to wonder about his loyalties.

Bret Rensselaer had the jutting chin and the rugged ageless features of a strip-cartoon hero. Like most Americans Bret was concerned with his weight and his health and his clothes to an extent that his English colleagues regarded as unacceptably foreign. The public-school senior staff at London Central spent just as much money on their Savile Row suits and handmade shirts and Jermyn Street shoes, but they wore them with a careless scruffiness that was a vital part of their snobbery. A real English gentleman never tries; that was the article of faith. And Bret Rensselaer tried. But Bret had a family that went back as far as the Revolutionary War, and what's more, Bret had money, lots of it. And with any kind of snob, money is the trump card if you play it right.

Bret was already in his office when I arrived. He always started work very early – that was another of his American characteristics. His early arrival and punctuality at meetings were universally admired, though I can't say he started a trend. This morning a meeting had been arranged between me, Dicky Cruyer, Morgan – the D-G's stooge – and Bret Rensselaer in Bret's office. But when I arrived on time – growing up in Germany produces in people a quite unnatural determination to be punctual – Morgan was not there and Dicky had not even arrived in his office, let alone in Bret's office.

Bret Rensselaer's office accommodated him on the top floor along with all the other men who mattered at London Central. From his desk there was a view across that section of London where the parks are: St James's Park, Green Park, the garden of Buckingham Palace, and Hyde Park were all lined up to make a continuous green carpet. In the summer it was a wonderful view. Even now, in winter, with a haze of smoke from the chimneys and the trees bare, it was better than looking at the dented filing cabinets in my room.

Bret was working. He was sitting at his desk, reading his paperwork and trying to make the world conform to it. The jacket of his suit, complete with starched white linen handkerchief in his top pocket, was placed carefully across the back of a chair that Bret seemed to keep for no other purpose. He wore a grey-silk bow tie and a white shirt with a monogram placed so that it could be seen even when he wore his waistcoat. The waistcoat – 'vest', he called it, of course – was unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled back.

He'd had his office furnished to his own taste – that was one of the perquisites of senior rank – and I remember the fuss there'd been when Bret brought in his own interior decorator. A lot of the obstructive arguments about it had come from someone in Internal Security who thought interior decorators were large teams of men in white overalls with steam hammers, scaffolding and pots of paint. In the event it was a delicate bearded man, wearing a denim jacket embroidered with flower patterns over a 'No Nukes' sweatshirt. It took a long time to get him past the doorman.

But the result was worth it. The centrepiece of the office was a huge, chrome, black-leather-and-glass desk, specially ordered from Denmark. The carpet was dark grey and the walls were in two shades of grey too. There was a long black chesterfield for visitors to sit on while Bret swivelled and rocked in a big chair that matched the chrome and leather of the desk. The theory was that the clothes of the occupants of the room provided all the necessary colour. And as long as the colourful bearded designer was in the room, it worked. But Bret was a monochrome figure and he blended into the decor as a chameleon matches its natural habitat, except that chameleons only match their surroundings when they're frightened.

'I'm taking over Stinnes,' he announced when I went into the room.

'I heard they were trying to hang that on you!' I said.

He grinned to acknowledge my attempt to put him down. 'No one hung it on me, buddy. I'm very happy to handle this end of the Stinnes debriefing.'

'Well, that's just great then,' I said. I looked at my watch. 'Have I arrived too early?'

We both knew that I was just poisoning the well for Dicky Cruyer and Morgan, but Bret went along with it. 'The others are late,' he said. They're always goddamned late.'

'Shall we start?' I said. 'Or shall I go and have a cup of coffee?'

'You sit where you are, smart ass. If you need coffee so urgently, I'll get some brought here.' He pressed a button on his white phone and spoke into a box while staring at the far side of the room with his eyes unfocused.

They sent coffee for four and Bret got to his feet and poured out all four cups so that Cruyer's coffee and Morgan's coffee were getting cold. It seemed a childish revenge, but perhaps it was the only one Bret could think of. While I drank my coffee Bret looked out of his window and then looked at things on his desk and tidied it up. He was a restless man who, despite an injured knee, liked to duck and weave and swing like a punch-drunk boxer. He came round and sat on the edge of his desk to drink his coffee; it was a contrived pose of executive informality, the kind that chairmen of big companies adopt when they're being photographed for Forbes magazine.

Even after Bret and I had been sitting there for ten minutes drinking in silence the other two had still not turned up. 'I saw Stinnes yesterday,' Bret finally volunteered. 'I don't know what they do to people at that damned Debriefing Centre, but he was in a lousy uncooperative mood.'

'Where have they put him, Berwick House?'

'Yes. Do you know that the so-called London Debriefing Centre has premises as far away as Birmingham?'

'They were using a place in Scotland until last year, when the D-G said we couldn't spare the travelling time for our staff going backwards and forwards.'

'Well, Stinnes isn't having a ball. He did nothing but complain. He said he's given us all he's going to give us until he gets a few concessions. The first concession is to go somewhere else. The Governor – the one you don't like: Potter – says Stinnes has threatened to escape.'

'How would you feel, restricted to Berwick House for week after week? It's furnished like a flophouse and the only outdoor entertainment is walking around the garden close to the walls to see how many alarms you can trigger before they order you back inside again.'

'It sounds as if you've been locked up there,' said Bret.

'Not there, Bret, but places very like it.'

'So you wouldn't have put him there?'

'Put him there?' I couldn't help smiling, it was so bloody ridiculous. 'Have you taken a look at the staff of the London Debriefing Centre lately?' I asked. 'Do you know where they recruit those people? Most of them are redundant ex-employees of Her Majesty's famous Customs and Excise Department. That fat one who is now officially designated the Governor – stop me if you're laughing so much it hurts – came from the Income Tax office in West Hartlepool. No, Bret, I wouldn't have put the poor bastard into Berwick House. I wouldn't have put Stalin there either.'

'So let's have it,' said Bret with studied patience. He slid off the edge of the desk and stretched his back as if he was getting stiff.

'I haven't given it a lot of thought, Bret. But if I wanted anyone to cooperate, I'd put him somewhere where he felt good. I'd put him into the Oliver Messel suite at the Dorchester Hotel.'

'You would, eh?' He knew I was trying to needle him.

'And do you know something, Bret? The Dorchester would cost only a fraction of what it's costing the taxpayer to hold him at Berwick House. How many guards and clerks do they have there nowadays?'

'And what's to stop him walking out of the Dorchester?'

'Well, Bret, maybe he wouldn't want to escape from the Dorchester the way he wants to get out of Berwick House.'

Bret leaned forward as if trying to see me better. 'I listen to everything you say, but I'm never quite sure how much of this crap you believe,' he said. I didn't reply. Then Bret said, 'I don't remember hearing any of these theories when Giles Trent was being held in Berwick House. You're the one who said he mustn't be allowed to smoke and arranged for him to have small-size pyjamas with buttons missing and a patched cotton dressing gown without a cord.'

'That's all standard drill for people we're interrogating. Jesus, Bret, you know the score, it's to make them feel inadequate. It wasn't my idea; it's old hat.'

'Stinnes gets the Oliver Messel suite and Trent didn't even get buttons for his "pj's"? What are you giving me?'

'Stinnes isn't a prisoner. He's come over to us voluntarily. We should be flattering him and making him feel good. We should be getting him into a mood so that he wants to give us one hundred per cent.'

'Maybe.'

'And Stinnes is a pro… he's an ex-field agent, not a pen pusher like Trent. And Stinnes knows his job from top to bottom. He knows that we're not going to rip out his fingernails or give him the live electrodes where it hurts most. He's sitting pretty, and until we play ball with him he'll remain stumm.'

'Have you discussed this with Dicky?' asked Bret.

I shrugged. Bret knew that Dicky didn't want to hear about Stinnes; he'd made that clear to everyone. 'No sense in letting the rest of the coffee get cold,' I said. 'Mind if I take Dicky's cup?'

He pushed the coffee towards me and looking at the door again said, 'It wouldn't have to be a great idea to be an improvement on what's happening at present.'

'Isn't he talking at all?'

'The first two weeks were okay. The senior interrogator – Ladbrook, the ex-cop – knows what he's doing. But he doesn't know much about our end of the business. He got out of his depth and since the Berlin arrest Stinnes's become very difficult. He is very disillusioned, Bernard. He's been through the honeymoon and now he is in that post-honeymoon gloom.'

'No, don't tell me, Bret.' I held one hand to my head as if on the verge of remembering something important. 'The "honeymoon" and the "post-honeymoon gloom"… I recognize the magical syntax… there's a touch of Hemingway there, or is it Shelley? What golden-tongued wordsmith told you that Stinnes was in the – how was it he put it? – "post-honeymoon gloom"? I must write that down in case I forget it. Was that the Deputy Governor, the bearded one with the incontinent dachshund that craps on his carpet? Jesus, if I could only get stuff like that into my reports, I'd be D-G by now.'

Bret looked at me and chewed his lip in fury. He was mad at me, but he was even madder at himself for repeating all that garbage that London Debriefing staff trot out to cover their manifold incompetence. 'So where can we move him to? Technically, London Debriefing have custody of him.'

'I know, Bret. And this is the time that you tell me again about how necessary it is to keep up the pretence that he's being questioned about my loyalty, in case the Home Office start making noises about him being transferred to MI5 facilities.'

'It's the truth,' said Bret. 'Never mind how much you don't like it, the truth is that you're our only excuse for holding onto Stinnes.'

'Bullshit,' I said. 'Even if the Home Office started asking for him today, the paperwork would take three months going through normal channels, four or five months if we were deliberately slow.'

That's not so. I could tell you of three or four people handed over to Five within two or three weeks of entering the UK.'

'I'm talking about the paperwork, Bret. Until now we've mostly let them go because we don't want them. But the paperwork that makes the transfer necessary takes an average of three months.'

'I won't argue with you,' said Bret. 'I guess you see more of the paperwork from where you sit.'

'Oh boy, do I.'

He looked at his watch. 'If they don't arrive by nine, we'll have to do this later in the day. I'm due at a meeting in the conference room at nine forty-five.'

But as he said it, Dicky Cruyer and Morgan came through the door, talking animatedly and with exhilarant friendliness. I was disconcerted by this noisy show, for I detested Morgan in a way I didn't dislike anyone else in the building. Morgan was the only person there whose patronizing superiority came near driving me to physical violence.

'And what happens if I get you home later than midnight?' said Dicky with that fruity voice he used after people had laughed at a couple of his jokes. 'Do you turn into a pumpkin or something?' They both laughed. Perhaps he wasn't talking about Tessa, but it made me sick in my stomach to think of her being with Dicky Cruyer and of George being miserable about it.

Without a word of greeting Bret pointed a finger at the black-leather chesterfield and the two of them sat down. This seemed to sober them and Dicky was even moved to apologize for being late. Morgan had a blue cardboard folder with him; he balanced it on his knees and brought out a plain sheet of paper and a slim gold pencil. Dicky had the Gucci zipper case that he'd brought back from Los Angeles. From the case he brought a thick bundle of mixed papers that looked like the entire contents of his in-tray. I suspected that he intended dumping it upon me; it was what he usually did. But he spent a moment getting them in order to show how prepared he was for business.

'I have an important appointment in just a little while,' said Bret, 'so never mind the road show; let's get down to business.' He reached for the agenda sheet and, after adjusting his spectacles, read it aloud to us.

Bret was determined to establish control of the meeting right away. He had unchallenged seniority, but he had everything to fear from both of them. The insidious tactics of Morgan, who used his role of assistant to the D-G to manipulate all and sundry, were well known. As for Dicky Cruyer, Bret had been trying to take over the German desk from him and been rebuffed at every stage. Watching the way that Dicky was ingratiating himself with Morgan I began to see how Bret had been outmanoeuvred.

'If you have to get away, Bret, we can adjourn to my office and finish off,' offered Morgan affably. His face was very pale and rotund, with small eyes, like two currants placed in a bowl of rice pudding. He had a powerful singsong Welsh accent. I wondered if it had always been like that or whether he wanted to be recognized as the local boy who'd made good.

'Who would sign the minutes?' said Bret in an elegant dismissal of Morgan's attempt to shed him. 'No, I'll make certain we'll finish off in the allotted time.'

It was a run-of-the-mill meeting to decide some supplementary allocations to various German Stations. They'd been having a tough time financially, since appropriations hadn't been revised through countless upward revaluations of the Deutschemark. Bret put on his glasses to read the agenda and pushed the meeting along at breakneck speed, cutting into all Dicky's digressions and Morgan's questions. When it was all over, Bret got to his feet. 'I've accepted the D-G's invitation to supervise the Stinnes interrogation,' he announced, although by that time everyone in the room – if not everyone in the building – knew that. 'And I'm going to ask for Bernard to assist me.'

'That's not possible,' said Dicky, reacting like a scalded cat. Dicky suddenly glimpsed the unwelcome prospect of actually having to do the work of the German desk, instead of passing it over to me while he tried to find new things to insert into his expense accounts. 'Bernard has a big backlog of work. I couldn't spare him.'

'He'll have time enough for other work as well,' said Bret calmly. 'I just want him to advise me. He's got some ideas I like the sound of.' He looked at me and smiled, but I wasn't sure what he was smiling about.

Morgan said, 'When I offered help, I didn't mean senior staff. Certainly not technical people such as Bernard.'

'Well, I didn't know you ever offered me anything,' said Bret coldly. 'I was under the impression that the D-G still ran the Department.'

'A slip of the tongue, Bret,' said Morgan smoothly.

'Bernard is the only person who can unlock the problems Debriefing Centre is having with Stinnes.' Bret was establishing the syntax. The problems with Stinnes would remain LDC's problems, not Bret's, and a continuing failure to unlock those problems would be my failure.

'It's just not possible,' said Dicky Cruyer. 'I don't want to seem uncooperative, but if the D-G keeps pushing this one, I'll have to explain to him exactly what's at stake.' Translated, this meant that if Bret didn't lay off, he'd get Morgan to pretend the order to lay off came from the D-G.

'You'll have to tackle your problem by getting some temporary help, Dicky,' said Bret. 'This particular matter is all settled. I talked to the D-G at the Travellers' Club yesterday – I ran into him by accident and it seemed a good chance to talk over the current situation. The D-G said I could have anyone. In fact, I'm not sure it wasn't Sir Henry who first brought Bernard's name into the conversation.' He looked at his watch and then smiled at everyone and removed his speed-cop glasses. He got to his feet, and Dicky and Morgan stood up too. 'Must go. This next one is a really important meeting,' said Bret. Not like this meeting he was leaving, which by implication was a really unimportant one.

It was Morgan's turn to be obstructive. 'There are one or two things you are overlooking, Bret,' he said, his lilting Welsh accent more than ever in evidence. 'Our story to the world at large is that we are holding Stinnes only in order to investigate Bernard's possible malfeasance. How can we explain Bernard's presence at Berwick House as one of the investigating officers?'

Bret came round from behind his desk. We were all standing close. Bret seemed at a loss for words. He rolled his sleeves down slowly and gave all his attention to pushing his gold cuff links through the holes. Perhaps he'd not reckoned with that sort of objection.

Although until this point I'd had reservations about joining Bret Rensselaer's team, now I saw the need to voice my own point of view, if only for self-preservation. 'What lies you are telling in order to hold Stinnes is your problem, Morgan,' I said. 'I was never consulted about them, and I can't see that operating decisions should be made just to support your insupportable fairy stories.'

Bret took his cue from me. 'Yes, why should Bernard roll over and play possum to get you out of the hole?' he said. 'Bernard's the only one who's been close to Stinnes. He knows the score, like none of the rest of us. Let's not have the tail wagging the dog. Eh?' The 'eh' was addressed to Morgan in his role as tail.

'The D-G will be unhappy,' threatened Morgan. He smoothed his tie. It was a nervous gesture and so was the glance he gave in Dicky's direction. Or what would have been Dicky's direction, except that Dicky had returned to the sofa and become very busy collecting together, and counting, the bundle of papers that we hadn't got round to discussing. Even if they were just papers that Dicky carried with him in order to look overworked, on contentious occasions like this he knew how to suddenly become occupied and thus keep apart from the warring factions.

Bret went to the chair where his jacket was arrayed and took his time about putting it on. He shot his cuffs and then adjusted the knot of his tie. 'I talked this over with him, Morgan,' said Bret. He took a deep breath. Until now he'd been very calm and composed, but he was about to Wow his top. I knew the signals. Without raising his voice very much Bret said, 'I never wanted responsibility for the Stinnes business; you know that better than anyone because you've been the one pestering me to take it on. But I said okay and I've started work.' Bret took another breath. I'd seen it all before; he didn't need the deep breath so it gave nervous onlookers the impression that he was about to start throwing punches. In the event, he prodded Morgan in the chest with his forefinger. Morgan flinched. 'If you screw this up I'll rip your balls off. And don't come creeping back here with some little written instruction that the old man's initialled. The only thing you'll succeed in changing is that I'll hand your lousy job right back to you, and it's not the job upon which careers are built. You'll discover that, Morgan, if you're misguided enough to try taking it over.'

'Steady on, Bret,' said Dicky mildly, looking up briefly from his papers but not coming within range of Bret's wrath.

Bret was really angry. This was something more than just a Bret tantrum, and I wondered what else might be behind it. His face was drawn and his mouth twitched as if he was about to go further, and then he seemed to change his mind about doing so. He reached his fingers into his top pocket to make sure his spectacles were there and strode from the room without looking back at anyone.

Morgan seemed shaken by Bret's outburst. He'd seen these flashes of temper before, but that wasn't the same as being on the receiving end of them, as I well knew. Dicky counted his papers yet again and held on tight to his neutral status. This round went to Bret, but only on points, and Bret was not fool enough – or American enough – to think that a couple of quick jabs to the body would decide a match against these two bruisers. Winning one little argument with the public-school mafia at London Central was like landing a blow on a heavy leather punching sack – the visible effect was slight, and two minutes later the pendulum swung the whole contraption back again and knocked you for six.

There was a silence after Bret departed. I felt like Cinderella abandoned by the fairy godmother to the mercies of the ugly sisters. As if to confirm these fears Dicky gave me the papers, which were indeed the contents of his in-tray, and said would I have a look at them and bring them back this afternoon. Then Dicky looked at Morgan and said, 'Bret's not himself these days.'

'It's understandable,' said Morgan. 'Poor Bret's had a tough time of it lately. Since he lost the Economics Intelligence Committee he's not been able to find his feet again.'

'Rumour says Bret will get Berlin when Frank Harrington resigns,' said Dicky.

'Not without your say-so, Dicky,' said Morgan. 'The D-G would never put into Berlin someone whom you'd find it difficult to work with. Do you want Bret in Berlin?'

Ah! So that was it. It was obvious what Dicky might gain from keeping Morgan sweet, but now I saw what Morgan might want in exchange. Dicky muttered something about that all being a long way in the future,' which was Dicky's way of avoiding a question that Morgan was going to ask again and again, until he finally got no for an answer.