"Spy Sinker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Deighton Len)

7

London. September 1978.

Sylvester Bernstein was a fifty-year-old American. Together with his wife he lived in a Victorian red brick terrace house in Battersea. One small room on each of three floors with a kitchen and bathroom that had been added at the back by a previous owner in the early Seventies. Now that this south side of the river had been invaded by affluent young couples – who'd discovered how close it was to central London – the whole street was undergoing a transformation. There were yellow coloured front doors, and even pink ones with brass knockers, and nowadays more and more of the cars parked nose to tail along the street were without rust. The local 'planning department' regulations prohibited the use of these houses as offices but Bernstein was confident that no one would complain about the way he'd made his garret room into an office with a typewriter, a couple of desks, two phone lines and a telex machine. Private investigators didn't spend much time in offices: at least Sylvester Bernstein didn't.

Bernstein had been a CIA man for twenty-one years. He took retirement after the wounds in his leg refused to heal. He'd married a girl he'd met in Saigon, an English nurse working for Christian Aid, and she suddenly decided that they must live in England. At that time the dollar was high against sterling, so his retirement pay gave him enough to live well in London. When the dollar weakened, Bernstein was forced to go back to work. His contacts in Grosvenor Square helped him to get that elusive work permit and he set up in business as Sylvester Bernstein, private investigator. But truth to tell, most of his clients came to him because of his long career as a CIA man. Some of those clients were still in the twilight world of 'security'; people who wanted a job done while they remained at arm's length from it. The job Bernstein was doing for Bret Rensselaer was typical of the work he did, and because he'd known Bret a long time, and because Bret was a demanding client, Bernstein did not have one of his sub-contractors do the job for him. He did most of it personally.

They were sitting in the downstairs room. On the walls hung cheap Victorian prints of scenes from Walter Scott novels. The elaborate fireplace was complete with lily-patterned tiles and polished brass fender and all the fire-irons. The iron grate however held not coal but an arrangement of dried flowers. Virtually everything, even the furniture, had come with the house. Only his wife's china collection, the beige wall-to-wall carpet, the American-style bathroom and such things as the large-screen TV on a smart trolley were new. It was a diminutive room, but panelled wooden connecting doors were open to reveal an even smaller dining room, and through its window a view of the tiny back garden. Bret lounged on the sofa, the papers Bernstein had prepared for him fanned out so that he could refer to them.

'Is Martin Euan Pryce-Hughes his real name?' asked Bret, who was unfamiliar with Welsh names. He had to look down at the papers to remember it.

'His old man was Hugh Pryce-Hughes.' Bernstein was a short potbellied man wearing a grey three-piece suit that he'd been heard to describe as 'native costume'. It was more or less like the suit that Bret Rensselaer wore – and which gave him the urbanity one expected of a diplomat or surgeon – but the suit looked wrong on Bernstein, for his features, complexion and demeanour suggested a manual labourer, or maybe an infantryman. He was not now, however, in the right physical shape to be either; his face was red, the sort of complexion that comes with high blood-pressure, and he had a wheeze that smoking aggravated. Enough grey hair remained to see that it had once been brown and curly, and his hands were strong with short thick fingers upon one of which he wore a fraternity ring and upon another a flashy diamond. With ramrod spine, he sat splayfooted on a little bentwood chair. One black sock had sagged to reveal a section of bare leg. He was aware of his stiff unnatural pose but it reconciled his legs with the fragments of Vietnamese metal embedded in them. His voice was low and firm; unmistakably American but not stridently so. 'The famous Pryce-Hughes.'

Bret looked down and furrowed his brow.

'The writer,' said Bernstein. 'Internationally famous… the one who wrote those books about the Fabian Society. His memoirs created all the fuss about Wells and Shaw. You must have heard of him.' Bernstein was a great reader. The bookcase held Dreiser, Stendhal, Joyce, Conrad and Zola – he was not too fond of the Russian novels – and he'd read them all not once but several times. He was proud to be a graduate of Princeton but he was also aware that Bret, and others like him, regarded Bernstein as reassuring proof that an Ivy League education did not guarantee success in what Bret called 'the real world'.

'No, Sylvy, I've never heard of him,' said Bret. 'For these Brits, internationally famous means known in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. How many books?'

Bernstein smiled briefly. 'Maybe half a dozen.'

'You'd better get them for me.'

'His father's books? What for? You're not going to read them?'

'Of course I am.' Bret was thorough, and he wanted Bernstein to be reminded of that.

'As long as you don't ask me to read them,' said Bernstein.

'No,' said Bret. 'There is no call for you to read them, Sylvy.'

'You haven't suddenly taken against smoking, have you?' When Bret shook his head Bernstein took out a packet of Lucky Strike and shook one loose.

Bret said, 'Could you initiate a file for me?'

Bernstein flicked open a well-worn Zippo lighter with an inscription that read 'Rung Sat Special Zone', a souvenir of an unhealthy trip into a mangrove swamp southeast of Saigon during the Vietnam war. He kept it to remind himself, and anyone else who had to be reminded, that he'd had another sort of life not so long ago. He took his time lighting a cigarette and then said, 'What's on your mind?'

'A secret file, recording meetings, reports and payments and so on. A file of stuff coming in from one of our own people.'

'We don't work like that. No one works like that. No one keeps all the information from one agent in the same file. The Coordination people take it and distribute it. They make damn sure no name, nor any clue to the source, is on it.'

'I didn't ask you how we work,' said Bret.

Bernstein blew smoke while looking at Bret. Bret stared back. 'Oh, I see what you mean. A bogus file.' Bret nodded. 'A file to prove that someone was one of our people when actually he wasn't one of our people.'

'Don't let's get too deeply into existentialism,' said Bret.

'A file with real names?'

'A few real names.'

'You want to frame Martin Pryce-Hughes? You want to make someone think he's reporting to us?'

'That's what I want.'

Sylvy blew more smoke. 'Sure. It can be done; anything can be done. How far back would you want to go?'

'Ten years?'

'That would take us back to the days of mechanical typewriters.'

'Maybe.'

'You're not thinking of something they could take back to Moscow and put under the microscope?'

'No. Something to show someone briefly.'

' 'Cause real good forgeries cost. We'd need real letterheads and authentic department names.'

'Not that ambitious.'

'And I get it back?'

'What for?'

'To feed it into the shredder.'

'Oh, sure,' said Bret.

'Why don't I throw something together then? I'll sort out some photocopies and provide a sequence of material the way it would be if we filed it that way. It will give us something to look at and talk about. When we get that the way you want it, I'll find someone good to do the forgeries.'

'Great,' said Bret. He wished Bernstein wouldn't use words such as forgeries, it made him feel uneasy. 'Keep it very circumstantial. We're not trying to produce exhibit A for Perry Mason.'

'A subtle, tasteful kind of frame-up. Sure, why not? But I'd need to know more.'

'You take it and show it to this creep and lean on him,'

'How's that?'

'Lean on him. Say you're from a newspaper. Say you're from the CIA, say anything but scare the shit out of him.'

'Why?'

'I want to see which way he jumps.'

'I don't see your purpose. He'll know it's a fake.'

'Do it.'

Bernstein looked at him. He knew Bret because he knew other men like him. Bret didn't have any operational purpose for frightening the old man: he just felt vindictive. 'It would be cheaper just to beat him up,' said Bernstein.

Bret scowled. He knew exactly what Bernstein was thinking. 'Just do it, Sylvy. Don't second-guess me.'

'Whatever you say, doc.'

Bret smiled politely. 'Anything more on the woman?'

'No. She hasn't seen the boyfriend for a week. Maybe they had a fight.'

'Boyfriend? Is that it?' said Bret as casually as he could.

'Oh, sure. She doesn't go along to his fancy apartment in Maida Vale to play chess.'

help them. And look at her husband. I've met him a few times. He's a really rough diamond, isn't he?'

'You said…'

'That I liked him. And I do up to a point. He's dead straight: I wouldn't like to cross him.' It was quite an accolade coming from Bernstein. 'He's a man's man: not the sort you'd expect to find hitched to a twin-set and pearls lady like that.'

Bret bit his lip and was silent for a moment before saying, 'Sometimes things are not…'

'Oh, I know what you're going to say. But I've been doing this kind of work for a long time now. Two people like that… She goes to his apartment: alone, never with her husband… He never goes to her place. And you only have to see them together to know he's crazy about

'He's a psychiatrist,' said Bret.

'I'll bet he is.'

Bret found that offensive. He didn't want that kind of wisecrack; this was strictly business. 'Just four beats to the bar, Sylvy,' he said. It was the nearest he got to a reprimand.

Bernstein smoked and didn't reply. So this wasn't just a job, there was more to it. Was this guy Kennedy a relative of Bret Rensselaer, or what? 'If she wanted to consult him, why wouldn't she go and consult him at the hospital?'

'She would have to report any kind of medical treatment, especially a visit to a psychiatrist,' said Bret. 'Remember the way it goes?'

'So this might be a way of seeing a shrink in secret? Is that what you mean?'

'She's under a lot of strain.'

Bernstein took a quick drag at his cigarette. 'Yeah, well, I'm not asking you too many questions about this one, Bret, because you told me it's touchy, but…'

'But what?'

'Kennedy isn't that kind of shrink. Not any more he's not. At the clinic he's doing work on crowd hysteria and hallucination. He doesn't see patients; he analyses figures, gives lectures and writes dissertations on the herd instinct and that kind of junk. The clinic is paid by some big US foundation and the work they publish is studied by various police departments.'

'So tell me your theory,' said Bret.

'What can I tell you: he's a good-looking guy. An airplane freak. Canadian. Soft-spoken, well-heeled, smartly dressed, very, very bright and muy simpatico. You get the picture? This Samson lady… she's a very attractive woman.' He stopped. A conversation with Bret, when he was in a touchy mood like this, was like a stroll through a minefield. He smoked his cigarette as if trying to decide what to say next. 'Maybe that kind of soft shoulder, and the Canadian charm this guy Kennedy peddles, is just what she's short of.'

'A good-looker, is he?'

'You saw the photos, Bret.'

'Looked like he was assembled from a plastic kit.'

'He's a natty dresser, I said that. But even people who don't like him admit he's brilliant. Good flyer, good doctor and good lover too maybe. He's one of those people who always come out on top in exams: fluent, adaptable and sophisticated.'

'And on the down side?'

'My guess is: neurotic, restless and unhappy. He can't settle down anywhere. But lots of women go for guys like that, they figure they can help them. And look at her husband. I've met him a few times. He's a really rough diamond, isn't he?'

'You said… '

'That I liked him. And I do up to a point. He's dead straight: I wouldn't like to cross him.' It was quite an accolade coming from Bernstein. 'He's a man's man: not the sort you'd expect to find hitched to a twin-set and pearls lady like that.'

Bret bit his lip and was silent for a moment before saying, 'Sometimes things are not…'

'Oh, I know what you're going to say. But I've been doing this kind of work for a long time now. Two people like that… She goes to his apartment: alone, never with her husband… He never goes to her place. And you only have to see them together to know he's crazy about her.' He flicked ash into an ancient ceramic ashtray around the rim of which the words 'Long May They Reign. Coronation 1937' were faintly visible. It was part of his wife's collection of commemorative china-ware. He moved it, so there was no danger of it being knocked and broken, and waited for Rensselaer to react.

'It's improbable,' pronounced Bret.

'You say it's improbable. Okay, you're the boss. But do my job for a little while, and maybe you'd start thinking you can't use that word improbable, because when boys and girls get together, nothing is improbable.'

Bret smiled but he felt sick at heart. In his own futile way he loved and cherished Fiona Samson, and didn't want to believe she was having a casual affair. 'Okay, Sylvy. You usually get it right.'

'There's always a first time. Maybe they just drink tea, look at pictures of his airplanes and talk about the meaning of life. But really I don't think so, Bret.'

Bret Rensselaer got up, overcome with anger. He looked around angrily, as if an escape from the room would bring with it escape from the facts he didn't want to face. He couldn't get out of his mind the wonderful relationship that he believed had developed between him and Fiona Samson over the weeks and months since he'd started preparing her for what would undoubtedly be the intelligence coup of the century. Fiona was the perfect pupil. 'Pupil' perhaps wasn't the right word and it certainly wasn't a word he would use to her about their relationship. Protégée, perhaps; although that wasn't the right word either. In a grimmer truth the relationship was more like the one a prizefighter has with a trainer, a manager, or a promoter.

She needed his support nowadays. The strain was beginning to tell on her, but that was only to be expected. He liked to help her, and of course Bret would not have denied that there was a certain frisson to the way that they had to meet covertly, in such a way that her husband wouldn't start suspecting. For by now Bret had reluctantly come round to the D-G's idea that advantages could be obtained from Bernard Samson's dismay at his wife's defection.

'How could she?' It was only when he stole a glance at Bernstein that Bret realized that he'd asked the question aloud. He turned away and went across to the dining table to lean upon it with both arms outstretched; he had to think.

Bret and Fiona, they had become so close that lately he'd dared to start believing that she was becoming fond of him. He'd arranged fresh flowers whenever she came, and she'd remarked on it. Her rare but wonderful smiles, the curiously fastidious way she poured drinks for both of them, and sometimes she brought silly little presents for him, like the automatic corkscrew which replaced the one he'd broken. There was the birthday card too: it came in a bright green envelope and said 'With all my love, Fiona'. Bad security, as he told her at their next meeting, but he'd placed it by his bedside clock; it was the first thing he saw when he woke up each morning. Bret closed his eyes.

Bernstein watched him twisting and turning but said nothing. Bernstein waited. He wasn't puzzled; he didn't puzzle about things he wasn't paid to puzzle about. He'd discovered over the years how mysterious could be the ways of men and women, and Bret Rensselaer's wild pacing and unrestrained mutterings didn't alarm him or even surprise him.

Bret hammered a fist into his palm. It was inconceivable that Fiona was having an affair with this man Kennedy. There must be some other explanation. Bret had come to terms with the fact that, when she said goodbye to him, Fiona Samson went home to her husband and children. That was right and proper. Bret liked Bernard. But who the hell was Kennedy? Did Fiona smile and make jokes with Kennedy? Even more awful to think about, did she go to bed with this man?

It was at that point that Bret Rensselaer steadied himself on the mantelpiece, drew back his foot and kicked the brass fender as hard as he could. The matching fire-irons crashed against the fireplace with such force that the grate sang like a tuning fork, and one of the tiles of the hearth was hit hard enough to crack.

'Take it easy, Bret!' said Bernstein in a voice that, for the first time, betrayed his alarm. He found himself standing up, holding, for safety, the two Queen Victoria Diamond Jubilee plates that were his wife's most treasured items.

This displacement activity seemed to release some of Bret's anger, for the desperate nature of his movements subsided, and he stepped more carefully about the room and pretended to look at the books and then out of the window to where his car was parked. It was not often that Bret was lost for words but he simply could not get his thoughts in order. 'Jesus Christ!' he said to himself, and resolved to get Fiona Samson assigned to Berlin right away, perhaps by the weekend.

When Bret sat down again both men remained silent for a while and listened to the dustmen collecting the garbage: they banged the bins and yelled to each other and the truck gave a plaintive little hooting noise whenever it backed up.

'Give me a butt, Sylvy.'

Bernstein let him take one and flicked the Zippo open. He noticed that Bret was trembling but the cigarette seemed to calm him down.

Bret said, 'What would you say to a regular job?'

'With your people?'

'I just might be able to fix it.'

'Are you getting tee'd off with paying me out of your own pocket?'

'Is that what I'm doing?' said Bret calmly.

'You never ask for vouchers.'

'Well, what do you say?'

'I wouldn't fit into a British setup.'

'Sure you would.'

'The truth is, Bret, that I wouldn't trust the British to look after me.'

'Look after you how?'

'If I was in trouble. I'm a Yank. If I was in a jam, they'd feed me to the sharks.' He stubbed out his cigarette very hard.

'Why do you say that?' Bret asked.

'I know I'm stepping out of line, Bret, but I think you're crazy to trust them. If they have to choose between you and one of their own, what do you think they are going to do?'

'Well, let me know if you change your mind, Sylvy.'

'I won't change my mind, Bret.'

'I didn't know you disliked the Brits so much, Sylvy. Why do you live here?'

'I don't dislike them; I said I don't trust them. London is a real nice place to live. But I don't like their self-righteous attitude and their total disregard for other people's feelings and for other people's property. Do you know something Bret, there is not an Englishman living who hasn't at some time or other boasted of stealing something: at school or in the army, at their college or on a drunken spree. All of them, at some time or other, steal things and then tell about it, as if it was the biggest joke you ever heard.'

Bret stood up. Bernstein could be sanctimonious at times, he thought. 'I'll leave all this material. I've read it all through. I don't want it in the office.'

'Anything you say, Bret.'

Bret brought out his wallet and counted out twenty fifty-pound notes. Bernstein wrote 'one thousand pounds sterling' on a slip of paper without adding date or signature or even the word 'received'. It was the way they did business.

Bret noticed the freshly cut leather on the toe of his shoe and touched it as if hoping it would heal of its own accord. He sighed, got up and put on his hat and coat and began thinking of Fiona Samson again. He would have to face her with it, there was no alternative. But he wouldn't do that today, or even tomorrow. Much better to get her off to Berlin.

'This guy Pryce-Hughes,' said Bret very casually as he stood near the door. 'What do you make of him, Sylvy?'

Bernstein was not sure what Bret wanted to hear. 'He's very old,' he said finally.

Bret nodded.