Len Deighton - Spy Line

'Okay.'

My work done, we walked to the Connaught Hotel in Carlos Place, the cold air only partially undoing the effect of Harry's Martinis.

He'd reserved a seat by the window and Posh Harry did everything he'd promised. We struck into the a la carte side of the menu and the wines he selected were appropriately excellent. It was the first time I'd ever had such a friendly conversation with Posh Harry. I'd known him for many years but met him only in the line of business.

If an agent's competence was measured by his personal cover then Posh Harry was one of the most proficient I'd known. For years no one seemed quite certain if he was linked to the CIA. Even now I was not sure if he worked for them on a permanent basis. Harry's brother – much older than Harry – had died miserably on a CIA mission in Vietnam, and the way I heard it Harry blamed the Company for his death. But that wasn't anything I'd ever mentioned to him, and if any trace of bitterness remained from that ancient episode there would be little chance of him revealing his feelings.

Harry, no less assertive and no less devious than Rolf Mauser, was everything the old man wasn't. Mauser was a bully who enjoyed the rough-and-tumble process of getting his own way. For Harry the end result was all that mattered. It was I suppose the fundamental difference between Europe and the Orient, between the visible and the concealed, between force and stealth, boxing and judo.

It would have been wiser of me to have given more weight to such reflections before lunch, for by the time I got back to the house in Brook Street I was unprepared for the furious reception that awaited us.

'Do you know what time it is?' yelled Joe Brody, whose lunch with the Ambassador had apparently been a briefer and more austere refreshment than ours.

'I'm sorry, Joe,' replied Harry, caught halfway up the stairs with a red-faced Joe Brody shouting at him from the upper landing. I looked at Brody with interest. Until now I'd never seen him in anything but a relaxed and gentle mood.

Brody was wearing a striped blue three-piece suit appropriate for lunch with the Ambassador. He was old, a bald man with circular gold-rimmed glasses that fitted tight into his face like coins that have grown into the trunk of a gnarled tree. At other times I'd seen him smiling sagely while holding a drink and listening indulgently to those around him. But here was a frenzied little fellow who could even plough furrows across Posh Harry's calm features. 'You're sorry. Goddamnit, you should be. Who's this? Oh, it's you Samson, I almost forgot you were coming over here. Have you finished?'

By that time we were at the upper landing. Joe Brody ushered the two of us back into the room we'd been in before lunch. He strode across the room, took off his jacket and tossed it on to a chair. Slowly, like some aroused reptile, the jacket uncoiled and slid to the floor. Brody gave no sign of noticing it.

I didn't answer. Brody looked at me and then at Harry. I felt embarrassed, as one feels when accidentally witnessing a blissfully married couple suddenly transformed by a savage domestic rift. In the silence one became aware of the traffic noise which provided an unending roar, like distant thunder.

When Harry realized that I had decided not to tell Brody whether we had finished, he said, 'Not quite, Joe.'

'Jesus Christ!' And then even more furiously, 'Jesus Christ!'

'Just one more file,' said Harry repentantly.

'Did you ask him about Salzburg?' Brody said, talking about me as if I wasn't present.

'I wasn't sure if you wanted me to bring that up,' said Harry.

'Sit down, Bernard,' said Joe Brody. He gave a nervous fleeting smile as if trying to reassure me that I was not a part of his row with Harry, but some of his wrath spilled over.

'Do you want a drink, Joe?' said Harry, still trying to assuage Brody's wrath.

'No I don't want a goddamned drink. I want to see some work done around here.' Brody grabbed his nose as if about to take a dose of nasty medicine. Harry muttered something about needing a glass of club soda and went and poured one for himself. I'd never known Posh Harry even slightly discomposed but now his hands were trembling.

Brody sank down into the armchair facing me and sighed. Suddenly he looked exhausted. His tie knot had loosened, his waistcoat was partly unbuttoned and a lot of his shin had become a rumpled lifebelt round his waist. His bad temper had made demands upon his attire and his stamina. But any expectations I had about his temper moderating were not encouraged by the harshness of his voice as he continued. 'One of our people was blown away: in Salzburg. You hear about that?'

'I was there,' I said.

'Sure you were there. What exactly happened, Bernard?'

'So that was one of your people?'

'I asked you what exactly happened.'

'I don't know what exactly happened,' I said.

'Now don't snow me, Bernard. I haven't got a lot of time and I'm not in the mood.'

'I can't tell you anything that the police investigation hasn't already revealed.'

'You saw the police report?'

'No,' I admitted.

'So how the hell would you know?' He grabbed his nose again, then finished the gesture by rubbing his mouth fiercely with the flat of his hand. I decided it was a gesture of self-restraint by a man who was on the verge of a real tantrum.

'Take it easy, Mr Brody,' I said. 'It was an explosive charge triggered by mains electricity. Your man Johnson died. That's about all I can tell you.'

'Would you please describe Johnson.'

'Pleasant manner. Tallish, in good physical shape but slightly overweight. Grey wavy hair; rim beard, no moustache. Gold-rimmed bifocals – '

'That's enough. Who set it up, kid?'

'I've no idea.'

'I think you have,' said Brody, letting his voice go a bit nasty.

'Then give me a clue,' I said.

'I'm asking the questions,' said Brody. 'Think again.'

'I've told you all I can tell you, Mr Brody.'

He sat there glowering at me.

'I'm going to ask you again, Bernard. I want to put this on a formal footing.'

'You can put it on any kind of footing you choose,' I said. 'I've told you once and I'll tell you again. I don't know.'

'Our guy,' he said and paused. I'd forgotten the way senior CIA men always said 'our guy'. When he continued he spoke in that disjointed way that people do when they are upset. 'Our guy was named Bart Johnson. He was a good man… worked out of Frankfurt. I've known Bart twenty years. We were together in Moscow: a long time back. Toughed out some bad ones. I lunched with the Ambassador today. I wanted him to know that Washington has authorized me to follow this one up as forcibly as my resources permit.'

'I'm gratified to hear that, Mr Brody, because if I should get blown away like your friend Johnson, I'd like to be up there knowing that someone is following me up as forcibly as resources permit.'

'Okay, Bernard, we know you were in contact with Bart Johnson. No one is saying that you were implicated in the killing but I want to know exactly what was going on in that damned hotel right up to that explosion.'

'The only thing I can tell you that was going on in that hotel up until the explosion was a stamp auction.' I was trying to keep my voice calm and polite but not entirely managing it.

'Try harder.'

'Try easier questions.'

'Okay. Here's an easier question: why are you being such an asshole?'

I got to my feet and went across the room. Inconspicuously fitted into the oak panelling, and flanked by two horse-racing prints, there was a door. In front of the door there was an occasional table with an inlaid chequered top upon which chess pieces had been arranged by some interior decorator. I turned. Brody was standing up. I kicked the table aside, chess pieces and all, and tried to open the door. It was locked. 'Will you open the door, Mr Brody? Or shall I do it?'