Len Deighton - Spy Line

'Do let's.'

'I'm sorry if I've been a bit bad-tempered lately, darling.'

'I haven't noticed any difference,' she said.

Afterwards I looked back and saw that weekend in Berlin as the beginning of the end, but I don't know how much of that view was hindsight. At the time, it seemed unusual simply because of the hectic way in which meeting followed meeting and the way Frank Harrington – always something of a mother hen – became so flustered that he was phoning me in the middle of the night, and then admitting that he'd forgotten what he was calling about.

Not that any of the meetings decided anything very much. They were typically casual Berlin Field Unit conferences at which Frank presided in his inimitably avuncular style and smoked his foul-smelling pipe and indulged in long rambling asides about me or my father or the old days or all three together.

It was on Sunday morning that Frank first gave me an inkling of what was happening. Dicky was not there. He had left a message to say he was showing Tessa 'round the town', although what Dicky knew about Berlin could be written on the head of a pin and still leave plenty of room for the Lord's Prayer.

It was just me and Frank. We were in his study in the big house at Grunewald. He had a secretary there and some of the top secret material was filed there. It gave Frank an excuse for a day at home now and again. That incredible and unforgettable study! Although I could not identify any single object as having its origins in the sub-continent, this room could have been the Punjab bungalow of some pukka regimental officer, some hero of the Mutiny just back from hunting the nimble blackbuck with cheetahs. Shuttered against the daylight, the dim lamps revealed a fine military chest with magnificent brass fittings, the mounted horns of some unidentified species of antelope, a big leather-buttoned sofa and rattan furniture; all of it bleached, creaky or worn, as such things become in the tropics. Even the sepia portrait of the sovereign seemed to have been selected for her resemblance to the young Victoria. The room expressed all Frank's secret longings, and like most people's secret longings they had no basis in reality.

Even Frank was at his most regimental, with a khaki safari shirt, slacks and plain brown tie. He'd been tapping the map with his fountain pen and asking me questions of a sort that usually were the concern of other technical grades. 'What do you know about the East Berlin Autobahn entrances?' he said.

He indicated the wall upon which two large maps had been fixed. They were a new addition and rather spoiled the 'great days of the Raj' décor. One was a map of east Germany, or the German Democratic Republic, the rather Orwellian name its rulers prefer. Like an island in this communist sea, our Sectors of Berlin were bridged to the West by three long Autobahnen. Used by motorists of both East and West, these highways were a favoured place for clandestine meetings. Smugglers, spies, journalists and lovers all arranged brief and dangerous rendezvous at the roadside. And consequently the DDR made sure the roads were policed constantly night and day.

The second map – the one Frank was tapping upon – was a Berlin street map. The whole city, not just the West. It was remarkably up to date, for I immediately noticed the projected changes to the Autobahn entrances, including the yet to be built turn-off which would – some time in the dun and distant future – provide the West with a new control point on the south side of the city. Rumours said the East Germans wanted the West to pay a great deal of money for it. That was the usual way that anything got done.

'I don't use them,' I said. 'I always fly nowadays.'

'Pity.' He looked at the street map and with his pen showed me the old Berliner Ring and the route that East Berliners took when joining the Autobahn from their side of the city.

'There was a general directive about us using the Autobahn,' I reminded him gently. There was a fear that departmental employees, with heads full of secrets, might be kidnapped on the Autobahnen. It was not a groundless fear. There was a whole filing case full of unsolved mysteries: motorists who started out on the long drive to the Federal Republic and were never seen again. There was no way for the West's authorities to investigate such mysteries. We had to grin and bear it. Meanwhile, those who could fly, flew.

'I want you to drive back down the Autobahn this time,' said Frank.

'When?'

'I'm waiting to hear.' His pipe stem was tapped against his nose in what I suppose was a gesture of confidentiality. 'Someone is coming out.'

'Through Charlie?' That would mean a non-German.

'No. You'll pick them up on the Autobahn,' said Frank. I waited for some explanation or expansion but he gave neither. He continued to look at the street map and then said, 'Ever heard of a man named Thurkettle? American.'

'Yes,' I said.

'You have?' Unless Frank had been attending drama lessons since our previous meeting, he was completely taken aback by this revelation. Clearly he'd not heard about my escapade in Salzburg. 'Tell me about him.'

I briefly told Frank about Thurkettle without going into detail about my task in Salzburg.

'He's here,' said Frank.

'Thurkettle?' It was my turn to be surprised.

'Arrived by air last night. I told London but I got only an "acknowledgement and no further action" signal. I'm wondering if London knows all this you've just told me.'

'Yes, they do,' I said.

Frank frowned. 'We both know how signals get spiked and forgotten,' he said. 'They should at least let me tell the Americans and the police.'

'You can tell them off the record,' I said.

'That might bounce and get me into hot water.' Frank was something of an expert at finding reasons for inaction. 'If Thurkettle has come here on some secret mission for the Yanks, and London has been informed in the usual way, well!…'He shrugged.'They might be displeased to find I've told all and sundry.'

'On the other hand,' I said, 'if Thurkettle has come to town to blow away one of the CIA's golden boys, they might feel that one routine signal to London was an under-reaction.'

'It was a confidential,' said Frank. 'My informant was someone who I can absolutely not name. If London, or the CIA office, demand details of the identification I will find myself having one of those wretched arguments that I hate so much.' He looked at me and I nodded. 'What do you think this fellow's here for, Bernard?'

'No one seems to be sure who Thurkettle works for. The prevailing wisdom – if Joe Brody is anyone to go by – is that he's a hit man who works for anyone, that is to say anyone who comes up with the right target for the right price. Brody says the KGB have used him over the past two years. If Thurkettle was on his way to see our friends in Normannenstrasse, he'd fly into Schönefeld.'

'You mean he's targeting someone here in the West?' Frank screwed his face up. 'I can't put a tail on him. I don't know where he's gone, and even if I did know I simply haven't got the resources.'

' West Berlin isn't on the way to anywhere,' I said. 'No one conies here en route to anywhere; they come here and go back again.'

'You're right. Perhaps I should send London a reminder.' He used his clenched fist to brush up the ends of his moustache. To the casual observer it looked as if he was giving himself two quick punches on the nose: perhaps that's what he thought London was likely to give him if he persisted. 'I'll leave it for the weekend; they might respond again.'

Good old Frank: never hesitate to do nothing. 'Phone the old man,' I suggested.

'The D-G? He hates being disturbed at home.' He scratched his cheek and said, 'No, I'll leave it for the time being. But I'm disturbed by what you told me, Bernard.'