Len Deighton - Spy Hook

'Frank Harrington for instance,' said Bret.

He'd hit it right on the nose, of course. Frank – so near to retirement – would oppose change of any sort. 'I get to hear things, Bernard. Even over here I get to know what's going on. The D-G tells me what's what.'

'The D-G does?'

'Not personally,' said Bret.

'We hardly ever see him nowadays,' I said. 'Everyone says he's sick and going to retire early.'

'And let the Deputy take over… Yes, I hear the same stories, but I wouldn't write the D-G out of the script too early. The old devil likes to be a back-seat driver.'

'I should come out here and talk to you more often, Bret,' I said admiringly.

'Maybe you should, Bernard,' he said. 'Sometimes an onlooker sees the game more clearly than the players.'

'But do any of the team take advice from the stands?'

'That's the same old Bernard I used to know,' he said in a manner which might, or might not, have been sarcastic. 'And your lovely Gloria? Is that still going strong?'

'She's a good kid,' I said vaguely enough for him to see that I didn't want to talk about it.

'I heard you'd set up house with her.'

Damn him, I thought, but I kept my composure. 'I rented the town house and got a mortgage on a place in the suburbs.'

'You can never go wrong with real estate,' he said.

'I'll go wrong with it if my father-in-law turns nasty,' I said. 'He guaranteed the mortgage. Even the bank doesn't know I'm renting it yet.'

'That will be all right, Bernard. Maybe they'll inch your payments up but they won't give you a bad time.'

'Half the house belongs to Fiona. If her father claimed it on her behalf I'd be into a legal wrangle.'

'You did get legal advice?' he asked.

'No, I'm trying not to think about it.'

Bret pulled a face of disapproval. People like Bret got legal advice before taking a second helping of carbohydrates. 'The Department would help,' said Bret in that authoritative way he was inclined to voice his speculations.

'We'll see,' I said. I was in fact somewhat fortified by his encouragement, no matter how flimsy it was.

'You don't think Fiona might come back?' he said. He put on a cardigan. The sun had gone now and there was a drop in the temperature.

'Come back!' I said. 'How could she? She'd mid herself in the Old Bailey.'

'Stranger things have happened,' said Bret. 'How long has she been away?'

'A long while.'

'Bide your time,' said Bret. 'You're not thinking of getting married again are you?'

'Not yet,' I said.

He nodded. 'Come back to me,' said Bret. 'Any problem about the house or your father-in-law, or anything like that, you come back to me. Phone here; leave a number where I can reach you. Understand?'

'Why you, Bret? I mean thanks. But why you?'

'Ever hear of the Benevolent Fund?' said Bret, and without waiting for me to say no I hadn't, he added, They recently made me the President of the Fund. It's an honorary title but it gives me a chance to keep in touch. And the Fund is for this kind of problem.'

'Benevolent Fund?'

'These problems are not of your making, Bernard. Sure your wife defected but there's no way that can be laid at your door. It's the Department's problem and they'll do what they can.' He stopped studying his fingernails for long enough to give me a sincere look straight in the eyes.

I said, 'I envy you your faith in the Department's charity and understanding, Bret. Maybe that's what keeps you going.'

'It comes with being an Anglophile, Bernard.' He put both hands in his pockets and grinned. 'And talking about your marriage, what do you hear about Fiona?'

'She's working for the other side,' I said stolidly. He knew I didn't want to discuss any of this but it didn't deter him. I'd been hoping to hear why he'd been playing possum all this time, but he was obviously unwilling to confide in me.

'No messages? Nothing? She must miss the children.'

I said, 'She'd be crazy to have the children there with her. It wouldn't be good for them, and her new bosses would hold the children ransom if she ever strayed out of line.'

'Fiona is probably trusted, Bernard. She gave up a lot: children, husband, family, home, career. She gave up everything. It's my guess they trust her over there.' He fiddled with the controls of the exercise bicycle. It was like Bret; he always had to fidget with something. Always had to interfere, his critics said. He pushed the pedal down so that the mechanism made a noise. 'But a lot of people find it impossible to live over there. Don't give up hope yet.'

'Well, I guess you didn't have me come all the way to California to talk about Fiona,' I said.

He looked up sharply. Years back I'd suspected him of having an affair with Fiona. They seemed to enjoy each other's company in a way that I envied. I was no longer jealous – we'd both lost her – but my suspicion, and his awareness of it, cast a shadow upon our relationship. 'Well in a way, yes I did.' Big smile. 'I had some papers for London. Someone had to come, and they sent you, which makes me very happy.'

'Don't give me all that shit,' I said. 'I'm grown up now. If there's something to say, say it and get it over with.'

'What do you mean?'

'What do I mean? I'll tell you what I mean. First, Harry Strang, not being in on the joke, whatever the joke is, told me that I was assigned at the particular request of the Washington Field Unit. Secondly, when I get here and open my suitcase, I find that it's all been searched very carefully. Not hurriedly ransacked and turned over the way a thief does it, or the orderly and systematic "authorized" way customs do it. But turned right over just the same.'

'Airport security,' said Bret sharply. 'Don't be so paranoid, Bernard.'

'I thought you'd say that, Bret. So what about my hand baggage?

What about the chatty Mr Woosnam or whatever his real name was, who just happens to get the seat next to mine and goes through my bag while I'm in the toilet?'

'You can't be sure,' said Bret.

'Sure it happened? Or sure it was the Department?'

Bret smiled. 'Bernard, Bernard, Bernard,' he said, shaking his head in disbelief. I was paranoid: the matter of my baggage was another example of my foolishness. There was nothing to be gamed from trying to pursue the subject. 'Sit back, and let's talk.'

I sat back.

'Years ago – before Fiona took a walk – I was given a job to do. Operation Hook it was called. It was designed to move some money around the globe. In those days I was always liable to get saddled with those finance jobs. There was no one else upstairs who knew anything about nuts-and-bolts finance.'

'With Prettyman?'

'Right. Prettyman was assigned to me to oversee the facts and figures.'

'Prettyman was on the Special Operations Committee with you.'

'I wouldn't make too much of that,' said Bret. 'It might have looked good on his CV but as far as that Committee was concerned he was just a glorified book-keeper.'

'But he reported back to Central Funding,' I said. 'Reported directly back to them. In effect Prettyman was their man on the Committee.'

'You have been doing your homework,' said Bret, piqued that I should have known anything about it. 'Yes, Prettyman reported back directly to Funding, because I suggested that we did it that way. It saved me having to sign everything, and answer questions, at a time when I was out of London a lot.'

'Operation Hook? I've never heard of it.'

'And why should you? Almost no one heard of it. It was very "need to know"… the D-G, me… even Prettyman didn't know all the details.'

I looked at him waving his hands about.

'Prettyman signed the cheques,' I said.

'I don't know who told you that. It's true he counter-signed the cheques. But that was just a belt-and-braces device the D-G added, to monitor spending. The cheques had the amount and the date filled in – so that Prettyman could watch the cash-flow – but he wasn't a party to the rest of it, payees and so on.'