Len Deighton - Spy Hook

'And suddenly Prettyman goes to Codes and Ciphers. Fiona defects.

Prettyman goes to Washington. Is it all connected in some way I don't see? What was it all for?'

'It's still going,' said Bret. 'It's still damned hot.'

'Going where?' I said.

He hesitated and wet his lips. This is still very touchy stuff, Bernard.'

'Okay.'

Another hesitation and more chewing of the lip. 'Embassy penetration.'

'I thought Ravenscroft had taken all that embassy stuff across the river. He's got a dozen people over there. What do they do all day?'

'Hook is quite different. Ravenscroft knows nothing about it.'

'So Ravenscroft and his people were moved because they were compromised?'

He shrugged. 'I couldn't say. Embassy penetration work is constantly compromised. You know that. A defector goes, and they tighten up, and Ravenscroft's life becomes more tricky for a while.' He looked at me. 'But Hook is not in Ravenscroft's class. A lot of money is involved. Hook is for really big fish.'

'I learn more from you in five minutes than I find out in the office after a year of asking questions.'

'Because I want you to stop asking questions,' said Bret. A new firmer voice now, and not so friendly. 'You're poking into things that don't concern you, Bernard. You could blow the whole show for us.' He was angry, and his angry words turned into a cough so that he had to pat his chest to recover his breath.

'Is that why I was sent here?'

'In a way,' said Bret. He cleared his throat.

'Just let me get this straight,' I said. 'You set up a lot of companies and bank accounts for this "Hook" business so you could move cash without Central Funding having any record?'

'Embassies,' said Bret. 'East European embassies. Not many people. Even I don't have the details. That's how it's run. And it makes sense that way. Because if someone in Funding had the ledgers every one of our sources could be endangered.' I looked at him. 'Big fish, Bernard…'

'And Prettyman knew about all this?'

'Prettyman knew only what he had to be told, plus whatever he could guess.'

'And how much was that?'

'Only Prettyman can answer that one.'

'And Prettyman is dead.'

'That's right,' said Bret. 'He's dead.'

'And you want me to forget the whole thing?'

'Some bloody fool of a book-keeper got his figures wrong. Panic. And suddenly it seemed like getting Prettyman back to London was the best way to sort out the muddle.'

'But now it's sorted out?'

'It was an accountant's mistake. A glitch like that happens now and again.'

'Okay, Bret. Can I go now?'

'It's no use getting tough,' warned Bret. 'This business is nothing to do with you. I don't want you prying into it. I'm asking you to back off because lives are at stake. If you're too dumb to see there's no other way.'

'Then what?'

'This is official,' he said. 'It's not just me asking you on a personal basis, it's an official order.'

'Oh, I've got that one written down and learned by heart,' I said. 'My baggage wasn't turned over because there was any chance of finding something I was hiding. I'm too long in the tooth for that one. My checked baggage was searched to show me that you were on the side of the angels. Right, Bret? Was that your idea, Bret? Did you ask London Central Operations to turn me over? Harry Strang was it? Harry's a good enough fellow. Tough, efficient and experienced enough to arrange a small detail like that. And near enough to his pension not to be tempted to confide in me that it was going to happen. Right, Bret?'

'You're your own worst enemy, Bernard.'

'Not while you're around, Bret.'

'Think it over, Bernard. Sleep on it. But make quite sure you know what's at stake.' He turned his eyes away from me and found an excuse to fiddle with the bicycle.

'Innocent lives, you mean?' I asked sarcastically. 'Or my job?'

'Both, Bernard.' He was being tough now: all that Benevolent Fund script was shredded. This was the real Bret: steely-eyed and contemptuous.

'Is this the sort of ultimatum you put to Jim Prettyman?' I asked. 'Was he his own worst enemy, until you came along? Did he give your "official order" a thumbs down so you had to have some boys from out of town blow him away in the car park?'

The shake of his head was almost imperceptible. Bret's expression had locked up tight. The gold had gone from the sunlight; he looked old and tired and wrinkled. He'd never come back and work in the Department again, I was certain of that. Bret's time had come and gone. His voice was little more than a whisper as he said, 'I think you've said enough, Bernard. More than enough, in fact. We'll talk again in the morning. You're booked on the London flight tomorrow.'

I didn't answer. In a way I felt sorry for him, doing his exercises every day, and trying to keep in touch with the Department, and even interfere in what went on there. Telling himself that one day it would all be like it was before, and hoping that his chance of a knighthood wasn't irretrievably lost.

I stood up. So it was the stick and carrot. Play ball with Bret and I even get help with the mortgage: but keep looking into things that don't concern me and I'll lose my job, and maybe lose it the way Jim Prettyman lost his job. Feet first.

Or had I misunderstood him?

Disorientated and jet-lagged, my mind reeling with memories, I slept badly that night. That damned house was never quiet, not even in the small hours. Not only was there the relentless whine and hum of machinery close by but I heard footsteps outside my open window and muttered words in that thick accented Spanish that Mexican expatriates acquire in Southern California. I closed the window, but from behind the house there came the sounds of guard dogs crashing through the undergrowth and throwing their weight against the tall chainlink fence that surrounded the house and kept the animals in the outer perimeter. Perhaps the animals sensed the coming storm, for soon after that came the crash of thunder, gusting winds and rain beating on the window and drumming against the metal pool furniture on the patio.

The storm passed over rapidly, as storms out of the Pacific so often do, and about four o'clock in the morning a new series of loud buzzes and resonant droning of some nearby machines began. It was no good, I couldn't sleep. I got up to search for the source of the noise. Dressed in one of the smart towelling robes that Mrs O'Raffety thoughtfully provided for her guests, I explored the whitewashed corridor. Here were doors to the pantry, the larder, the kitchen and various store rooms. The main lighting was not working – perhaps the storm had caused a failure – but low-wattage emergency lights were bright enough for me to see the way.

I passed the boiler room and the fuse boxes and the piled cartons of bottled water that Mrs O'Raffety believed was so good for the digestion. The mechanical sounds grew louder as I got to the low wooden door next to the kitchen servery. The key was left in a big brass-bound lock. By now I'd come far enough around the house to be behind the guest rooms.

I opened the door and stepped cautiously inside. The hum of machinery was louder now and I could see a short flight of worn steps leading down into a low-ceilinged cellar. Along one wall there were four control panels lit with flickering numbers and programs. The glimmer of orange light from them was enough to reflect the large puddle that had formed on the uneven flagstones of the floor. It was the laundry room, with a battery of washing and drying machines. On the top of one of the dryers there was an empty beer can and some cigarette butts. The machines were aligned along the wall that I guessed must back on to mine. From somewhere close by I heard a cough and an exclamation of anger. It was one of the Mexicans.