Len Deighton - XPD

‘Then our old comrade Franz Wever. Why did he have to be killed?’

‘Our old comrade Franz,’ said Kleiber bitterly, ‘only wanted to discover what we were doing. Had he found out, he would have reported everything to the British intelligence. He was their man. Franz Wever would have betrayed us.’

Breslow said nothing. Franz Wever had always been envious of him and had gladly admitted it. Franz was permanently posted to the communications job while Breslow had seen front-line service at the war. Perhaps it was this frustration that had caused Franz Wever to jump into the Danube so promptly that cold evening at Linz, where they had spent their leave together. The drowning child would never have survived the current. For a moment he had thought both Wever and the child would be swept away. They had spent a miserable evening in the local police station, waiting for Franz’s uniform to dry. Only months later did Franz receive the letter from the boy’s father: ‘Carry this photo to remind you of the life you saved; may my son grow up to be worthy of your gallant act,’ and there was a snapshot of the child standing in front of a ghastly painted backdrop of mountain landscape. Franz had carried it everywhere.

Kleiber pursed his lips to indicate that he disapproved of Breslow’s silence. What had happened to his friend, he wondered. Was this something to do with living in California? ‘People are going to get hurt, Max.’ He tapped the table silently with a fingertip. ‘Stein will have to be disposed of, you realize that, don’t you? He knows too much to remain alive. Anyone who reads the material will have to be dealt with in the same way. It is regrettable… I don’t enjoy it… but it is a fact.’

‘Where is Stein now?’

‘Are my people here in Los Angeles not keeping you informed?’

‘The last I heard he sent his son Billy to London.’

‘Yes. Billy Stein went to London. The English secret service sent their man along to see him. There wasn’t time to put a microphone in the room so we don’t know what was said. Personally, I think they found the bodies before the police did. I think they found them even before young Stein did. They are cunning, Max, we have to be most cautious.’

‘Bodies? There was more than one?’

‘An Englishman, a friend. We think he was the one who told him how to get into the computer memory. It was better to get rid of both. He was sure to have told his English friend how well he’d succeeded.’

‘How did you discover the leak?’

‘It was the only stroke of luck we have so far had on this business A very close friend of mine in the BND got it over lunch from the director general of the British secret service. The inquiry came to me soon after you took the message off Stein’s answering machine. It was clever of you to do that, Max.’

‘There was nothing clever about it,’ said Breslow. ‘I have the same model of answering machine. Stein got it for me wholesale. I was able to get a whistle with the same musical tone as Stein’s machine.’

‘Well done,’ said Kleiber.

Breslow did not reply. He did not have Kleiber’s long experience of intelligence work: the business with the answering machine had left him feeling defiled and ashamed.

Perhaps Kleiber realized this. He said, ‘It was of immense help to us. Knowing what the message was meant I could get on the plane to London immediately. I didn’t have to wait to hear what this fellow Paul Bock wanted to tell Stein-we knew already.’ He smiled and patted Breslow’s arm in a congratulatory manner. Breslow flinched. He could never get used to such physical contacts. Masculine embraces might be de rigueur for restaurateurs, footballers and film stars, but not for old comrades.

‘Don’t underestimate Stein,’ Breslow warned him, ‘He may look like a slob, but under that gross and unattractive exterior there is a man of great physical strength and considerable intellectual resource.’

Kleiber waved his hand as if to waft away these praises of Stein. ‘By this time, Stein should be on his knees, begging for money.’

‘Well, he isn’t,’ said Breslow. He lifted the paper cup and drained the last dregs. The coffee was thin and tepid but the taste of the good German brandy was welcome. ‘He’s being very evasive.’

‘It was a good plan,’ said Kleiber. ‘We calculated that the failure of the bank would make them part with the documents within a few days You’d think they’d want to get some money as soon as they could. You’d think their bank would be the first priority… ’ Kleiber rubbed his face wearily. ‘Do you think Stein believed that story about the British trying to kill you on the freeway?’

‘I improvised it at short notice, Willi, and I was rather shaken by the accident… But, yes. I believe he did. My Mercedes was very badly damaged. It was only too easy to persuade him that it was deliberately done.’

‘It was lucky. It put Stein off the scent, and probably made him think the British were trying to kill you.’

‘Yes, I told him so.’

‘You did well Max. When did you last see him?’

‘Charles Stein? The day before yesterday. Why?’

‘The truth is… ’ began Kleiber. He yawned. It was a sign of anxiety as much as of loss of sleep. ‘The truth is that we’ve gone a little wrong in London. We’ve lost contact with the younger Stein.’

‘I’m certain he hasn’t returned here to Los Angeles.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘Because he would be with my daughter Mary.’

‘Your daughter… Mary and the Stein boy?’

‘Better him,’ said Breslow, ‘than the Mexican gas station attendant who chased her everywhere last year. Finally I sent her to Europe for a month.’

‘The Stein boy has vanished,’ said Kleiber. ‘I had one of my very best men in charge of the London end. I can’t understand it; Stein left the hotel, paid his bill and took his baggage. And my people saw nothing of it.’

‘You think the British intelligence service is holding him?’

‘Yes. I do. I think they waited for Stein to go to the house, arrested him and are now interrogating him.’

‘What a mess,’ said Max Breslow. If anything happened to Billy Stein, his father might hold him responsible. Max Breslow was not of a nervous disposition, as his war record proved, but he knew that the wrath of Charles Stein would be terrible to behold. What if Stein took revenge upon Breslow’s daughter? He suppressed this terrifying idea. ‘What now?’

Kleiber stretched his arms and looked very smug. ‘We have had an amazing stroke of luck, Max.’ This, Breslow suspected, was the moment that Kleiber had been looking forward to. He was right. Kleiber said, ‘As I have just told you, we have a contact with the very top level of the British intelligence service-MI6 they call it-a good friend of mine is the liaison between London and our own BND in Bonn. They lunch together and talk of horticulture… ’ Kleiber smiled at Max Breslow’s puzzled expression. ‘It is their mutual passion: cactus plants. This passion has proved a most wonderful advantage for us, Max.’

‘And yet you don’t know if the British are holding Stein?’

Kleiber, did not miss the note of sarcasm in his friend’s question. He smiled. ‘I think we can safely assume that they have Billy Stein in custody, and that they have interrogated him very successfully.’ There was something in Kleiber’s face that told Breslow that this was his most important item of news, ‘What is our greatest problem, Max? Surely it is finding the whereabouts of the Hitler Minutes. Well, now we do know where they are. The British have discovered that the Hitler Minutes and all the rest of the documents are in the house of Colonel Pitman in Switzerland. We even know what sort of strong room protects them.’