Len Deighton - XPD

The DG picked up another plant. It was not in good condition. For weeks he had been trying to persuade himself that it would recover its strength, but there was little chance that it would. A pity, for it had been a fine specimen once, one of his favourites. Actually, he knew exactly how the PM had concluded that there was a leak from his department, and that it had led to the King’s Cross murders. The truth was that the PM had stated what she saw clearly reflected in Sir Sydney Ryden’s own troubled face. If he searched deeply into his innermost thoughts, he would have to admit to some unease about that lunch he had given to the chap from the BND. Now, every time he fussed and fiddled with the potted plants, he recalled the conversation. Had it been one of his subordinates, Sir Sydney would have described it as indiscreet, if not insecure.

He looked at the clock. It was almost time to go downstairs. His car had been ordered and the driver was always a little early. He was dining with the German BND official tonight. He had carefully rehearsed exactly what he intended to say but now, at the last moment, he was having second thoughts. Sydney Ryden had never worked as a field agent. There was nothing unusual about this, hardly any of the senior officials of the department had ever spied upon anything more secret than their colleagues’ expense accounts. Like them, Sydney Ryden was a desk man, skilled in administration, but ignorant of all the rigmarole of spying. He was well aware of his limitations, and it was quite obvious that good men’s lives were at stake if he handled this evening badly. If, on the other hand, he could get this German to believe that the Hitler Minutes were at the Pitman house in Geneva, he might be able to make up for some of the harm already done. And given a little additional luck he might be able to put this man Kleiber into the bag, despite the ‘hands-off’ assurance he had given the Americans. He picked up the phone and dialled Operations. ‘Hello. Director here. Anything new on the Stein business?’

There was a delay while the duty officer checked not only the locked ‘current’ filing cabinet but also the pigeonholes and the message pad. ‘Nothing since the dossier went to your office at five o’clock, Director.’

‘Thank you.’ He put the phone down. That was it then. It was worth a go. He picked up the heavy, illustrated catalogue of Schiff locks, bolts and strong rooms. On the cover there was a burglar with a black mask and a bag of swag over his shoulder. He folded it and slipped it into his pocket.

From the East River to the Hudson, 10th Street cuts right across Manhattan at its widest place. Property speculators tried to call the east side of it ‘the East Village ’ but there were not many takers among the Russian emigrés, Italian waiters or Puerto Rican delinquents who lived there. Still less interest was shown by the drunk sprawled near the Russian Baths not far from the intersection with First Avenue. It was the morning of Monday, July 30, and the hot summer had made the city into a stone oven which, even at night, did not cool. Two old men had put a table on the pavement to continue the chess game they started inside the old brownstone house. Kids were working to get the fire hydrant opened, cheered on by some teenage girls who were sunbathing on the rusty fire escape above.

Three men emerged on to the flat roof of the property next to the all-night grocery. They vaulted effortlessly over the low wall that separated this roof from the one next door, dodging between washing hung on the roof clotheslines to dry. Their sweat shirts were dirty and stained, their jeans worn white at the knees and frayed at the pockets. The first man was dark complexioned with an Afro haircut and Zapata moustache. The other two men were white. One, a slim youth with tattooed arms, laboured under the weight of a blue metal toolbox. The third man of the trio was Melvin Kalkhoven, whose clean face and short haircut ill suited his grubby clothes. He detoured to peer into the street below.

The three men stopped at the dilapidated little shed which gave access to the building’s interior staircase. Once they were inside, the stale heat of this old building hit them like a hot towel. The black man-Pete-put on a set of Con Edison coveralls which he had been carrying under his arm. The other two waited for him and listened to the sounds of the street and watched for any movement inside the building. A fire engine could be heard somewhere over on the west side, and below them the janitor was arguing with a drunken tenant; their raucous voices echoed in the stair well.

‘These old houses smell bad,’ said Pete.

They moved quickly to the top landing. Pete went to the window and with difficulty got it open. He looked down into the street. The other two men donned white cotton gloves.

Melvin Kalkhoven looked at his watch, ‘Ready to go, Pete?’

Pete nodded. The tattooed youngster put down the toolbox and began working on the door lock of apartment No. 8. The lock had already been examined by a CIA team the day before. The skeleton keys they had been provided with were the correct choice. It was only thirty seconds before the door swung open.

‘All clear,’ said Pete. He too looked at his watch.

Kalkhoven and his assistant moved quickly inside the apartment and closed the door behind them. ‘What a lousy little lock,’ said the youth. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

‘Expensive locks in a district like this could draw just the sort of attention these people are trying to avoid,’ said Kalkhoven. ‘This is a safe house… nothing secret, nothing valuable here… just a place to meet.’ He looked quickly into the tiny rooms. There were two telephones: one in the bedroom and a wall phone in the sitting room. No, not the telephones, he decided, the electricity supply sockets would be more suitable. It was very hot and airless inside the apartment-the windows had not been opened for weeks; they were secured by screw locks. The two single beds in the smaller room were neatly made up, bedclothes and matching green nylon overlays folded in envelope-corner style, as beds are made in hospitals.

‘They haven’t been slept in in months,’ said Melvin Kalkhoven. ‘It’s just a meeting place.’ Already he was at work removing the cream-coloured plastic cover from the electricity outlet by the bed. His assistant began work on the one behind the refrigerator. His name was Todd Wynn, a thin, wiry twenty-five-year-old-he looked no more than eighteen.

‘Watch that screwdriver,’ said Kalkhoven. ‘We don’t want scratch marks on the plastic covers.’

‘Why are we using such old-fashioned equipment, Melvin?’

‘ “Be not curious in unnecessary matters,” it says in the good book. “For more things are showed unto thee than men understand.” ’

‘Don’t kid around, Melvin. Why aren’t we fitting voice-activated bugs, or something more sophisticated?’

Kalkhoven said, ‘Because the guys who use this place are pros. Like I tell you, don’t mark the plastic. These are the kind of people who will check the place.’

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

‘OK,’ said Kalkhoven. Working quickly he removed the screws holding the wall plate and pulled the cover off. From his pocket he took a tiny carrier transmitter, no larger than a packet of razor blades. He fitted it into position, squeezed it to bend the wires and replaced the plastic cover. ‘Because if we put voice activated sets into this room anyone could locate them using a vest-pocket detector. Blast off any powerful sound and the voice activator will sing for you. Easier than hell to find them.’

The youth was slower in putting his carrier transmitter into position. ‘So someone’s got to sit outside and monitor this baby?’