Len Deighton - Spy Sinker

'No, no. I'll have to eat something with Bernard.'

Tessa dropped back into the sofa, grabbed her glass and drank some champagne. 'You're lucky not to live in Hampstead: it's full of eggheads. My bloody cleaning woman phoned up and said she couldn't come today: she has a conference with her script editor! Script editor; Jesus Christ! Do have some more booze, Fi. I hate drinking alone.'

'No thanks, Tess. And I think you've had enough for one night.'

Tessa put the glass down and didn't refill it. Being in her sister's bad books made her feel wretched. Fiona was the only one she had, after George her husband, and she couldn't go to George with all her troubles. Most of her troubles came from these silly little love affairs she was always becoming caught up in: she couldn't expect George to help her with those.

'Can I use your phone?' said Fiona.

Tessa made an extravagant gesture with both hands. 'Use the one in the bedroom if you want privacy.'

Fiona went into the bedroom. Upon the big four-poster bed, an antique lace bedspread was spread over a dark red cover to show it off. The bedside table held a smart new phone and an assortment of expensive perfumes, pill bottles and paperback books. An aspirin bottle had been left open and tablets were scattered about. Fiona picked up the phone but hesitated before dialling.

Despite Bret Rensselaer's sanguine theories, Fiona Samson was not a person who readily turned to other people – male or female – for advice or instruction. She was self-sufficient, and self-critical too, in a way that an eldest child so often can be. But now she felt the need of a second opinion. She looked at her watch. Having carefully rehearsed the story in her mind, she dialled Bret's number. His phone rang for a long time but there was no reply. She tried again: it was always possible that she had misdialled, but again the ringing was unanswered. This frustration put her off balance, and it was then that she was suddenly struck with the idea of phoning Uncle Silas.

Silas Gaunt's career was little short of a legend in the unwritten story of the Department. Uncle Silas could not be compared to other men: he was virtually unique. Every now and again, the British establishment decorously embraces a rogue, if not to say a rogue elephant, a man who breaks every rule and delights in doing so. One who recognizes no master and few equals. Gaunt's career was marked by controversy, and he began his time as Berlin Resident by having a vociferous argument with the Director-General. It was an indication of both his diplomacy and his ruthlessness when he emerged with no enemies in high places.

Gaunt, a distant relative of Fiona's mother, was the man who had so energetically protected Brian Samson, and then his son Bernard, against well-placed people who believed that the senior ranks of the Secret Intelligence Service were the exclusive province of a certain sort of upper-class Englishman quite unlike Samson and his son. The Samsons survived: the opposition didn't reckon on Gaunt's ingenuity, devious games, or rage. But when Gaunt finally retired, the collective sighs of relief were heard throughout the service. Gaunt, however, was not out of the game. The Director-General knew and respected him, and his regard could be measured by the way that Sir Henry handled the Fiona Samson operation. Only Bret Rensselaer, who'd come to him with the idea, Silas Gaunt and himself were party to the secret.

Now, on impulse, Fiona dialled the number of the Whitelands farm in the Cotswolds. Finding it was Silas himself who answered, Fiona didn't hesitate nor waste time with pleasantries; she didn't even give her name. Relying upon him to recognize her voice, she said, 'Silas. I must see you. I must. It's urgent.'

There was a long silence. 'Where are you? Can you talk?'

'At my sister's flat. No, I can't.'

'Next weekend soon enough?'

'Perfect,' she said.

Another long silence. 'Leave it to me, darling. Bernard will be invited, plus you and the children.'

'Thank you, Silas.'

'Think nothing of it. It's a pleasure.'

She replaced the phone. When she looked down to see what was crunching underfoot she found she'd crushed aspirins and other pills into the gold-coloured carpet. She looked at the mess; she worried about Tessa. To what extent had she made her sister into the sort of woman she'd become? Fiona had always been the 'eldest son', with effortless top marks and a relationship with her father that Tessa never knew.

Despite being her father's favourite she was never taken into his confidence, for he kept his financial affairs secret: to the extent of employing several different accountants and lawyers so that no one would know the full picture of his investments and interests. But Fiona was taken to his office to meet the staff and there seemed to be a tacit agreement that eventually Fiona would replace her father.

It never happened of course. Fiona went to University, and flourished. She enjoyed being in a man's world and while there she was recruited into the most masculine preserve of all: that mystic and exclusive British brotherhood that enjoys a duality of name and profoundly secret purpose. The obsessional secrecy that her father had maintained prepared her for the Secret Intelligence Service, but nothing her father showed her of his business world could compete with it.

And when, within this brotherhood, she found a man unlike any other she had ever met, she wanted him, and got him. Bernard Samson had grown up in this secret world of physical hardship and brutality. A kill or be killed world. Many of her father's friends had seen service in the war – some had been decorated as heroes – but Bernard Samson was fundamentally different to any of them: for his war was a dark, dirty, private war. Here at last was a man her father could not fathom, and heartily detested. But if, as Chandler said, 'down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid… Complete man, common man and yet an unusual man,' then Bernard Samson was such a man. The day she first saw him she knew that it would be unendurable to lose him to another.

Fiona married. Tessa, neglected and insecure, floated away; a victim of Fiona's career-making and her father's indifference. Poor Tessa, what might she have been if Fiona had guarded her and advised her and given to her according to her need?

'Are you all right?' Tessa called from the next room.

I'm coming, Tessa. It will all be all right. I promise you, I'll sort it out.'

Tessa came to her. 'I knew you would, Fi.' She threw her arms round Fiona's neck and kissed her. 'Dearest, darling, wonderful Fi, I knew you would.'

Such displays of affection embarrassed Fiona, but she stood stiff and still and put up with it.

Had the invitation to see Silas come in other circumstances, Fiona Samson would have enjoyed every minute of the weekend she spent with her husband and children at Whitelands, the farming estate to which Silas Gaunt had retired. His six hundred acres of the Cotswolds provided superlative walks and breath-taking views across the mighty limestone plateau that borders the shining River Severn.

But in this context everything was fraught with worries and dangers. Dicky Cruyer, the enterprising German Desk Controller, and his arty wife Daphne were there. Bret Rensselaer had brought a young blonde girl. Diffident in the company of so many strangers, she clung tight to him; so tight in fact that they'd arranged to have the only two bedrooms with a connecting door. Fiona guessed that Bret had requested those two rooms when she asked Silas if she could have the two children next to her, and Silas had replied that there were other needs greater than hers, and laughed.

Silas was a pirate, or at least he looked the part. A huge pot-bellied ruffian with a jowly face surmounted by a huge forehead and bald head. His baggy clothes were of high quality but he preferred old garments – as he preferred old wine and old friends – and displayed the faded patches and neat darns that were the work of his faithful housekeeper Mrs Porter, as an old warrior his medals.