Len Deighton - Spy Sinker

'Of course, Bret, of course. Are you sure you'll be all right?'

Bret stumbled out of the room holding a handkerchief to his face. 'Poor Bret,' said Silas.

'I won't tell Bernard that I've spoken with you,' said Fiona, still unsure of exactly what was expected of her.

'That's right. Now stop worrying. Can you persuade Tessa to tell her story to your husband?'

'Probably.'

'Do that.'

'Suppose Bernard goes to Internal Security?'

'It's a risk we'll have to take,' said Silas. 'But I want you kept out of it. If push comes to shove, you'll just have to deny Tessa ever told you. I'll see you are protected.'

'That smoke is affecting me now,' said Fiona.

'Get back to the others, or they'll start thinking we have a love affair or something.'

'You won't want to talk to Tessa?'

'Stop playing the elder sister. If I want to talk to her I'll fix it.'

'She gets very nervous, Silas.'

'Go and walk about in the garden and get the smoke out of your eyes,' he said.

When she'd gone he sank down on to his favourite armchair and let out a groan. He leaned close to the fire and prodded it again. 'Why do these things happen to me?' he complained to the log. As if in response the smoking log burst into a flicker of flame.

If Fiona had seen him now she would have been less confident of Silas Gaunt's ability to make her troubles disappear. 'We'll have to put you into the bag neatly and quickly, Mr Giles Trent,' he muttered, and tried to visualize the reactions of Trent's controller when he found his man was uncovered. Would they try to pull him out and save him? Or would Moscow perceive another spy trial, in the very heart of London Central, as a triumph worth sacrificing a piece for? This might be one of those cases where both Moscow and London would agree that a favourable outcome was a permanently silent Trent. If it came to that, Silas had better make sure there was someone available to do the deed. He called to mind a tough old German war veteran who'd once worked as a barman at Lisl's hotel, and while there had done all sorts of nasty jobs for Silas. He went over to live in the East: perfect! Who'd link such a man with London Central? What was the fellow's name – oh yes, Rolf Mauser, a wonderful ruffian. Just the fellow for a job like this. He wouldn't contact him directly of course, it would be imperative to keep it at arm's length.

Maida Vale, London. April 1983.

'Have you gone to sleep, honey?' Fiona buried her head in the pillow and didn't answer. The mattress heaved as he slid out of bed and went into the bathroom. It was a sunny spring day. Being in bed in broad daylight, behind closed curtains, made her feel guilty. What had happened to her? At least a thousand times, over the years, she had vowed never again to see Harry Kennedy, but he was so charming and amusing that he intrigued her. And then she would find herself thinking of him, or a bunch of flowers would arrive, or an advert from the 'hair and beauty salon', and her resolution invariably weakened and she came back to him.

Sometimes it was no more than a quick drink at some pub near the clinic or a few words over the phone, but there were times when she needed him. Now and again it was a meeting like this and she relished every moment of it.

She watched him walk naked across the room and open the wardrobe. He was muscular and tanned except the buttocks left pale by his shorts. Lately he'd done three delivery trips to Saudi Arabia. Across his shoulders, like a bandoleer, there were livid scars from a forced landing in Mexico ten years ago. He felt her looking at him and leered at her.

This illicit relationship had transformed Fiona. It had thrown a bombshell into the routine of her married life. Being with Harry was exciting, and he made her feel glamorous and desirable in a way that Bernard had never been able to do. Sex had come to play an important part in it but it was something even more fundamental than that. She couldn't explain it. All she knew was that the pressure upon her in her working life would have been unendurable without the prospect of seeing him if only for a brief moment. Just to hear his voice on the telephone was both disturbing and invigorating. She was now understanding something she'd never known, the kind of teenage love she'd only heard other girls talk about, the kind they sang about in pop tunes she couldn't stand. Of course she felt guilty about deceiving Bernard, but she needed Harry. Sometimes she thought she might be able to eliminate some of the guilt that plagued her if they could continue their friendship on a different, platonic, basis. But as soon as she was with him any such resolve quickly faded.

'Ah, so you are awake. How about a champagne cocktail? I've got everything right here.'

She laughed.

"Is that funny?' he said. He put on his chequered silk dressing gown while looking at himself in the mirror and smoothing it and adjusting the knot in the belt.

'Yes, darling, very funny. Tea would be even better.'

'Tea? You got it.'

After Harry went out she reached over to the bedside table and picked up the lunchtime edition of the evening paper. There on the front page a headline proclaimed the 'Chelsea Bathroom Shooting'. An intruder had broken into Giles Trent's house and shot him in the shower. The killer had used the plastic shower curtain to avoid being splashed with blood and washed his hands before leaving. A conveniently unnamed Scotland Yard spokesman called it 'very professional indeed', and one of those experts who are always ready to speak to newspapers said it had 'all the signs of a typical New York Mafia execution'. The reporter seemed to imply that narcotics were involved. There was a blurred photo, one column wide, of a very young Giles Trent in bathing trunks, arms akimbo and broad smile. On an inside page there was a large photo of the house in Chelsea with a policeman on duty outside it.

Thank God Bernard had kept Tessa and Fiona out of the whole business. Uncle Silas had been entirely right about Bernard. It was disconcerting that certain of his male friends understood him in a way that she had never been able to. He was so secretive. Without any discussion or explanation to her, he'd got Giles Trent to confess, and confess without mentioning Tessa. Now Trent was dead, and however ugly his death she couldn't help but feel a measure of relief.

There were other portentous signs. Bret had asked her to copy out a long secret document about Bank of England support for sterling. It was all in her handwriting and she never handed it over to Martin. As far as Fiona could see that meant only one thing: Bret was going to pass that to the KGB through some other agent. Why her handwriting? Only a complete fool would produce a document so incriminating unless this was going to be concrete evidence of her personal work for the other side. There was something ominous about the way Bret brushed her questions aside.

Another forewarning came from the amount of material she'd handed over to Martin in recent weeks. Bret said that none of it was of vital importance but there was such a lot of it. London Central just wouldn't want to keep passing it through at this rate, and yet what excuse would she be able to provide for lessening the flow? It all added up to one thing: they intended that she should go East, and go soon. She dreaded it, but in some ways the waiting was even worse.

Every day now she looked at her husband and the children with love and with longing. Each time she saw her sister she wanted to warn her that they would soon be separated, but any sort of hint or preparation was out of the question. To make it more painful, Fiona had become convinced that she'd never return. There was no logical reason, nor any evidence to support her failure of confidence. The premonition was purely instinctive and purely feminine. It was a calm fatalism that a matriarch might feel, surrounded by her family, on her deathbed.