Len Deighton - Spy Sinker

Bret looked at him. He'd told him only as much as he had to be told, but Sylvy Bernstein had spent a lifetime in the intelligence world. He knew what was happening. 'We still need to know,' said Bret.

'It was kind of fortuitous, the way Kennedy picked her up at Waterloo Station, wasn't it?' Bernstein rubbed his chin. He had a tough beard and he needed a shave. 'Serendipitous is the word: I read it in a book.'

'She's a very attractive woman,' said Bret, repeating what Bernstein had said many times, and dismissed the idea of it being an enticement.

'And he's a real smooth shrink. But is he the kind of guy who picks up ladies in railroad stations?'

Bret still couldn't face it. 'It was a special situation, Sylvy. Kennedy's daughter ran away. You talked to the railway cop. You said…'

'Okay, okay. It was really his cousin's daughter and Kennedy is a Canadian. It won't be easy to do a complete vetting job on him. And a guy who gives a false name to a cop is likely to have given a few false names to a lot of other people. But why should I talk myself out of an assignment? I need the money.'

'We'd better turn him right over, Sylvy,' said Bret, as if saying it for the first time. The preliminary check on Kennedy had turned up nothing incriminating but foreign nationals – especially those who moved around a lot – were sometimes difficult to investigate. Perhaps he should have been more thorough right from the start, but he'd been so shocked at the idea of Fiona being unfaithful to her husband that he'd not given proper consideration to a full investigation of the man. And yet what could be more obvious? If the KGB were going to use her in a top job it would be standard procedure to place someone close to her: very close to her. A lover! That was the way the minds of the KGB always worked. Bret said, 'Do a complete vetting job: birth record, the Canadian police computer, Washington too. Check his medical school and military service. Have someone talk to his neighbours, colleagues, friends and family: the full procedure. Your way of doing things is faster than if I do it through official channels.'

'What am I looking for?'

'Jesus, Sylvy! Suppose this guy Kennedy turns out to be a KGB fink?'

'Okay. I'll work as fast as I can, Bret, but you can't hurry these things without showing your hand, and I know you want the lid kept on it.'

'A dozen red roses,' said Bret. 'Well, maybe we'll find they were from her sister or her father.'

'I think I'll stretch my legs,' said Bernstein. He felt as if he'd expire unless he smoked a cigarette.

London. May 1983.

Fiona's defection – despite the way in which the Department made sure no word of it leaked to press or TV – caused a sensation amongst her immediate circle.

Of those working in the Department that day, Bret Rensselaer was the only person who knew the whole story of Fiona Samson's going. Temporarily assigned to him as a secretary, there was a nineteen-year-old blonde 'executive officer' called Gloria Kent. Bret had contrived to have this strikingly attractive trainee working with him, and her presence helped to straighten an ego bent after his wife's departure. Alone in Bret's office, it was Gloria who was the first to hear that Bernard Samson had been arrested in East Berlin. She was appalled.

Gloria Kent had had a schoolgirl crush on Bernard Samson ever since she had first seen him in the office. Perhaps her feelings showed on her face when she brought the bad news to Bret Rensselaer, for after a muttered curse he told her, 'Mr Samson will be all right.'

'Who will tell his wife?' said Gloria.

'Sit down,' said Bret. Gloria sat. Bret said, 'According to our latest information Mrs Samson is also in East Germany.'

'His car is on a meter and covered in parking tickets.'

Bret disregarded this complication. 'I don't want this to go all round the office, Miss Kent. I'm telling you because I will need you to work with me to allay fears and stop silly rumours.' He looked at her: she nodded. 'We will have to assume that Mrs Samson has defected, but I have no reason to believe that her husband was a party to her activities.'

'What will happen to her children?'

Bret nodded. Miss Kent was quick: that was one of the problems on Bret's mind. 'There is a nanny with them. I have been trying to phone Mrs Samson's sister, Tessa Kosinski – but there is no reply.'

'Do you want me to go and knock on the door?'

'No, we have people to do that kind of thing. Here's the phone number. Keep trying it. And the office number for her husband is in my leather notebook under Kosinski International Holdings. See if he knows where his wife might be. Don't tell him anything other than that both Samsons are delayed on duty overseas. I'm going to the Samsons' house. Ring me there and tell me what's happening. And tell the duty armourer I'm coming down to collect a gun.'

'Yes, sir.' She went back to the office and started phoning. The idea of Fiona Samson defecting to the communists was too overwhelming for her to properly consider the consequences. Everyone in the Department had watched the steady rise of Fiona Samson. She was a paragon, one of those amazingly lucky people who never put a foot wrong. It was impossible not to envy her: a beautiful woman from a rich family who had left her mark on Oxford. Cordon Bleu cook, charming hostess, with two children and a wonderfully unconventional husband whom Gloria secretly coveted.

'Yes?' came a slurred and sleepy voice. 'Ahhhh. What's the time? Who's there?'

It was Tessa, who liked to sleep until eleven o'clock, awakened by the phone. Gloria told her that Mr and Mrs Samson had been unavoidably detained abroad. Would it be possible for Mrs Kosinski to go to the Samsons' house and take charge of the children? She tried to sound very casual.

It took a few moments to allay Tessa's fears that her sister had been hurt in an accident, but Gloria's charm was well up to the situation and Tessa soon decided that the best way to find out more was to go to the Samson house and ask Bret Rensselaer.

In record time Tessa bathed, put on her make-up, found the Chanel beret with camellia that she always wore when her hair was a mess, and threw a plaid car coat round her shoulders. She looked into the study where her husband was studying share prices on his computer and told him what little she knew.

'Both of them? What's it all about?' he said.

'Neither of them said anything about going anywhere,' said Tessa.

'They don't tell you everything.' George had grown used to the secretiveness of his wife's family.

'I don't like the sound of it,' said Tessa. 'I thought there was something odd going on when Fiona asked me to look after her fur coat.'

'Is there anything for lunch?' asked George.

'There's a home-made chicken stew in the freezer.'

'Is that still all right? It's dated 1981.'

'I spent hours on that stew,' said Tessa, aggrieved that such rare forays into domesticity were not appreciated.

By the time that Tessa arrived at the Samson house, two heavily built men who answered to Bret were rolling up the overalls they had worn to probe between the floorboards and investigate every inch of the dusty attic. Bret Rensselaer was standing before the fireplace wearing a black trenchcoat. He finished the coffee he was drinking.

He'd recently seen Tessa at Whit elands, and without preliminaries said, 'Mrs Samson has taken a trip to the East.' He put his cup on the mantelshelf. 'For the time being the children need someone to reassure them… The nanny seems to be taking it very calmly but your presence could make all the difference.' Bret had insisted that Fiona engage a reliable girl who could survive a proper security vetting. The present nanny was the daughter of a police inspector. Now and again Fiona had complained that she was not a very good nanny but now Bret's caution was paying off.