Len Deighton - Spy Sinker

'You didn't expect them to come and knock on the door, did you? They have a mattress: they'll sleep in the van until they're needed. It's parked near the pub.'

'How do you know all this?'

'I arranged it, didn't I? Why do you think I've been visiting the bathroom: did you think I had diarrhoea? From upstairs you can see the pub car park.'

'Do you have a gun?'

Stinnes shook his head.

'I brought a gun,' said Moskvin. He put it on the table. It was a Smith and Wesson.44 Magnum, a truly enormous pistol that Moskvin had gone to great trouble to have waiting here for him.

Stinnes looked at the colossal pistol and at Moskvin. That should be enough gun for both of us,' said Stinnes.

'Then there is nothing to do but wait,' said Moskvin.

Stinnes put a marker into a page of his guidebook and closed it. 'Remember, this place – Bosham – is where King Canute ordered the tide to go back.'

'What happened?' said Moskvin, who had never heard of King Canute.

'The tide kept coming in.' Stinnes picked up his shoulder bag and said, 'I'll be in the way here. I'd better go down and check that the boat is gassed up and ready to sail. You know the phone number.'

'Yes, I know it,' said Moskvin. He'd been counting on help from Stinnes but he was determined not to ask for it.

Upstairs Miranda was wiping the make-up off her face, using lots of cold cream and peering closely at herself in the mirror.

Harmony, who was packing her case, said. That bastard. I cleared everything out of the car, just the way I've been trained to do, and he yells at me for being late. Most of the trash belonged to Moskvin anyway. He's an untidy swine.' She produced a clear plastic sandwich bag into which she had carefully put everything from the rented car. There were two maps of southern England, bits of scrap paper, a broken ballpoint pen, an old lipstick, three pennies and a watch crystal. 'Any of this junk yours, honey?' she asked Miranda.

'No,' said Miranda.

'These rental companies never clean out the cars right: a quick wipe of the ashtray and that's it.' She emptied the contents of the bag, to use it for her make-up.

'I'm almost ready,' said Miranda. 'I think I'll have a day or two in England. I'll join you in Rome the day after tomorrow. Would that be all right?'

'Suit yourself, baby,' said Harmony Jones. 'I have a lot of catching up to do in Rome.'

Stinnes slept on the boat that night. There were three double cabins and he made himself comfortable in one of them. He had the generator going and stayed up late reading: The White Company . He was a dedicated Sherlock Holmes fan and was persevering with his favourite author's excursion into medievalism. The weather was good and Stinnes enjoyed the sounds and motion of the anchored boat and the smells of the wet timber and the salt water.

It was five o'clock the next morning when Moskvin called him on the phone. 'Come immediately,' said Moskvin, and Stinnes hurried out into the brittle pinkness of early morning and reached the cottage within eight minutes.

'What's happening?' asked Stinnes.

'He's here,' said Moskvin. 'Bernard Samson arrived about midnight. The back-up team in the van spotted him. We brought him inside as easily as anything.'

'Where is he now?'

'Upstairs. Don't worry, he's tied up. I let the back-up team go. Maybe that was a mistake.'

'What do you want me for?' asked Stinnes.

I'm not getting anywhere with my questions,' admitted Moskvin. 'I think it's time he faced another interrogator.'

'What have you asked him?'

Moskvin smashed his fist against his open hand in frustration. 'I know that Samson woman is a British spy. I know it and I'll squeeze it out of her husband if it's the last thing I do.'

'Oh, so that's the line of questioning,' said Stinnes. To him it seemed the stupid obsession of a man who had repeatedly told him how much he objected to taking orders from any woman.

There was no way that Moskvin could miss the ridicule in his colleague's voice, but he'd become used to the superior attitude that Stinnes always showed towards him. 'Go up and talk to him. Play mister nice guy.'

When Stinnes went upstairs, Moskvin followed him. Moskvin was not able to sit still downstairs and wait for results: he had to see what was happening. He stood in the doorway behind Stinnes.

The front upstairs room was very small and much of the space was taken up by a small bed. It was pushed against the wall and there were cushions on it so it could be used as a sofa. In the corner there was a dressing table with a large mirror in which the captive was reflected.

I'm going to undo this gag and I want you to…' Stinnes started and then stopped abruptly. He looked round at Moskvin and back to the captive. 'This is not Bernard Samson,' he told Moskvin.

The man tied to the chair was named Julian MacKenzie. He was a probationer who worked for the Department. Bernard Samson had told him to trace the movements of the black girl. He'd done so ail too efficiently. MacKenzie was fully conscious and his eyes showed his fear as Moskvin waved the pistol in the air.

'What do you mean?' said Moskvin angrily. He grabbed Stinnes's arm in his huge hand and dragged him back into the narrow corridor. Then he closed the door. It was dark. The only glimmer of light was that escaping from the room downstairs.

'I mean it's not Bernard Samson,' said Stinnes quietly.

'Who is it?' said Moskvin, shaking him roughly.

'How the hell would I know who it is?'

'Are you positive?'

'Of course I am. Samson is about fifteen years older than this kid. I've seen Samson close-to. I know him well. Of course I'm positive.'

'Wait downstairs. I'll find out who this one is.'

As Stinnes went downstairs he heard Moskvin shouting and there were replies from the young man that were too quiet to hear properly. Stinnes sat down in the armchair and took The White Company from his pocket but found he just kept reading the same paragraph over and over. Suddenly there was the loud bang of the.44 Magnum. A scream. More shots. Stinnes leapt to his feet, worried that the noise would wake up the whole neighbourhood. His first instinct was simply to clear out, but he was enough of a professional to wait for the other man.

Moskvin came down the stairs so slowly that Stinnes was beginning to wonder if he'd shot himself or been injured by a ricochet. Then Moskvin lurched into the room. His face was absolutely white, even his lips were bloodless. He dumped his pistol on the dresser and put out a hand to steady himself on the edge of the kitchen table. Then he leaned over and vomited into the sink.

Stinnes watched him but kept well back. Moskvin pushed the gun aside and retched again and again. Finally, slowly and carefully, he wiped his face on a towel and then ran the water into the sink. That's done,' said Moskvin, trying to put on a show of bravado.

'Are you sure he's dead?' said Stinnes. Taking his time he looked out of both windows. There was no sign that the noise of the shot had attracted any interest from the neighbouring cottages.

'I'm sure.'

'Then let's get out of here,' said Stinnes. 'Can you make it to the boat?'

'Damn your stupid smiling face,' said Moskvin. 'I'll have the last laugh: you just wait.'

But Stinnes wasn't smiling: he was wondering how much longer he could endure the stupid antics of this brutal peasant.

In Berlin that evening, Fiona went to the State Opera. The indispensable Hubert Renn could always produce an opera or concert ticket for her at short notice, and this afternoon she'd suddenly noticed that it would be the last chance to catch the much-discussed avant-garde production of Der Freischütz .

She sat entranced. It was one of her favourite operas. This extraordinary selection of simple folk melodies and complex romanticism gave her a brief respite from work. For a brief moment it even enabled her to forget her worries and loneliness.