Len Deighton - Spy Sinker

'He told Samson that Moscow have broken the new diplomatic code. That's why we did everything "by hand of messenger".'

The D-G extended a finger and touched one of the photos as though it might have been impregnated with some contagious disease. 'You believe him?'

'You probably spoke with Silas Gaunt,' said Bret, who wanted to know the lie of the land before committing himself to an opinion.

'Silas has got a bee in his bonnet about this one. I was looking for a more sober assessment.'

Bret did not want to say something that would afterwards be quoted against him. Slowly he said, 'If Stinnes and his offer to defect is a Moscow stunt…'

The D-G finished the sentence for him. 'The way we have reacted will make those chaps in Moscow feel very good, eh Bret?'

'I try to disregard any personal feelings of triumph or disaster when making decisions of that sort, Sir Henry.'

'And quite right too.'

'If Stinnes is doing this on Moscow's orders, he'd be more likely to bring us some secret document that we'd be tempted to transmit verbatim, or at least in sequence.'

'So that they could compare it and break our code? Yes, I suppose so. So you think he's genuine?'

'Silas thinks it doesn't matter; Silas thinks we should work on him, and send him back believing what we want them to believe over there.' Bret waited for the reaction and was still ready to jump either way. But he could tell that the D-G was attracted by this idea.

After a moment's pause for thought, the D-G said, 'I don't want you to discuss this with Silas for the time being.'

'Very well, Sir Henry.'

'And in course of time, separate Stinnes from Cruyer and Samson and everyone else. This is for you to do alone, Bret. One to one, you and Stinnes. We have to have one person who understands the whole game and all its minutiae and ramifications. One person is enough, and that person must be you.'

Bret put the photos and the printout back into his case. The D-G made agitated movements that indicated he was about to terminate the meeting. 'Before I go, Bret, one aspect of this…'

'Yes?'

'Would you say that Bernard Samson has ever killed a man?'

Bret was surprised, and for a moment he allowed it to show. 'I imagine he has, sir. In fact… well, I know… Yes, many times.'

'Exactly, Bret. And now we are subjecting nun to a considerable burden of anxiety, aren't we?'

Bret nodded.

'A man like Samson might not have the resilience that you would be able to show in such circumstances. He might take things into his own hands.'

'I suppose he might.' Bret was doubtful.

'I saw Samson the other day. He's taking it badly.'

'Do you want me to give him sick leave, or a vacation?'

'Certainly not: that would be the worst thing you could do for the poor fellow. It would give him time to sit and think. I don't want him to sit and think, Bret.'

'Would you give me some idea of what…?'

'Suppose he came to the conclusion that his wife had betrayed him, and betrayed his country. That she'd abandoned his children and made a fool of him? Might he not then decide to do to her what he's done to so many others?'

'Kill her? But wait a minute, Sir Henry. In fact she hasn't done that, has she?'

'And that leads us on to another aspect of the horrible position that Samson now finds himself in.' The D-G heaved himself up out of the low seat. Bret got to his feet and watched but decided against offering him assistance. The D-G said, 'Samson is asking a lot of questions. Suppose he discovers the truth? Might it not seem to him that we have played a cruel prank on him? And done it with callous indifference? He discovers that we have not confided in him: he feels rejected and humiliated. He is a man trained to respond violently to his opponents. Might he not decide to wreak vengeance upon us?'

'I don't think so, Sir Henry. Samson is a civilized man.' Bret went across the office and held the door open for him.

'Is he?' said the D-G in that cheery way he could summon so readily. 'Then he hasn't been properly trained.'

East Berlin. November 1983.

To the façade of the building in Karl Liebknecht Strasse a dozen workmen were affixing a huge red banner, 'Long Live Our Socialist Fatherland'. The previous one that had promised both prosperity and peace was faded to light pink by the sun.

From the window of Fiona Samson's office there were only the tassels to be glimpsed, but part of the framework for the new banner cut across the window and reduced the daylight. 'I've always wanted to go to America,' admitted Hubert Renn as he picked up the papers from her desk.

'Have you, Herr Renn? Why?' She drank her tea. She must not leave it for it was real Indian tea, not the tasteless USSR stuff from the Georgian crop. She wondered where Renn had found it but she didn't ask.

'Curiosity, Frau Direktor. It is a land of contradictions.'

'It is a repressive society,' said Fiona, dutiful to the line she always took. 'A land where workers are enslaved.'

'But they are such an enigmatic people,' said Renn. He replaced the cap on his fountain-pen and put it in his pocket. 'Do you know, Frau Direktor, when, during the war against Hitler, the Americans began to drop secret agents into Germany, the very first of those parachutists were members of the ISK?'

' Der Internationaler Sozialistischer Kampfbund? ' She had never heard of that organization until Renn had mentioned that his mother had been a member, and then she'd looked it up in the reference library.

'Yes, ISK, the most radical of all the parties. Why would the Americans select such people? It was as if our friends in Moscow had sent to us, as Stalin's emissaries, White Russian nobility.'

She laughed. Renn gave a skimpy selfconscious grin. There had been a time when such remarks by Renn would have suggested to her that he might be sympathetic to the USA, but now she knew better. If there was anything of his attitude to be deduced from his remarks it was a criticism of Russia rather than praise for the US. Renn was a dedicated disciple of Marx and his theories. As Renn saw it, Karl Marx the incomparable prophet and source of all true enlightenment was a German sage. Any small inconsistencies and imperfections that might be encountered in the practice of socialism – and Renn had never admitted to there being any – were due to the essentially Russian failures of Lenin and Stalin.

But Fiona had learned to live with Hubert Renn's blind devotion to Marxist socialism, and there was no doubt that daily contact with him had opened up to her a world that she had never truly perceived.

There were for instance the regular letters that arrived from Renn's twenty-two-year-old daughter Lisa, her father's great pride. Lisa had taken the learning of the Russian language in her stride and gone on to postgraduate work in marine biology – one of the postgraduate courses the regime permitted to female students – in the University at Irkutsk, near Lake Baikal. The deepest lake in the world, it contains more fresh water than all the North American lakes put together. This region supported flora and fauna not found anywhere else. And yet until Renn had showed her the letter from his daughter she'd not even known where Lake Baikal was! How much more was there to know?

'I will confide a secret,' Renn announced when she gave him back the chatty letter he'd just received from his daughter.

'What is it, Herr Renn?'

'You are to get an award, Frau Direktor.'

'An award? I've heard nothing of it.'

'The nature of the award has still to be decided but your heroic years in England working for the revolution will be marked by an award. Moscow has said yes and now there might also be a medal from the DDR too.'

'I am overwhelmed, Herr Renn.'