Len Deighton - Spy Sinker

'I'm sorry that it's not more comfortable here,' said Bret. The room was dusty and damp. There were fingermarks on the mirror, unwashed milk bottles in the sink and dead flowers on the bookcase. The only festive note was provided by the carpet, which was rolled up, stitched into canvas and garnished with bright red plastic packets of moth repellant. Used by transients as a place to sleep, the house was sadly lacking in any sort of comfort. Even the electric kettle was not working. What a shame that Nikki was so difficult. This place would really benefit from a woman's touch.

Bret reached down to see if there was hot air coming from the convection heater. He'd put on the electric heating as soon as he arrived, but the air was musty. He resolved to do something drastic about refurbishing the place. He'd write to the lawyers about it. He opened a cupboard to reveal some bottles. There is a bottle of whisky…'

'Stop fussing, Bret. We needed somewhere to talk in private. This is ideal. No, I don't want a drink. My news is that Erich Stinnes is flying here from Mexico City together with young Bernard Samson. I think we've done it.'

'That's good news, sir.' He looked down to see where the D-G's black Labrador was sprawled, Why had the old man brought that senile and smelly creature up into this little room?

'It's going to be your show, Bret. Let Samson do the talking but keep a tight control on what's really happening. We must turn Stinnes round and get him back there.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But it occurred to me, Bret…' He paused. 'I don't want to interfere… It's your show. Entirely your show.'

'Please go on, sir.' Bret flicked the dust from a chintz-covered chair and sat down very carefully. He didn't want to get his clothes dirty.

The D-G was lolling back with his legs crossed, oblivious of the shabbiness of the room. The gloomy winter light coming through the dusty window was just enough to describe the old man's profile and make spots of light on the toes of his highly polished shoes. 'Should we collar this damned fellow Martin Pryce-Hughes?'

'The communist. Ummm.'

Bret's tone was too mild to satisfy the D-G. "That little tick who was the contact between Mrs Samson and the KGB hoodlums,' he said forcibly. 'Shall we collar him? Don't say you haven't given it any thought.'

'I've given it a lot of thought,' said Bret in the strangled voice that was his response to unjust criticism.

'You cautioned against pulling him in too soon after Mrs Samson went over. But how long are we going to wait?'

Bret said, 'You see, sir…'

The D-G interrupted him. 'Now with this fellow Stinnes arriving here, we have to consider to what extent we want Moscow to link Stinnes and Pryce-Hughes. If Stinnes is to go back there, we don't want them to think that he betrayed Pryce-Hughes to us, do we?'

'No, sir, we don't.'

'Well, for the Lord's sake, man. Spit it out! What is on your mind? Shall we grab Pryce-Hughes and grill him or not? It's your decision. You know I don't want to interfere.'

'You are always very considerate,' said Bret, while really thinking how much he would like to kick the D-G down the narrow creaking stairs and watch to see which way he bounced off the greasy garage floor.

'I try to be,' said the D-G, mollified by Bret's subservient tone.

'But another dimension has emerged. It is something I didn't want to bother you with.'

'Bother me with it now,' said Sir Henry.

'In the summer of 1978…' Bret paused, deciding how much he should reveal, and how he should say it. 'Mrs Samson… formed a relationship with a Dr Harry Kennedy.'

When Bret paused again, the D-G said, 'Formed a relationship? What the devil does that mean? I'm not going to sue you for defamation, Bret. For God's sake, say what you mean. Say what you mean.'

'I mean,' said Bret, speaking slowly and deliberately, 'that from about that time, until she went over there, she was having a love affair with this man.'

'Oh my God!' said the D-G with a gasp of surprise upon which he almost choked. 'Mrs Samson? Are you quite sure, Bret?' He waited until Bret nodded. 'My God.' The black Labrador, sensing its master's dismay, got to its feet and shook itself. Now the air was full of dust from the dog's coat: Bret could see motes of it buoyant on the draught coming from the heater.

Bret got his handkerchief to his nose just in time before sneezing. When he recovered he dabbed his face again and said, 'I'm quite sure, Sir Henry, but that's not all. When I started digging into this fellow Kennedy's past, I discovered that he has been a party member since the time he was a medical student.'

'Party member? Communist Party member? This fellow she was having it off with? Bret, why the hell didn't you tell me all this? Am I going mad?' He was straining forward in his chair as if trying to get up and his dog was looking angrily at Bret.

'I appreciate your concern, sir,' said Bret in the gravelly American accent that he could summon when he needed it. 'Kennedy is a Canadian. His father was a Ukrainian with a name that couldn't be written on an English typewriter so it became Kennedy.'

'I don't like the smell of that one, Bret. Are we really dealing with a Russian national wielding a Canadian birth certificate? We've seen a lot of those, haven't we?'

'Ottawa RCMP have nothing on him. Served in the air force with an exemplary record. Medical school: postgraduate and so on. The only thing they could turn up was an ex-wife chasing him for alimony. No political activity except for a few meetings of the party at college.' Bret stopped. The fact that the fellow was being chased for alimony payments made Bret sympathize.

'Well, don't leave it like that, Bret. You're not trying to break it to me that Mrs Samson might have been…' The D-G's voice trailed away as he considered the terrifying complexities that would follow upon any doubts about Fiona Samson's loyalties.

'No, no worries on that account, Sir Henry. In fact they are both clear. I have no evidence that Dr Kennedy has been active in any way – in any way at all – during the time he was seeing Mrs Samson or afterwards.'

'How do you know?'

'I've been keeping an eye on him.'

'You personally?'

'No, of course not, Sir Henry. I have had someone keeping an eye on him.'

'Someone? What someone? A Department someone?'

'No, of course not, sir. I arranged it privately.'

'Yes, but not paid for it privately, eh? It's gone on the dockets. Perhaps you didn't think of that. Oh, my God.'

'It's not on any dockets, Sir Henry. I paid personally and I paid in cash.'

'Are you insane, Bret? You paid personally? Out of your own pocket? What are you up to?'

'It had to be kept secret,' said Bret.

'Of course it did. You don't have to tell me that! My God. I've never heard of such a thing.' The D-G slumped back in the chair as if in collapse. 'What kind of whisky have you got?' he said finally.

Bret reached for a bottle of Bell's, poured a stiff one into a tumbler for the D-G and gave it to him. After sipping it, the D-G said, 'Confound you, Bret. Tell me the worst. Come along. I'm prepared now.'

"There is no "worst",' said Bret. 'It is as I told you. There is nothing to show any contact between Kennedy and the Soviets.'

'You don't fool me, Bret. If it was as simple as that you would have told me long ago, not waited until I faced you with collaring Pryce-Hughes.'

Bret was still standing near the bottles. He had never been a drinker, but he poured himself a tiny one to be sociable, took it to the window and nursed it. He wanted to get as far away from the dog as he possibly could. The smell of the drink was repulsive and he put it down. He pressed his fingers against the cold window-pane. How well he knew this little house. Glenn Rensselaer had brought him here while still wearing the uniform of a US Army general. Glenn had been someone Bret had loved more than he could ever love the pathetic alcoholic who was his father.