Len Deighton - Spy Sinker

The sequence of the events that followed was disputed, although certainly everything happened in rapid succession. Samson said that this was when the car exploded in the street outside, but as Bret remembered it Samson took the initiative before that.

Samson did not stand up and fire his gun, he remained seated. He used Bret as a shield, and the rage that Bret felt when he realized that, stayed with him for the rest of his life. Leaning forward far enough to see the intruders – there were now two of them – Samson calmly took aim and fired. He didn't even take the gun out of the newspaper that concealed it. The gun was silenced. Bret heard two thuds and was astounded to see one of the KGB men reel back, drop his gun, clutch at his belly and fall over the washing machines spewing blood.

Samson was suddenly up and away. Bret remembered Samson pushing him roughly aside and seeing him stumble over the discarded gun on the floor, although in Samson's version he pushed Bret down to safety and then kicked the gun in Bret's direction. Samson had even reproached him for not picking up the gun and following him through the back door to chase the others.

Bret was suddenly left in the launderette watching the young KGB man die, vomiting and bleeding and mewling like a baby. Bret had never seen anything like this: it was brutal and loathsome. From upstairs somewhere there came more shots – Samson killed another man – and then it was all over and Bret found himself pushed roughly into a car and was speeding away into the night, and passing the police as they were arriving. To Bret's amazement Bernard Samson chose that moment to tell Bret he'd saved his life.

'Saving my life, you son of a bitch?' said Bret shrilly. 'First you shoot, using me as a shield. Then you run out, leaving me to face the music.'

Samson laughed. To some extent the laugh was a nervous reaction to the stress he had just been through, but it was a laugh that Bret would never forget. 'That's the way it is being a field agent, Bret,' he said. 'If you'd had experience or training, you would have hit the deck. Better still, you would have taken out that second bastard instead of leaving me to deal with all of them.'

Bret had hardly listened; he couldn't forget the sight of the dying KGB man bent over, holding tight to one of the washing machines, while his frothy blood streamed out of him to mix with the soapy water on the floor.

'You could have winged him,' croaked Bret.

Bernard scoffed at such naive talk. 'That's just for the movies, Bret. That's for Wyatt Earp and Jesse James. In the real world, no one is shooting guns out of people's hands or giving them flesh wounds in the upper arm. In the real world you hit them or you miss them. It's difficult enough to hit a moving target without selecting tricky bits of anatomy. So don't give me all that crap.'

It was no use arguing with him, Bret decided, but bad feeling remained. Bret resented the way that Bernard Samson made quick decisions with such firm conviction and seemed to have no misgivings afterwards. Women admired such traits, or seemed to, but Bret was finding every decision he had to make more and more difficult.

Bret was beginning to see that his own planning would have to entail ruthlessness at least the equal of Bernard's. But Bret's present state of mind didn't make things easy. Sometimes he sat staring at his desk for half an hour unable to conclude even self-evident matters. Perhaps Bret should not have gone to the doctor and asked his advice. The Department's doctor was competent and helpful – everything one wanted from a physician, in fact – but he did dutifully report back to the Department.

It began with no more than a slight loss of his usual power of concentration, and a tendency to wake up in the small hours of the morning unable to get back to sleep. Then Bret began to notice that he was being treated like an outsider. He was aware of being treated in a wary and distant manner even when he was chairing the committee. Substance was given to his suspicions when two subcommittees were formed and Bret was deliberately excluded from them. It meant that about three-quarters of the people on the committee were able to have meetings to which he was denied access.

What Bret didn't know was the way in which his downfall was being master-minded by Moscow. Bret had not been targeted because Moscow suspected that Fiona Samson had been planted in Berlin, or for any reason except that he was suddenly vulnerable to the sort of sting operation that they had proved so expert at many times in the past. Not only was Moscow able to blow upon the embers and help the rumours but as the operation proceeded there was false evidence planted. Some of it was crude enough to convince the real experts – like Ladbrook, the senior interrogator – that Moscow was trying to discredit Rensselaer, but that did not mean that the experts could afford to ignore it.

The Director-General had a rough idea of what was happening and decided to go to Berlin and talk to Frank Harrington. Frank was an old friend as well as a well-established member of the senior staff. That lunch and the subsequent afternoon of chatting with Frank did not set the D-G's mind at rest. What Frank told him was little more than washroom gossip but it prepared the D-G for the phone call from Internal Security that said that Ladbrook and Tiptree would like an appointment urgently. The caller boldly told Morgan – the D-G's assistant – that tomorrow would not be soon enough.

They were all waiting for the D-G in the number 2 conference room. There was Ladbrook, the senior interrogator, a decent quiet fifty-year-old who never got ruffled, and Harry Strang, a weather-beaten veteran of Operations. With them was Henry Tiptree, the young fellow whom Internal Security rated as one of their brightest stars. And, sitting unobtrusively in the corner, the Deputy D-G, Sir Percy Babcock.

The table had been arranged with notepads and pencils and water jug and glasses. 'Who else is expected?' asked the D-G, having counted them.

'We couldn't get hold of Cruyer,' said Strang, 'but I've left a message with his secretary.'

'Are we expecting a long session, Percy?' the D-G asked his Deputy.

'No, very short, Director. Internal Security has something to put before you.'

'Quite a crowd,' remarked the D-G. He was well over six feet tall and broad-shouldered too. He towered over them.

'We'll need five signatures,' said the Deputy gently.

'Um,' said the D-G and his heart sank. They all knew what sort of form needed five signatures; one from Internal Security. 'And no one taking notes?'

'That's correct, Director.' Well that was it then. The only way to save Bret from this humiliating investigation was to reveal the secret of Fiona Samson. That was out of the question. Bret would have to take his chance.

They all sat down. The Deputy clicked his gold ballpoint while Harry Strong took out his cigarettes and then remembering the presence of the D-G put them away again. Tiptree, a tall thin fellow with well-brushed red hair and ruddy complexion, poured himself a glass of water and drank it with elegant precision.

Ladbrook looked round the table. They were looking at him expectantly, except for Tiptree who was now drawing circles on the notepad. 'Would you like to start, Sir Percy?' asked Ladbrook diffidently.

'Tell the Director just what you told me,' said the Deputy.

'I'm afraid it concerns senior staff,' said Ladbrook. The D-G looked at him without a flicker of emotion showing on his face.

'Bret Rensselaer,' supplied Tiptree, looking up from his pad. A lock of hair fell forward across his face and he flicked it back with his hand.

'A leak?' said the D-G, but he knew what was coming.

'More serious than that,' said Ladbrook.

'I have the file,' said Tiptree, indicating a box file that he'd put on a side table.