Len Deighton - Spy Sinker

He looked at the pistol that London Central had supplied to him that morning. He'd hoped they would give him something that would satisfy his romantic yearnings: a lovely Colt Model 1911, a stylish Walther P.38 or a classic Luger. Instead London had sent him another of these cheap little 'chamberless expendables'. It looked like a gadget used to ignite the flame on a gas stove. Its surface was hatched to provide a grip but also to eliminate any surface upon which a fingerprint could remain. It used triangular-sectioned cartridges – 'trounds' – in a 'strip clip', and almost everything was made by a plastics corporation in America. It was new, unidentifiable and in perfect working order, but it did not give Werner the satisfaction that he would have got from an old-fashioned weapon. Oh well, one had to move with the times. He put the gun in his inside pocket where it would be easy to reach.

Dawn was breaking as Werner spotted Thurkettle arriving on his motor cycle. He waved airily to Werner and gave a little flip to the accelerator. Deuce enjoyed riding the big bike but now the time had come for him to dispose of it. He'd parked a Volkswagen camper nearby. As soon as he'd collected his payment from this lugubrious schmo, he'd walk to where he'd left the camper. In it there were clean clothes, soap, towels and food. Buried nearby he'd left a Swiss passport wrapped in plastic. The passport had a visa for a three-week camping tour of East Germany. He'd shave off his beard, change his appearance and drift around seeing the sights like a tourist until the heat died down. Then he'd drive north and take the ferry boat to Sweden.

Thurkettle got off his bike and walked over to the car. The rain had soaked him to the skin and the exertions had left his muscles stiff. He remembered that the VW camper had a shower in it, and wondered how long it would take for the water to get hot.

Werner lowered the car window. 'Was there any difficulty?' he asked.

'Nothing I couldn't handle. But Fiona Samson is dead,' said Thurkettle. It was what he'd been told to say. 'One of the Russkie goons wasted her. Bernard Samson got away: so did some other woman. I don't know who she was: she was in a long yellow dress. She went with Bernard Samson.'

Werner knew who the other woman was: it was Tessa. He'd seen her leave the party with Bernard. 'Fiona Samson is dead? Are you sure?'

'It's not something I'd make a mistake about,' said Thurkettle. He smiled: he liked secrets. The switch of identities he'd arranged for the two women was a secret Prettyman had told him to keep entirely to himself. 'All the others are dead.'

'Kennedy too?'

'Yeah, Kennedy too. And a guy dressed as a gorilla. There was a shoot-out. I was lucky to get away in one piece.' He always embellished events when he came to collect his fee. Clients always wanted to feel they were getting value for their money. 'Those Russkie sons of bitches came there all set to blow me away. If I hadn't been there, Bernard Samson would never have made it.'

'My God! Poor Fiona,' said Werner. He'd come to adore her over the months they'd worked together. She should never have taken on a task like that, the strain was too much for her. He'd seen her fading under the stress of it. At one meeting recently she had had a momentary black-out. She'd said it was too many late nights and made him promise to keep it a secret. Poor Fiona. He got out of the car and went round to the trunk. It was raining. He looked round him in the brightening dawn. There wasn't much time.

'Yeah, well, that's the way it goes,' said Thurkettle philosophically. He smiled at Werner. He seemed like a genial fellow and Werner smiled too.

'I didn't realize it was still raining,' said Werner.

'Is that right?' said Thurkettle, who was soaked to the skin.

'Do you want to sit in the car and count it?' Werner asked. 'I don't want to stand here getting wet.' He was going through his keys to find the one for the trunk.

'We'll just take a peek at it so I can see it's real.'

'It's real,' said Werner. 'Used notes. Exactly as you specified. I got it from the Commerzbank on Friday.'

He reached into the trunk of the car to get a leather document case. Carefully he put the case into Thurkettle's hands, saying, 'Don't rest it on the car. The paintwork is brand new.'

Thurkettle smiled pitifully. He was used to the sort of nervousness that Volkmann displayed. Clients were always timorous when dealing with a hit man. He held the case with both hands while Werner bent forward and fiddled with the lock. 'It's a combination lock,' explained Werner. He could smell the blood and filth on Thurkettle's clothes: it was the stink of the slaughter-house. 'You can make the combination into anything you choose. I made it 123. You can't forget 123 can you?'

'No,' said Thurkettle. Werner snapped the lock open, and pulled up the lid. There it was: fifty-dollar bills: line upon line of them. 'You can't forget 1, 2, 3.'

It was while Thurkettle was standing there, holding the new leather document case with both hands, that Werner, gripping the curious-looking gun so it was hidden under the case, pulled the trigger. A strip clip of eight rounds fired as fast as a machine gun. They all went into Thurkettle's belly.

Eight rounds. It was only a little 'expendable', but at point-blank range a weapon doesn't have to be a masterpiece of the gunsmith's art for its effect to prove fatal.

The impact of these little medium-velocity rounds did not knock Thurkettle down, he just staggered backwards a couple of paces still holding the case in both hands and staring at Werner in uncomprehending disbelief. Thurkettle's jerky movements caused the money to spill over, and a gust of rainy wind started to carry it away. Thurkettle watched his money blowing away. He grabbed at some notes but winced in pain. This couldn't be happening to him. He was shot. Thurkettle was a professional killer and this jerk was a nothing…

As he staggered back, more and more money fluttered away and he tasted the blood gushing up into his mouth and knew he was done for. By now he was clutching the document case against his chest as if it might prove protection against more shots or comfort him in his final moments, and he embraced it tight like a lover, and the bloodsoaked money fell around his feet.

It was just before he fell down that Deuce Thurkettle understood exactly how he'd been tricked. His eyes opened wide in fury. Deuce Thurkettle was the only one who knew for certain that Fiona Samson was still alive. Even this clown who had shot him thought that Samson had escaped with Tessa.

Well, he'd tell the world. He opened his mouth to tell the truth but only blood came out. Lots of it. Then he toppled to the ground.

Werner threw away his little 'expendable'. That was the convenient thing about them. He watched Thurkettle die, for he knew that London would want a positive answer. Werner didn't feel compassion for him. He was a psychopath and society is better off when such people are dead. Any last feeling he might have shown for Thurkettle had been removed when he heard that.Fiona was dead. He'd told Thurkettle that getting Bernard and Fiona to safety was of paramount importance and he'd failed to do it.

Werner prodded the body with the toe of his shoe, and kicked it to tip it into the ditch. He'd chosen this spot because of that deep ditch. He moved the motor cycle too. It would be found eventually – someone would spot the dollar bills beflagging the fields – but it was better to get the bike out of sight. He pushed the leather case into the grass, and the rest of the money fluttered aside. He didn't pick any of it up. The notes were probably marked, or counterfeit. London Central had provided the money and the British were very careful about money, it was one of the things he'd discovered soon after starting to work for them.