Len Deighton - Berlin Game

'Frank Harrington? Good God, no. He goes out of his way to avoid me. Last month I was in that change office in Zoo station cashing traveller's cheques. Frank was there already. When he caught sight of me, he left the line and walked out. Frank Harrington is avoiding me. No. Hell, he's the last person I'd discuss it with.' He picked up the second coffeepot, swirling it to find out if there was coffee in it. 'Can I have the rest?'

I nodded. 'Why not tell Frank?'

This time Werner put cream into his coffee. He had the compulsive desire to drink and nibble that is often a sign of nervousness. 'I don't want him to know I'm going over there frequently.'

'Is there something you're not telling me?'

He became very concerned with his coffee, unwrapping another sugar cube, breaking it and putting half into his cup. Then he put the unused half in his mouth and chewed it noisily while he smoothed the wrapper flat with the edge of his hand. 'Don't mother me, Bernie. We grew up together. We both know what's what.'

'You're not playing footsie with those people in the East?' I persisted. 'You haven't come to some damn-fool arrangement with them?'

'So I can give away all your secrets, you mean?' He folded the sugar wrapper carefully and neatly to make a tiny paper dart. He flew it towards the salt and pepper in a test flight. 'What could I tell them? That Frank cuts me dead in the change office, that you come into town and stay at Lisl's? Shall I tell them that rumours say that London 's chosen you to take over Berlin from Frank but Frank won't approve you as his successor?'

I looked at his paper dart. 'You could be useful to them, Werner. You've got an ear to the ground.' I picked up the dart and threw it back at him, but it didn't fly for me.

'Can't you understand?' he said in a low voice. 'No one gives me work any more. Frank has put the boot in. I used to get jobs from the Americans and your military intelligence people were always having something come up they couldn't handle. Now I don't get any of those jobs any more. I don't know enough to be a double, Bernie. I'm out of it. Your jobs are the only ones I get these days, and you only give me those for old times' sake – I know it and so do you.'

I didn't remind Werner that only a few minutes earlier he'd been insisting that it was 'only fair' to tell him everything I knew about the leaks in London. 'So they're saying that I'm to get Berlin? Maybe they are even saying who will get my job when I move.'

Werner picked up the dart. It flew well for him but only because he took his time refolding the wings and adjusting everything for optimum aerodynamics. 'You know what it's like in this town, people are always gossiping. I don't want you to think I believe any of that stuff.'

'Come on, Werner. You've got my attention now. You might as well tell me what you've heard. I'm not going to break down and weep about it.'

Those words appeared to have more meaning for him than I ever intended. We were speaking German and it is in the nature of German syntax that you have to compose the sentence in your mind before you start to say it. You can't start each sentence with a vague idea and change your mind halfway through, as people brought up to speak English do. So once Werner began he had to say it. 'There are rumours that your wife is taking over your job from you in London.'

'Now that's a neat twist,' I said. I still didn't guess what poor old Werner was trying to tell me.

He held the dart up to his face so that he could see it properly in the poor light of the cafe. He gave all his attention to it as he spoke rather hurriedly. 'They say you're splitting up, you and your wife. They say… they say that Rensselaer and your wife are…' He launched the dart, but this time it spiralled down into his saucer and the wings went brown with spilled coffee.

'Bret Rensselaer,' I said. 'He's nearly old enough to be her father. I can't imagine Fiona falling for Rensselaer.'

The expression on Werner's face let it be known that the failure of imagination was entirely mine. 'If Rensselaer felt guilty about giving Cruyer the German desk and taking your wife from you, he'd be smart to get Berlin for you. It would get you out of his way. The money is good and the unaccountable expenses are the best in the business. It's a job you'd dearly like, and be damned good at. You'd never turn it down, Bernie, you know that.'

I thought about it. It made me feel sick, but I was determined not to reveal that. 'And I wouldn't stand in Fiona's way if she got the chance of a senior post in Operations. She'd be the only woman on staff level there.' I smiled. 'It's neat, Werner. Like all good rumours it's heater than the truth. The fact is that Fiona can't stand Rensselaer, and the old man would never allow a woman in there, and no one's going to offer me Berlin when Frank goes.' I smiled, but my smile got stuck and he looked away.

'How can you be sure?' said Werner. 'I never thought my wife would go off to Munich with that Coca-Cola driver. I met him a couple of times. She told me he was the brother of a girl at her office. She said he sometimes gave her a lift home. He was in the apartment when I got back one evening. He was having a beer with her. I never suspected a thing. I was like you are now. She said he was a bit stupid. That's all it took to convince me there was nothing between them. It was just like you said just now. I thought she couldn't stand the guy, like you say your wife can't stand Rensselaer.' He unwrapped another sugar cube and began to fold himself another flying dart. 'Maybe the fact is that you can't stand him – just like I couldn't stand that truck driver – and so you can't imagine your wife going for him either.' He abandoned his half-made dart and drifted it into the ashtray. 'I've given up smoking,' he said mournfully, 'but I fidget a lot with my hands.'

'You didn't get me over here just to tell me all this stuff about Rensselaer having an affair with Fiona, did you, Werner?'

'No. I wanted to ask you about the office. You're the only person I know who sees Frank Harrington to talk to him on equal terms.'

'I don't see him on equal terms,' I said. 'Frank treats me like I'm a twelve-year-old child.'

'Frank is very patronizing,' said Werner. 'In Frank's day, they were all Cambridge pansies or Greek scholars, like Frank, who thought a little job in the intelligence service would be a good way to earn money while they wrote sonnets. Frank likes you, Bernard. He likes you very much. But he could never reconcile himself to the idea that a tough little Berlin street kid like you could take over the job he's doing. He's friendly with you, I know. But how do you think he really feels about taking orders from someone without a classical education?'

'I don't give him orders,' I said, to correct the record.

'You know what I mean,' said Werner. 'I just want to know what Frank has got against me. If I've done something to make him annoyed, okay. But if it's a misunderstanding, I want a chance to clear it up.'

'What do you care about clearing it up?' I said. 'You've got some racket going that's going to give you a villa in Marbella and Rioja and roses for the rest of your days. What the hell do you care about this clearing up misunderstandings with Frank?'

'Don't be dumm , Bernie,' he said. 'Frank could make a lot of trouble for me.'

'You're imagining things, Werner.'

'He hates me, Bernie, and he's frightened of you.'

'Frightened?'

'He's frightened at the idea of you taking over from him. You know too much – you'd ask too many questions, awkward questions. And all Frank cares about these days is keeping himself pure for his index-linked pension. He'll do nothing to prejudice that, never mind all that stuff he gives you about how friendly he was with your father.'