Len Deighton - Berlin Game

'Frank is tired,' I said. 'Frank has got the " Berlin blues". He doesn't hate anyone. He doesn't even hate the Communists any more. That's why he wants to go.'

'Didn't you hear me tell you that Frank Harrington has blocked your appointment here?'

'And didn't you hear me tell you that that was all bloody rubbish? I'll tell you why they don't use you any more, Werner. You've become a gossip, and that's the worst thing that can happen to anyone in this business. You tell me stupid rumours about this and about that, and you tell me that no one likes you and you can't understand why. You need to pull yourself together, Werner, because otherwise you'll have to add me to that long list of people who don't understand you.'

Werner was hunched over the table, the bulky overcoat and fur collar making him look even bigger than he really was. When he nodded, his chin almost touched the table. 'I understand,' he said. 'When I first realized my wife had betrayed me, I couldn't say a civil word to anyone.'

'I'll call you, Werner,' I said, getting to my feet. 'Thanks for the coffee.'

'Sit down,' said Werner. His voice was soft, but there vas an urgency that transcended our bickering. I sat down. Two men had entered the café. The younger Leuschner had been checking the levels of the bottles of drink arrayed under the big mirror. He turned round and smiled the sort of smile that is the legacy of ten years behind a bar. 'What's it to be?' Nervously he wiped the pitted marble counter, which was one of the very few things in the café that had survived the war as well as the Leuschner brothers. 'Would you like to eat? I can give you Bratwurst with red cabbage, or roast chicken with Sp ätzle .'

The men were thirty-year-old heavyweights, with robust shoes, double-breasted raincoats and hats with brims big enough to keep rain from dripping down the neck. I caught Werner's eye. He nodded; they obviously were policemen. One of them picked up the plastic-faced menu that had been put before them. Young Leuschner twirled the end of the big Kaiser Wilhelm moustache that he'd grown to make himself look older. Now, with his balding head, he didn't need it any more. 'Or a drink?'

'Chocolate ice cream,' said one of the men in a voice that dared anyone to be surprised.

'Schnaps,' said the other.

Leuschner chose from one of the half-dozen varieties of strong clear liquor and poured a generous measure. Then he put two scoops of ice cream into a dented serving dish and supplied napkin and spoon. 'And a glass of water,' mumbled the man, who'd already begun to gobble the ice cream. His companion turned to rest his back against the edge of the counter and look casually round the room as he sipped his drink. Neither man sat down.

I poured milk into my cup, in order to provide myself with something to do, and stirred it with care. The man eating the ice cream finished it in record time. The other muttered something inaudible, and both men came across to the table where I was sitting with Werner.

'You live near here?' said the chocolate ice cream.

'Dahlem,' said Werner. He smiled, trying to hide his resentment.

'That's a nice place to live,' said the ice-cream cop. It was difficult to decide how much was pleasantry and how much was sarcasm.

'Let's see your papers,' said the second man. He was leaning all his weight on the back of my chair and I could smell the Schnaps on his breath.

Werner hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether anything was to be gained by making them prove they were policemen. Then he brought out his wallet.

'Open up the case,' said the ice cream, pointing to the document case Werner had placed on the seat beside him.

'That's mine,' I said.

'I don't care if it belongs to Herbert von Karajan,' said the cop.

'But I do,' I said. This time I spoke in English.

He glanced at my face and at my English clothes. I didn't have to spell it out that I was an officer of the 'protecting powers'. 'Identification?'

I passed to him the Army officer's card that identified me as a Major Bishop of the Royal Engineers. He gave me a bleak smile and said, 'This identification expired two months ago.'

'And what do you think might have happened since then?' I said. 'You think I've changed into someone else?'

He gave me a hard stare. 'I'd get your identification brought up to date if I was you, Major Bishop,' he said. 'You might find the next policeman you encounter suspects you of being a deserter or a spy or something.'

'Then the next policeman I encounter will make a fool of himself,' I said. But by that time both men were moving off across the room. The ice cream dropped a couple of coins onto the counter as he passed.

'Bloody Nazis,' said Werner. 'They picked me because I'm a Jew.'

'Don't be a fool, Werner.'

'Then why?'

'There could be a million reasons why a cop asks for papers. There could be some local crime… a recognized car nearby… someone with a description like you.'

'They'll get the military police. They'll come back and make us open the case. They'll do it just to show us who's the boss.'

'No, they won't, Werner. They'll go down the street to the next café or bar and try again.'

'I wish you weren't so damned obstinate.'

'About what?'

'Frank Harrington. This is the way he keeps the pressure up.'

'Have you ever stopped to think how much it costs to keep a man under surveillance? Four men and two cars on eight-hour shifts working a five-day week. We're talking about a minimum of six men and three cars. The cars must be radio-equipped to our wavelength, so that rules out rented ones. The men must be trained and vetted. Allowing for insurance and special pensions and medical schemes all Department employees have, each man would cost well over a thousand Deutschemark. The cars cost at least another thousand each. Add another thousand for the cost of backup and we're talking about Frank spending ten thousand marks a week on you. He'd have to hate you an awful lot, Werner.'

'Ask him,' said Werner sullenly. I had the feeling that he didn't want to be disillusioned about Frank's vendetta lest he have to face the fact that maybe Frank sacked him because he wasn't doing the job the way they wanted it done.

I raised my hands in supplication. 'I'll talk to him, Werner. But meanwhile you cut it out. Forget all this stuff about Frank persecuting you. Will you do that?'

'You don't understand,' said Werner.

I looked at the document case that I'd pretended was mine. 'And, just to satisfy my curiosity, what is in "my" case, Werner?'

He reached out to touch it, 'Would you believe nearly half a million Swiss francs in new paper?'

I looked at him but he didn't smile. 'Take care, Werner,' I said. Even when we'd been kids together, I never knew when he was fooling.

I remembered Frank Harrington's parties back in the days when my father took me along to the big house in Grunewald, wearing my first dinner jacket. Things had changed since then, but the house was still the same, and came complete with a gardener, cook, housekeeper, maid, and the valet who had been with Frank during the war.

I shared Frank's 'just wear anything, it's only potluck' evening with a dozen of Berlin 's richest and most influential citizens. At dinner I was placed next to a girl named Poppy, recently divorced from a man who owned two breweries and an aspirin factory. Around the table there was a man from the Bundesbank and his wife; a director of West Berlin's Deutsche Opera, accompanied by its most beautiful mezzo-soprano; a lady museum director said to be a world authority on ancient Mesopotamian pottery; a Berlin Polizeipräsidium official who was introduced simply as '… from Tempelhofer Damm'; and Joe Brody, a quietly spoken American who preferred to be described as an employee of Siemen's electrical factory. Frank Harrington's wife was there, a formidable lady of about sixty, with a toothy smile and the sort of compressed permanent wave that fitted like a rubber swimming hat. The Harringtons' son, a British Airways first officer on the Berlin route, was also present. He was an amiable young man with a thin blond moustache and a complexion so pink it looked as if his mother had scrubbed him clean before letting him come down to the dining room.