Len Deighton - Berlin Game

'Are you saying the woman is working for the KGB, and they are keeping this SIS safe house under observation?'

I didn't answer his question. They must have thought you were being followed, Trent. That's the only explanation for Chlestakov failing to show up. The Russians always show up at a rendezvous. Tell me again about the previous meeting.'

'You're right, a police car's arrived and they're putting her into it.' He looked at me and said, 'It went very well. I told Chlestakov that I might be able to get my hands on the Berlin System, and he went crazy at the thought of it. He took me to dinner at some fancy club in Curzon Street and insisted that we order a big meal and very expensive claret. I'm not all that fond of fancy French food, but he obviously wanted to keep me sweet. That's why I can't understand why the Embassy have cut me.'

'Not the Embassy,' I said. 'Just the KGB Section of the Embassy. They have a motive – you can be quite sure that the Russians always have a motive for everything they do.'

'You said they work out of Moscow for everything.'

'Did I? Well, if I said that, I was right. The London Section Chief wouldn't change his underwear until Moscow Centre have approved the kind of soap the laundry use.'

'But why would Moscow tell them to cut me? And if they were going to drop me, why not tell me so?'

'I don't know, Giles old friend.'

'Don't call me Giles old friend in that sarcastic way.'

'You'll have to put up with me calling you Giles old anything in any way I choose for the time being,' I said. 'Because if Moscow Centre have decided to drop you, it might not simply be a matter of them leaving you off the list of people invited along for vodka and caviar, and a film show about the hydroelectric plant at Kuibyshev.'

'No?'

'It might mean they will get rough,' I told him.

He took this suggestion very calmly. 'Would you like to hear what I think?'

'I'd like to hear it very much,' I said. I was being sarcastic but Trent didn't notice.

'I think you had Chlestakov picked up.'

'Picked up? By Special Branch, you mean?'

'Special Branch or your own duty arresting officer. Or perhaps by some agency or department distanced from you.'

'What sort of agency "distanced" from us could I have used to "pick up" Chlestakov?'

'The CIA.'

'You're talking like an eighteen-year-old anti-nuke demonstrator. You know we'd not let the bloody CIA pick up anyone in this country. And you know very well that there are no agencies distanced from us, or undistanced from us, that could take a Russian national into custody.'

'No one ever gets a straight answer from you bullyboys,' said Trent.

'Are you drunk, Trent?' I said, going closer to him.

'Of course not.'

'Christ, it's not even lunchtime.'

'Why the hell shouldn't I have a drink if I fancy one? I'm doing all your dirty work for you, aren't I? Who will get a medal and promotion if we pull the wool over the eyes of old Chlestakov? You will, you and Dicky bloody Cruyer and all that crowd.'

I grabbed him by the lapel and shook him until his head rolled. 'Listen to me, you creep,' I said softly. 'The only dirty work you're doing is clearing up your own shit. If you take another drink before I give you my permission, 'I'll get a custody order and lock you away where you can't put agents' lives at risk.'

'I'm not drunk,' he said. He had in fact sobered up now that I'd shaken his brains back into operation.

'If I lose one agent, I'll kill you, Trent.'

He said nothing; he could see I was serious. 'They're your friends, aren't they,' he said. 'They're your Berlin schoolfriends. Ahhh!'

I shouldn't have hit him at all but it was only a little jab in the belly and it helped him to sober up still more.

I picked up the phone and dialled our Federal emergency number. I recognized the voice at the other end. 'Peter? This is Bernard. I'm in the Coach and Horses.' All our safe houses had pub names. 'And I need someone to get a male drunk home and look after him while he sobers up. And I don't want anyone whose heart can be broken by a sob story.'

I put the phone down and looked at Trent. He was sitting on one of the hard chairs, holding his belly and crying silently.

'You'll be all right,' I told him. 'Save your tears for Chlestakov. If he's no longer any use to them, they'll send him home and give him the sort of job that will encourage the ones still here to work harder.'

As usual, Rolf Mauser arrived at a bad time. I was watching a very good BBC documentary on model railways, the children were upstairs playing some kind of jumping game, and Fiona was in the kitchen arguing with the nanny about her wages.

I bought Rolf Mauser into the living room and offered to take his leather overcoat from him but he waved me away testily. 'Are you all right, Rolf?' I said.

'Give me a whisky.'

He looked pale. I gave him a big scotch and he sat down and stared at the trains on TV with unseeing eyes. Light spilling from the table lamp beside him showed a fresh cut on his ear. Even as I noticed that, his hand went up to touch his head. He winced with pain as he found some tender places.

'You all right, Rolf?' All his self-confidence seemed to have gone; even those demonic eyebrows were sagging a little.

'I'm sixty-six years old, Bernd, and I'm still alive.'

'You're a tough old bastard, Rolf.' His shoes were scuffed and his leather coat had dirty marks on the front. He took paper tissues from a box on the table and cleaned himself up a bit.

The little trains on TV were making a lot of noise. I used the remote control to switch the sound off. Rolf Mauser looked round furtively and then pulled a brown paper bag from his pocket. He passed it to me. 'You said you'd get rid of it.'

I took a bundle from the bag. Unwinding a heavy woollen scarf, I found my revolver inside. I broke it and sniffed at the breech. There was no smell except that of fresh thin oil. It had been scrubbed clean. Rolf must have been a good soldier.

'You said you'd get rid of it,' he repeated. I shook the bag. Inside there were three bullets and three used brass cases.

'What have you been doing, Rolf?'

'Get rid of it, I say.'

I put the gun and the scarf into the brown paper bag again. And I locked it into the desk where I kept unpaid bills, Fiona's jewellery and letters from the bank about my overdraft.

Rolf turned to watch what I was doing. He said, 'I'm going back tonight. Could you lend me a car to get to Harwich?'

'I'd better know what it's all about,' I said.

'Yes or no?' he said.

'There's a blue Mini outside. What time do you have to be there?'

'Give me a strong envelope and I'll put the keys in the post to you, and tell you where it's parked.'

'You're too late for the Hamburg boat,' I said. He looked up at me without replying. I doubt if he had any intention of leaving via the cross-Channel ferry from Harwich. Rolf's way of keeping secrets was to confide endless untruths to anyone who'd listen. 'I'll get the keys,' I said. 'It's the nanny's car, so be careful with it.'

'Can you find a hat for me, Bernd? I've lost mine.'

I came back with a selection of headgear. He took a cloth cap and tried it on. It fitted him well enough to hide his cuts and shadow his face. 'You stole the car,' I said as I pulled the hat down lower on his head. 'You came to see me, found the keys in the car, and drove away without coming to the door.'

'Sure, Bernd, sure.'

'No one will believe you, but stick to that story and I'll do the same.'

'I said yes,' he said irritably.

'What's happening to the Brahms net?'

'Nothing.'

'Max Binder swam the Elbe.'

'Max lost his nerve,' he said.

'Who else lost their nerve?'