London Match

  He screwed his face up in an expression that was somewhat apologetic. ‘There are people who know I know you…people who seem to know more about what you do for a living than I know.’ Nervously George pushed his glasses up, using his forefinger. He was always doing that when he became agitated. The spectacle frames were too heavy, I suppose, or perhaps it was perspiration.

  ‘People try to guess what I do,’ I said. ‘Better they’re not encouraged, George. Who is it?’

  ‘Posh Harry they call him. Do you know who I mean? He’s something in the CIA, isn’t he? He seems to know you well enough. I thought it would be all right to say I was seeing you.’

  ‘It was a long time ago that he worked for the CIA,’ I said. ‘But Harry is all right. He’s coming here, you say?’

  ‘He wants to see you, Bernard. He reckons he’s got something you’ll like.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘But you know what he’s like, George. I never meet him without wondering if he’s going to wind up selling me a set of encyclopedias.’

  Posh Harry arrived on time. He was a pristine American, whose face, like his suits and linen, seemed never to wrinkle. He was of Hawaiian extraction, and although in a crowd he would pass as European, he had the flat features, small nose, and high cheekbones of Oriental peoples. He spent half his life on planes and had no address except hotels, shared offices and box numbers. He was an amazing linguist and he always knew what was happening to whom, from Washington to Warsaw and back again. He was what the reporters call ‘a source’ and always had something to add about the latest spy scandal or trial or investigation whenever the media ran short of comment. His brother – much older than Harry – was a CIA man whose career went back to OSS days in World War II. He’d died in some lousy CIA foul-up in Vietnam. Sometimes it was suggested that Harry was a recognized conduit through whom the CIA leaked stories they wanted to make public, but it was difficult to reconcile that with Harry’s family history. Harry was not an apologist for the CIA; he’d never completely forgiven them for his brother’s death.

  Harry was exactly the kind of man that Hollywood casts as a CIA agent. His voice was just right too. He had the sort of low, very soft American voice that is crisp, clear and attractive; the voice that sports commentators use for games that are very slow and boring.

  Harry arrived wearing those English clothes you can only find in New York City. A dark-grey cotton poplin raincoat, calfskin oxford shoes, tweedy jacket, and a striped English old school tie that had been invented by an American designer. The hat was a giveaway though; a plaid sports cap that few Englishmen would wear, even on a golf course.

  ‘Good to see you again, George,’ he said as he took George’s hand. Then he gave me the same sort of greeting, in that low gravelly voice, and shook my hand with a firm, sincere grip.

  ‘I’ll go and see if your motorcar has arrived,’ said George. ‘Come on, kids.’

  ‘I spoke on the phone to Lange,’ explained Harry. ‘He really enjoyed meeting with you again.’

  ‘What did Lange have to say?’

  ‘Nothing I didn’t already know. That you’re still working hard, following up orders from London Central.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Something about Bret Rensselaer,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t pay too much attention.’

  ‘That’s the best way with Lange,’ I agreed. ‘He has a bee in his bonnet about Bret Rensselaer.’

  ‘So it’s not true that Bret’s being specially vetted?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ I said.

  ‘I’m no special buddy of Bret’s, as you probably know. But Bret is one hundred per cent okay. There’s no chance Bret would do anything disloyal.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I said, keeping it all very casual.

  ‘For years your people kept Bret away from any US sensitive material in case it compromised his loyalty, but he was never any kind of undercover man for the Agency. Bret is your man, you can rest assured on that one.’

  I nodded and wondered where Posh Harry had got the idea that Bret was suspected of leaking to the Americans. Was that Lange’s misinterpretation or Harry’s? Or was it simply that no one could start to envisage him doing anything as dishonourable as spying for the Russians? And if that was it, was I wrong? And, if he was guilty of such ungentlemanly activities, who was going to believe it?

  ‘What have they got against Bret anyway?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Better you contact me through the office, Harry,’ I said. ‘I don’t like getting my relatives involved.’

  ‘Sure, I’m sorry,’ said Harry, giving no sign of being sorry. ‘But this is something better done away from the people across the river there.’ He gave a nod in the vague direction of Westminster and Whitehall.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m going to give you something on a plate, Bernard. It will give you a lot of kudos with your people.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said without sounding very keen. I’d suffered some of Harry’s favours in the past.

  ‘And that’s the truth,’ said Harry. ‘Take a look at that.’ He passed me a photocopy of a typewritten document. There were eight pages of it.

  ‘Do I have to read it? Or are you going to tell me what it’s all about?’

  ‘That’s a memo that was discussed by the Cabinet about three or four months ago. It concerns the security of British installations in West Germany.’

  ‘The British Cabinet? This is a British Cabinet memo?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Is there anything special about it?’

  ‘The special thing about it was that one copy at least ended up in the KGB files in Moscow.’

  ‘Is that where this photocopy came from?’

  ‘KGB; Moscow. That is exactly right,’ he smiled. It was the salesman’s smile, broad but bleak.

  ‘What has this got to do with me, Harry?’

  ‘This could be the break you need, Bernard.’

  ‘Do I need a break?’

  ‘Come on, Bernard. Come on! Do you think it’s a secret that your people are nervous about employing you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Harry,’ I said.

  ‘Okay. When your wife defected it was swept under the carpet. But don’t imagine there were no off-the-record chats to the boys in Washington and Brussels. So what do you think those people were likely to say? What about the husband, they asked. I’m not going to baby you along, Bernie. Quite a few people – people in the business, I mean – know what happened to your wife. And they know that you are under the microscope right now. Are you going to deny it?’

  ‘What’s your proposition, Harry?’ I said.

  ‘This memo is a hot potato, Bernie. What son of a bitch leaked that one? Leaked it so that it didn’t stop moving until it got to Moscow?’

  ‘An agent inside Ten Downing Street? Is that what you’re selling me?’

  ‘Number Ten is your neck of the woods, old buddy. I’m suggesting you take this photocopy and start asking questions. I’m saying that a big one like this could do you a power of good right now.’

  ‘And what do you want out of it?’

  ‘Now come on, Bernie. Is that what you think of me? It’s a present. I owe you a couple of favours. We both know that.’

  I folded the sheets as best I could and put it all into my pocket. ‘I’ll report it, of course.’

  ‘You do whatever you choose. But if you report it, that paper will go into the box and you’ll never hear another thing about it. The investigation will be directly handed over to the security service. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, Harry. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘A lot of folks are rooting for you, Bernard.’

  ‘Where did you get it, Harry?’

  Posh Harry had a foot on the chair and was gently scraping a mud spot from his shoe with his fingernail. ‘Bernard!’ he said reproachfully. ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’ He wet his fingertips with spittle and tr
ied a second time.

  ‘Well, let’s eliminate a few nasties,’ I said. ‘This wasn’t taken from any CIA office, was it?’

  ‘Bernard, Bernard.’ He was still looking at his shoe. ‘What a mind you’ve got!’

  ‘Because I don’t want to carry a parcel that’s ticking.’

  He finished the work on his shoe and put his feet on the floor and looked at me. ‘Of course not. It’s raw, it’s hot. It hasn’t been on any desks.’

  ‘Some kind of floater then?’

  ‘What do you think I am, Bernard? A part-time pimp for the KGB? Do you think I’ve lasted this long without being able to smell a KGB float?’

  ‘There’s always a first time, Harry. And any one of us can make a mistake.’

  ‘Well, okay, Bernard. I’ve got no real provenance on this one, I’ll admit that. It’s a German contact who’s given me nothing but gold so far.’

  ‘And who pays him?’

  ‘He’s not for sale, Bernard.’

  ‘Then it’s no one I know,’ I said.

  He gave a little mirthless chuckle as a man might acknowledge the feeble joke of a valuable client. ‘You’re getting old and embittered, Bernard. Do you know there was a time when you’d get angry at hearing a crack like that? You’d have given your lecture about idealism, and politics, and freedom, and people who have died for what they believe in. Now you say it’s no one you know.’ He shook his head. It was mockery, but we both knew he was right. We both knew plenty of people who had never been for sale, and some of them had died proving it.

  ‘Is George selling you a car?’ I said to change the subject.

  ‘I lease from George. I’ve done that for years. He lets me change cars, see? You knew that, didn’t you?’ He meant that George let him have a succession of cars when he was keeping someone under observation and didn’t want the car he used recognized.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘George observes the discretion of the confessional. I didn’t even know he knew you.’

  ‘And nice kids, Bernie.’ He slapped me on the back. ‘Don’t look so worried, pal. You’ve got a lot of good friends. A lot of people owe you. They’ll see you through.’

  Posh Harry was in the middle of saying all this when the door of the office crashed open. In the doorway there was a woman, thirtyish and pretty in the way that women become pretty if they use enough expensive makeup. She wore a full-length fur coat and hugged a large handbag to herself as if it contained a lot of valuables.

  ‘Hon-ee,’ she called petulantly. ‘How much longer do I have to sit around in this dump?’

  ‘Coming, sweetheart,’ said Posh Harry.

  ‘Har-ree! We’re going to be so late,’ she said. Her voice was laden with magnolia blossoms, the sort of accent that happens to ladies who watch Gone With the Wind on TV while eating chocolates.

  Harry looked at his watch. Then we went through the usual routine of exchanging phone numbers and promising to meet for lunch, but neither of us put much enthusiasm into it. After Harry had finally said goodbye, George Kosinski returned with the kids.

  ‘Everything all right, Bernard?’ he said. He looked at me expectantly. I suppose for George all meetings were deals or potential deals.

  ‘Yes, it was all right,’ I said.

  ‘Your Rover is there. The kids like it.’ He put his briefcase on the table and began to rummage through it to find the registration book, but he only found it after dumping the contents of his case on the table. There was a bundle of mail ready to be posted, a biography of Mozart, and an elaborately bound Bible. ‘A present for my nephew,’ he said, as if the presence of the Bible required some sort of explanation. He also found a copy of the Daily Telegraph, an assortment of car keys with large labels attached, an address book, some foreign coins, and a red silk scarf. He waved the Mozart book at me. ‘I’ve become interested in music lately,’ he said. ‘I’ve been going to concerts with Tessa. Mozart had a terrible life, did you know that?’

  ‘I’d heard rumours,’ I said.

  ‘If ever you wanted to prove that there is no relationship between effort and reward in this world, you’ve only got to read the life of Mozart.’

  ‘You don’t even have to do that,’ I said. ‘You can come and work in my office and find that out.’

  ‘The piano concertos,’ said George. He pushed his glasses up again. ‘It’s the piano concertos that I really like. I’ve gone right off pop music since discovering Mozart. This morning I’ve ordered the complete quintets from the record shop. Wonderful music, Bernard. Wonderful.’

  ‘Is Tessa sharing this musical enthusiasm?’ I asked.

  ‘She goes along with it,’ said George. ‘She’s an educated woman, of course. Not like me; left school at fourteen hardly able to write. Tessa knows about music and art and that sort of thing. She learned it at school.’

  He saw me glancing out of the window at what was going on in the yard. ‘The children are all right, Bernard. My foreman is letting them help him with a decoking job. All kids are keen on mechanical things; you probably know that already. You just can’t keep boys away from motorcars. I was like that when I was young. I loved cars. Most of the cars pinched are taken by kids too young to get a driving licence.’ He sighed. ‘Yes, Tessa and me are getting along. We’ve got to, Bernard. She’s getting too old for running after other men; she’s realized that herself.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I said. ‘I’ve always liked Tessa.’

  George stopped this rambling conversation. He looked at me and spent a moment thinking about what he was going to say. ‘I owe you an apology, Bernard. I know that.’

  He’d virtually accused me of having an affair with his wife Tessa at a time when he was suspecting every man who knew her of the same thing. Now he’d had a chance to see things in perspective.

  ‘It’s never been like that,’ I said. ‘In fact, I never really knew her until Fiona left me. Then Tessa did everything to help…with the children and getting the house sorted out and arguing with her father and so on. I appreciate it and I like her, George. I like her very much. I like her so much that I think she deserves a happy marriage.’

  ‘We’re trying,’ said George. ‘We’re both trying. But that father of hers. He hates me, you know. He can’t bear anyone he knows hearing that I’m his son-in-law. He’s ashamed of me. He calls himself a socialist, but he’s ashamed of me because I don’t have the right accent, the right education, or the right family background. He really hates me.’

  ‘He’s not exactly crazy about me,’ I said.

  ‘But you don’t have to meet him in your club or fall over him in restaurants when you’ve got a client in tow. I swear he’s screwed up a couple of good deals for me by barging in when I’m in the middle of lunch and making broad hints about my marriage. Life’s difficult enough, Bernie. I don’t need that kind of treatment, especially when I’m with a client.’

  ‘He may not have done it deliberately,’ I said.

  ‘Of course he does it deliberately. He’s teaching me a lesson. I go round telling everyone that I’m his son-in-law, so he goes round telling everyone that I can’t control my wife.’

  ‘Does he say that?’

  ‘If I caught him…’ George scowled as he thought about it. ‘He hints, Bernard. He hints. You know what that man can imply with a wink and a nod.’

  ‘He’s got some strange ideas,’ I said.

  ‘You mean he’s dead stupid. Yes, well I know that, don’t I. You should hear his ideas about how I should run my business.’ George stopped putting his possessions back into the briefcase, placed his hands on his hips, and cocked his head to one side in the manner of my father-in-law. His voice was that of David Kimber-Hutchinson too: ‘Go public, George. Look for export opportunities, George. Better still, create a chance to merge with one of the really big companies. Think big. You don’t want to be a car salesman all your life, do you?’ George smiled.

  The egregious David Kimber-Hutchinson was inimitable, but it was a good impersonation. An
d yet there is no better opportunity of seeing deep into a person’s soul than to watch him impersonate someone else. A deep hurt had produced in George a resentment that burned bright. If it came to a showdown, I wouldn’t care to be in Kimber-Hutchinson’s shoes. And because I was already ranged against my father-in-law, I noted this fact with interest.

  ‘And yet he makes a lot of money,’ I said.

  ‘They look after each other, the Davids of this world.’

  ‘He wanted the children. He thought he’d adopt them…’

  ‘And make them into little Kimber-Hutchinsons. I know. Tessa told me all about it. But you’ll fight him, Bernard?’

  ‘Every inch of the way.’

  My enemy’s enemy…there is no finer basis for friendship, according to the old proverb. ‘Do you see him often?’ I asked.

  ‘Too damned often,’ said George. ‘But I’m determined to be nice to Tessa so I go down there with her and listen to the old man rabbiting on about what a big success he is.’ George put his Mozart book into his case. ‘He wants to buy a new Roller from me and he’s determined to trade in the old one at a good price. He’s taken me all round the paintwork and upholstery three times. Three times!’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be good business, George? A new Rolls-Royce must cost quite a packet.’

  ‘And have him on my doorstep whenever it didn’t start on the first turn of the key? Look, I’m not a Rolls dealer, but I buy and sell a few in the course of the year. They’re good, the ones I sell, because I won’t touch a dodgy one. It’s a tricky market; a customer can’t deduct much of the price from his tax allowances these days. But you know, and I know, that no matter what kind of brand new Rolls I get for that old bastard, it will start giving him trouble from the moment I deliver it. Right? It’s some kind of law of nature; the car I get for him will give trouble. And he’ll immediately decide that it’s not straight from the factory at all; he’ll say it’s one I got cheap because there was something wrong with it.’ He snapped the case shut. ‘I don’t want all that hassle, Bernard. I’d rather he went off and bought one in Berkeley Square. I’ve told him that, but he won’t bloody well believe that there’s anyone in this world who turns down a business opportunity.’