London Match

  ‘Let’s assume he’s guilty – he’ll run.’

  ‘Let’s assume he’s not guilty – he must have a chance to prepare some sort of defence.’

  Dicky now thought I was being very difficult. He moved his lips as he always did when he was agitated. ‘Don’t get excited, Bernard. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Pleased to hear you tell me that Bret is a KGB mole?’

  ‘No, of course not that. But I thought you’d be relieved to hear that the real culprit has been uncovered at last.’

  ‘The real culprit?’

  ‘You’ve been under suspicion. You must have realized that you haven’t had a completely clear card ever since Fiona went over to them.’

  ‘You told me that was all past history,’ I said. I was being difficult. I knew he’d only told me that to be encouraging.

  ‘Can’t you see that if Bret is the one they’ve been looking for, it will put you in the clear?’

  ‘You talk in riddles, Dicky. What do you mean “the one they’ve been looking for”? I wasn’t aware they were looking for anyone.’

  ‘An accomplice.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ I said.

  ‘Then you are being deliberately obtuse. If Fiona had an accomplice in the Department, then Bret would be the most natural person for that role. Right?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be the most natural?’

  Dicky slapped his thigh in a gesture of frustrated anger. ‘Good God, Bernard, every time anyone suggests that, you bite their head off.’

  ‘If not me, then why Bret?’

  Dicky pulled a face and wobbled his head about. ‘They were very close, Bernard. Bret and your wife – they were very close. I don’t have to tell you the way it was.’

  ‘Would you like to enlarge on that?’

  ‘Don’t get touchy. I’m not suggesting that there was anything less than decorous in the relationship, but Bret and Fiona were good friends. I know how comical that sounds in the context of the Department and the way some people talk about each other, but they were friends. They had a lot in common; their background was comparable. I remember one evening Bret was having dinner at your place. Fiona was talking about her childhood…they shared memories of places and people.’

  ‘Bret is old enough to be Fiona’s father.’

  ‘I’m not denying that.’

  ‘How could they share memories?’

  ‘Of places, Bernard. Places and things and facts that only people like them know. Hunting, shooting, and fishing…you know. Bret’s father loved horses, and so does your father-in-law. Fiona and Bret both learned to ride and to ski before they could walk. They both instinctively know a good horse from a bad one, good snow from bad snow, fresh foie gras from tinned, a good servant from a bad one…the rich are different, Bernard.’

  I didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. Dicky was right, they had had a lot in common. I’d always been frightened of losing her to Bret. My fears were never centred on other younger, more attractive men; always I saw Bret as my rival. Ever since the day I first met her – or at least from the time I went to Bret and suggested that we employ her – I’d feared the attraction that he would have for her. Had that, in some way, brought about the very outcome I most feared? Was it something in my attitude to Bret and to Fiona that provided them with an undefinable thing in common? Was it some factor absent in me that they recognized in each other and shared so happily?

  ‘You see what I mean?’ said Dicky, when I hadn’t spoken for a long time. ‘If there was an accomplice, Bret must be the prime suspect.’

  ‘One per cent motivation and ninety-nine per cent opportunity,’ I said, without really intending to say it aloud.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Dicky.

  ‘One per cent motivation and ninety-nine per cent opportunity. That’s what George Kosinski says crime is.’

  ‘I knew I’d heard it before,’ said Dicky. ‘Tessa says that, but she said it about sex.’

  ‘Maybe they’re both right,’ I said.

  Dicky reached out to touch my shoulder. ‘Don’t torture yourself about Fiona. There was nothing between her and Bret.’

  ‘I don’t care if there was,’ I said.

  Our conversation seemed to have ended and yet Dicky didn’t depart. He fiddled with the typewriter. Finally he said, ‘One day I was with Bret. We were in Kiel. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ve been there,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a strange place. Bombed to hell in the war, everything rebuilt after the war ended. New buildings and not the sort that are likely to win prizes for architectural imagination. There’s a main street that runs right along the waterfront, remember?’

  ‘Only just.’ I tried to guess what was coming, but I couldn’t.

  ‘One side of the street consists of department stores and offices and the other side is big seagoing ships. It’s unreal, like a stage set, especially at night when the ships are all lit up. I suppose back before it was bombed it was narrow alleys and waterfront bars. Now there are strip-joints and discos, but they’re in the new buildings – it’s got an atmosphere about as sexy as Fulham High Street.’

  ‘They were after the shipyards,’ I said.

  ‘Who were?’

  ‘The bombers. It’s where they made the U-boats. Kiel. Half the town worked in the shipyards.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Dicky. ‘All I remember is that Bret had arranged to meet a contact there. We went into the bar about eleven at night, but the place was almost empty. It was elaborately furnished – red velvet and carpet on the floor – but it was empty except for a few regular customers and a line of hostesses and the bartender. I never found out if the nightlife in Kiel starts later than that or doesn’t exist at all.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful place in summer.’

  ‘That’s what Bret said. He knows Kiel. There’s a big yachting event there every summer – Kiel Week – and Bret tries not to miss it. He showed me the pictures at the yacht club. There were big yachts with brightly coloured spinnakers billowing. Girls in bikinis. Kieler Woche – maybe I’ll take my boat there one year. But this time it was my luck to be there in the dead of winter and I’ve never been so cold in all my life.’

  What was all this leading up to, I wondered. ‘Why were you and Bret doing it? Don’t we have people there? Couldn’t the Hamburg office have handled it?’

  ‘There was quite a lot of money involved. It was an official deal: we paid the Russians and they released a prisoner they were holding. It was political. A Cabinet Office request – very hush-hush. You know. It was going to be done in Berlin in the usual way, but Bret argued with Frank Harrington and finally it was decided that Bret would handle it personally. I went along to help.’

  ‘This was when Bret was still running the Economics Intelligence Committee?’

  ‘This was a long time ago, when it was called the European Economics Desk and Bret was officially only Deputy Controller. But there’s no reason to think this job was anything directly to do with that desk. I understood that Bret was doing this at the special order of the D-G.’

  ‘European Economics Desk. That’s going back a bit.’

  ‘Years and years. Long before Bret got his nice big office and had the decorator in.’

  ‘What are you going to tell me about him?’ I said. I had the feeling that Dicky had come to a full stop.

  ‘I was a complete innocent. I was expecting some well-dressed diplomatic official, but the man we met was dressed like a deckhand from one of the Swedish ferries, though I noticed that he arrived in a big black Volvo with a driver. He might just have come across the border – it’s an easy enough drive.’ Dicky rubbed his face. ‘A big bastard he was, an old man. He spoke good English. There was a lot of small talk. He said he’d once lived in Boston.’

  ‘Are we talking about a Soviet official?’

  ‘Yes. He identified himself as a KGB colonel. His documents said his name was Popov. It was such a memorable na
me that I’ve remembered it ever since.’

  ‘Go on, Dicky, I’m listening. Popov is a common enough Russian name.’

  ‘He knew Bret.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘God knows. But he recognized him – “Good evening, Mr Rensselaer,” he said, as bold as brass.’

  ‘You said the place was empty. He could have guessed who you were.’

  ‘There were too many people there for anyone to come in through the door and assume one of them was Mr Rensselaer.’

  ‘How did Bret respond?’

  ‘There was a lot of noise. It was one of these places where they have disco music switched up so loud it bends your eardrums. Bret didn’t seem to hear him. But this fellow Popov obviously knew Bret from some other time. He was chatting away, as friendly as can be. Bret went rigid. His face was like one of those Easter Island stone carvings. Then I suppose his friend Popov noticed he was alarmed. Suddenly all the bonhomie was switched off. Bret’s name wasn’t mentioned after that; it was all very formal. We all went into the washroom and counted the money, tipping all the bundles of bills into a sink and repacking the case. When it was done Popov said good night and departed. No signature, no receipt, no nothing. And no “Goodnight Mr Rensselaer”. This time it was just “Goodnight, gentlemen”. I was worried in case we hadn’t handled it right, but they released the man the next day. Have you ever had to do a job like that?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘They say the KGB keep the cash. Is that true?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dicky. No one knows for sure. We can only guess.’

  ‘So how did he know Bret?’

  ‘I don’t know that either,’ I said. ‘You think he knew Bret from somewhere else?’

  ‘Bret’s never done any field work.’

  ‘Maybe he’d paid money over in the same way before,’ I suggested.

  ‘He said he hadn’t. He told me he’d never done anything like that before.’

  ‘Did you ask Bret if he knew the Russian?’

  ‘I was a new boy; Bret was senior staff.’

  ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘That the KGB man had called him “Mr Rensselaer”? No, it didn’t seem important. It’s only now that it seems important. Do you think I should tell Internal Security?’

  ‘Take your time,’ I advised. ‘It sounds like Bret has got enough questions to answer for the time being.’

  Dicky forced a smile even though he was chewing his nail. Dicky was worried; not about Bret, of course, but about himself.

  22

  We were celebrating the anniversary of Werner and Zena’s marriage. It was not the exact date, but Gloria had offered to cook dinner for the Volkmanns who were in London to appear before the committee.

  Gloria was not a great cook. She prepared veal chops followed by a mixed salad and a shop-bought cake that said ZENA AND WERNER CONGRATULATIONS in chocolate.

  Not without some misgivings I’d allowed the children to stay up and have dinner with us. I would have preferred them to eat with Nanny upstairs, but it was her night off and she had made arrangements with friends. So the children sat at the table with us and watched Gloria playing hostess in the way their mother had so recently done. Billy seemed relaxed enough – although he only picked at the chocolate cake, which was unusual – but Sally sat through the meal pinch-faced and silent. She watched Gloria’s every move and there was tacit criticism in the way she was so reluctant to help pass the dishes down the table. Gloria must have noticed, but she gave no sign of it. She was clever with the children: cheerful, considerate, persuasive, and helpful but never maternal enough to provoke resentment. Gloria took her cue from Nanny, consulting her and deferring to her in such a way that Nanny was forced into Fiona’s role while Gloria became a sort of super-nanny and elder sister.

  But Gloria’s subtle instinct for handling the children let her down when she took the cushioned dining chair that Fiona always used at table. She sat at the end of the table so that she could reach the hotplate and the wine. For the first time the children saw Fiona replaced and perhaps for the first time they faced the idea that their mother was permanently lost to them.

  When, after tasting the cake and toasting Zena and Werner in apple juice, Gloria took the children upstairs to change into pyjamas and go to bed, I was half inclined to go with them. But Zena was in the midst of a long story about her wealthy relatives in Mexico City and I let the children go. It was a long time before Gloria returned. Billy was in his new pyjamas and carrying a toy crane that he felt he must demonstrate for Werner.

  ‘Where’s Sally?’ I asked when I kissed Billy good night.

  ‘She’s a little tearful,’ said Gloria. ‘It’s the excitement. She’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Sally says Mummy is never coming back,’ said Billy.

  ‘Never is a long time,’ I replied. I kissed him again. ‘I’ll come up and kiss Sally.’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ said Gloria. ‘She’ll be all right, Bernie.’

  Even after Billy was in bed and Zena had finished her long story, I worried about the children. I suppose Sally felt she had no one she could really confide in. Poor child.

  ‘How did you remember the date of our marriage?’ Zena Volkmann asked me.

  ‘I always remember,’ I said.

  ‘He’s a liar,’ said Gloria. ‘He made me phone Werner’s secretary and ask.’

  ‘You mustn’t give away all Bernie’s secrets,’ Werner told her.

  ‘It was a wonderful surprise,’ said Zena. The two women were sitting on the sofa together. They were both very young, but they were as different as two young women could be. Gloria was blonde, fair-skinned, tall and big-boned, with that rather slow tolerant attitude that is often the sign of the scholar. Zena Volkmann was small and dark, with the coil-spring energy and the short fuse of the self-made opportunist. She was dressed expensively and adorned with jewellery; Gloria was in tweed skirt and roll-neck sweater with only a small plain silver brooch.

  Werner was in a mood for reminiscence that evening, and he’d related story after story about the times we’d spent together in Berlin. The two women had endured our remembered youthful escapades with fortitude, but now they’d had enough. Gloria got to her feet. ‘More coffee? Brandy?’ she said. She poured the last of the coffee for me and for Werner. ‘You do the brandy, Bernard. I’ll make more coffee and tidy away.’

  ‘Let me help you,’ said Zena Volkmann.

  Gloria said no, but Zena insisted on helping her to clear the table and load the dishwasher. The two women seemed to be getting along well together; I could hear them laughing when they were in the kitchen. When Zena came back to collect the last plates from the table, she was wearing an apron.

  ‘How did it go, Werner?’ I asked when finally there was a chance to talk to him. I poured my precious vintage brandy, passed him his coffee, and offered him the jug. But Werner resisted the suggestion of cream in his coffee. I poured the rest of it into my cup. ‘Cigar?’

  ‘No thanks. If you can stop smoking, so can I,’ said Werner. He drank some coffee. ‘It went the way you said it would go.’ He had given evidence to the committee.

  He slumped back in his chair. Despite his posture, he was looking very trim – Zena’s strict diet routine was having an effect – but he looked tired. I suppose anyone would look tired if they were married to Zena as well as giving evidence to the committee. Now Werner pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he always did when he concentrated. But this time his eyes were closed, and I had the feeling he would have liked to go right off to sleep.

  ‘No surprises?’ I asked.

  ‘No bad surprises. But I wasn’t expecting to see that damned Henry Tiptree on the committee. That’s the one who gave you so much trouble. I thought he was attached to Internal Security.’

  ‘These Foreign Office attachments float from department to department. Everyone tries to unload them. The committee is probably a good job for him; i
t keeps him out of the way.’

  ‘Bret Rensselaer is the chairman.’

  ‘It’s Bret’s final chance to be the golden boy,’ I joked.

  ‘I heard he was in line for Berlin after Frank retires.’

  ‘I heard the same thing, but I could tell you a few people who’ll do everything they can to stop him getting it.’

  ‘Dicky, you mean?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said.

  ‘Why? Dicky would become Bret’s boss. Isn’t that what he’s always wanted?’

  Even Werner didn’t fully understand the nuances of London Central’s command structure. I suppose it was uniquely British. ‘The German desk is senior to Berlin Resident in certain respects, but has to defer to it in others. There is no hard-and-fast rule. Everything depends upon the seniority of the person holding the job. When my dad was Berlin Resident, he was expected to do as he was told. But when Frank Harrington went there, from a senior position in London Central, he wasn’t going to be taking orders from Dicky who’d spent a lot of his departmental career attached to the Army.’

  ‘Dicky should never have had his Army service credited to his seniority,’ said Werner.

  ‘Don’t get me started on that one, Werner,’ I said.

  ‘It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to you, it wasn’t fair to the Department, and it wasn’t fair to anyone who works for the German desk.’

  ‘I thought you were a supporter of Dicky,’ I said.

  ‘Only when you try to tell me he’s a complete buffoon. You underrate him, Bernie, and that’s where you make a bad mistake.’

  ‘Anyway, Dicky will probably oppose the idea of Bret getting Berlin. Morgan – the D-G’s hatchet man – hates Bret and wants Dicky to oppose it. Dicky will do as Morgan wants.’

  ‘Then you’ll get it,’ said Werner with genuine pleasure.

  ‘No, not a chance.’

  ‘Why? Who else is there?’

  ‘A lot of people will be after that job. I know Frank keeps saying it’s the Siberia of the service and the place where careers are buried, and all that may well be true; but everyone wants it, Werner, because it’s the one job you’ve got to be able to say you did.’