Spy hook: a novel (22 page)

“We’re managing, but only just.”

“But Dicky never got Europe?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s just as well. He’s not ready for that one yet. How are you getting along with the Deputy? I hear he’s kicking ass.” He indicated that I should sit down on the bench and I did so.

“We see a lot more of him,” I admitted.

“That’s good. A Deputy with a knighthood hasn’t got so much to work for,” said Bret. “I suppose he wants to show he’s keen.”

“He didn’t get the K for working in the Department,” I pointed out.

“Is that a cry from the heart?” said Bret, and laughed a sober little laugh that didn’t strain his muscles.

I hadn’t meant to criticize the Deputy’s lack of experience but it reminded me that a chat with Bret was like a session on a polygraph. And as soon as the subject of honours; and titles came up Bret’s face took on a predatory look. It always amazed me that educated and sophisticated people such as Bret, Dicky and Frank were so besotted by these incongruous and inconvehient devices. But that’s how the system worked: and at least it cost the taxpayer nothing. “The Deputy will be all right,” I said. “But a lot of people don’t like new ideas, no matter who’s selling them.”

“Frank Harrington for instance,” said Bret.

He’d hit it right on the nose, of course. Frank - so near to retirement - would oppose change of any sort. “I get to hear things, Bernard. Even over here I get to know what’s going on. The D-G tells me what’s what.”

“The D-G does?”

“Not personally,” said Bret.

“We hardly ever see him nowadays,” I said. “Everyone says he’s sick and going to retire early.”

“And let the Deputy take over ... Yes, I hear the same stories, but I wouldn’t write the D-G out of the script too early. The old devil likes to be a back-seat driver.” “I should come out here and talk to you more often, Bret,” I said admiringly.

“Maybe you should, Bernard,” he said. “Sometimes an onlooker sees the game more clearly than the players.”

“But do any of the team take advice from the stands?” “That’s the same old Bernard I used to know,” he said in a manner which might, or might not, have been sarcastic. “And your lovely Gloria? Is that still going strong?” “She’s a good kid,” I said vaguely enough for him to see that I didn’t want to talk about it.

“I heard you’d set up house with her.”

Damn him, I thought, but I kept my composure. “I rented the town house and got a mortgage on a place in the suburbs.” “You can never go wrong with real estate,” he said.

“I’ll go wrong with it if my father-in-law turns nasty,” I said. “He guaranteed the mortgage. Even the bank doesn’t know I’m renting it yet.”

“That will be all right, Bernard. Maybe they’ll inch your payments up but they won’t give you a bad time.” “Half the house belongs to Fiona. If her father claimed it on her behalf I’d be into a legal wrangle.”

“You did get legal advice?” he asked.

“No, I’m trying not to think about it.”

Bret pulled a face of disapproval. People like Bret got legal advice before taking a second helping of carbohydrates. “The Department would help,” said Bret in that authoritative way he was inclined to voice his speculations.

“We’ll see,” I said. I was in fact somewhat fortified by his encouragement, no matter how flimsy it was. “You don’t think Fiona might come back? he said. He put on a cardigan. The sun had gone now and there was a drop in the temperature.

“Come back!’ I said. “How could she? She’d find herself in the Old Bailey.”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Bret. “How long has she been away?”

“A long while.”

“Bide your time,” said Bret. “You’re not thinking of getting married again are you?”

“Not yet,” I said.

He nodded. “Come back to me,” said Bret. “Any problem

about the house or your father-in-law, or anything like that, you come back to me. Phone here; leave a number where I can reach you. Understand?”

“Why you, Bret? I mean thanks. But why you?” “Ever hear of the Benevolent Fund?” said Bret, and without waiting for me to say no I hadn’t, he added, “They recently made me the President of the Fund. It’s an honorary title but it gives me a chance to keep in touch. And the Fund is for this kind of problem.”

“Benevolent Fund?”

“These problems are not of your making, Bernard. Sure your wife defected but there’s no way that can be laid at your door. It’s the Department’s problem and they’ll do what they can.” He stopped studying his fingernails for long enough to give me a sincere look straight in the eyes.

I said, “I envy you your faith in the Department’s charity and understanding, Bret. Maybe that’s what keeps you going.” “It comes with being an Anglophile, Bernard.” He put both hands in his pockets and grinned. “And talking about your marriage, what do you hear about Fiona?”

“She’s working for the other side,” I said stolidly. He knew I didn’t want to discuss any of this but it didn’t deter him. I’d been hoping to hear why he’d been playing possum all this time, but he was obviously unwilling to confide in me. “No messages? Nothing? She must miss the children.”

I said, “She’d be crazy to have the children there with her. It wouldn’t be good for them, and her new bosses would hold the children ransom if she ever strayed out of line.”

“Fiona is probably trusted, Bernard. She gave up a lot children, husband, family, home, career. She gave up everything . It’s my guess they trust her over there.” He fiddled with the controls of the exercise bicycle. It was like Bret; he always had to fidget with something. Always had to interfere, his antics said. He pushed the pedal down so that the mechanism made a noise. “But a lot of people find it impossible to live over there. Don’t give up hope yet.” “Well, I guess you didn’t have me come all the way to California to talk about Fiona,” I said.

He looked up sharply. Years back I’d suspected him of having an affair with Fiona. They seemed to, enjoy each other’s company in a way that I envied. I was no longer jealous - we’d both lost her - but my suspicion, and his awareness of it, cast a shadow upon our relationship. “Well in a way, yes I did.” Big smile. “I had some papers for London. Someone had to come, and they sent you, which makes me very happy.” “Don’t give me all that shit,” I said. “I’m grown up now. If there’s something to say, say it and get it over with.” “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I’ll tell you what I mean. First, Harry Strang, not being in on the joke, whatever the joke is, told me that I was assigned at the particular request of the Washington Field Unit. Secondly, when I get here and open my suitcase, I find that it’s all been searched very carefully. Not hurriedly ransacked and turned over the way a thief does it, or the orderly and systematic “authorized” way customs do it. But turned right over just the same.”

“Airport security,” said Bret sharply. “Don’t be so paranoid, Bernard.”

“I thought you’d say that, Bret. So what about my hand baggage? What about the chatty Mr. Woosnam or whatever his real name was, who just happens to get the seat next to mine and goes through my bag while I’m in the toilet?”

“You can’t be sure,” said Bret.

“Sure it happened? Or sure it was the Department?” Bret smiled. “Bernard, Bernard, Bernard,’he said, shaking his head in disbelief. I was paranoid: the matter of my baggage was another example of my foolishness. There was nothing to be gained from trying to pursue the subject. “Sit back, and let’s talk.” I sat back.

“Years ago - before Fiona took a walk - I was given a job to do. Operation Hook it was called. It was designed to move some money around the globe. In those days I was always liable to get saddled with those finance jobs. There was no one else upstairs who knew anything about nuts-and-bolts finance.” “With Prettyman?”

“Right. Prettyman was assigned to me to oversee the facts and figures.

“Prettyman was on the Special Operations Committee. with YOU. I “I wouldn’t make too much of that,’ said Bret. “It might have looked good on his CV but as far as that Committee was concerned he was just a glorified book-keeper.” “But he reported back to Central Funding,” I said. “Reported directly back to them. In effect Prettyman was their man on the Committee.”

“You have been doing your homework,” said Bret, piqued that I should have known anything about it. “Yes, Prettyman reported back directly to Funding, because I suggested that we did it that way. It saved me having to sign everything, and answer routine questions, at a time when I was out of London a lot.”

“Operation Hook? I’ve never heard of it.”

“And why should you? Almost no one heard of it. It was very “need to know” . . . the D-G, me ... even Prettyman didn’t know all the details.”

I looked at him waving his hands about.

“Prettyman signed the cheques,” I said.

“I don’t know who told you that. It’s true he counter-signed the cheques. But that was just a belt-and-braces device the D-G added, to monitor spending. The cheques had the amount and the date filled in - so that Prettyman could watch the cash-flow -but he wasn’t a party to the rest of it, payees and so on.”

“And suddenly Prettyman goes to Codes and Ciphers. Fiona defects. Prettyman goes to Washington. Is it all connected in some way I don’t see? What was it all for?” “It’s stiff going,” said Bret. “It’s still damned hot.”

“Going where?” I said.

He hesitated and wet his lips. “This is still very touchy stuff, Bernard.”

“Okay.”

Another hesitation and more chewing of the lip. “Embassy penetration.”

“I thought Ravenscroft had taken all that embassy stuff across the river. He’s got’a dozen people over there. What do they do all day?”

“Hook is quite different. Ravenscroft knows nothing about it.”

“So Ravenscroft and his people were moved because they were compromised?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t say. Embassy penetration work is constantly compromised. You know that. A defector goes, and they tighten up, and Ravenscroft’s life becomes more tricky for a while.” He looked at me. “But Hook is not in Ravenscroft’s class. A lot of money is involved. Hook is for really big fish.” “I learn more from you in five minutes than I find out in the office after a year of asking questions.”

“Because I want you to stop asking questions,” said Bret. A new firmer voice now, and not so friendly. “You’re poking into things that don’t concern you, Bernard. You could blow the whole show for us.” He was angry, and his angry words turned into a cough so that he had to pat his chest to recover his breath. “Is that why I was sent here?”

“In a way,” said Bret. He cleared his throat. “Just let me get this straight,” I said. “You set up a lot of companies and bank accounts for this “Hook” business so you could move cash without Central Funding having any record?”

“Embassies,” said Bret. “East European embassies. Not many people. Even I don’t have the details. That’s how it’s run. And it makes sense that way. Because if someone in Funding had the ledgers every one of our sources could be endangered.” I looked at him. “Big fish, Bernard . . .”

“And Prettyman knew about all this?”

“Prettyman knew only what he had to be told, plus whatever he could guess.”

“And how much was that?”

“Only Prettyman can answer that one.”

“And Prettyman is dead.”

“That’s right,” said Bret. “He’s dead.”

“And you want me to forget the whole thing?”

“Some bloody fool of a book-keeper got his figures wrong. Panic. And suddenly it seemed like getting Prettyman back to London was the best way to sort out the muddle.” “But now it’s sorted out?”

“It was an accountant’s mistake. A glitch like that happens now and again.”

“Okay, Bret. Can I go now?”

“It’s no use getting tough,” warned Bret. “This business is nothing to do with you. I don’t want you prying into it. I’m asking you to back off because lives are at stake. If you’re too dumb to see there’s no other way . .

“Then what?”

“This is official,” he said. “It’s not just me asking you on a personal basis, it’s an-official order.”

“Oh, I’ve got that one written down and learned by heart” I said. “My baggage wasn’t turned over because there was any chance of finding something I was hiding. I’m too long in the tooth for that one. My checked baggage was searched to show me that you were on the side of the angels. Right, Bret? Was that your idea, Bret? Did you ask London Central Operations to turn me over? Harry Strang was it? Harry’s a good enough fellow. Tough, efficient and experienced enough to arrange a small detail like that. And near enough to his pension not to be tempted to confide in me that it was going to happen. Right, Bret?”

“You’re your own worst enemy, Bernard.”

“Not while you’re around, Bret.”

“Think it over, Bernard. Sleep on it. But make quite sure you know what’s at stake.” He turned his eyes away from me and found an excuse to fiddle with the bicycle.

“Innocent lives, you mean?” I asked sarcastically. “Or my job?”

“Both, Bernard.” He was being tough now: all that Benevolent Fund script was shredded. This was the real Bret: steelyeyed and contemptuous.

“Is this the sort of ultimatum you put to Jim Prettyman?” I asked. “Was he his own worst enemy, until you came along? Did he give your “official order” a thumbs down so you had to have some boys from out of town blow him away in the car park?”