Spy hook: a novel (25 page)

“If Bret thinks that .” I started to say.

“Hold the phone, Bernie.” The amiable smile was back in place. “I’m saying that this is the way Washington sees it. Maybe they got it wrong, but that’s the way it was looking to them, by the time they got on to London Central and started asking questions.”

“And what did London say?” I said with genuine interest.

“London said just what Washington expected them to say. They said this was just Bernie Samson, on a one-man crusade that had no official authorization. London said they’d talk to Bernard Samson and cool him off a little.”

“And how did Washington feel about that?” “Washington said that was good. These big men in Washington said that if a little help was needed in cooling this maverick Brit off, they’d be happy to arrange for someone to break his arm in several places just to show him that his extra-curricular energies would be better employed with wine, women and song.”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said.

“Sure, in a manner of speaking, Bernie.” No smiles now, just blank face and cold stare before Posh Harry turned away to look out at the neon signs and the restaurant forecourts that were packed with the cars of people who liked their lunch to go on till sundown. He touched the condensation that had formed on the windows and seemed surprised when a dribble of water ran down the glass. “Because these big men in Washington don’t believe what your people tell them,” said Harry, talking to the window. “They don’t think London really have got some wild man who likes to go off to stir the dirt on his own time.”

“No”

“No. Washington think he’s on assignment. They wonder if maybe those bastards in London Central are getting ready for the big reshuffle that their deck of marked cards has needed so long.”

“Tell me more about that,” I said. “I’d like to know.” He turned his head and gave me a slow toothy smile. “They think your top guys are very clever at burying the bodies in a neighbour’s yard.”

Now I was beginning to see it. “London Central are going to blame some of their disasters on Bret?”

“It would be a way of handling it,” said Harry.

“A bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”

Harry gave a tight-lipped smile and didn’t answer. We both knew it wasn’t far-fetched. We knew it was exactly the way that our masters handled their dif(iculties. And anyway I didn’t feel like working hard to convince him that London Central wouldn’t do anything like that. The alternative would focus the wrath of Bret’s Washington fan club upon me. And I have always been opposed to violence, even when it’s in a manner of speaking.

Sunday lunchtime; London Heathrow; no Gloria to meet me. It was not a warm homecoming. An overtired customs man demanded that the box of official papers that Bret had dumped on me should be opened for his inspection. My inclination was to hand it over, but I waited until the duty Special Branch officer finished his late breakfast of fried egg and sausages so that he could come down - egg on his tie - and explain to all concerned that I was permitted to enter the United Kingdom with the box closed and locked and its contents not scrutinized by Her Majesty’s Customs.

The unnecessary delay was especially galling because I was certain that the paper-work in the box was of no great importance or secrecy: my errand was the Department’s excuse to have me cross the water and be rattled, wrung and reassured by lovable Bret Rensselaer. Whether my encounter with Posh Harry was also part of my Department’s plan was something I hadn’t yet decided, but probably not. They would not relish the message that Posh Harry conveyed to me.

And when I got to number thirteen Balaklava Road the house was dark and empty. A hastily scribbled message stuck on the oven door said that Gloria’s mother was sick and she’d had to go to see her. The word had underlined three times. The children were on a trip to the Zoo with some “very nice” schoolfriends. It was difficult for Gloria. She knew that I was likely to be examining her priorities in anything to do with my children.

Her parents were not enthusiastic about our domestic arrangements . And I was very much aware of the fact that her mother was only three years older than I was. So were they!

Sunday lunch is a sacred ritual for Englishmen of my generation. You eat at home. With luck it’s raining so you can’t work in the garden. You monitor the open fire diligently, while sipping an aperitif of your choice. Should a mood of desperate intellectuality overcome you, you might peruse the Sunday papers, reassured by the certainty that there will be no news in them. At the appointed time, with an appreciative family audience, you carve thin slices from a large piece of roasted meat and, if possible, cabbage, roasted potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. You divide it unevenly amongst the family according to whim. You eventually do the same with a sweet, stodgy, cooked desert that is accompanied by both custard and cream. You doze.

No matter how German some others said I was, no matter what my tastes were for foreign food, foreign heating systems, foreign cars and foreign bodies, in the matter of Sunday lunch I was resolutely English.

That was why I was so unhappy at the idea of eating the cold ham and salad that Gloria had left for me. So I took the car and went to Alfonso’s - a small Italian restaurant in Wimbledon. An establishment which, after taking the children to see Cosi fan tutte, our family called Don Alfonso’s. Alfonso himself was, of course, Spanish, and although willing to tackle an Italian menu in Wimbledon he was not so foolish as to offer British cooking of any sort. Certainly not Sunday lunch.

That Sunday, Alfonso’s was crowded with noisy people who didn’t know that a home-cooked lunch is an established English tradition. There were lots of children in evidence and two loaded dessert trolleys awaited the onslaught. From the amplifier there came a scratchy rendition of “Volare” sung in an Italian falsetto with massed guitar accompaniment. It came around about every thirty minutes.

“Have the aragosta fra Diavolo,” Alfonso advised, having poured me a glass of white wine and twisted the bottle to reveal an impressive Soave label. “Drink! Drink! It’s on the house, Mr. Samson.” Only the most unperceptive of customers could have mistaken Alfonso for an Italian, despite his having lived in Rome for eight years. He had the lively and unscrupulous salesmanship of the Roman, incongruously coupled with the relentless melancholy of Iberia. I sipped the wine and kept my eyes down on the menu. “Lobster cooked in wine with tomato. Really delicious,” he added persuasively.

“Frozen lobster?” I enquired. He watched one of his newest young waiters trying to prise baked lasagne from the metal dish to which it had stuck. It almost fell from his hands. Only with commendable self-control did Alfonso restrain himself from rushing across the room to do it himself.

He turned back again and his anxiety was manifested in his reply. “You think I wade through the paddling pool on Wimbledon Common to trap them? Frozen? Sure. Frozen.” “I don’t like frozen lobster,” I said. “And I don’t like anything that’s going to be “Diavolo”.”

Zzzwhoof Sharp intake of breath. “So what happened to you this morning? Get out of bed on the wrong side?” “I didn’t get out of bed: I haven’t been to bed. I’ve been on a bloody aeroplane all night.” Now we both watched the mad waiter as a gigantic serving spoon, heavily laden with pasta and sauce, made a perilous journey across the table to the plate. By a miracle it got there: no one got splattered. Alfonso breathed out and said, “Okay okay okay. Sorry I asked. Have a little more Soave. Shall I ask the chef to cook you a lovely half lobster without the chilli? just a little melted butter?” “What will frozen lobster taste of without the chilli?” I asked. “Oh dear! Oh dear! No lovely lady. That’s the trouble. Is this what you’re like when you’re on your own?”

“I’m not on my own: I’ve got you here selling me a lunch.” “Something very fight,” he said. He always said “something very light” even if he was going to suggest pork and dumplings. I know because he often suggested pork and dumplings and I often ate it. “Fish. A beautiful unfrozen red mullet baked with olives. Green salad. Start with a half portion of risotto.” “Okay.”

“And a carafe of this Soave?”

“Are you crazy, Al? Everyone knows Italian restaurants manufacture their booze in a garden shed. Soave maybe, but I’ll have a bottle with a cork in it.”

“You’re a cynic, Mr. Samson,” he said.

“And I’m paranoid with it,” I said. “Everyone says so.”

I ate my meal in solitude, watching my fellow-customers getting drunk and noisy. The yellow dented Mini arrived when I was having coffee. She found a place to park immediately outside. She did it with style and economy of effort, even if one wheel did end up on the pavement.

Gloria entered the dining room with all the joyful energy of show-biz: without arm-waving or shouting she was able to ensure that no one failed to look up. Even drunk I could not have done it like her; perhaps that’s what I found so attractive about her. She was everything I could not be. A big kiss and a hug. “I’m bloody starved, darling,” she said. “How did it go in California?” Another kiss. “Did you swim?” Alfonso took her coat and pulled out a chair for her. She said, “Am I too late to eat, Alfonso darling?”

“How could I send you away hungry, beautiful lady?’He gave her coat to a waiter and reached for the cutlery from another table and arranged a setting before her with surprising speed.

After no more than a glance at the menu, Gloria said “Could I have that delicious calves liver dish you do with onions and sage? And start with the marinaded mushrooms?” She was like that: she could make up her mind very quickly about almost everything. I often wondered whether she had her answers prepared in advance. Or was it that she simply didn’t care very much about the consequences of these things she was so quick to decide upon?

“Perfect,’ said Al, as if no one had ever thought of such a meal before. And then, as he thought about it again, “Absolutely perfect” He poured her some wine and held the bottle up to the light, as if worried that the wine left would be insufficient for US.

“How’s your mother?” I said in an attempt to lower the temperature.

“She’ll live.”

“What was it?” I said.

“Poor Mummy is doing her dramatic Hungarian number.

She thinks Daddy is getting tired of her.”

“And is he?”

“I suppose so. Good God! I don’t know. They’ve been married for twenty-five years. It wouldn’t be amazing if he was starting to feel a bit imprisoned. I’ve seen some gorgeous patients at his surgery. And they all adore him.”

“Imprisoned by marriage?”

“It happens. They haven’t got much in common.” I was surprised to find her so resigned. “But they are both expatriate Hungarians. They came here together and set up a new life.”

“Now they both speak excellent English and my sisters are away at school and I have left home. There is not so much binding them together.”

“And people say I’m a cynic.”

“I’m not being cynical. I’m stating facts.”

“Did you tell your mother this?”

“I wrapped it up a bit.”

“I hope you wrapped it up a lot. She must be depressed beyond measure. And maybe your father is not chasing other women. Or even feeling imprisoned.”

She sipped some wine, looked me in the eyes and then gave me a slow smile. “You’re a romantic really, Bernard. An old fashioned romantic. Perhaps that’s why I fell for you so badly.” She smiled again. Her blonde hair had been rearranged so that she had a fringe to just above her eyebrows. She was so beautiful. “Your new hair-do looks good,” I said. She touched her hair. “Do you really like it?” “Yes.’ I couldn’t bear being separated from her, not even for a day or two. The prospect of her going to Cambridge was unendurable. She pursed her lips to offer a kiss. “I love you, Gloria,” I said without meaning to. She smiled and fidgeted with the cutlery. She seemed slightly agitated and I wondered if perhaps she was more worried about her mother than she was prepared to admit. “I saw Bret Rensselaer,” I said. “Everyone thought he was dead but he’s convalescing.”

“You saw Bret Rensselaer?” She wasn’t as surprised by the news as I’d been, but then Bret Rensselaer had been gone for years.

“He was in a filthy temper. I suppose being chronically sick, makes you moody.”

“But he’s recuperating?”

“He seems to have found a rich old lady. She said they were childhood sweethearts.”

“How sweet,” said Gloria.

“With a very nice little spread in Ventura County. I can’t think why he’d want to get well.”

“What a rotten thing to say, darling,” she said. “That spoils everything; that’s not romantic at all.” Her marinaded mushrooms arrived and as she started eating she said, “Well, you chose exactly the right day to disappear as usual.” “I did?”

“Friday morning. First your old friend Werner Volkmann arrived, tight-lipped and glaring. From what I understand he’s accusing Frank Harrington of sending his wife off on a suicide mission to Frankfurt an der Oder. He was furious! I stayed out of sight.”

“What happened?”

She continued eating and then said, “After a lot of toing and froing, and Dicky complaining of a headache and saying he would have to go to the doctor, it was decided that the Deputy would talk to Werner.”

“The Deputy?”

“Well, he was demanding to see the bloody D-G, no less. Dicky told him the D-G was away sick but Mr. Volkmann wasn’t buying that one. It was obvious that seeing Dicky would only put his back up worse, so the Deputy offered to handle it.” “Good on the Deputy,” I said.