Spy Sinker (11 page)

'Perfect.' Neither of them were interested enough in the food to read the menu all through. It was a relief, thought Fiona. Bernard could never sit down in a restaurant without cross-examining the waiter about the cooking in its most minute details. What was worse, he was always trying to persuade Fiona to try such things as smoked eel, tongue or – what was that other dish he liked so much? –
Marinierter Hering
.

'How are you enjoying Berlin?' Bret asked.

'Having Bernard with me makes a difference.'

'Of course. His mother went to England to look after the children?'

'It was sweet of her but I miss them awfully,' she said. A platter of ham arrived garnished with tomatoes and pickles, and there was a lot of fussing about as the waiter offered them a selection of bread rolls and three different types of mustard. When the waiter had departed she said, 'I suppose at heart I'm a housewife.' She spread butter on her black bread but she watched Bret's reaction. Exactly a week ago she'd decided that she would not be able to go through with this mad project of defecting to the KGB as some sort of superspy.

Fiona's life had become too complex for her. The clandestine meetings with Martin Euan Pryce-Hughes had not been too stressful. She was a sleeper: they met rarely. Her assignment had provided her with a smug feeling of serving her country, and the Department, while demanding little or nothing from her. Then had come the bombshell from Bret Rensselaer that the Prime Minister had asked the D-G for a long-term commitment to getting someone into the top echelons of the enemy intelligence service. Of course she hadn't entirely dismissed the thought that Bret had exaggerated the way it had happened, especially now that she saw the gain in prestige – and self-esteem too – that her planned mission brought to Bret.

Perhaps she could have handled the secret meetings with Martin and Bret, especially since at first Bret had been so understanding and sensitive about the strain on her. But that totally unexpected coup de foudre that had smitten her after the chance meeting with Harry Kennedy was the last straw. And while the meetings with Martin and with Bret could be kept to a minimum, cancelled at short notice with no questions asked, and no recriminations, the meetings with Harry were something quite different. She sometimes ached to see him. On the days when they were to meet, she became so consumed by the prospect that she could think of nothing else. It was amazing that no one – not Bernard, not Bret nor her sister Tessa – had seen the turbulence within her. Well, it all had to stop. No more Martin, no more Bret and no more Harry. She was even considering resigning from the Department. If Bret put up any sort of resistance to letting her go free she would do exactly that. She had enough money from her father to tell them all to go to hell. Bret would argue, whine and maybe yell, but she only had one life and what she did with it was going to be her decision.

When a woman reaches her thirties, she starts to ask herself some demanding questions. What was she doing with her life that was more important than having a real home and looking after her husband and her children? How could she contemplate prolonged separation from them? Let them send some other agent to the East. There must be dozens who wanted to make their name by such an operation. But not she.

She ate some ham and a piece of the warm bread roll. Since Bret had not spoken, she said it again. 'I suppose at heart I'm a housewife.'

If Bret guessed what was in store he gave no immediate sign of it. 'We're changing the name of my department. Instead of the European Economics Desk it's officially to be the Economics Intelligence Section and I am named "Department Head". Rather grand, isn't it?' It came as no surprise to either of them. When Bret had told her about his master plan – Sinker – for bringing down the German Democratic Republic by targeting the respectable middle class, she knew it was right. Anyone who'd read a history book could see that Hitler gained power by wooing the German middle classes while the communists disdained them.

'So congratulations are in order?' she asked.

'They surely are,' he said and they raised their glasses and drank. She smiled; how proud Bret was of his new appointment. She would never really understand him; she wondered if anyone did. He was so perfect and yet so contrived, right down to that perfect suntan. His navy blue cashmere jacket and grey slacks were probably chosen to show her how informal he could be but, together with the silk bow tie and starched shirt complete with cuffs long enough to reveal onyx links, he looked like a fashion plate. He was highly intelligent, charming, and, although no longer young, handsome; and yet he remained completely devoid of any sort of sexual attraction.

'Have you seen Frank?' she asked.

'About the big panic? Yes, I spent this afternoon with him.'

'Is there going to be a row?'

'Maybe but I don't think so. For us, in fact, it provides a perfect opportunity.'

'To fire Frank?' It was a mischievous and provocative question that she knew Bret would let pass.

Impassively Bret asked, 'Were you there when the intercept came in?' She nodded. Tell me about it.'

'It was in the small hours of the morning – I can look it up in the log if you want it timed exactly. The duty cipher clerk brought it, they'd deciphered it very quickly. It came through the Russian Army transmitter at Karlshorst with the authorization of the commanding general's office. It was an order that some military airfield in southwest Czecho be kept on a twenty-four-hour operational status.'

'Did Frank see it?'

'It was handed to him. Frank pooh-poohed it at first and then did his usual sitting on the fence routine.'

'Who was in charge of communications room security?'

'You must have got all this from Frank.'

'Who was in charge?'

'Werner Volkmann.'

'Bernard's German buddy?'

'Yes, that's him.'

'Good. It will all work nicely.'

'What will?'

'You're going to take a copy of that intercept and give it to Pryce-Hughes.'

'Give it to Martin?'

'That's what I said. Be precise. I've written down exactly what I want you to say.'

She drank some champagne. 'You know what will happen?'

'Tell me what will happen, Fiona.'

'Moscow will tell Karlshorst immediately, they're very touchy about military signals. No matter what I stipulate about secrecy, they'll send an intercepted traffic warning to the commanding general's office and change everything,'

'Yes, they'll change the codes and ciphers. We could live with that,' said Bret.

'I'm not an expert on signals,' said Fiona. 'But surely they change the codes and ciphers three or four times a week anyway? For a penetration like this they will change the system.'

'Whoever gave approval must know what they'll do,' said Bret, without concern for anything but his own plans.

'What is this all about?'

'I'm going to make you a star,' said Bret. 'I'm going to get the Soviets to sprinkle you with stardust and start thinking of you as a potential big-shot.'

'I don't like it, Bret.'

She was expecting him to ask why but he dismissed her reservations with a wave of his hand. 'I had to get the D-G's authority for this one, Fiona. It's a big concession and it shows that the old man is really convinced.'

'Won't NATO make a fuss? Moscow will change everything. Everything.'

'There is no question of confiding our secrets to NATO,' said Bret. 'You know what we decided.'

'Yes, I know.' She was about to tell him of her decision to pull out when there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs and Kessler himself came with the souffle. It was magnificent, a great yellow dome of beaten egg, with flecks of browned cheese making a pattern all over it.

Fiona made the appreciative ohhs and ahhs that old Kessler expected and Bret added his compliments in hesitant German. Kessler served the souffle and the side salad and offered bread rolls and butter and topped up their glasses until Fiona wanted to scream.

Once the old man had gone she tried again. 'I've been thinking of the whole operation: thinking hard and very carefully.'

'And now you want out?' He looked at her and nodded before probing into the souffle on his plate. 'It's exactly right. Look at that, soft in the middle but not raw.'

She didn't know how to react. 'Yes, I do, Bret. How did you guess?'

'I know you well, Fiona. Sometimes I think I understand you even better than your husband does.'

She drank, nodded nervously but didn't answer. That had always been Bret's angle. He understood her: it was the style that any sensible case officer adopted to the agent he ran. She'd seen it all from the other side so she knew the way it was done. She needed a drink and emptied her glass of champagne greedily.

Bret took her glass to refill it. He brought the bottle from its ice bucket, holding it fastidiously as the water dripped from it. Then he poured carefully so that it didn't foam too much. 'Yes, I understand,' he said without looking up from the glass.

'I'm serious, Bret.'

'Of course you are. It's a strain, I know that. I worry about you. You surely must know I worry.'

'I can't do it, Bret. For all sorts of reasons… if you want me to explain…' She was angry at herself. She had decided before coming here that she wouldn't put herself in the position of a supplicant. She had nothing to apologize for. Circumstances had changed. She simply couldn't continue with it.

'There is nothing to explain, Fiona. I know what you're going through.'

'I won't change my mind, Bret.'

He looked up at her and nodded with an affectionate, paternal indifference.

'Bret! I won't change my mind. I can't go.'

'It's the build-up,' he said. 'That's what makes it so stressful, this long time of preparation.'

'Bret. Don't think you can just let it go and that I'll reconsider it and eventually it will all be on again.'

'Ummm.' He looked at her and nodded. 'Maybe a big glass of champagne is what I need too.' He poured more for himself. It gave him something to do while she fretted. 'Every agent goes through this crisis, Fiona. It's not any failure of nerve, everyone gets the jitters sometime or other.' He reached across and touched the back of her hand. His fingers were icy cold from holding the champagne bottle and she shivered as he touched her. 'Just hang on: it will be all right. I promise you: it will be all right.'

It was anger that restored to her the calm she required to answer him. 'Don't patronize me, Bret. I'm not frightened. I am not on the verge of a nervous break-down, neither am I suffering from premenstrual tension or any other weakness you may believe that women are prey to.' She stopped.

'Get mad! Better you blow a valve than a gasket,' said Bret, smiling in that condescending way he had. 'Let me have it. Say what you have to say.'

'I've worked in the Department a long time, Bret. I know the score. The reason that I'm not going ahead with the plan – your plan I suppose I should say – is that I no longer feel ready to sacrifice my husband and my children in order to make a name for myself.'

'I never, for one moment, thought you might be motivated by the prospect of making a name for yourself, Fiona.'

The way he maintained his gentle and conciliatory tone moderated her anger. 'I suppose not,' she said.

'I knew it to be a matter of patriotism.'

'No,' she said.

'No? Is this the same woman who told me,

"There is but one task for all -

One life for each to give.

Who stands if Freedom fall?

Who dies if England live?"?
'

She wet her lips. A favourite quote from Kipling was not going to divert her from what she had to say. 'You talk of a year or two. My children are very young. I love them: I need them and they need me. You are asking too much. How long will I be away? What will happen to the children? What will happen to Bernard? And my marriage? Use someone without a family. It's madness for me to go.'

She had kept her voice low but the expression on his face, as he feigned interest and sympathy, made her want to scream at him. Who stands if Freedom fall? Yes, Bret's words had scored a point with her and she was shaken by being suddenly brought face to face with the resolute young woman she'd been not so long ago. Was it marriage and motherhood that had made her so damnably bovine?

'It is madness. And that is exactly what will make you so secure. Bernard will be distraught and the Soviets will give you their trust.'

'I simply can't cope, Bret. I need a rest.'

'Or you could look at it another way,' said Bret amiably. 'A couple of years over there might be just the sort of challenge you need.'

'The last thing I need right now is another challenge,' she said feelingly.

'Sometimes relationships come to an end and there is nothing to be done but formally recognize what has happened.'

'What do you mean?'

'That's the way it was with me and Nikki,' he said, his voice low and sincere. 'She said she needed to find herself again. Looking back on it, our marriage had diminished to a point where it was nothing but a sham.'

'My marriage isn't a sham.'

'Maybe not; but sometimes you have to look closely in order to see. That's the way it was for me.'

'I love Bernard and he loves me. And we have two adorable children. We are a happy family.'

'Maybe you think it's none of my business,' said Bret, 'but this sudden instability – this ring down the curtain and send the orchestra home, I can't go on, nonsense – hasn't resulted from your work but from your personal life. So you need to take a look at your personal affairs to find the answer.'

Bret's words acted upon her like an emetic. She closed her eyes in case the sight of the plate of food caused her to vomit. When finally she opened her eyes she looked at Bret, seeking in his face an indication of what he was thinking. Failing to find anything there but his contrived warmth, she said, 'My personal affairs are personal, Bret.'

'Not when I find you in an emotional state and you tell me to abandon the most important operation the Department has ever contemplated.'