London Match

15

'Why did you get yourself into this crock?' I asked Ted Riley for what must have been the hundredth time. For the hundredth time he failed to give me any proper explanation. He was in no hurry. He was drinking Powers Irish whiskey, and it was having an effect upon him, for when he spoke his voice had the lilt of Kerry, a brogue that makes everything into a song. I remembered that voice from my childhood, and it brought back to me all Ted's stories.

There was the one about his grandfather piling his freshly cut peat into 'stocks' and how, 'in the soft pink light of each and every morning', he found that some of his peat had been stolen. The thefts continued for years until one day Grandfather Riley tucked gunpowder into the turf and a neighbour's cottage burned to the ground. It was to avoid the violent retribution threatened by the injured man's relatives that the Rileys moved to County Kerry where Ted was born. How many of Ted's stories were true, how many embroidered, and how many invented just to amuse a wide-eyed little boy, I'll never know. But Ted was a part of my childhood, like climbing Berlin 's rubble piles and ice skating on the Muggelsee.

'Ahhhh.' Ted's yawn was a symptom of anxiety. For all God's creatures, fear brings a drowsiness, a self-preserving urge to snuggle down somewhere out of sight and go to sleep.

We were sitting in the sort of room in which I seem to have spent half my adult life. It was a hotel room in Cambridge, but this was not the Cambridge of Gothic spires or cloistered dons, this was a shopping street on the wrong side of town, a shabby hotel with cracked lino on the floor, a bathroom a long way down the hall, and a sink where a dripping tap had resisted all my efforts to silence it.

It was late evening, but we'd kept the room lights switched off. The curtain remained open and the room's only light came from the street lamps, the bilious yellow sodium glow reflected from the rain-wet road to make patterns on the ceiling. I could make out the shape of Ted Riley slumped on the bed, still wearing his damp raincoat. His hat was pulled down to cover his face. He only moved it back when he drank.

I was standing near the window, looking through the net curtain at the premises across the street. It was an old four-storey building, its fascia stained and in places broken. According to the brass plates alongside the front door, it housed a firm of architects and an industrial designer as well as the solicitor's office we were to break into. On the top floor was the flat for the caretaker, but tonight according to Ted's research the caretaker was away visiting his son's family in London. The whole building was dark.

'Ah, now…! You know…!' Ted said, and raised his glass to me. That was supposed to answer all my questions.

Ted Riley was trying to tell me that no matter how carefully he tried to explain things, I'd not understand. We were a generation apart, and what was more important, Ted's generation had fought a war while my generation had not. Ted was a friend of my father and everything in Ted's gesture told me that my father would have never asked him that question; my father would have known the answer. That's why Ted didn't reply. It was a convenient thing for Ted to believe.

I poured myself some more whiskey and took the bottle across to the bed. Ted held up his glass to me without removing the hat from his face. I poured him another good measure. He'd need it.

'Thanks, my boy,' he said.

No matter how close I felt to Ted Riley, he saw me as the little boy who'd made good. Those who got their feet under a desk at London Central were regarded as a race apart by the men and women who had done the real work in those lonely places where the real work was done.

'When your man makes a suggestion, I'm in no position to turn it down,' said Ted. 'I'm employed on sufferance. The Department has told me so in those very words.' He meant Bret, of course, and Bret was 'my man' because I'd accompanied him to Berwick House in his big car.

I stepped back to the window to watch the street. I didn't have to move far; the room was no bigger than a large cupboard. 'That was a long time ago,' I heard myself saying, just as everyone kept saying it to me when they thought I needed reassurance about my past. Time used to be the panacea for everything, but nowadays our sins are remembered on computers, and random-accessed memories do not fade.

A police car passed. Not quite slowly enough to be observing our target but not quite fast enough to be merely passing by. I decided not to mention it to Ted; he was jumpy enough already.

'There's no statute of limitations on blackmail,' said Ted with no special bitterness in his voice. 'It's written down somewhere in some secret file, to be used against me whenever I'm anything less than exemplary.'

For a moment I thought there was some double meaning there. I thought he was telling me that I was in the same position. But that wasn't the Department's style. How can you blackmail anyone about something that has become common knowledge? No, just as Ted Riley's disgrace had been so assiduously concealed, so would any lingering suspicion about me be kept buried deep in the boneyard. I said, 'For God's sake, Ted. Hams or cheese or booze or something… it's too long ago for anyone to care about it.'

'I was young and very stupid. It wasn't so much the little black-market deals. Everyone was frightened that I'd been forced to reveal military information too. I never thought of it like that at the time.'

'Not Dad,' I said. 'Dad would have trusted you with his life.'

Ted grunted to show how silly I was. 'Your dad signed the note for the enquiry. I could have kept it covered up until your dad found out. Your dad packed me off to London to face the music.'

For a moment I felt sick. Ted was not only a very close colleague of my father, but a friend of the family. He was always in and out when we were living at Lisl Hennig's place. Ted was one of the family. Our German maidservant would keep a spare set of cutlery and a napkin handy just in case Ted arrived for dinner unannounced. 'I'm sorry, Ted. I had no idea.'

Ted gave another grunt. 'I don't blame your dad; I blame myself. Your dad made no secret of what he did to staff who broke the rules, and I was senior staff. Your dad did the only thing he could do. He made an example of me. I bear him no grudge, Bernard.'

His voice was that of the slim young officer who'd so effortlessly hoisted me onto his shoulder and galloped down the corridor to put me into the bath. But in the gloom I could see that the voice was coming from a fat disappointed old man.

'Dad was bloody inflexible,' I said. I went and sat on the bed. The tired old springs groaned and the mattress sagged under my weight.

'God rest him,' said Ted. He stretched out and touched my arm. 'You had the finest father anyone could wish for. He never asked us to do anything he wouldn't do himself.' Ted's voice was strained. I'd forgotten that Ted was one of the sentimental breed of Irishmen.

'Dad was something of a Prussian at times,' I said to ease the tension. Ted was getting to the kind of maudlin mood in which he'd start singing 'Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen…' in the tear-jerking baritone that he always produced at the Christmas parties we used to have in the office in Berlin.

'Many a true word is spoken in jest,' said Ted hoarsely. 'Yes, your father was like some of those Prussians… the ones I liked. When the enquiry was held, it was your father who came to London and gave evidence on my behalf. If it hadn't been for what your dad said, I would have been kicked out of the service without a pension.'

'Is that what happened to Lange?'

'Something like that,' said Ted, as if he didn't want to talk about it.

'Was Lange on the take?'

Ted took his hat from his eyes in order to look at me and smiled. 'Was Lange on the take? Lange was on the way to becoming the king of the Berlin black market by the time they booted him off to Hamburg.'

'And my father didn't know?'

'Now you're comparing me with Lange. That's like comparing a first-time offender with Al Capone. I was just a kid; Lange was an old newspaperman who knew the ways of the world. Did you know that Lange was granted a personal interview with Hitler back in 'thirty-three when the Nazis first came to power? Lange was a mature sophisticated man. He knew how to cover his tracks and he could sweet-talk anyone into anything. Even your father came under his spell. But Lange was frightened of your father. It was only when your dad left Berlin for London that Lange pulled out all the stops. Rumours say he put a million marks into the bank.'

'So much for rumours,' I said. 'Go and visit him now and you won't see much sign of it. He's living in a dilapidated dump off Potsdamerstrasse and drinking homemade wine. I felt so bad about him that I fiddled a small departmental payment for the information he gave me. Rensselaer saw the docket and started quizzing me about what Lange had said.'

'Save your tears, Bernie. Lange did some terrible things in the old days – things I wouldn't like to have on my conscience.'

'What things?'

'Lange's black-market friends were armed, and I don't mean with can openers. People got hurt, some even got killed. Lange stayed clear, but he knew what was happening when those toughs raided warehouses and hijacked Army trucks. And the crime figures prove it. When Lange went to Hamburg, things suddenly improved in Berlin.'

'Was that why Lange was sent to Hamburg?'

'Sure. It was the only way they could prove his guilt. After that he never got a really good job again.'

We sat there in silence, drinking. In an hour it would be finished and done with. I'd be in the car with Ted, roaring down the London road, and we'd be enjoying that slight hysteria that follows risky little games like this one.

I changed the subject. 'So how is Erich Stinnes and his radio?'

'It all worked out just fine, Bernie. He listens to Radio Volga every morning.'

'Radio Volga?'

'For the Soviet Armed Forces in Germany. It broadcasts all day every day up to ten o'clock at night, at which time all good Russian soldiers switch off and go to bed, except Saturday when it goes on until ten-thirty.'

'It doesn't sound likely that the Army would be sending radio messages to a KGB officer.'

'No, but until five o'clock every afternoon Radio Volga is relaying the Moscow Home Service Channel One. That could contain any messages the KGB ordered.'

'What time?'

'As I say, he tunes in each morning. Or perhaps I should say that the timer you put on the electric plug shows electricity being used each morning at eight-thirty. Then he does his exercises and has a couple of cups of coffee before the interrogator comes.'

'Is that the only station he listens to?'

'No, he plays with the buttons. It's a lovely toy, that little shortwave receiver. He amuses himself with it. East and West, Russian language, German language, and all sorts of Spanish-speaking stations, including Cuba. Of course, the only evidence we've got is the way he leaves the radio's tuning memory. Is he on the level, Bernie?'

'What do you think?'

'I've seen quite a few of them over the years that I've worked for the Debriefing Centre.' He sat up, resting his elbow, and drank some of his whiskey. Ted was a serious drinker; he didn't just sip it, he gulped it down. 'They're all a bit nervous. Some were terrified, some were just a little restless, but they were all nervous. But Stinnes is different. He's a cool customer, as calm as anything. The other morning I tried to ruffle his feathers. I put a glass of water and a slice of dry bread in front of him and told him to pack his bag, he was going to the Tower of London. I said we'd tumbled him. He just smiled and said it was bound to happen eventually. He's very cool.'

'You think he is really still working for Moscow? Do you think it could all be an elaborate act to feed us misinformation? And we're swallowing it just the way he wants?'

Ted gave me a very slowly expanding smile, as if I was trying to put one over on him. 'Now you're asking me something. That's what they call the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. You're the brains now, young Bernard. You're the one who's supposed to be giving me the answers to questions like that one.'

'He's handed us some good stuff,' I said.

'Like the one tonight? Your man said we'll be able to pick up a whole network with the stuff we'll get out of that filing cabinet across the road.'

'I don't like it, Ted. It's not our job, and Five know about it. If we get into hot water, there'll be precious little help from those bastards at the Home Office.'

'Breaking and entering and stealing a couple of files? We've both done it plenty of times over there, Bernie. The only difference is that now we're doing it in England. It will be a piece of cake. I remember the tune when you would have done a job like this in hah⁷ an hour and come back looking for more work.'

'Maybe,' I said. I wasn't sure that I wanted to be reminded.

'Remember when I was sent back to Berlin to break into that big house in Heinersdorf? When you got the maid to let you wait in the front room? A Russian colonel's place it was. The dog took the arse out of your trousers when you climbed down from the bathroom window holding that box of photographs. And you rode the bike all the way back so that no one would see the hole in your pants. Your dad gave me hell for letting you do that.'

'I was the only one thin enough to get through the window.'

'Your dad was right. You were only a child. If those bastards had caught you and found out who your dad was, God knows what might have happened to you.'

'It would have been all right. In those days no one could have guessed I was anything but a German kid.'

'The things we did before they built that Wall! Those were the days, Bernie. I often think what a crazy childhood you had.'

'We should get going,' I said, looking yet again at my watch. I went to the window and opened it. It let cold air into the room but I could see better and hear better that way. I didn't want some squad of Special Branch detectives creeping up to grab Ted and show us what happened to people who poked their noses into Home Office territory.

'We've plenty of time, Bernie. No sense me hanging about in the doorway before the locksmith has got the door open. That's the way accidents happen.'

'You shouldn't be doing this sort of job any more,' I said.

'I can do with the extra money,' said Ted.

'Let me do it, Ted. You do backup!'

He looked at me for a long time, trying to decide if I was serious. 'You know I can't let you do it, old son. Why do you think your boss selected me to do it? Because Ted Riley has no reputation to lose. If the law grabs me, I'll do my act in court and the reporters won't even bother to ask me how I spell my name. If you got caught over there with your hands in the files, it might end up with questions in the House for the Prime Minister. I'd sooner get nabbed for doing it than answer to Mr Rensselaer's fury at letting you do it for me.'

'Then let's go,' I said. I didn't like what he was saying but he was entirely right. 'The locksmith will be standing on the doorstep within three minutes.'

Ted got to his feet and reached for his two-way radio. I did the same thing. 'Is that okay?' I said into the microphone.

Ted had put the earplug in one ear and covered the other ear with his flattened hand. It was too dangerous for the loudspeaker to be switched on while he was working.

I repeated my test and he nodded to tell me he was hearing through the earpiece. Then he said, 'Seems okay, old lad.' His voice came through my handphone.

Then I changed the wavelength and called the car that was to collect him. 'Taxi for two passengers?' I said.

Although I had the volume turned right down, the more powerful transmitter in the car came through loudly. 'Taxi ready and waiting.'

'Have you got everything?' I asked Ted. He was at the sink. The pipes made a loud chugging sound as the water flowed. Without removing his hat, he splashed his face and dried himself on the little towel hanging under the mirror.

Wearily he said, 'Holy Mother of God, we've been all through that at least five times, Bernard.' There were voices in the corridor and then sounds of two people entering the room next door. There was a clatter of the wardrobe door and the harsh swishing sound of coat hangers being pushed along a rail. The wardrobe backing must have been very thin for the sounds were loud. 'Relax, son,' said Ted. 'It's a couple renting the room for an hour or two. It's that sort of hotel.'

Yes, I was even more nervous that he was. I'd seldom played the part of backup man and never before to someone I knew and liked. For the first time I realized that it was worse than actually doing the job. It was that parental agony you suffer every time your children want to bicycle in the traffic or go away to camp.

Still in the dark, Ted buttoned up his coat and straightened his hat. I said, 'If the lock proves difficult, I'll send the big cutters over to you.'

Ted Riley touched my arm as if quietening a frightened horse. 'Don't fuss, Bernard. Our man was in there only two days ago. He's a damned good man, I've worked with him before. He identified the type of filing cabinet and he's opened three of them since then. I watched him. I could almost do it alone.'

'You'd better go now. You call me first, as soon as you're ready for the check calls,' I said. I didn't watch him go, I went to the window to watch the street.

The rendezvous went like a training-school exercise. Our tame locksmith arrived exactly on time and Ted Riley crossed the street and entered the door without a pause in his stride. The locksmith followed him inside, pulled the door closed, and fixed it so that it would remain firm against the test of any passing policeman.

He wouldn't be able to use the lift, so it was a long walk upstairs. But Ted was a pro: he'd make sure he didn't arrive out of breath, just in case there was a reception committee. Even using my pocket binoculars I couldn't see any sign of them entering the office. Ted would make sure they both kept away from the windows as much as possible. It was bad luck that the filing cabinets were on this outer wall.

They'd been inside a couple of minutes when Ted called me up. 'Come back with hair on…' he sang softly.

'… you bald-headed bastard,' I replied.

There had been no agreed identification, but more than once Ted had used his parody version of 'Come Back to Erin ' as recognition.

'It's going to be a piece of cake,' Ted whispered.

'Street clear,' I said.

It was more than three minutes before Ted called again. I was watching the time, otherwise I might have thought it was an hour or more. 'Slight snag… but all okay. Add three.'

'Street clear. Departure time add three.'

The car was parked very close by, a few minutes this way or that wouldn't make much difference to them. I decided not to call the car crew until we were nearer to the rendezvous time.

It was five minutes before Ted came on the air again. I wondered what the hell was happening over there, but I knew how annoying such calls could be so I kept silent.

'It's not the same lock,' said Ted. 'The inside has been changed. We'll have to add ten.' He sounded very calm and matter-of-fact, but I didn't like the sound of it.

'Cutters any good?' I offered. They could try going in through the back of the cabinet if all else failed. We had cutters that could go through almost anything.

'Not yet.'

The rain continued. It was what Ted called 'a soft day': steady drizzle that went on without end. There were not many pedestrians on the street and even the cars were infrequent. This was a good night to stay in and watch TV. That bloody Cambridge Constabulary car passed down the street again. Was it the same car showing interest in our target or was I seeing a succession of different cars on their way to and from the police station? I should have noted the registration.

'We've got suddenly lucky,' said Ted's voice. He didn't enlarge on it. He kept the button pressed while he watched the locksmith working at the filing cabinet. I could hear the faint sounds of them working, sweating and straining to shift the cabinet: 'We'll just look at the back of it.' And then Ted was speaking to the locksmith: 'Watch the wiring… it's wired! Holy mother of…'

I was straining to see through the windows of the dark office. For a moment I thought they'd switched on the lights, for the two windows of the law offices lit up to become bright yellow rectangles. Then came the sound of the explosion. It was a deafening crash and the force of it clawed at me through the open window like a gale.

The law office windows dissolved into a shower of debris that, together with pieces of the two men, was rained out into the street.

'Taxi. Go. Go. Negative.' It was the official way to say to scram to save yourself, and the car crew came back immediately with a reply.

'Please confirm.' The voice was calm but I heard the engine start.

'Go. Go. Negative. Out.'

I heard someone at the other end mutter 'Good luck' as I switched off my radio. It was bad procedure but not one that I'd feel inclined to report: I needed all the well-wishers I could find.

From somewhere over the other side of town I heard a police siren start up. I leaned out of the window and then threw the radio as far as I could towards the office. The windows were now dark again, except for the faint flicker of fire.

I buttoned my coat, put on my cap, and looked quickly around the room to make sure there was nothing there left to compromise us. Then I went downstairs to watch the police and fire service arrive.

The firemen arrived immediately after the first police car. And then an ambulance. The noise of their heavy diesel engines throbbed loudly. Batteries of headlights burned through the continuing drizzle of rain and reflected upon tiny bits of broken glass that were strewn all over the roadway and sparkled like ice. There were black pieces of charred paper and broken bits of wood and things that I didn't care to inspect too closely. The fire engine's ladder moved slowly until it was positioned against the office windows, where a red glow was still to be seen. A fireman climbed it. There was a terrible smell of burning and enough smoke for the firemen to be using breathing gear.

The whole street was brightened as everyone drew back their curtains to watch the activity. By now the front door of the offices had been opened. The ambulance men pushed through the little crowd that had formed and went inside to look around. They didn't take a stretcher with them. They guessed they wouldn't be needing one.

It was three o'clock Sunday morning by the time I'd collected the car and driven back to Bret Rensselaer's place in Berkshire. Bret was fully dressed when he came to answer the door to me – he was quick to tell me that he'd never gone to bed – but he'd changed his clothes; he was now in a roll-neck cashmere sweater and matching blue poplin pants. He'd been waiting for the phone call that would tell him everything had gone smoothly.

But when the phone call came, it told him that an explosion had killed two men in an office in Cambridge. The story was on the wire services. It was too late for the Sunday papers, but the national dailies would probably carry it on Monday. If a TV crew had got pictures, it might be on the evening bulletin.

'We need a break,' said Bret. He'd put a drink in my hand and then devoted a lot of time to getting a second log burning in the fireplace. I crouched over it. I was cold.

'Yes, we need a rise in the price of beer or a bus drivers' strike to grab the headlines,' I said. 'But don't worry; a small explosion in the back streets of Cambridge isn't exactly front-page stuff, Bret.'

Bret pulled a little wheeled trolley over to the fire. On it there was a bottle of single-malt whisky that he'd brought out of the cupboard for me and a full jug of iced water. He sat on the fender seat and warmed his hands. The curtains were closed now, but I could hear the rain still beating on the glass, as it had been not many hours before when I'd sat here with Ted Riley, listening to Bret explaining how easy it was all going to be. 'A booby trap,' said Bret. 'What bastards!'

'Let's not jump to conclusions,' I said. I sat on the other side of the fender. I don't like perching on fender seats; it was like trying to get warm on a barbecue – you cooked one side and froze the other. 'Maybe it wasn't intended to kill.'

'You said it was a booby trap,' said Bret.

'It was a slip of the tongue.'

'So what was it?'

'I don't know. It might have been no more than a device to destroy the secret papers. But a heavy-steel filing cabinet makes it into a bomb.'

'They put a lot of explosive into it. Why not use an incendiary device?' asked Bret.

'We had an explosion like it in Berlin back in the old days. They'd only used a small charge, but the cabinet had some special fireproofing liner. When it went, it blew the side of the building out. It was worse than this one.'

Why is he bugging me about all these details? I thought. Who cares about how big the explosive charge was? Ted Riley was dead.

There's no chance that…'

'No chance at all. Two dead. You said the wire services had the story.'

'They get it wrong sometimes,' said Bret. 'Will they be identified?'

'I didn't go in and look around,' I said.

'Sure, sure,' said Bret. 'Thank Christ it wasn't you.'

'Riley's an old-timer. He emptied his pockets and his clothes had no laundry marks. He made me check it with him. The other man I don't know about.'

'The locksmith came from Duisburg. It was a German make. He was the expert on that sort of safe.'

'They'd changed the inside of the lock,' I said.

'I know,' said Bret. He drank some of his tonic water.

'How could you know unless you had a monitor on the radio?'

Bret smiled. 'I had someone monitoring the radio. There's no secret about that.'

'Then why ask me the questions?'

'The old man is going to ask me a lot of questions and I want to know the answers. And I don't want to read the transcript to him; he can do that for himself. I need to hear what you've got to say.'

'It's simple enough,' I said. 'Stinnes told the interrogator that there was some good stuff in that office. You sent Ted Riley in to get it. The filing cabinet was wired to destroy the evidence – bang. What difficult questions can the D-G ask, except why?'

'I don't blame you for feeling bitter,' said Bret. 'Ted Riley was a friend of your father, wasn't he?'

'Ted Riley was good at his job, Bret. He had the instinct for it. But the poor sod spent his life checking identity cards and making sure the burglar alarms were in working order. Just for one little lapse.'

'He wasn't material for London Central, if that's what you are suggesting.'

'Wasn't he? Who do you have to know to be material for London Central?' I said. 'Jesus, Bret, Ted Riley had more intelligence skills in his little finger than…'

'Than I have in my whole body? Or was it going to be Dicky? Or maybe the D-G?'

'Can I have another drink?'

'You won't bring Ted Riley back to life by pouring that stuff down your throat,' said Bret. But he reached for the bottle of Glenlivet and uncapped it before handing it to me. I poured a big one for myself. I didn't offer Bret any; he was quite content with his tonic water.

'I had a talk with Ted Riley last night,' I said. I stopped. The red lights came on in my skull. Everything warned me to be cautious.

'That must have been interesting,' said Bret, keeping his voice just level enough for me not to get up and bust him in the nose.

'Ted told me that Stinnes is tuned to Moscow every morning at eight-thirty. Ted thought he was getting his instructions from them. Maybe one of the instructions they gave him was to tell us about the Cambridge cell and get Ted Riley blown into little pieces.'

'Why are you telling me what Riley thought? Riley was just a security man. I don't need the opinions of security men when the interrogator is doing so well.'

'So why didn't you send the goddamned interrogator to do the break-in last night?'

Bret held up a hand. 'Ah, now I'm reading you loud and clear. You're trying to link the two events. Riley – despite the interrogator's satisfaction – sees through Stinnes and his misinformation scheme. So Riley has to be removed by a Kremlin-planned bomb. Is that what you're trying to sell me?'

'Something along those lines,' I said.

Bret sighed. 'You were the one who's been hyping Stinnes as if he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Now your friend is killed and everything goes into reverse. Stinnes is the villain. And since Stinnes is virtually under house arrest, Moscow has to be the heavy. You really try my patience at times, Bernard.'

'It fits,' I said.

'So do a million other explanations. First you tell me the bomb was just to destroy the paperwork. Now you want it to be a trap to kill Riley. Make up your mind.'

'Let's not play with words, Bret. The important question is whether Stinnes is playing a double game.'

'Forget it,' said Bret.

'I'm not going to forget it, Bret,' I told him. 'I'm going to pursue it.'

'You landed Erich Stinnes for us. Everyone says that without you he wouldn't have come across to us.'

‘I not sure that's true,' I said.

'Never mind the modest disclaimers. You got him and everyone gives you the credit for that. Don't start going around the office telling everyone they've got an active KGB agent in position.'

'We'll have to take away the shortwave radio,' I said. 'But that will warn him that we're on to him.'

'Slow down, Bernard. Slow right down. If you're blaming yourself for Ted Riley's death because you agreed to letting Stinnes have the radio, forget it.'

'I can't forget it. It was my suggestion.'

'Even if Stinnes is still active, and even if tonight's fiasco was the result of something arranged between him and Moscow, the radio can't have played a big part in it.'

I drank some of the whisky. I was calmer now; the drink had helped. I resolved not to fight with Bret to the point where I flounced out and slammed the door, because I didn't feel I was capable of driving back to London.

When I didn't reply, Bret spoke again. 'He couldn't send any messages back to them. Even if by some miracle he smuggled a letter out and posted it, there'd be no time for it to get there and be acted upon. What can they tell him that's worth knowing?'

'Not much, I suppose.'

'If there's any conspiracy, it was all arranged before we got him, before he flew out of Mexico City. The use of that radio means nothing.'

'I suppose you're right,' I said.

'There's a spare bedroom upstairs, Bernard. Have a sleep; you look all in. We'll talk again over breakfast.'

What he said about the radio made sense and I felt a bit better about it. But I noted the way he was going to bat for Stinnes. Was that because Bret was a KGB agent? Or simply because he saw in Stinnes a way of regaining a powerful position in London Central? Or both?