London Match

19

I don't know whether Bret Rensselaer was officially ordered to keep away from Erich Stinnes or even discouraged from doing so, but obviously someone from the Department had to keep in touch with him. Had he been left at Berwick House and neglected, there was always the chance that London Debriefing Centre would encourage the Home Office to take him over.

When Stinnes suddenly stopped talking to the interrogator, the matter became urgent. I was sent to talk with Stinnes. There was a note initialled by Bret waiting on my desk. I don't know who chose me for the job, but I suppose there weren't many on the shortlist of suitable visitors.

It was pouring with rain when I arrived at Berwick House. The formalities that had greeted Bret Rensselaer's Bentley on my previous visit were waived for my second-hand Rover. No pulling to the side after entering the outer gate – just a quick look at my card and a perfunctory salute.

There was no one to see that I parked in the visitors' marked space in the courtyard and no sign of the Governor or his Deputy anywhere. Instead of the main entrance I used the back door. The duty clerk knew me by sight and he swivelled the visitors' book for my signature and offered me his Parker pen. Judging by the blank spaces in the book they didn't have many visitors at Berwick House these days.

Erich Stinnes wasn't locked up. At certain specified hours he was permitted to exercise in the grounds. When it rained he could come down into the great hall and look through the leaded windows at the bare rosebushes. He had the freedom of the first floor, but I had to notify the key-room clerk that I was going up there. The clerk stopped eating his cheese sandwich long enough to write out the chit that permitted me to leave again. When he passed it to me the chit was marked with his greasy fingerprints. I'm glad that hadn't happened to Bret.

'Not like Netting Hill Gate, is it, Erich?' I said.

'It's good enough,' he said. They'd moved him to Number 4, a large comfortable accommodation at the front. He had a sitting room with a sofa and two armchairs, a coloured print of the Battle of Waterloo, and a medieval electric fire. He had a tiny 'kitchen' too, although it was really no more than an alcove equipped with sink, cooking ring, some pans, crockery and an electric kettle.

'Are you going to make me a cup of tea?' I said. 'It's very warm in here – do you want me to open a window?'

'They will bring some tea at four,' he said. 'You must know that by now. No, don't open the window. I think I have a chill.'

'Shall I get the doctor to look at you?'

'No doctors. I have a horror of them.' His voice was flat and cold like his eyes. There was some sort of change in the atmosphere since our last meeting. He was suspicious of me and didn't bother to hide it.

'Still drawing landscapes?' I asked. I took off my raincoat and put it on a hook behind the door.

'There's not much else to do,' he said. The whole building was well heated and it was warm in this room, but the electric fire was fully on, and in addition to his grey flannels and dark-green shirt Stinnes wore a heavy sweater. He was sitting on a big chintz-covered sofa and there were several London newspapers beside him. They'd been folded and refolded as if every word in them had been read.

He was able to be very still. It was not the easy stillness that comes with relaxation or the tense stillness that concentration produces, but something else – some quality that couldn't be defined, something that enabled him to remain always the onlooker no matter how involved he truly felt. He was always the sun; everything moved except him.

I took off my jacket and sat in the chair opposite him. 'The interrogator went home early yesterday,' I said. 'And early the day before that.'

'Some species of bird are born able to sing, but others have to learn to sing from their parents.' There was no jocularity. It sounded like something he had ready to recite for me.

'Is that an ornithological fact or are you trying to tell me something, Erich?' In fact I knew it was true. Stinnes had told me before. He was fond of displaying such expertise.

'It was inevitable that you should try to find some way to blame me,' he said.

'And which sort of bird are you, Erich? And how do we start teaching you how to sing?'

'I accepted your offer in good faith. I didn't promise to run your covert operations department and make it work properly.'

'What do you see as your side of the bargain?' I said.

'I give the interrogator full and truthful answers to everything he asks. But I can't tell him things I don't know. I wish you'd explain that to him.'

'Four men have died,' I said. 'You knew one of them: Ted Riley; he was with you in London. He was a personal friend of mine. People are angry.'

'I'm sorry,' said Stinnes. He didn't look very sorry, but then he never did look very anything.

'We were bounced, Erich. Both times we were bounced.'

'I don't know the full details,' he said. It was a very Russian response; he knew all the details.

'Both times we walked into a booby trap,' I said.

'Then both tunes you were a booby.'

'Don't get too damned smug,' I said, and then regretted that he'd made me angry.

'Are you a professional or have you been behind a desk too long?' He paused, and when I didn't answer he said, 'Don't toy with me, Mr Samson. You know that Rensselaer is an amateur. You know he refused to let your Operations staff plan these meetings. You know that he did it that way because he wanted to show everyone that he could be a wonderful field agent.'

It wasn't the reaction I'd expected. Stinnes showed no anger about Bret Rensselaer's actions even though they'd brought Stinnes near to being killed. In fact his interpretation of the fiasco put Bret into the role of hero – an amateur, blundering hero, but a hero nevertheless. 'Did you criticize these "amateurish" ideas?' I asked.

'Of course I did. Didn't you?'

He had me there. 'Yes,' I admitted. 'I criticized them.'

'So would anyone with half an hour's field experience. Rensselaer is a desk man. Why wasn't he ordered to use your Operations planners? I urged him to do that over and over again.'

'There were problems,' I said.

'And I can guess what the problems were,' said Stinnes. 'Your boss Rensselaer is determined to make his name before the Mis people take over my interrogation?'

'Something like that,' I said.

'He's at the dangerous age,' said Stinnes with studied contempt. 'It's the age when desk men suddenly want to grab a final chance for glory.'

There was a knock at the door and a middle-aged woman in a green apron brought in a tray of tea with buttered toast and a plate of sliced cake. 'They do you very well in here, Erich,' I said. 'Do you get this sort of stylish tea every day or only when visitors come?'

The woman smiled at me but said nothing. They were all vetted people, of course; some of the domestic help were retired clerical staff from London Central. She set out the cups and teapot and left silently. She knew that even one word can destroy the mood of an interrogation.

'Every day,' said Erich. There was a packet of five small cigars on the tray. I suppose it was his daily ration, but he seemed to have stopped smoking for there was a pile of unopened packets on the mantelpiece.

'But you still don't like it here?' His uncooperative attitude towards the interrogator was what had brought me down here. There was obviously something he didn't like.

'You trust me well enough to act on my information and risk the lives of your agents, but you keep me locked up in case I run away.' He drank some tea. 'Where is it that you think I will run to? Will I run back to Moscow and face trial?'

I was tempted to tell him how vociferously I had opposed his being brought back to Berwick House, but that wasn't the way to do it. And in any case, I didn't want him to know how little effect my opinions had upon London Central's top-floor decisions. 'So what sort of bird are you, Erich? You haven't answered that one yet.'

'Let me out of here and I'll show you,' he said. 'Let me do what Rensselaer failed to do.'

'Penetrate the Cambridge network?'

'They'll trust me.'

'It's risky, Erich.'

'The Cambridge network is the best thing I brought over to you. It's what delayed me in Mexico City. It's what forced me to go back to Berlin before coming over to you. Do you have any idea what risks I took to get enough information to penetrate that network?'

'Tell me.'

It was a sardonic reaction to his plea and he knew it. He said, 'And now you want to throw it away. Well, it's your loss.'

'Then why do you care?'

'Only because you are determined to blame me for disasters of your own making. Why should I be blamed? Why should I be punished? I don't want to spend month after month locked up in this place.'

'I thought you liked it,' I said.

'It's comfortable enough, but I'm a prisoner here. I want to live like a human being. I want to spend some of that money. I want to… I want to do all sorts of things.'

'You want to see Zena Volkmann? Is that what you were going to say?'

'Have you seen her?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Did she ask about me?'

'She thinks she did all the work, I got all the credit, and you got all the money.'

'Is that what she said?'

'More or less.'

'I suppose it's true.' He took off his glasses and polished them carefully.

'I don't know that she did all the work, and I certainly didn't get all the credit. Other than that, I suppose it's true.'

He looked at me but didn't smite at my allegation. 'You needn't worry. If I am freed, I won't go rushing off to find her.'

'The love has cooled?'

'I'm fond of her. But she is another man's wife. I no longer have the stamina for that sort of love affair.'

'But you have the stamina to try breaking into the Cambridge net?'

'Because it's the only way I'll ever be able to get free of you people.'

'By giving us proof positive of your loyalty to us?'

'As I've told you, that network is the best prize I can offer you. Surely even you English will not want to keep me locked up after I deliver them to you?' These were his own agents, yet he said it without any sign of emotion. He was a cold-blooded animal.

'There is the problem of protecting you, Erich. You are a big investment. They put a bomb under your car last week.'

'That wasn't intended for me. That was an accident. Surely you don't believe that they identified me?' He leaned back in the sofa and grasped his hands together and cracked the knuckles. It was an old man's gesture that didn't fit my picture of him. Was it this captivity that was ageing him? He was a 'street man' – his whole career had been based upon dealing with people. If he was allowed to try breaking the Cambridge net, at least he'd be doing the thing he was best at. Perhaps all betrayals – marital, professional and political -are motivated by the drive to do what you're best at, no matter whom you're doing it for.

'You seem very certain,' I said.

'I'm not paranoid, if that's what you mean.'

I left it like that for a moment and drank some tea. 'You're not smoking these days, I notice.' I picked up the packet of cheroots from the tray and sniffed them. I hadn't smoked for ages. I put the cheroots down again, but it wasn't easy.

'I don't feel like smoking,' he said. 'It's a good chance for me to give up altogether.'

I poured myself some tea and drank it without milk or sugar the way he drank his; it was awful. 'How would you start?' I didn't have to explain what I meant. The idea of Stinnes trying to crack a Soviet network using his own methods was uppermost in both our minds.

'First, I've got to have my freedom. I can't work if you are going to have someone watching me night and day. I must be able to go to them completely clear of all your strings. You understand?'

'They're alarmed now,' I said. They must have been in touch with Moscow. Moscow might have told them about you.'

'You have too much faith in Moscow. Just as we have always had too much faith in the efficiency of London Central.'

'I'd stand very little chance of convincing my masters that you could bring that network home alone. They don't want to believe it; they'd consider it some kind of reflection upon their competence. They'd be afraid of another disaster and this time one in which we lost you too. Moscow are searching for you, Erich. Surely you must know that.'

' Moscow doesn't put out alerts for defectors until there has been publicity about them. The policy is to play down such things in case other Soviet citizens get the same idea.'

'You weren't just a defector,' I said. 'Your going dealt a big blow to them.'

'All the more reason why they would keep quiet. Have your analysts reported anything yet?'

'I'll try and find out,' I promised. Erich knew that my reply was an evasion, and yet there was no way I could keep him from guessing the right answer to that question. The analysts had been monitoring the East Bloc radio and TV and watching the press for anything that could relate to Erich Stinnes. And they'd especially scrutinized the restricted publications and given particular attention to the diplomatic KGB radio traffic by means of which Moscow controlled its embassies and agents throughout the world. So far there had been nothing that could be recognized as a reference to Erich Stinnes or his enrolment by our Department. It was as if he'd disappeared into outer space. He smiled. He knew there had been nothing.

'I'd need only ten days, two weeks at the most. I know this network, and I'd approach it another way. If you were prepared to pick them up without evidence, I could give them to you in less than a week.'

'No. Here on this side of the world we have this inconvenient necessity to provide the courts with clear evidence. Even then, the juries free half the people sent up for trial.'

'Plant something on them. I'll give evidence.'

'We haven't had a clear decision on whether we can use you in court yet,' I said.

'If I agree…'

'It's not that easy. There are legal difficulties. My Department isn't empowered to handle this sort of prosecution. If you were cross-questioned in open court, it might become embarrassing.'

'And your Home Office won't help? Why don't you change this antiquated system? The KGB is centrally controlled to work against the enemies within and the enemies without. Separate agencies – one working to locate foreign agents within Britain and another to penetrate foreign countries – is cumbersome and inefficient.'

'We like it a bit cumbersome and inefficient,' I said. 'An agency like the KGB can take over its government any time it wishes.'

'It hasn't happened yet,' said Stinnes primly. 'And it never will. The Party remains supreme and no one challenges its power.'

'You don't have to proclaim the Party line any more, Erich. We both know the Soviet Union is facing a crisis.'

'A crisis?' he said. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and hands clasped tight together. His pinched face was very pale and his eyes bright.

'There are urgent demands for incentives to be built into the declining economy. I don't have to tell you all that, Erich.' I smiled but he didn't respond to my smile. I seemed to have touched a nerve.

'And who is fighting against such reforms?' He hunched his shoulders more. I wondered exactly where Stinnes had placed himself in this struggle. Or was he still denying that there was one?

Well, if this was the only way to bring him alive, I'd pursue it. 'The moribund Party officials, who meddle with the economy at grassroots level and skim the cream from it. They don't want to be replaced by skilled factory managers, technical experts, and trained administrators, the only ones who might be able to create the kind of system of incentives that eventually produces an expanding economy.'

'The Party…'

'… remains supreme. Yes, you already said that.'

'Is close to the work force,' said Stinnes. He was clearly agitated by my remarks.

'It's close to the work force because of the way in which the Party's come to a tacit agreement with them. The workers stay out of politics and the Party makes sure that no one has to work very hard. That was all right in Lenin's time but it can't go on much longer. The Russian economy is a disaster.'

Stinnes rubbed his cheek, seemingly alarmed at the idea. 'But if they let the factories get rid of the lazy and hire only the hard workers, then they will be reintroducing into the system all the greed, fears, and strife of competitive capitalism. The Revolution will have been for nothing; they will have revived the class war.'

'That's the problem,' I said.

'The Party will stand firm against that kind of reform,' said Stinnes.

'But the economy will continue to decline. And one day the Soviet generals and admirals will encounter resistance to their profligate spending on guns and tanks and ships. The economy won't be able to afford such luxuries.'

'Then the military will throw in their lot with the reformers?' said Stinnes scornfully. 'Is that your contention?'

'It's possible,' I said.

'Not in your lifetime,' said Stinnes, 'and not in mine.' He'd been leaning forward, eyes bright and active as he pursued the arguments, but now he sighed and slumped back in the sofa. Suddenly, for a brief moment, I glimpsed a different Stinnes. Was it the heaviness that comes with constant pain? Or was Stinnes regretting the way he'd let me see a glimpse of what he really was?

'Why do you care, Erich?' I said. 'You're a capitalist now, aren't you?'

'Of course I am,' he said. He smiled, but the smile was not reassuring.

From Berwick House I drove straight back to London for a conference that was scheduled for half past five that afternoon. It was a high-powered departmental meeting that had already been going for nearly an hour. I waited in the anteroom and was called in just before six.

The Director-General – wearing one of his baggiest suits – was in the chair. At the table there were Morgan, Frank Harrington, Dicky and Bret Rensselaer. It wasn't exactly the full complement. The Deputy was attending to private business in Nassau and the Controller Europe was at a meeting in Madrid. Everyone had a glass and there was a jug of ice on the conference table; also the usual selection of booze was arranged on the side table, but everyone seemed to be keeping to Perrier water, except for Frank Harrington who was nursing a large whisky in both hands and looking into it like a gypsy consulting a crystal ball. In deference to the D-G no one was smoking. I could see that this was putting Frank under some strain. He seemed to guess what I was thinking; he smiled and wetted his lips in the way he did when about to light his pipe.

'Ah…' said the D-G. Twisting round to see me as Morgan ushered me into the conference room, he knocked his pencil off the table.

'Samson,' supplied Morgan. It was one of his duties to remind the D-G of the names of the staff. So was retrieving things the D-G knocked to the floor without noticing,

'Ah, Samson,' said the D-G. 'You've just been to talk with our Russian friend. Why don't you pour yourself a drink.'

'Yes, sir.' The fluorescent lights were reflected in the polished table top. I remembered Fiona saying that fluorescent lighting made gin taste 'funny'. It was of course an insight into her pampered upbringing, a rationalization of why she didn't want to drink in cheap restaurants, corner bars or offices. And yet I was never able to completely shed the suspicion that her theory might be true. I didn't let it interfere with my drinking, though.

While I poured myself a stiff gin and tonic I looked round the room. Sir Henry Clevemore seemed to be in good form today. Despite his wrinkled face and heavy jowls, his eyes were clear under those heavy lids, and his voice was firm. His sparse hair had been carefully arranged to make the most of it, and today there was no sign of the trembling that sometimes made him stutter.

I wondered exactly what they'd been talking about. It was unlikely that Bret had been asked any pointed questions at such a gathering; the D-G wouldn't have Dicky and Morgan along to witness Bret being put through the wringer. If I knew anything about the old man, if things came to the crunch he would stand aside as he had done before. He'd hand the whole business over to Internal Security and let them get their hands dirty. For the old man had a horror of disloyalty and he'd run a mile to get away from any sniff of it.

And certainly Bret showed no sign of strain. He was sitting next to the D-G and being his usual urbane shop-window-dummy self. Dicky was wearing a suede jacket as a sartorial concession to the D-G, Morgan was twitchy, and Frank looked bored. Frank could afford to look bored – he was the only one in the room who would probably remain unaffected if they opened an orange file on Bret. In fact, with Bret put on the back burner, Frank would probably be asked to stay on in Berlin. Knowing Frank and his vociferous requests for retirement, that would mean the offer of a bigger pension and a lot of fringe benefits to keep him happy.

'Did you record your interrogation?' Morgan asked me.

'Yes. But it wasn't exactly an interrogation,' I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the other end of the table to face the D-G. 'The recording is being transcribed now.'

'Why wasn't it an interrogation?' said Morgan. 'That was your instruction.' Morgan brandished the notepad and pencil. He had a new suit – dark grey, almost black, and tight fitting, with white shirt and stiff collar – so that he looked like the ambitious junior newspaper reporter that he'd been not so long before.

I didn't reply to Morgan. I stared into the D-G's red-rimmed eyes. 'I went to Berwick House because the senior interrogator was getting nowhere. My task was to find out what the trouble was. I'm not a trained interrogator and I've very little experience.' I spoke loudly, but even so, the D-G cupped his ear.

'What do you make of him?' said the D-G. The others were politely holding back, giving the D-G first go at me.

'He's sick,' I said. 'He seems to be in pain.'

'Is that the most important thing you discovered?' asked Morgan, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

'It's something you aren't likely to get from the tape recording,' I said.

'But is it of any importance?' said Morgan.

'It might be very important,' I said.

'Do we have his medical sheet to hand?' the D-G asked Morgan.

Waiting until after Morgan had registered confusion, Bret answered. 'He has consistently refused a physical. It didn't seem worth getting tough with him about it. But we've been taking it easy with him just in case.'

The D-G nodded. The D-G, like many of the senior staff, was able to nod without making it a gesture of agreement. It was just a sign that he'd heard.

Encouraged by the D-G, I went quickly through my conversation with Stinnes, giving particular attention to his suggestion that he be allowed to break the Cambridge net.

Bret said, 'I'd feel uneasy about releasing him in the new hope that he would pull it off on his own.'

'We're not achieving much by keeping him where he is,' said Morgan. He tapped his pencil on the notepad. The way in which Morgan came to such meetings in the role of note taker for the D-G and then spoke to senior staff as an equal annoyed Bret. It annoyed other people too. I wondered if the D-G failed to understand that or simply failed to care. His ability to play one person off against another was legendary. That was the way the Department had always been run.

'I'm coming under a lot of pressure to transfer him to the Home Office people,' said the D-G, pronouncing the final words with what was almost a shudder of distaste.

'I hope you won't give way to them,' said Bret. He was very polite, but there was an edge in his voice that implied that the D-G would fall from grace if he succumbed to such pressure.

Dicky had consistently resisted any temptation to become involved with the Stinnes debriefing, but now he said what was in everyone's mind. 'I understood that we would hold him for the best part of a year. I understood that the whole idea was to use Stinnes as a way to measure our successes or failures over the past decade. I thought we were going to go through the archives with him.'

Dicky looked at the D-G and Frank Harrington looked at Dicky. Frank Harrington would not emerge shiny bright from any close inspection of the Department's successes and failures. It was a maxim of the German desk that successes were celebrated in Bonn and rewarded in London, but failures were always buried in Berlin. Berlin was the one job you had to do sometimes, but no one had ever built a career upon Berlin.

'That was the original plan,' said Morgan. He looked at the D-G to see if he required more prompting.

The D-G said, 'Yes, that was the original plan but we have had setbacks. More setbacks than you have yet heard about.' Was that, I wondered, a reference to a pending enquiry for Bret? The D-G spoke very slowly and anyone replying immediately was likely to find himself speaking over him. So we all waited, and sure enough he spoke again. 'It's something of a poker game. We have to decide whether to go on with our bluff, trust this Russian, and hope he can deliver the goods that will provide us with a strong bargaining position.' Another long pause. 'Or should we cut our losses and turn him over to MI5?'

'He's a highly experienced Soviet agent,' said Frank Harrington. 'And the KGB is a highly motivated organization. He didn't get to that position by failing to deliver the goods. If he says he can do it, I think we should take that seriously.'

'Let's not just consider his ability, Frank,' I said. 'It's not just a matter of whether he can deliver or might fail to do so. We have to worry whether he's a KGB man still hot and active.'

'Of course we do,' said Frank hastily. 'Only a fool would take him at face value. On the other hand, he's no damned use to us wrapped in tissue paper and stored away on the shelf.'

'And in the long term?' enquired the D-G. I suppose he too realized that Frank couldn't possibly come out well from a systematic review of our activities, and he was curious to see Frank's reaction.

'That's for the historians,' said Frank. 'My concern is last week, this week and next week. The strategy is all yours, Director.'

The D-G smiled at this artful reply. 'I think we are all of one mind,' he said, although I had seen little evidence of that. 'We must go for some sort of compromise.'

'With Stinnes?' said Dicky. I never discovered whether it was supposed to be a joke, but Morgan smiled knowingly so perhaps he'd already told Dicky what was corning.

'A compromise with MI5,' said the D-G. 'I'm proposing that they appoint a couple of people to a committee so that we take joint control of the Stinnes debriefing.'

'And who will be on the committee?' said Bret.

'You, Bret, certainly,' said the D-G. 'And I was going to have Morgan there to represent me. Would that suit you, Frank?'

'Yes indeed, sir. It's an admirable solution,' said Frank.

'And what about German Stations?' said the D-G, looking at Dicky.

'Yes, but I would like to have Samson back working full time for me. He's been devoting a lot of time to the Stinnes business, and someone will have to go to Berlin next week.'

'Of course,' said the D-G.

Bret said, 'We might need him from time to time. He was the file officer on the Stinnes enrolment. The committee are sure to want to see him.'

I suppose Bret now expected Dicky to say yes, of course, but Dicky knew how Bret would exploit such a casual agreement and so he didn't respond. Dicky was going to hold on tight to me. Trying to run his desk all on his own was biting into his social life.

The D-G looked round the table. 'I'm so glad we're all agreed,' he said. He'd obviously made this exact decision before the meeting began. Or Morgan had made it for him.

'Will Stinnes remain at Berwick House?' said Bret.

'Better you work out the details at the first meeting of the whole committee,' said the D-G. 'I don't want them to say we've presented them with a fait accompli; it will get things off to a bad start.'

'Of course, sir,' said Bret. 'Who will have the chair?'

'I'll insist that you do,' said the D-G, 'unless you'd prefer not to do it that way. It would limit your voting.'

'I think I should have the chair,' said Bret. Bret was at his smoothest now, his elbows on the polished tabletop, his hands loosely clasped so that we could all see his signet ring and the gold wristwatch. It was all coming out well for him so far, but he wasn't going to enjoy hearing the way Stinnes described him as a blundering amateur when the transcription was sent upstairs. 'How many of them will there be?'

'I'll sound them out,' said the D-G. 'Cabinet Office might want a say in it too.' He looked round the table until he came to me. 'You're looking very stern, young man. Have you any comments?'

I looked at Dicky. Whatever he'd told his wife about Bret being a KGB mole, Dicky was not going to stand up and remind the meeting about it. Dicky looked away from me and grew suddenly interested in the D-G. 'I don't like it,' I said.

'Why not?' interjected Frank, anxious to head off any chance of me being rude to the old man.

'They'll find some damned thing to use against us.' There was no need to say who. They all knew I didn't mean Moscow.

'They're already well provided with things to use against us,' said the D-G. He chuckled. 'It's time for a compromise. I don't want to see us in direct conflict with them.'

I said, 'I still don't like it.'

The D-G nodded. 'No one here likes it,' he said in a soft friendly voice. 'But we have very little choice.' He shook his head so hard that his cheeks wobbled. 'No one here likes it.'

He wasn't quite correct. Behind his lifted glass of Perrier water Morgan was loving every minute of it. He was stepping from office boy to an operational role without the twenty years of experience that usually went with such moves. It was only a matter of time before Morgan would be running the whole Department.