London Match

21

The newly formed committee that took charge of the Stinnes debriefing lost no time in asserting its importance and demonstrating its energies. For some of the newcomers the committee provided an example of Whitehall's new spirit of intradepartmental cooperation, but those of us with longer memories recognized it as just one more battlefield upon which the Home Office and the Foreign Office could engage forces and try to settle old scores.

The good news was that both Bret Rensselaer and Morgan spent most of each day in Northumberland Avenue, where the committee had its premises. There was a lot for them to do. Like all such well-organized bureaucratic endeavours, it was established regardless of expense. The committee was provided with a staff of six people – for whom heated and carpeted office space was also provided – and all the paraphernalia of administration was installed: desks, typewriters, filing cabinets, and a woman who came in very early to clean and dust, another woman who came in to make tea, and a man to sweep the floor and lock up at night.

'Bret will build himself a nice little empire over there,' said Dicky. 'He's been looking for something to occupy himself with ever since his Economics Intelligence Committee folded.' It was an expression of Dicky's hopes rather than his carefully considered prophecy. Dicky didn't mind if Bret became monarch of all he surveyed over there as long as he didn't come elbowing his way into Dicky's little realm. I looked at him before answering. There had still been no official mention that Bret's loyalty was in question so I played along with what Dicky said. But I was beginning to wonder if I was being deliberately excluded from the Department's suspicions.

'The Stinnes debriefing can't last for ever,' I said.

'Bret will do his best,' said Dicky.

He was wearing a denim waistcoast. He had his arms folded and was pushing his hands out of sight as if he didn't want any flesh to show. It was a neurotic mannerism. Dicky had become very neurotic since the night he'd had dinner with Tessa, the dinner at which she was supposed to tell him that they were through. I wondered exactly what had happened.

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

'You're not alone there,' said Dicky. 'Thank your lucky stars that you're not running backwards and forwards for Morgan and Bret and the rest of them. I got you out of that one, didn't I?' He was in my miserable little office, watching me work my way through all the trays that he'd failed to cope with during the previous two weeks. He sat on my table and fiddled with the tin lid of paper clips, and the souvenir mug filled with pencils and pens.

'And I'm grateful,' I said. 'But I mean I don't like what's happening over there.'

'What is happening?'

'They're taking evidence from everyone they can think of. There's even talk of the committee going to Berlin to talk to people who can't be brought here.'

'What's wrong with that?'

'They're supposed to be managing the Stinnes debriefing. It's not their business to go poking into everything that happened when we enrolled him.'

'On principle?' said Dicky. He was quick to catch on when it was something to do with office politics.

'Yes, on principle. We don't want Home Office people questioning and passing judgement on our foreign operations. That's our preserve – that's what we've been insisting upon all these years, isn't it?'

'An interdepartmental squabble, is that how you see it?' said Dicky. He unbent a paper clip to make a piece of wire, then he looked round at the cramped little office that I shared with my part-time secretary as if seeing the slums for the first time.

'They'll want to question me, perhaps they'll want to question you. Werner Volkmann is coming over here to give evidence. And his wife. Where's the end of it? We'll have those people crawling all over us before that committee finishes.'

'Zena? Did you authorize Zena Volkmann's trip to London?' He ran a fingernail up the corner of a bundle of papers, so that it made a noise.

'It will come out of committee funds,' I said. 'That's the first thing they got settled – where the money was to come from.'

'Departmental employees going before the committee will not have to answer any question they don't consider relevant.'

'Who said so?'

That's the form,' said Dicky. He threw the paper clip at my wastepaper basket but missed.

'With other departments, yes. But this committee is chaired by one of our own senior staff. How many witnesses will tell him to go to hell?'

'The D-G was obviously in a spot,' said Dicky. 'It's not what he would have done in the old days. He would have brazened it out and held on to Stinnes in the hope we'd get something good.'

'I blame Bret,' I said. I was fishing.

'What for?'

'He's let this bloody committee extend its powers too widely.'

'Why would he do that?' Dicky asked.

'I don't know.' There was still no hint that Bret was suspect.

'To make himself more important?' persisted Dicky.

'Perhaps.'

'The committee is stacked against him, Bernard. Bret will be outvoted if he tries to step out of line. You know who he's got facing him. He's got no friends around that table.'

'Not even Morgan?' I said.

It was not intended as a serious question, but Dicky answered it seriously. 'Morgan hates Bret. Sooner or later they'll get into a real confrontation. It was madness putting them together over there.'

'Especially with an audience to watch them wrangling,' I said.

'That's right,' said Dicky. He looked at me and chewed his fingernail. I tried to get on with some paperwork, but Dicky didn't budge. All of a sudden he said, 'It's all over.' I looked up. 'Me and your sister-in-law. Finito!'

What was I supposed to say – 'I'm sorry'? Had Tessa told him that I knew, or was he just guessing? I looked at him to see if he was serious or smiling. I wanted to react in the way he wanted me to react. But Dicky wasn't looking at me; he was looking into the distance, thinking perhaps of his final tête-à-tête with Tessa.

'It had to end,' said Dicky. 'She was upset, of course, but I was determined. It was making Daphne unhappy. Women can be very selfish, you know.'

'Yes, I know,' I said.

'Tessa's had a thing about me for years,' said Dicky. 'You could see that, I'm sure.'

'I did wonder,' I admitted.

'I loved her,' said Dicky. This was all something he was determined to get off his chest and I was the only suitable audience for him. I settled back and let him continue. He didn't need encouraging. 'Once in a lifetime, perhaps, you find yourself in a trap from which there is no escape. One knows it's wrong, knows people will be hurt, knows there will be no happy ending. But one can't escape.'

'Is that how it happened with you and Tessa?' I said.

'For a month I couldn't get her out of my mind. She occupied my every thought. I got no work done.'

'When was that?' Dicky getting no work done was not enough to give me a reference to the date.

'Long ago,' said Dicky. His arms still folded, he hugged himself. 'Did Daphne tell you?'

Careful now. The red-for-danger light was glowing inside my head. 'Daphne? Your Daphne?' He nodded. 'Tell me what?'

'About Tessa, of course.'

'They're friends,' I said.

'I mean did she mention that I was having an affair?'

'With Tessa?'

'Of course with Tessa.' I suppose I was overdoing the innocence. He was getting testy now and I didn't want that either.

'Daphne wouldn't talk to me about such things, Dicky.'

'I thought she might have poured her heart out to you about it. She pestered several other friends of ours. She said she was going to get a divorce.'

‘I glad it's turned out all right,' I said.

'Even now she's still very moody. You'd think she'd be overjoyed, wouldn't you? Here I've made Tessa unhappy – terribly unhappy -to say nothing of my own sacrifice. Finito.' He made a slicing movement of the hand. 'I've given up the woman I truly love. You'd think Daphne would be happy, but no… Do you know what she said last night? She said I was selfish.' Dicky bared his teeth and forced a laugh. 'Selfish. That's a good one, I must say.'

'A divorce would have been terrible,' I said.

'That's what I told her. Think of the kids, I said. If we split, the children would suffer more than either of us. So you never knew that I was having an affair with your sister-in-law?'

'You kept it pretty dark, Dicky,' I said.

He was pleased to hear that. 'There have been a lot of women in my life, Bernard.'

'Is that so?'

'I'm not the sort of man who boasts of his conquests – you know that, Bernard – but one woman could never be enough for me. I have a powerful libido. I should never have got married. I realized that long ago. I remember my old tutor used to say that the trouble with marriage is that while every woman is at heart a mother, every man is at heart a bachelor.' He chuckled.

'I have to see Werner Volkmann at five,' I reminded him.

Dicky looked at his watch. 'Is that the time? How that clock goes round. Every day it's the same.'

'Do you want me to brief him before he sees the Stinnes committee?'

'The Rensselaer committee, you mean. Bret is very keen it's called the Rensselaer committee so that we'll keep control of it.' Dicky said this in such a way as to suggest that we'd already lost control of it.

'Whatever it's called, do you want me to brief Werner Volkmann about what to say to them?'

'Is there something that we don't want him to tell them?'

'Well, obviously I'll warn him he can't reveal operating procedures, codes, safe houses…'

'Jesus Christ!' said Dicky. 'Of course he can't reveal departmental secrets.'

'He won't know that unless someone tells him,' I said.

'You mean we should warn all of our people who are called to give evidence?'

'Either that or you could talk to Bret. You could make sure that each person called to give evidence is told that there are guidelines they must follow.'

'Tell Bret that?'

'One or the other, Dicky.'

Dicky slid off the table and walked up and down, his hands pushed into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders hunched. There's something you'd better know,' he said.

'Yes?' I said.

'Let's go back to one evening just after you came back from Berlin with that transcript… the German woman who disappeared into the Havel last Christmas. Remember?'

'How could I forget.'

'You were getting very excited about the radio codes she used. Am I right?'

'Right,' I said.

'Would you like to tell me that over again?'

'The codes?'

'Tell me what you told me that evening.'

'I said she was handling material, selected material, for transmission. I said it was stuff that they didn't want handled by the Embassy.'

'You said it was good. You said it was probably Fiona's stuff that this woman was sending.'

'That was just conjecture.' I wondered what Dicky was trying to get me to say.

'Two codes, you said. And you said two codes was unusual.'

'Unusual for one agent, yes.'

'You're beginning to clam up on me, Bernard. You do this sometimes, and it makes my life very difficult.'

'I'm sorry, but if you told me what you were getting at, I might be able to be more explicit.'

That's right – make it my fault. You're good at that.'

'There were two codes. What else do you want to know?' 'ironfoot and jake. You said that Fiona was ironfoot. And you said 'Who the hell is jake?' Right?' 'I found out afterwards that ironfoot was a mistranslation for pig IRON.'

Dicky frowned. 'Did you follow that up, even after I told you to drop it?'

'I was at Silas Gaunt's house. Brahms Four was there. I just casually mentioned the distribution of material and asked him about it.'

'You're bloody insubordinate, Bernard. I told you to drop that one.' He waited for my reply, but I said nothing and that finally forced him to say, 'Okay, okay. What did you find out from him?'

'Nothing I didn't already know, but he confirmed it.'

'That if there were two codes, there were two agents?'

'Normally, yes.'

'Well, you were right, Bernard. Now maybe we see the killing of the Miller woman in another light. The KGB had her killed so that she couldn't spill the beans. Unfortunately for those bastards on the other side of the fence, she'd already spilled the beans… to you.'

'I see,' I said. I guessed what was coming, but Dicky liked to squeeze the maximum effect out of everything.

'So who the hell's jake, you asked me. Well, maybe I can now tell you the answer to that question. jake is Bret Rensselaer! Bret is a double and probably has been for years. We have reports going back to his time in Berlin. Nothing conclusive, nothing that makes firm evidence, but now things are coming together.'

'That's quite a shock,' I said.

'Damned right it's a shock. But I can't say you look very surprised, Bernard. Have you been suspicious of Bret?'

'No, I don't…'

'It's not fair to ask you that question. It makes me sound like Joe McCarthy. The fact is that the D-G is dealing with the problem. Now perhaps you realize why Bret is in Northumberland Avenue rubbing shoulders with those MI5 heavies.'

'Has the old man delivered him to MI5 without telling him?'

'Sir Henry wouldn't do anything like that, especially not to one of our own. No, Ml5 know nothing of this. But the old man wanted Bret out of this building and working somewhere away from our sensitive day-to-day papers while Internal Security investigate him… Now this is all just between the two of us, Bernard. I don't want a word of this to go out of this room. I don't want you telling Gloria or anyone like that.'

'No,' I said, but I thought that was pretty rich since I'd already got the gist of it from Daphne. Daphne was a wife with no reason to be friendly to him, while Gloria Kent was a vetted employee who was handling the sensitive day-to-day papers that Bret wasn't seeing.

'Bret doesn't realize he's under suspicion. It's essential that he doesn't get wind of it. If he fled the country too, it would look damned bad.'

'Will he face an enquiry?' I asked.

'The old man's dithering.'

'Hell, Dicky, someone should talk to the old man. It can't go on Like this. I don't know what evidence there is against Bret, but he's got to be given a chance to answer for his actions. We shouldn't be discussing his fate when the poor sod has been shunted off so that he can't find out what's going on.'

'It's not exactly like that,' said Dicky.

'What is it like then?' I asked. 'How would you like it if it was me telling Bret that you were jake?'

'You know that's ridiculous,' said Dicky.

'I don't know anything of the kind,' I said. Dicky's face changed. 'No, no, no… I didn't mean you might be a KGB agent. I mean it's not ridiculous to suppose you might be a suspect.'

'I hope you're not going to make a fuss about this,' said Dicky. 'I was in two minds whether to tell you. Perhaps it was an error of judgement.'

'Dicky, it's only fair to the Department and everyone who works here that any uncertainty about Bret be resolved as quickly as possible.'

'Maybe Internal Security need time to collect more evidence.'

'Internal Security always need time to collect more evidence. It's in the nature of the job. But if that's the problem, then Bret should be given leave of absence.'

'Let's assume he's guilty – he'll run.'

'Let's assume he's not guilty – he must have a chance to prepare some sort of defence.'

Dicky now thought I was being very difficult. He moved his lips as he always did when he was agitated. 'Don't get excited, Bernard. I thought you'd be pleased.'

'Pleased to hear you tell me that Bret is a KGB mole?'

'No, of course not that. But I thought you'd be relieved to hear that the real culprit has been uncovered at last.'

'The real culprit?'

'You've been under suspicion. You must have realized that you haven't had a completely clear card ever since Fiona went over to them.'

'You told me that was all past history,' I said. I was being difficult. I knew he'd only told me that to be encouraging.

'Can't you see that if Bret is the one they've been looking for, it will put you in the clear?'

'You talk in riddles, Dicky. What do you mean "the one, they've been looking for"? I wasn't aware they were looking for anyone.'

'An accomplice.'

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

'Then you are being deliberately obtuse. If Fiona had an accomplice in the Department, then Bret would be the most natural person for that role. Right?'

'Why wouldn't I be the most natural?'

Dicky slapped his thigh in a gesture of frustrated anger. 'Good God, Bernard, every time anyone suggests that, you bite their head off.'

'If not me, then why Bret?'

Dicky pulled a face and wobbled his head about. 'They were very close, Bernard. Bret and your wife – they were very close. I don't have to tell you the way it was.'

'Would you like to enlarge on that?'

'Don't get touchy. I'm not suggesting that there was anything less than decorous in the relationship, but Bret and Fiona were good friends. I know how comical that sounds in the context of the Department and the way some people talk about each other, but they were friends. They had a lot in common; their background was comparable. I remember one evening Bret was having dinner at your place. Fiona was talking about her childhood… they shared memories of places and people.'

'Bret is old enough to be Fiona's father.'

'I'm not denying that.'

'How could they share memories?'

'Of places, Bernard. Places and things and facts that only people like them know. Hunting, shooting, and fishing… you know. Bret's father loved horses, and so does your father-in-law. Fiona and Bret both learned to ride and to ski before they could walk. They both instinctively know a good horse from a bad one, good snow from bad snow, fresh foie gras from tinned, a good servant from a bad one… the rich are different, Bernard.'

I didn't answer. There was nothing to say. Dicky was right, they had had a lot in common. I'd always been frightened of losing her to Bret. My fears were never centred on other younger, more attractive men; always I saw Bret as my rival. Ever since the day I first met her – or at least from the time I went to Bret and suggested that we employ her – I'd feared the attraction that he would have for her. Had that, in some way, brought about the very outcome I most feared? Was it something in my attitude to Bret and to Fiona that provided them with an undefinable thing in common? Was it some factor absent in me that they recognized in each other and shared so happily?

'You see what I mean?' said Dicky, when I hadn't spoken for a long time. 'If there was an accomplice, Bret must be the prime suspect.'

'One per cent motivation and ninety-nine per cent opportunity,' I said, without really intending to say it aloud.

'What's that?' said Dicky.

'One per cent motivation and ninety-nine per cent opportunity. That's what George Kosinski says crime is.'

'I knew I'd heard it before,' said Dicky. 'Tessa says that, but she said it about sex.'

'Maybe they're both right,' I said.

Dicky reached out to touch my shoulder. 'Don't torture yourself about Fiona. There was nothing between her and Bret.'

'I don't care if there was,' I said.

Our conversation seemed to have ended and yet Dicky didn't depart. He fiddled with the typewriter. Finally he said, 'One day I was with Bret. We were in Kiel. Do you know it?'

'I've been there,' I said.

'It's a strange place. Bombed to hell in the war, everything rebuilt after the war ended. New buildings and not the sort that are likely to win prizes for architectural imagination. There's a main street that runs right along the waterfront, remember?'

'Only just.' I tried to guess what was coming, but I couldn't.

'One side of the street consists of department stores and offices and the other side is big seagoing ships. It's unreal, like a stage set, especially at night when the ships are all lit up. I suppose back before it was bombed it was narrow alleys and waterfront bars. Now there are strip-joints and discos, but they're in the new buildings – it's got an atmosphere about as sexy as Fulham High Street.'

'They were after the shipyards,' I said.

'Who were?'

'The bombers. It's where they made the U-boats. Kiel. Half the town worked in the shipyards.'

'I don't know anything about that,' said Dicky. 'All I remember is that Bret had arranged to meet a contact there. We went into the bar about eleven at night, but the place was almost empty. It was elaborately furnished – red velvet and carpet on the floor – but it was empty except for a few regular customers and a line of hostesses and the bartender. I never found out if the nightlife in Kiel starts later than that or doesn't exist at all.'

'It's a beautiful place in summer.'

'That's what Bret said. He knows Kiel. There's a big yachting event there every summer – Kiel Week – and Bret tries not to miss it. He showed me the pictures at the yacht club. There were big yachts with brightly coloured spinnakers billowing. Girls in bikinis. Kieler Woche – maybe I'll take my boat there one year. But this time it was my luck to be there in the dead of winter and I've never been so cold in all my life.'

What was all this leading up to, I wondered. 'Why were you and Bret doing it? Don't we have people there? Couldn't the Hamburg office have handled it?'

There was quite a lot of money involved. It was an official deal: we paid the Russians and they released a prisoner they were holding. It was political. A Cabinet Office request – very hush-hush. You know. It was going to be done in Berlin in the usual way, but Bret argued with Frank Harrington and finally it was decided that Bret would handle it personally. I went along to help.'

'This was when Bret was still running the Economics Intelligence Committee?'

'This was a long time ago, when it was called the European Economics Desk and Bret was officially only Deputy Controller. But there's no reason to think this job was anything directly to do with that desk. I understood that Bret was doing this at the special order oftheD-G.'

'European Economics Desk. That's going back a bit.'

'Years and years. Long before Bret got his nice big office and had the decorator in.'

'What are you going to tell me about him?' I said. I had the feeling that Dicky had come to a full stop.

'I was a complete innocent. I was expecting some well-dressed diplomatic official, but the man we met was dressed like a deckhand from one of the Swedish ferries, though I noticed that he arrived in a big black Volvo with a driver. He might just have come across the border – it's an easy enough drive.' Dicky rubbed his face. 'A big bastard he was, an old man. He spoke good English. There was a lot of small talk. He said he'd once lived in Boston.'

'Are we talking about a Soviet official?'

'Yes. He identified himself as a KGB colonel. His documents said his name was Popov. It was such a memorable name that I've remembered it ever since.'

'Go on, Dicky, I'm listening. Popov is a common enough Russian name.'

'He knew Bret.'

'Where from?'

'God knows. But he recognized him – "Good evening, Mr Rensselaer," he said, as bold as brass.'

'You said the place was empty. He could have guessed who you were.'

'There were too many people there for anyone to come in through the door and assume one of them was Mr Rensselaer.'

'How did Bret respond?'

There was a lot of noise. It was one of these places where they have disco music switched up so loud it bends your eardrums. Bret didn't seem to hear him. But this fellow Popov obviously knew Bret from some other time. He was chatting away, as friendly as can be. Bret went rigid. His face was like one of those Easter Island stone carvings. Then I suppose his friend Popov noticed he was alarmed. Suddenly all the bonhomie was switched off. Bret's name wasn't mentioned after that; it was all very formal. We all went into the washroom and counted the money, tipping all the bundles of bills into a sink and repacking the case. When it was done Popov said good night and departed. No signature, no receipt, no nothing. And no "Good night Mr Rensselaer." This time it was just "Good night, gentlemen". I was worried in case we hadn't handled it right, but they released the man the next day. Have you ever had to do a job like that?'

'Once or twice.'

They say the KGB keep the cash. Is that true?'

'I don't know, Dicky. No one knows for sure. We can only guess.'

'So how did he know Bret?'

'I don't know that either,' I said. 'You think he knew Bret from somewhere else?'

'Bret's never done any field work.'

'Maybe he'd paid money over in the same way before,' I suggested.

'He said he hadn't. He told me he'd never done anything like that before.'

'Did you ask Bret if he knew the Russian?'

'I was a new boy; Bret was senior staff.'

'Did you report it?'

That the KGB man had called him "Mr Rensselaer"? No, it didn't seem important. It's only now that it seems important. Do you think I should tell Internal Security?'

'Take your time,' I advised. 'It sounds like Bret has got enough questions to answer for the time being.'

Dicky forced a smile even though he was chewing his nail. Dicky was worried; not about Bret, of course, but about himself.