London Match

30

It was night. There was a loud, regular, clicking noise, but it was too dark to see where it was coming from. I could only just see Frank. He was sitting on a hard wooden bench.

'We have to be thankful for small mercies,' said Frank Harrington. 'At least they released Werner Volkmann. They might have kicked up an unholy row when one of their senior staff got killed.'

'Yes, they released Werner.' I'd just come up from the morgue where Pavel Moskvin was in a drawer in a chilled room with a label tied to his toe. I sat down on the bench.

'Even though we didn't guarantee the safety of that party, I was expecting all hell to break loose. I thought there might have been an official protest.'

'Then I've got news for you, Frank,' I said. 'The ballistics report says that Pavel Moskvin was not killed by one of our rounds.' I tossed the mangled piece of metal into the air and caught it.

'What?'

'They said they'd put the report on your desk.'

'I haven't been back to the office.'

'Three of our bullets hit him, but the one that killed him came from a Soviet-calibre gun.' I offered him the round, but he wouldn't take it. Frank was curiously squeamish about firearms.

'What the hell?' said Frank. 'And why use one of their own guns?'

'Someone over there wanted him dead, Frank. And they wanted us to know that.' It was, of course, Fiona's little touch – a way of turning attention away from me, and thus away from her too.

That's why there's been no protest?'

'And why Werner was released as promised,' I said. I hadn't told Frank about my conversation with Fiona and her request that Pavel Moskvin be 'taken out'. Now it had become evident that the KGB hadn't relied upon us; they'd had their own marksman chasing Moskvin. I suppose they would have had too much to lose had we taken him alive.

'Good grief,' said Frank. There's never a clean ending, is there?'

'That's why we have files, Frank.'

'So Moskvin was intended to die,' mused Frank. That explains the KGB hit team we identified. I thought they might be after you.'

I said, 'Stinnes will return in triumph. Moskvin represented a threat to him. I overheard a conversation between them once. Moskvin was out to get Stinnes.'

Our voices were hushed. It was night and we were in the Steglitz Clinic, a part of the hospital of the Free University, the same place from which the Miller woman had been rescued after her pretended attempt at suicide. It had been a terrible night and Frank Harrington's lined face showed how badly he was taking it. Old Percy Danvers, one of Frank's best people and his close friend, was dead. Pavel Moskvin had shot him through the head. That happened in Kleiststrasse before they even got to the flea market and the gun battle in the station. Young Peter – Bret's bodyguard – was badly hurt.

We were waiting for Sheldon Rensselaer to arrive. Bret was in the intensive care ward and not expected to live beyond the weekend. His brother Sheldon was flying in from Washington on a US Air Force flight. Sheldon Rensselaer had a lot of influence in Washington.

'And his wife?' I asked. Ex-wife, I meant. Bret's wife had started spending her alimony years ago.

'Yes, they finally found her. Apparently she winters in Monte Carlo.'

'She's coming?'

'She sent three dozen roses.'

'Perhaps she doesn't realize how bad Bret is.'

'Perhaps,' said Frank in a voice that meant she knew.

'Poor Bret,' I said.

'He didn't recognize me,' said Frank. He was waiting to see Bret again and still wearing the white medical gown they'd given him to go into the ward.

'He wasn't really conscious,' I said,

'I should have stopped him getting up on that train. He saw the kid hit and felt he had to do something.'

'I know,' I said. Frank was reproaching himself unnecessarily for what had happened to Bret. 'Did you talk to London?' I asked him, in order to change the subject.

'The old man was not in the best of moods,' said Frank.

'We got him off the hook,' I said. 'We got them all off the hook. Without what you did, those stupid bastards would still be believing all that crap Stinnes was feeding them.'

'But they're not admitting that,' said Frank.

'How can they deny it? Last night the monitoring service picked up an item about Stinnes being honoured in Moscow.'

'We both know we stopped London making complete idiots of themselves, but they're closing ranks and pretending they knew about Stinnes all the time. Even the old man said that there's valuable information to be obtained even from non-genuine defectors.'

'And what about what they did to Bret?'

They say he wasn't really under house arrest. They say the man who spoke with him was acting without official instructions.'

'Balls,' I said.

'And now the man in question is on duty somewhere and can't be reached.'

'I bet,' I said.

'I spoke to all of them. They're bastards, Bernard. I've often choked you off for saying so, but I take it all back.' Everywhere was dark. A nurse came through the swing doors wheeling a trolley that was clanking with glass and stainless steel. She walked away slowly and eventually disappeared into the darkness that was at the end of a long corridor.

'And what about you, Frank?'

'I was in line for a K.'

'So I heard.' Frank had set his heart on that knighthood. Even though he pretended not to care, it meant a lot to him.

'The old man says it would be inappropriate to recommend that now, after I've so flagrantly disobeyed orders.'

'But you saved them.'

'You keep saying that,' said Frank peevishly. 'And I keep telling you that they don't see it that way.'

'We couldn't have done it without you, Frank. You risked everything and we were proved right.'

'There was talk of giving the K. to Bret instead,' said Frank. 'I don't know what will happen now.'

'The surgeon said Bret won't live.'

'The surgeon says no one can predict what a bullet wound like that will do. They've wrapped him in some kind of tinfoil trying to preserve his body heat. They're doing everything that can be done.'

'You'll retire anyway?' I said.

'The old man has asked me to stay on here. There is the prospect of a K. in two years' time.'

'What did you say?'

'I said you should have Berlin,' said Frank. 'But the old man said that you were lucky not to be facing grave charges.'

Now that my eyes had become used to the gloom I could see the big electric clock over the door that led to the wards. It was the clock that gave that loud click every second. It was the only sound to be heard. 'What time did they say his brother's plane would arrive?'

'I don't think he can possibly get here before four,' said Frank.

'Sheldon was his father's favourite. Bret resented that. Did he ever tell you?'

'Bret didn't reveal much about his private affairs.'

'Yes. I was surprised he confided in me.'

'He knew he could trust you, Bernard, and he was right. He came to you at a time when there was no one else he could trust.'

'I didn't know him very well,' I said. 'I'd always suspected that he'd had an affair with Fiona.'

'He knew you didn't like him, but he came to you all the same. Bret was grateful for what you did. He told me that. I hope he told you.'

'Neither of us did anything for Bret,' I said. 'It wasn't personal. It wasn't like you doing something for me or me doing something for you… '

'Or you doing something for Werner,' said Frank artfully.

'It was for the good of the Department,' I said, ignoring Frank's aside. 'Bret was being framed, and those idiots in London were letting it happen. Something had to be done.'

'There will be a big shake-up,' said Frank. 'Dicky is hoping to get the Europe desk, but there's not much chance of that, thank God. Bret might have got Europe if this hadn't happened. Morgan, the D-G's hatchet man, is getting some sort of promotion too.'

'Is Bret in the clear now?'

'Yes, Bret without this damned bullet in his guts might have ended up as the golden boy all over again. Funny how things happen, isn't it?'

'Yes, very funny.'

'I told the D-G that you should have a recommendation, Bernard. But it was no use. He's against it and I'm not in a position to do much for you at present, I'm afraid.'

'Thanks anyway, Frank.'

'Don't be disappointed, Bernard. This is a disaster averted, a Dunkirk for the Department. There are decorations galore and ennoblements and promotions for victories like Trafalgar and Waterloo; but there are no rewards for Dunkirks, no matter how brave or clever the survivors might be. London Central don't give gold medals to staff who prove they are wrong, and prove it with senior staff from Five looking on. They don't give promotions after finales like the last act of Hamlet with blood and gore on every side and the unexplained death of a senior KGB official, even if he wasn't given a safe conduct.'

'But we saved them from making fools of themselves. We saved the D-G's job, Frank.'

'Maybe we did. But there's more to be gained from giving bad advice when the result is a triumph, than from giving good advice when the outcome is a near disaster.'

A doctor came through the door that led down the long corridor to the intensive care unit where a white-faced, motionless, unseeing Bret was wired into a roomful of life-support machinery: heart pumps, oxygen supply and drip feeds. At his side attentive nurses watched dark monitor screens on which little electronic lines jumped, faltered and flickered.

'Would you come?' said the doctor, a Turk with a strong accent and large moustache. 'He might be able to recognize you this time.'

'Thanks,' said Frank to the doctor. To me he said, 'Life is like show business – it's always better to put a fiver into a hit than five grand into a flop.'

'We put five grand into a flop,' I said.

'Give my best wishes to Werner,' said Frank. 'I wouldn't have let him down, Bernard. Even if you hadn't been here, twisting my arm, I wouldn't have let Werner down.'

'He knows that, Frank. Everyone knows!'

Werner was waiting outside in Zena's car. He looked tired, but no more tired that I'd often seen him before. He was still wearing the old jacket and corduroy trousers. 'I got your message,' he said.

'Didn't I tell you not to go near that bloody Miller woman?' I said.

'You didn't know it was a stakeout?'

I let his question hang in the air for a moment; then I said, 'No, I didn't know it was a stakeout, but I had brains enough to guess it might be.'

'I just got back to my apartment here when the phone rang,' said Werner. 'It was your girl. She'd been trying to get you all day.'

'My girl?' I knew he was talking about Gloria, of course, but I was annoyed that she'd phoned, and also that she'd got through to Werner.

'Gloria. She thought you might be staying with us. Rumours were going around in London. She was worried about you.'

'What time was this?'

'Just now.'

'In the middle of the night?'

'She was in some rotten little hotel in Bayswater. She couldn't sleep. She said you'd quarrelled and she'd moved out.'

'That's right.'

'I told her to pack her things and get a cab and move back into your place.'

'You did what?'

'You don't want the poor kid sitting in some crummy little doss house in Bayswater, do you?'

'Are you trying to break my heart, Werner? She's got enough money to check into the Savoy if Bayswater is so terrible.'

'Don't be a bastard, Bernie. She's a nice kid and she loves you.'

'Hold everything, Werner! Did you tell her that this was my idea, this moving back into my place?'

No answer.

'Werner. Did you tell Gloria it was my idea?'

'She thought it was your idea. I thought it was better that you sorted it out when you got back to London.'

'You're a regular bloody matchmaker, aren't you, Werner?'

'You're crazy about her – you know you are. You should grab her while you have the chance, Bernie. It's no good you living in the hope that one day Fiona will come back to you.'

'I know that,' I said.

'You saw her today… yesterday, I mean. I saw her too. Fiona's changed, Bernie. She's one of them now. And she beat us at our own game. She's tough and she called the shots. She made fools of us all.'

'What do you mean?' I said. I was weary and irritable. I wasn't asking that Werner thank me for getting him out, but neither was I welcoming his criticism.

'So take Stinnes. Are you still going to tell me he's sick?'

I didn't reply.

'Because I saw him after he arrived over there. I saw him light up a big Havana and make some crack about how pretending to be off tobacco was the worst part of the job. He didn't avoid the physical because he was very sick; he avoided it because he didn't want us to know how strong he was.'

'I know,' I said, but Werner had to go on about it.

'That was just one small part of the deception plan. By letting us think he was sick, he avoided any risk of us giving him intensive interrogation. He was treated with silk gloves… '

'Kid gloves,' I corrected him.

'Just the way Fiona knew a sick man would be treated. She outwitted us at every turn. It's game, set and match to Fiona, Bernie. It's no good you trying to pick a quarrel with me – it's game, set and match to Fiona.'

'Don't keep saying the same thing over and over again,' I said.

'Don't keep saying the things you don't like to hear over and over again. That's what you mean, isn't it?'

'We came out of it intact,' I said. 'You're here, I'm here, and the Department is still putting our salaries into the bank…'

'Face the truth, Bernie. See how fast her success has come. Do you remember that night we waited at Checkpoint Charlie in my old Audi? Zena was away somewhere and you were sleeping on my sofa. We were expecting Brahms Four to try. Remember? That was only a year ago, Bernie, and that was well before Fiona went over there. Look what she's done since then. Brahms Four is retired, Bret's economic department is closed down. She's smeared you so cleverly that it will take you years to get in the clear again. Bret's been facing some sort of enquiry. Stinnes stirred up all kinds of trouble for us with MI5 so that it may take years before the bad feeling is gone. And they've done it all so cheaply. Fiona is as arrogant and successful as I've ever seen a KGB senior grade officer – and I've seen plenty – while Stinnes is repatriated and will obviously use the knowledge and experience he's acquired to stage more operations against us. Face the facts, Bernie.'

Werner turned the key and started the engine. It was a cold night and the car needed two or three tries before it came to life. He went down the slope and out past the gatekeeper. Berlin never goes to sleep and there was plenty of traffic on Grunewaldstrasse as we headed for his apartment in nearby Dahlem. He took it for granted that I would sleep on his sofa for what was left of the night, just as I took it for granted that Frank Harrington would phone me there to give me any instructions that came from London. It was like that with all of us. We all knew each other very well; too damned well at times. That's why, when we arrived outside his apartment and he switched off the engine, he said, 'Admit it.'

'Look at it another way,' I said. 'Fiona, one of the brightest and best-placed agents they've ever had, was flushed out and had to run for it so hurriedly that we lost little or no data. Brahms Four, a brave old man who for years supplied such good banking data and East Bloc forecasts that the Americans traded with us for it, was brought out safely… '

'Because you and I…' said Werner.

But I ploughed on. 'I survived their attempts to discredit me and even their loony hope that I'd run. I survived it so well that they had to rejig their resources to turn suspicion onto Bret. Okay, they were smart – I fell for it at first and so eventually did a lot of other people who had more data than I had and should have known better. But at the end of the road, Bret's reputation will have survived, and we proved flexible enough to bend the rules and even break them. The willingness to break rules now and again is what distinguishes free men from robots. And we spiked their guns, Werner. Forget game, set and match. We're not playing tennis; it's a rougher game than that, with more chances to cheat. We bluffed them; we bid a grand slam with a hand full of deuces and jokers, and we fooled them. They were relieved to get Stinnes back and they didn't even try to sustain the fiction that he was really enrolled.'

'Luckily for you,' said Werner.

'Luckily for both of us,' I said. 'Because if they'd stuck to their story that Stinnes was a traitor, I'd now be on a plane to London handcuffed to an Internal Security man and you'd still be on the wrong side of Charlie. Okay, there are wounds, and there will be scars, but it's not game, set and match to Fiona. It's not game, set and match to anyone. It never is.'

Werner opened the door and, as the light inside the car came on, I saw his weary smile. He wasn't convinced.