Berlin Game. Len Deighton

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       5

      On Monday afternoon I was in Bret Rensselaer’s office. It was on the top floor not far from the suite the D-G occupied. All the top-floor offices were decorated to the personal taste of the occupants; it was one of the perks of seniority. Bret’s room was ‘modern’, with glass and chrome and grey carpet. It was hard, austere and colourless, a habitat just right for Bret, with his dark worsted Savile Row suit and the crisp white shirt and club tie, and his fair hair that was going white, and the smile that seemed shy and fleeting but was really the reflex action that marked his indifference.

      The nod, the smile, and the finger pointed at the black leather chesterfield did not interrupt the conversation he was having on his white phone. I sat down and waited for him to finish telling a caller that there was no chance of them meeting for lunch that day, next day, or any day in the future.

      ‘Are you a poker player, Bernard?’ he said even while he was putting the phone down.

      ‘Only for matchsticks,’ I replied cautiously.

      ‘Ever wonder what will happen to you when you retire?’

      ‘No,’ I said.

      ‘No plans to buy a bar in Málaga, or a market garden in Sussex?’

      ‘Is that what you’re planning?’ I said.

      Bret smiled. He was rich, very rich. The idea of him working a market garden in Sussex was hilarious. As for Málaga and its plebeian diversions, he’d divert the plane rather than enter its air space. ‘I guess your wife has money,’ said Rensselaer. He paused. ‘But I’d say you’re the type of inverted snob who wouldn’t want to use any of it.’

      ‘Would that make me an inverted snob?’

      ‘If you were smart enough to invest her dough and double it, you’d do no one any harm. Right?’

      ‘In the evenings, you mean? Or would that be instead of working here?’

      ‘Every time I ask you questions, I find you asking me questions.’

      ‘I didn’t know I was being questioned,’ I said. ‘Am I being vetted?’

      ‘In this business it does no harm to flip the pages of someone’s bank account from time to time,’ said Rensselaer.

      ‘You’ll find only moths in mine,’ I said.

      ‘No family money?’

      ‘Family money? I was thirty years old before I got a nanny.’

      ‘People like you who’ve worked in the field always have money and securities stashed away. I’ll bet you’ve got numbered bank accounts in a dozen towns.’

      ‘What would I put into them, luncheon vouchers?’

      ‘Goodwill,’ he said ‘Goodwill. Until the time comes.’ He picked up the short memo I’d sent him about Werner Volkmann’s import-export business. So that was it. He was wondering if I was sharing the profit in Werner’s business.

      ‘Volkmann is not making enough dough to pay handsome kickbacks, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ I said.

      ‘But you want the Department to bankroll him?’ He was still standing behind his desk; he liked being on his feet, moving about like a boxer, shifting his weight and twisting his body as if avoiding imaginary blows.

      ‘You’d better get yourself some new bifocals,’ I said. ‘There’s no suggestion that the Department give him a penny.’

      Bret smiled. When he got tired of playing the shy Mr Nice Guy, he’d suddenly go for confrontation, accusation and insult. But at least he was unlikely to go behind your back. ‘Maybe I read it hurriedly. What the hell is forfaiting anyway?’

      Bret was like those High Court judges who lean over and ask what is a male chauvinist, or a mainframe computer. They know what they think these things are, but they want them defined by mutual agreement and written into the court record.

      ‘Volkmann raises cash for West German companies so they can be paid promptly after exporting goods to East Germany.’

      ‘How does he do that?’ said Bret, looking down and fiddling with some papers on his desk.

      ‘There’s a hell of a lot of complicated paperwork,’ I said. ‘But the essential part of it is that they send details of the shipment and the prices to an East German bank. They sign them and rubber-stamp them and agree that it’s all okay with the East German importers. They also agree on the dates of the payments. Volkmann goes to a bank, or a syndicate of banks, or any other source of cash in the West, and uses that “aval” to discount the cash that pays for the goods.’

      ‘It’s like factoring?’

      ‘It’s more complicated, because you’re dealing with a lot of people, most of them bureaucrats.’

      ‘And your pal Volkmann gets a margin on each deal. That’s sweet.’

      ‘It’s СКАЧАТЬ