London Match. Len Deighton

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СКАЧАТЬ They’d met in Berlin when he returned here as a newspaperman with the US Army in 1945.

      ‘I missed breakfast,’ I said. ‘A cup of coffee would be great.’

      ‘Lange?’ she said. He looked at her blankly and didn’t answer. She shrugged. ‘He’ll have wine,’ she told me. ‘He won’t cut down on it.’ She looked too small for an opera singer, but the ancient posters on the wall gave her billing above title: Wagner in Bayreuth, Fidelio at the Berlin State Opera, and in Munich a performance of Mongol Fury which was the Nazis’ ‘Aryanized’ version of Handel’s Israel in Egypt.

      ‘It’s Christmas, woman,’ said Lange. ‘Give us both wine.’ He didn’t smile and neither did she. It was the brusque way he always addressed her.

      ‘I’ll stick to coffee,’ I said. ‘I have a lot of driving to do. And I have to go to Police HQ and sign some forms later today.’

      ‘Sit down, Bernie, and tell me what you’re doing here. The last time we saw you you were settled in London, married, and with kids.’ His voice was hoarse and slurred slightly in the Bogart manner.

      ‘I am,’ I said. ‘I’m just here for a couple of days on business.’

      ‘Oh, sure,’ said Lange. ‘Stuffing presents down the chimneys: then you’ve got to get your reindeer together and head back to the workshops.’

      ‘The children must be big,’ said Mrs Koby. ‘You should be with them at home. They make you work at Christmas? That’s terrible.’

      ‘My boss has a mean streak,’ I said.

      ‘And you haven’t got a union by the sound of it,’ said Lange. He had little love for the Department and he made his dislike evident in almost everything he said about the men in London Central.

      ‘That’s right,’ I said.

      We sat there exchanging small talk for fifteen minutes or maybe half an hour. I needed a little time to get used to Lange’s harsh, abrasive style.

      ‘Still working for the Department, eh?’

      ‘Not any longer,’ I said.

      He ignored my denial; he knew it counted for nothing. ‘Well, I’m glad I got out of it when I did.’

      ‘You were the first man my dad recruited in Berlin, at least that’s what people say.’

      ‘Then they’ve got it right,’ said Lange. ‘And I was grateful to him. In 1945 I couldn’t wait to kiss the newspaper business goodbye.’

      ‘What was wrong with it?’

      ‘You’re too young to remember. They dressed reporters up in fancy uniforms and stuck “War Correspondent” badges on us. That was so all those dumb jerks in the Army press departments could order us about and tell us what to write.’

      ‘Not you, Lange. No one told you what to do.’

      ‘We couldn’t argue. I was living in an apartment that the Army had commandeered. I was eating US rations, driving an Army car on Army gas, and spending Army occupation money. Sure, they had us by the balls.’

      ‘They tried to stop Lange seeing me,’ said Mrs Koby indignantly.

      ‘They forbade all Allied soldiers to talk to any Germans. Those dummies were trying to sell the soldiers their crackpot non-fraternization doctrine. Can you imagine me trying to write stories here while forbidden to talk to Germans? The Army fumed and threw kids into the stockade, but when you’ve got young German girls walking past the GIs patting their asses and shouting “Verboten”, even the Army brass began to see what a dumb idea it was.’

      ‘It was terrible in 1945 when I met Lange,’ said Gerda Koby. ‘My beautiful Berlin was unrecognizable. You’re too young to remember, Bernard. There were heaps of rubble as tall as the tenement blocks. There wasn’t one tree or bush left in the entire city; the Tiergarten was like a desert – everything that would burn had long since been cut down. The canals and waterways were all completely filled with rubble and ironwork, pushed there to clear a lane through the streets. The whole city stank with the dead; the stench from the canals was even worse.’

      It was uncharacteristic of her to speak so passionately. She came to a sudden stop as if embarrassed. Then she got up and poured coffee for me from a vacuum flask and poured a glass of wine for her husband. I think he’d had a few before I arrived.

      The coffee was in a delicate demitasse that contained no more than a mouthful. I swallowed it gratefully. I can’t get started in the morning until I’ve had some coffee.

      ‘Die Stunde Null,’ said Lange. ‘Germany’s hour zero – I didn’t need anyone to explain what that meant when I got here in 1945. Berlin looked like the end of the world had arrived.’ Lange scratched his head without disarranging his neatly combed hair. ‘And that’s the kind of chaos I had to work in. None of these Army guys, or the clowns who worked for the so-called Military Government, knew the city. Half of them couldn’t even speak the language. I’d been in Berlin right up until 1941 and I was able to renew all those old contacts. I set up the whole agent network that your dad ran into the East. He was smart, your dad, he knew I could deliver what I promised. He assigned me to work as his assistant and I told the Army where to stick their “War Correspondent” badge, pin and all.’ He laughed. ‘Jesus, but they were mad. They were mad at me and mad at your dad. The US Army complained to Eisenhower’s intelligence. But your dad had a direct line to Whitehall and that trumped their ace.’

      ‘Why did you go to Hamburg?’ I said.

      ‘I’d been here too long.’ He drank some of the bright red wine.

      ‘How long after that did Bret Rensselaer do his “fact-finding mission”?’ I asked.

      ‘Don’t mention that bastard to me. Bret was just a kid when he came out here trying to “rationalize the administration”.’ Lange put heavy sarcastic emphasis on the last three words. ‘He was the best pal the Kremlin ever had, and I’ll give you that in writing any time.’

      ‘Was he?’ I said.

      ‘Go to the archives and look … or better still, go to the “yellow submarine”.’ He smiled and studied my face to see if I was surprised at the extent of his knowledge. ‘The yellow submarine – that’s what I hear they call the big London Central computer.’

      ‘I don’t know …’

      ‘Sure, sure,’ said Lange. ‘I know, you’re not in the Department any more; you’re over here to conduct a concert of Christmas carols for the British garrison.’

      ‘What did Bret Rensselaer do?’

      ‘Do? He dismantled three networks that I was running into the Russian Zone. Everything was going smoothly until he arrived. He put a spanner into the works and eventually got London to pack me off to Hamburg.’

      ‘What was his explanation?’ I persisted.

      ‘Bret didn’t provide any explanations. You know him better than that. No one could stop him. Bret was only on temporary attachment to us at that time, but he’d been given some piece of paper in London СКАЧАТЬ