London Match. Len Deighton

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      It was eight o’clock that evening in London when I finally delivered my report to my immediate boss, Dicky Cruyer, Controller German Stations. I’d attached a complete translation too, as I knew Dicky wasn’t exactly bilingual.

      ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘One up to Comrade Stinnes eh?’ He shook the flimsy pages of my hastily written report as if something might fall from between them. He’d already heard my tape and had my oral account of the Berlin trip so there was little chance that he’d read the report very thoroughly, especially if it meant missing his dinner.

      ‘No one in Bonn will thank us,’ I warned him.

      ‘They have all the evidence they need,’ said Dicky with a sniff.

      ‘I was on the phone to Berlin an hour ago,’ I said. ‘He’s pulling all the strings that can be pulled.’

      ‘What does his boss say?’

      ‘He’s spending his Christmas vacation in Egypt. No one can find him,’ I said.

      ‘What a sensible man,’ said Dicky with admiration that was both sincere and undisguised. ‘Was he informed of the impending arrest of his secretary?’

      ‘Not by us, but that would be the regular BfV procedure.’

      ‘Have you phoned Bonn this evening? What do BfV reckon the chances of a statement from him?’

      ‘Better we stay out of it, Dicky.’

      Dicky looked at me while he thought about this and then, deciding I was right, tried another aspect of the same problem. ‘Have you seen Stinnes since you handed him over to London Debriefing Centre?’

      ‘I gather the current policy is to keep me away from him.’

      ‘Come along,’ said Dicky, smiling to humour me in my state of paranoia. ‘You’re not saying you’re still suspect?’ He stood up from behind the rosewood table that he used instead of a desk and got a transparent plastic folding chair for me.

      ‘My wife defected.’ I sat down. Dicky had removed his visitors’ chairs on the pretext of making more space. His actual motive was to provide an excuse for him to use the conference rooms along the corridor. Dicky liked to use the conference rooms; it made him feel important and it meant that his name was exhibited in little plastic letters on the notice board opposite the top-floor lifts.

      His folding chairs were the most uncomfortable seats in the building, but Dicky didn’t worry about this as he never sat in them. And anyway, I didn’t want to sit chatting with him. There was still work to clear up before I could go home.

      ‘That’s all past history,’ said Dick, running a thin bony hand through his curly hair so that he could take a surreptitious look at his big black wristwatch, the kind that works deep under water.

      I’d always suspected that Dicky would be more comfortable with his hair cut short and brushed, and in the dark suits, white shirts and old school ties that were de rigueur for senior staff. But he persisted in being the only one of us who wore faded denim, cowboy boots, coloured neckerchiefs, and black leather because he thought it would help to identify him as an infant prodigy. But perhaps I had it the wrong way round; perhaps Dicky would have been happier to keep the trendy garb and be ‘creative’ in an advertising agency.

      He zipped the front of his jacket up and down again and said, ‘You’re the local hero. You are the one who brought Stinnes to us at a time when everyone here said it couldn’t be done.’

      ‘Is that what they were saying? I wish I’d known. The way I heard it, a lot of people were saying I did everything to avoid bringing him in because I was frightened his debriefing would drop me into it.’

      ‘Well, anyone who was spreading that sort of story is now looking pretty damned stupid.’

      ‘I’m not in the clear yet, Dicky. You know it and I know it, so let’s stop all this bullshit.’

      He held up his hand as if to ward off a blow. ‘You’re still not clear on paper,’ said Dicky. ‘On paper … and you know why?’

      ‘No, I don’t know why. Tell me.’

      Dicky sighed. ‘For the simple but obvious reason that this Department needs an excuse to hold Stinnes in London Debriefing Centre and keep on pumping him. Without an ongoing investigation of our own staff, we’d have to hand Stinnes over to MI5 … That’s why the Department haven’t cleared you yet: it’s a department necessity, Bernard, nothing sinister about it.’

      ‘Who’s in charge of the Stinnes debriefing?’ I asked.

      ‘Don’t look at me, old friend. Stinnes is a hot potato. I don’t want any part of that one. Neither does Bret … no one up here on the top floor wants anything to do with it.’

      ‘Things could change,’ I said. ‘If Stinnes gives us a couple more winners like this one, then a few people will start to see that being in charge of the Stinnes debriefing could be the road to fame and fortune.’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ said Dicky. ‘The tip-off you handled in Berlin was just for openers … a few quick forays before Moscow tumble what’s happening to their networks. Once the dust settles, the interrogators will take Stinnes through the files … right?’

      ‘Files? You mean they’ll be poking into all our past operations?’

      ‘Not all of them. I don’t suppose they’ll go back to discover how Christopher Marlowe discovered that the Spanish Armada had sailed.’ Dicky permitted himself a smile at this joke. ‘It’s obvious that the Department will want to discover how good our guesses were. They’ll play all the games again, but this time they’ll know which ones have a happy ending.’

      ‘And you’ll go along with that?’

      ‘They won’t consult me, old son. I’m just German Stations Controller; I’m not the D-G. I’m not even on the Policy Committee.’

      ‘Giving Stinnes access to department archives would be showing a lot of trust in him.’

      ‘You know what the old man’s like. Deputy D-G came in yesterday on СКАЧАТЬ