Spy Line. Len Deighton

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      ‘Keep going!’ I told Teacher as he began to slow down to let me out of the car.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Keep-going keep-going keep-going!’

      ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, but he kept going and passed the car that had attracted my notice. It was parked right outside my front door.

      ‘Turn right and go right round the block.’

      ‘What did you see? A car you recognize?’

      I made a prevaricating noise.

      ‘What then?’ he persisted.

      ‘A car I didn’t recognize.’

      ‘Which one?’

      ‘The black Audi … Too smart for this street.’

      ‘You’re getting jumpy, Samson. There’s nothing wrong, I’ll bet you …’

      As he was speaking a police car cruised slowly past us, but Teacher gave no sign of noticing it. I suppose he had other things on his mind. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I said. ‘I am a bit jumpy. I remember now it belongs to my landlady’s brother.’

      ‘There you are,’ said Teacher. ‘I told you there was nothing wrong.’

      ‘I need a good night’s sleep. Let me off on the corner. I must buy some cigarettes.’

      He stopped the car outside the shop. ‘Closed,’ he said.

      ‘They have a machine in the hallway.’

      ‘Righto.’

      I opened the car door. ‘Thanks for sharing your caviar. And tell Clemmie thanks too. Sorry if I outstayed my welcome.’ He’d let me have a hot shower. I felt better but couldn’t help wondering if the grime was going to block the drain. I was grateful. ‘And best wishes to Frank,’ I added as an afterthought.

      He nodded. ‘I was on the phone to him. Frank says you’re to keep away from Rudi Kleindorf.’

      ‘Forget about the good wishes.’

      He gave a grim little smile and revved the motor and pulled away as soon as I closed the door. He was worried about his wife. I took a deep breath. The air was thick with the stink from the lignite-burning power stations that the DDR have on all sides of the city. It killed the trees, burned the back of the throat and filled the nostrils with soot. It was the Berlinerluft.

      I let Teacher’s car go out of sight before cautiously returning down the street to rap on the window of the red VW Golf. Werner reached over to unlock the door and I got into the back seat.

      ‘Thank God. You’re all right, Bernie?’

      ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

      ‘Where have you been?’ Werner was good at hiding his feelings but there was no doubt about his agitated state.

      ‘What does it matter?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

      ‘Spengler is dead. Someone murdered him.’

      Bile rose in my throat. I was too old for rough stuff: too old, too involved, too married, too soft. ‘Murdered him? When?’

      ‘I was going to ask you,’ said Werner.

      ‘What’s that mean, Werner? Do you think I’d murder the poor little sod?’ Werner’s manner annoyed me. I’d liked Spengler.

      ‘I saw Johnny. He was looking for you, to warn you that the cops were here.’

      ‘Is Johnny all right?’

      ‘Johnny is at the Polizeipräsidium answering questions. They’re holding him.’

      ‘He has no papers,’ I said.

      ‘Right. So they’ll put him through the wringer.’

      ‘Don’t worry. Johnny’s a good kid,’ I said.

      ‘If he has to choose between deportation to Sri Lanka or spilling his guts, he’ll tell them anything he knows,’ said Werner with stolid logic.

      ‘He knows nothing,’ I said.

      ‘He might make some damaging guesses, Bernie.’

      ‘Shit!’ I rubbed my face and tried to remember anything compromising Johnny might have seen or overheard.

      ‘Get down, the cops are coming out,’ said Werner. I crouched down on the floor out of sight. There was a strong smell of rubber floor mats. Werner had moved the front seats well forward to give me plenty of room. Werner thought of everything. Under his calm, logical and conventional exterior there lurked an all-consuming passion, if not to say obsession, with espionage. Werner followed the published, and unpublished, sagas of the cold war with the same sort of dedication that other men gave to the fluctuating fortunes of football teams. Werner would have been the perfect spy: except that perfect spies, like perfect husbands, are too predictable to survive in a world where fortune favours the impulsive.

      Two uniformed cops walked past going to their car. I heard one of them say, ‘Mit der Dummheit kämpfen Götter selbst vergebens’ – With stupidity the gods themselves struggle in vain.

      ‘Schiller,’ said Werner, equally dividing pride with admiration.

      ‘Maybe he’s studying to be a sergeant,’ I said.

      ‘Someone put a plastic bag over Spengler’s head and suffocated him,’ said Werner after the policemen had got into their car and departed. ‘I suppose he was drunk and didn’t make much resistance.’

      ‘The police are unlikely to give it too much attention,’ I said. A dead junkie in this section of Kreuzberg was not the sort of newsbreak for which press photographers jostle. It was unlikely to make even a filler on an inside page.

      ‘Spengler was sleeping on your bed,’ said Werner. ‘Someone was trying to kill you.’

      ‘Who wants to kill me?’ I said.

      Werner wiped his nose very carefully with a big white handkerchief. ‘You’ve had a lot of strain lately, Bernie. I’m not sure that I could have handled it. You need a rest, a real rest.’

      ‘Don’t baby me along,’ I said. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

      He frowned, trying to decide how to say what he wanted to say. ‘You’re going through a funny time; you’re not thinking straight any more.’

      ‘Just tell me who would want to kill me.’

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