Spy Sinker. Len Deighton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ ‘Well if it was a test, you came through with flying colours,’ he said proudly.

      She realized then, for the first time, what a stalwart supporter she had in him. Martin was committed to her: she was his investment and he’d do anything rather than face the idea that his protégée was not the most influential Soviet agent of modern history.

      ‘It’s getting late.’

      ‘There there. We’ll get you to the train on time. Bernard’s coming back from Berlin today, isn’t he?’

      She didn’t answer. Martin had no business asking such things even in a friendly conversational way.

      Martin said, ‘I’m watching the time. Don’t fret.’

      She smiled. She regretted now the way that she had snapped at him. The Russians had decided that the two of them were joined by a strong bond of affection: that Martin’s avuncular manner, as well as his unwavering political belief, was an essential part of her dedication. She didn’t want to give them any reason to re-examine their theory.

      She looked round the tiny room and wondered if Martin lived here all the time or whether it was just a safe house used for other meetings of this sort. It seemed lived-in: food in the kitchen, coal by the fireplace, open mail stuffed behind the clock that ticked away on the mantelpiece, a well-fed cat prowling through a well-kept garden. A clipper ship in full sail on the wall behind spotless glass. There were lots of books here: Lenin and Marx and even Trotsky stared down from the shelves, along with his revered Fabians, an encyclopedia of socialism, and Rousseau and John Stuart Mill. Even the tedious works of his father. It was an artful touch. Even a trained security man was unlikely to recognize a KGB agent who was so openly familiar with the philosophies of the dissidents, revisionists and traitors. That was Martin’s cover: a cranky, old-fashioned and essentially British left-wing theorist, out of touch with modern international political events.

      ‘It’s my son Billy. His throat was swollen this morning,’ said Fiona and looked at her watch again. ‘Nanny should be taking him to see the doctor about now. Nanny is a sensible girl.’

      ‘Of course she is.’ He didn’t approve of nannies and other domestic slaves. It took him back to his own childhood and muddled emotions about his father that he found so difficult to think about. ‘He’ll be all right.’

      ‘I do hope it’s not mumps.’

      ‘I’m watching the time,’ he said again.

      ‘Good reliable Martin,’ she said.

      He smiled and puffed his pipe. It was what he wanted to hear.

      It was a long-haired youth who arrived on a bicycle. He propped it against the fence and came down the garden to rat-a-tat on the front door. The canary awoke and jumped from perch to perch so that the cage danced on its spring. Martin answered the door and came back with a piece of paper he’d taken from a sealed envelope. He gave it to her. It was the printed invoice of a local florist. Written across it in felt-tip pen it said: ‘The wreath you ordered has been sent as requested.’ It bore the mark of a large oval red rubber stamp: ‘PAID’.

      ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

      ‘Blum is dead!’ he announced softly.

      ‘My God!’ said Fiona.

      He looked at her. Her face had gone completely white.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ he said soothingly. ‘You’ve come out of it as pure as the driven snow.’ Then he realized that it was the news of Blum’s death that had shocked her. In a desperate attempt to comfort her he said, ‘Our comrades are inclined to somewhat operatic gestures. They have probably just sent him home to Moscow.’

      ‘Then why …?’

      ‘To reassure you. To make you feel important.’ He took a cloth from the shelf and wrapped it carefully round the bird cage to provide darkness.

      She looked at him, trying to see what he really believed, but she couldn’t be sure.

      ‘Believe me,’ he added. ‘I know them.’

      She decided to believe him. Perhaps it was a feminine response but she couldn’t shoulder the burden of Blum’s death. She wasn’t brave about the sufferings that were inflicted upon others, and yet that was what this job was all about.

      She got home after half-past eight, and it was only about ten minutes later that Bret Rensselaer phoned with a laconic, ‘All okay?’

      ‘Yes, all okay,’ she said.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      Bret had heard something in her voice. He was so tuned to her emotions that it frightened her. Bernard would never have guessed she was upset. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said carefully, keeping her voice under control. ‘Nothing we can speak about.’

      ‘Are you alone?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Usual time: usual place.’

      ‘Bernard’s not here yet. He was due back.’

      ‘I arranged something … delayed his baggage at the airport. I wanted to be sure you were home and it was all okay …’

      ‘Yes, goodnight, Bret.’ She hung up. Bret was doing it for her sake but she knew that he enjoyed showing her how easy it was for him to control her husband in that way. He was another of these men who felt bound to demonstrate some aspect of their power to her. There was also an underlying sexual implication that she didn’t like.

       5

       Somerset, England. Summer 1978.

      The Director-General was an enigmatic figure who was the subject of much discussion amongst the staff. Take, for instance, that Christmas when a neat panel bearing the pokerwork motto ‘Only ignorance is invincible’ was hung in a prominent position on the wall beside his desk. The questions arising from that item were not stilled by the news that it was a Christmas present from his wife.

      His office was a scene of incomparable chaos into which the cleaning ladies made only tentative forays. Books were piled everywhere. Most of them were garlanded with coloured slips of paper indicating rich veins of research that had never been pursued beyond the initial claims staked out for him by his long-suffering assistant.

      Sir Henry Clevemore provided a fruitful source for Bret Rensselaer’s long-term anthropological study of the English race. Bret had categorized the D-G as a typical member of the upper classes. This tall shambling figure, whose expensive suits looked like baggy overalls, was entirely different to anyone Bret knew in the USA. Apart from his other eccentricities the D-G encouraged his staff to believe that he was frail, deaf and absent-minded. This contrived role certainly seemed to provide for him a warm loyalty that many a tougher leader would have envied.

      One of the disagreeable aspects of working in close cooperation with Sir Henry was the way he moved about the country in such a disorganized and unplanned style that Bret found himself chasing after him to rendezvous after rendezvous СКАЧАТЬ