Spy Sinker. Len Deighton

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СКАЧАТЬ governor. The D-G had made a speech to the whole school and had lunch with the headmaster. Bret at short notice had had to be driven down at breakneck speed. There had been no time for lunch. No matter, on a hot day like this Bret could miss lunch without feeling deprived.

      The school’s surroundings provided a wonderful view of mighty trees, rolling hills and farmland. This was the English countryside that had inspired her great landscape painters: it was brooding and mysterious despite the bright colours. The newly cut grass left a pungent smell on the air. Although not normally prone to hay fever, Bret found his sinuses affected. Of course it was an affliction aggravated by stress and it would be unwise to conclude that the prospect of this meeting with the Director-General had played no part in bringing on the attack.

      Through the cobwebbed window two teams of white-clad teenagers could be seen going through the arcane gymnastics that constitute a cricket match. Entering into the spirit of this event, the D-G had changed into white trousers, a linen jacket that had yellowed with age, and a panama hat. He had seated himself in a chair from which he could see the game. The D-G had wiped his piece of window clear but Bret saw the scene through the grimy glass. Bret was standing, having declined to sit upon the cushioned oil drum that the D-G had indicated. Bret kept half an eye on the game, for the D-G referred to it at intervals seeking Bret’s opinions about the way it was being played.

      ‘Tell the husband,’ said the D-G, shaking his head sadly, ‘and it’s no longer a secret.’

      Bret didn’t answer immediately. He watched the left-handed batsman thumping his bat into the ground and waiting for the ball to come. The fielders were well spread out anticipating some heavy swings. Bret turned to the D-G. He’d already made it clear that in his opinion Fiona Samson’s husband would have to be told everything: that she was a double agent and was being briefed to go over there. ‘I will see her later today,’ Bret said. He’d hoped to get the D-G’s okay and then he would brief Bernard Samson too. By tonight it would all have been done.

      ‘What are you doing with her at present?’ the D-G asked.

      Bret walked away a couple of paces and then turned. From that characteristic movement the D-G knew that unless he nipped it in the bud he was going to get one of Bret’s renowned lectures. He settled back in his chair and waited for an opportunity to interrupt. Bret had no one else he could explain things to. The D-G knew that providing Bret with a sounding board at frequent intervals was something he could not delegate. ‘If we are going to place her in the sort of role where she will pull off the sort of coup we’re both hoping for, we can’t just leave things to chance.’

      ‘Bravo!’ said the D-G, reacting to a stroke that sent the ball to the far boundary. He turned to Bret and smiled. ‘We haven’t got too much time, Bret.’

      ‘We need ten years, Director, maybe twelve.’

      ‘Is that your considered opinion?’

      Bret looked at the old man. They both knew what he was thinking. He wanted Fiona Samson in place before he came up for retirement. Forget the modest, self-effacing manner that was his modus operandi, he wanted glory. ‘It is, Sir Henry.’

      ‘I was hoping for something earlier than that.’

      ‘Sir Henry, Fiona Samson is nothing more than an agent in place as far as Moscow is concerned. She has never done anything. She has never delivered.’

      ‘What do you have in mind?’

      ‘She should be posted to Berlin. I want them to have a closer look at her.’

      ‘That would speed things up. They would start thinking of getting her over there quickly.’

      ‘No, they want her in London where the big stuff is hidden.’ Bret got out his handkerchief and self-consciously blew his nose, making as little noise as possible. ‘Forgive me, Sir Henry. I think the newly cut grass …’

      ‘Then why Berlin?’

      ‘She will have to do something for them.’

      The D-G looked at him and pulled a face. He didn’t like these stunts which required that the KGB were given things. They were always given good things, convincing things, and that meant things that the Department should keep to itself. ‘What?’

      ‘I haven’t got as far as that, Director, but we’ll have to do it, and do it before the end of the year.’

      ‘Would you acquaint me with a little of your thinking? Wait one moment, this fellow is their fast bowler.’

      Bret waited. It was a hot day: the grass was bright green and the boys in their cricket clothes made it the sort of English spectacle that under other circumstances Bret might have relished. The ball came very fast but bounced and went wide. Bret said, ‘Mrs Samson goes to Berlin. During her time there she gives them something substantial …’ Bret paused while the D-G winced at the thought, ‘… so that we have a big inquiry from which she emerges safe. Preferably with their help.’

      ‘You mean they arrange that one of their agents takes the blame?’

      ‘Well, yes. That, of course, would be ideal,’ said Bret.

      The D-G was still watching the match. ‘I like it,’ he said without turning round.

      Bret smiled grimly. It was an uphill struggle, but that was something of an accolade coming from Sir Henry Clevemore, although it could of course have been prompted by some cricketing accomplishment that Bret had failed to understand. He said, ‘Mrs Samson comes back here to London and they tell her to keep still and quiet.’

      ‘That’s one year,’ the D-G reminded him.

      Bret said, ‘Look, sir. We can deliver Mrs Samson to them right away, of course we can. She’s like a box of nuts and bolts: an all-purpose agent they can use anywhere. But that’s not good enough.’

      ‘No,’ said the D-G, watching the cricketers and wondering what was coming.

      ‘We must take this woman and clear her mind of everything she knows.’

      ‘Classified material?’

      ‘I’m already making sure she sees nothing that would affect the Department.’

      ‘How did she take that?’

      ‘We have to make our plans as if she will be interrogated … interrogated in the cellars at Normannenstrasse.’ In the silence that followed a big fly buzzed angrily against the window glass.

      ‘It’s a nasty thought.’

      ‘The stakes are high, Sir Henry. But we’re playing to win.’ He looked around the hut. It was insufferably hot and the air was perfumed with linseed oil and weed-killers for the lawn. Bret opened the door to let a little air in.

      The D-G looked at Bret and said, ‘A good thunderstorm would clear the air,’ as if this was something he could arrange. Then he added, ‘You’re making me wonder whether a woman is right after all.’

      ‘It’s too late to change the plan now.’

      ‘Surely not?’ Even the D-G was feeling the heat. He mopped his brow with a red silk handkerchief that had been protruding from his top pocket.

      ‘Mrs СКАЧАТЬ