London Match (19 page)

'Your father's come to buy a beautiful car from me — did he tell you that?' He looked up at me and added, 'It's not arrived yet.' A glance at his watch. 'Any minute now.'

'We're a bit early, George,' I said.

'Can't give you a drink or anything. I don't keep anything of any value here. You can see what it's like.'

I could see. The cracked lino on the floor and the bare walls said it all. As well as that, there was a notice that said
we don't buy car radios
.
He saw me looking at it and said, 'All day long there are people in and out of here trying to sell me radios and tape recorders.'

'Stolen?'

'Of course. What would these tearaways be doing with an expensive car stereo except that they've ripped it out of some parked car? I never touch anything suspect.'

'Do you spend much time here?' I asked.

He shrugged. 'I call in from time to time. You run a business, any sort of business, you have to see what's happening. Right, Bernard?'

'I suppose so.' George Kosinski was a rich man, and I wondered how he endured such squalor. He wasn't mean — his generosity was well known and admitted even by those with whom he struck the tough bargains for which he was equally well known.

'Rover 3500; you'll not be sorry you bought it, Bernard. And if I'm wrong, bring it back to me and I'll give you your money back. Okay?'

'Okay,' I said. He was saying it to the children as much as to me. He liked children. Perhaps his marriage would have been happier if he'd had children of his own.

'I saw it yesterday morning. Dark green, a beautiful respray, just like a factory finish, and the people doing the waxing job are the best in the country. You've got a vintage car there, Bernard. Better than that: a special. The V-8 engine has scarcely been used.'

'It's not another one of those cars that's been owned by that old lady who only used it to go shopping once a week and was too nervous to go more than twenty miles an hour?' I said.

'Naughty,' said George with a smile. 'Your dad is naughty,' he told the children. 'He doesn't believe what I'm telling him. And I've never told a fib in my life.' Suddenly there came a thunderous roar. Billy flinched and Sally put her hands on her head. 'It's the trains,' said George. 'They're only just above our heads.'

But George's boast had captured Billy's imagination and when the sound of the tram diminished he said, 'Have you really never told a fib, Uncle George? Never ever?'

'Almost never,' said George. He turned to me. 'I have a friend of yours calling in this morning. I told him you'd be here.'

'Who?'

'It's not a secret or anything?' said George. 'I won't get into trouble for telling somebody where you are, will I?' It was a jest, but not entirely a jest. I'd heard the same sort of resentment in the voices of other people who had only a rough idea of what I did for a living.

He screwed his face up in an expression that was somewhat apologetic. 'There are people who know I know you . . . people who seem to know more about what you do for a living than I know.' Nervously George pushed his glasses up, using his forefinger. He was always doing that when he became agitated. The spectacle frames were too heavy, I suppose, or perhaps it was perspiration.

'People try to guess what I do,' I said. 'Better they're not encouraged, George. Who is it?'

'Posh Harry they call him. Do you know who I mean? He's something in the CIA, isn't he? He seems to know you well enough. I thought it would be all right to say I was seeing you.'

'It was a long time ago that he worked for the CIA,' I said. 'But Harry is all right. He's coming here, you say?'

'He wants to see you, Bernard. He reckons he's got something you'll like.'

'We'll see,' I said. 'But you know what he's like, George. I never meet him without wondering if he's going to wind up selling me a set of encyclopedias.'

Posh Harry arrived on time. He was a pristine American, whose face, like his suits and linen, seemed never to wrinkle. He was of Hawaiian extraction, and although in a crowd he would pass as European, he had the flat features, small nose, and high cheekbones of Oriental peoples. He spent half his life on planes and had no address except hotels, shared offices and box numbers. He was an amazing linguist and he always knew what was happening to whom, from Washington to Warsaw and back again. He was what the reporters call 'a source' and always had something to add about the latest spy scandal or trial or investigation whenever the media ran short of comment. His brother — much older than Harry — was a CIA man whose career went back to OSS days in World War II. He'd died in some lousy CIA foul-up in Vietnam. Sometimes it was suggested that Harry was a recognized conduit through whom the CIA leaked stories they wanted to make public, but it was difficult to reconcile that with Harry's family history. Harry was not an apologist for the CIA; he'd never completely forgiven them for his brother's death.

Harry was exactly the kind of man that Hollywood casts as a CIA agent. His voice was just right too. He had the sort of low, very soft American voice that is crisp, clear and attractive; the voice that sports commentators use for games that are very slow and boring.

Harry arrived wearing those English clothes you can only find in New York City. A dark-grey cotton poplin raincoat, calfskin oxford shoes, tweedy jacket, and a striped English old school tie that had been invented by an American designer. The hat was a giveaway though; a plaid sports cap that few Englishmen would wear, even on a golf course.

'Good to see you again, George,' he said as he took George's hand. Then he gave me the same sort of greeting, in that low gravelly voice, and shook my hand with a firm, sincere grip.

'I'll go and see if your motorcar has arrived,' said George. 'Come on, kids.'

'I spoke on the phone to Lange,' explained Harry. 'He really enjoyed meeting with you again.'

'What did Lange have to say?'

'Nothing I didn't already know. That you're still working hard, following up orders from London Central.'

'What else?'

'Something about Bret Rensselaer,' said Harry. 'I didn't pay too much attention.'

'That's the best way with Lange,' I agreed. 'He has a bee in his bonnet about Bret Rensselaer.'

'So it's not true that Bret's being specially vetted?'

'Not as far as I know,' I said.

'I'm no special buddy of Bret's, as you probably know. But Bret is one hundred per cent okay. There's no chance Bret would do anything disloyal.'

'Is that so?' I said, keeping it all very casual.

'For years your people kept Bret away from any US sensitive material in case it compromised his loyalty, but he was never any kind of undercover man for the Agency. Bret is your man, you can rest assured on that one.'

I nodded and wondered where Posh Harry had got the idea that Bret was suspected of leaking to the Americans. Was that Lange's misinterpretation or Harry's? Or was it simply that no one could start to envisage him doing anything as dishonourable as spying for the Russians? And if that was it, was I wrong? And, if he was guilty of such ungentlemanly activities, who was going to believe it?

'What have they got against Bret anyway?' asked Harry.

'Better you contact me through the office, Harry,' I said. 'I don't like getting my relatives involved.'

'Sure, I'm sorry,' said Harry, giving no sign of being sorry. 'But this is something better done away from the people across the river there.' He gave a nod in the vague direction of Westminster and Whitehall.

'What is it?'

'I'm going to give you something on a plate, Bernard. It will give you a lot of kudos with your people.'

'That's good,' I said without sounding very keen. I'd suffered some of Harry's favours in the past.

'And that's the truth,' said Harry. 'Take a look at that.' He passed me a photocopy of a typewritten document. There were eight pages of it.

'Do I have to read it? Or are you going to tell me what it's all about?'

'That's a memo that was discussed by the Cabinet about three or four months ago. It concerns the security of British installations in West Germany.'

'The British Cabinet? This is a British Cabinet memo?'

'Yessir.'

'Is there anything special about it?'

'The special thing about it was that one copy at least ended up in the KGB files in Moscow.'

'Is that where this photocopy came from?'

'KGB; Moscow. That is exactly right,' he smiled. It was the salesman's smile, broad but bleak.

'What has this got to do with me, Harry?'

This could be the break you need, Bernard.'

'Do I need a break?'

'Come on, Bernard. Come on! Do you think it's a secret that your people are nervous about employing you?'

'I don't know what you're talking about, Harry,' I said.

'Okay. When your wife defected it was swept under the carpet. But don't imagine there were no off-the-record chats to the boys in Washington and Brussels. So what do you think those people were likely to say? What about the husband, they asked. I'm not going to baby you along, Bernie. Quite a few people — people in the business, I mean — know what happened to your wife. And they know that you are under the microscope right now. Are you going to deny it?'

'What's your proposition, Harry?' I said.

'This memo is a hot potato, Bernie. What son of a bitch leaked that one? Leaked it so that it didn't stop moving until it got to Moscow?'

'An agent inside Ten Downing Street? Is that what you're selling me?'

'Number Ten is your neck of the woods, old buddy. I'm suggesting you take this photocopy and start asking questions. I'm saying that a big one like this could do you a power of good right now.'

'And what do you want out of it?'

'Now come on, Bernie. Is that what you think of me? It's a present. I owe you a couple of favours. We both know that.'

I folded the sheets as best I could and put it all into my pocket. 'I'll report it, of course.'

'You do whatever you choose. But if you report it, that paper will go into the box and you'll never hear another thing about it. The investigation will be directly handed over to the security service. You know that as well as I do.'

'I'll think about it, Harry. Thanks anyway.'

'A lot of folks are rooting for you, Bernard.'

'Where did you get it, Harry?'

Posh Harry had a foot on the chair and was gently scraping a mud spot from his-shoe with his fingernail. 'Bernard!' he said reproachfully. 'You know I can't tell you that.' He wet his fingertips with spittle and tried a second time,

'Well, let's eliminate a few nasties,' I said. 'This wasn't taken from any CIA office, was it?'

'Bernard, Bernard.' He was still looking at his shoe. 'What a mind you've got!'

'Because I don't want to carry a parcel that's ticking.'

He finished the work on his shoe and put his feet on the floor and looked at me. 'Of course not. It's raw, it's hot. It hasn't been on any desks.'

'Some kind of floater then?'

'What do you think I am, Bernard? A part-time pimp for the KGB? Do you think I've lasted this long without being able to smell a KGB float?'

'There's always a first time, Harry. And any one of us can make a mistake.'

'Well, okay, Bernard. I've got no real provenance on this one, I'll admit that. It's a German contact who's given me nothing but gold so far.'

'And who pays him?'

'He's not for sale, Bernard.'

'Then it's no one I know,' I said.

He gave a little mirthless chuckle as a man might acknowledge the feeble joke of a valuable client. 'You're getting old and embittered, Bernard. Do you know there was a time when you'd get angry at hearing a crack like that? You'd have given your lecture about idealism, and politics, and freedom, and people who have died for what they believe in. Now you say it's no one you know.' He shook his head. It was mockery, but we both knew he was right. We both knew plenty of people who had never been for sale, and some of them had died proving it.

'Is George selling you a car?' I said to change the subject.