London Match (34 page)

'It's a perfect opportunity,' said Bret. 'They've lost their records. It would be natural for Moscow to make contact.' He rearranged the pens, pencils, paper clips, and the big glass paperweight like a miser counting his wealth.

'Is this what Stinnes is saying?' I asked.

Bret looked at me and then at the others. 'I should have told you. . . .' he said. 'Bernard has suddenly decided that Stinnes is here to blow a hole in all of us.' He smiled, but the smile wasn't big enough to completely contradict this contention. He left that to me.

I was forced to modify that wild claim just as Bret knew I would be. 'I didn't exactly say that, Bret,' I said. I was sitting on the hard folding chair. I always seemed to be sitting on hard folding chairs; it was a mark of my low status.

'Then what?' said Frank Harrington. He folded his arms and narrowed his shoulders as if to make himself even smaller.

'I not happy with any of it,' I said. I felt like telling them that I had enough evidence to support the idea that Bret should be put straight into one of the Berwick House hard-rooms pending an interior enquiry. But in the present circumstances any attempt to describe my reasoning, and my evidence, could only result in me being put there instead. 'It's just a feeling,' I said lamely.

'So what's your plan?' said Frank, looking at Bret.

'Stinnes says that a courier takes cash to pay the network. We know the KGB rendezvous procedure. We'll contact the network and I'll take them some money.'

'Money? Who'll sign the chit for it?' said Dicky, suddenly sitting up and taking notice. Dicky could be very protective about German-desk funds being spent by anyone other than himself.

'It will come from Central Funding,' said Bret, who was ready for that one.

'It can't come direct from Central Funding,' said Morgan. 'It must have the appropriate signature.' He meant Dicky, of course, and technically he was right.

Bret wiggled his feet a little — his shoes were visible through the glass-topped desk — and ignored him. To the rest of us he said, 'There's sure to have been cash and valuables lost in the explosion. And even if there wasn't, they'll want dough to cover their extra expenses. It's a perfect chance to crack them wide open.'

'It sounds like bloody madness to me,' said Morgan, angry at getting the cold shoulder.

'Do we know any of them?' said Frank vaguely.

Bret had been saving this one, of course, and Frank had fed him just the right cue. 'Damn right we do! We know three of them in considerable detail; one is on the computer. I had a long session with Stinnes yesterday and I know exactly how it should be done.'

Frank still had his arms folded. I realized that he was fighting the temptation to get out his pipe and tobacco; Frank found thinking difficult without the pipe in his hand, but the last time he'd smoked his pungent Balkan Sobranie here, Bret had asked him to put it out. Frank said, 'You're not thinking of trying this yourself, are you, Bret?' He kept his voice level and friendly, but it was impossible to miss the note of incredulity and Bret didn't like it.

'Yes, I am,' said Bret.

'How can you be sure that Bernard's wrong?' said Frank. 'How can you be sure that Stinnes didn't send your two men into that booby trap? And how can you be sure he hasn't got the same kind of thing planned for you?'

'Because I'm taking Stinnes with me,' said Bret.

There was a silence broken only by the sound of the D-G's black Labrador sniffing and scratching at the door. It wanted to get in to Morgan, who took it for walks.

'Whose idea was that?' said Dicky. There was a faint note of admiration and envy there. Like so many of the armchair agents up here on the top floor, Dicky was always saying how much he'd like to do some sort of operational job, although, like all the rest of them until now, he'd never done anything about it.

'Mine,' said Bret. 'It was my idea. Stinnes was doubtful, but my American accent will give me the cover I need. With Stinnes alongside me to give all the usual guarantees they won't possibly suspect me as an agent working for British security.'

I looked at him. It was a good argument. Whatever Bret Rensselaer looked like, it was not one of the ill-groomed spook hunters from MI5, and certainly not one of the Special Branch heavy-glove mob they took along to make their arrests legal.

'It might work,' said Frank Harrington, without putting his heart and soul into it, 'providing Moscow haven't put out an alert for Stinnes.' He looked at me.

'Nothing so far,' I said.

Dicky shifted his weight and nodded. Then he ran his fingers back through his dry curly hair and smiled nervously. I don't know what Dicky was thinking except that anything that kept Bret busy was also keeping him off Dicky's back.

Only Morgan was upset at the idea. He scowled and said, 'There's no chance of the D-G approving this one. Hell, Bret, the phone is still red hot with Five enquiring about the explosion.' The dog, its scent of Morgan supplemented by the sound of Morgan's voice, renewed its scratching at the door. Morgan ignored it.

'You should never have told them,' said Dicky, who could always be relied upon for excellent advice long after it was any use.

But Bret was desperate. He knew his career was at stake. He needed a scalp, and breaking this network was the only scalp on offer. 'I don't need any special permission. I'm going ahead anyway.'

'I'd not advise that, Bret,' said Morgan. He had both hands in his trouser pockets, and now he slowly walked across the room, staring reflectively at the toes of his shoes.

Bret resented the way in which Morgan used his position as the D-G's hatchet man to address all senior staff by their first name. It wasn't just the use of the first name, but the casual and overfamiliar way in which Morgan spoke that was so annoying. The Welsh accent could be a delight for reciting poetry, but it was an accent that could make even the friendliest greeting sound like a jeer. Bret said, 'I had the backing of the old man for breaking into the law office. This is all part of that same job.'

Morgan swung around and smiled. He had good teeth, and when he smiled he displayed them like someone about to brush them for a dental hygiene demonstration. Or someone about to bite. 'And I say it isn't,' he said.

There was only one way to settle it and Bret knew it. After a little give and take and a phone call, we all trooped down the corridor and into the Director-General's office. He was not very keen to see us, but Bret gently insisted.

The old man's office was in its usual muddle, though some of the clutter had been tidied away. Despite the improvement we all had to stand, for there were books on the chairs and more piled on the floor.

Sir Henry Clevemore, the Director-General, was seated behind a small desk near the window. There wasn't much working space, for its top was occupied by photos of his family, including grown-up children with their offspring, and a vase of cut flowers. The D-G murmured his greetings to all of us in turn and then he listened solemnly to Bret. He didn't invite Morgan to comment although Morgan was bouncing up and down on his toes, as he often did when agitated.

Bret took it very slowly. That was the best way with the D-G, if not to say the only way; he only understood when you explained everything very slowly. And if you could go on long enough you could wear him down until he agreed with whatever the request was, just to get rid of you. In all fairness, the old man needed a guardian like Morgan, but he didn't deserve Morgan. No one did.

It was while Bret was in full flow that a man came in through the door with a bundle of cloth under his arm. The D-G stood up, solemnly removed his jacket, and gave it to the newcomer who hung it on a hanger and put it into the wardrobe that was built into one wall.

Although Bret was disconcerted to the point of drying up, he resumed his pitch rather than let Morgan take over. But he now kept things very vague. 'Don't worry about Bony,' said the D-G, indicating the stranger. 'He was with me in the war. He's vetted.'

'It's rather delicate, sir,' said Bret.

'I'll be gone in three minutes,' said Bony, a short man in a tight-fitting grey worsted three-piece suit. He hung a partly made jacket onto the D-G and, apparently oblivious of us all, stood back to inspect the D-G's appearance. Then he made some chalk marks on the jacket and began to rip pieces off it the way tailors do.

'The lapels were rather wide on the last one,' said the D-G.

'They are wide nowadays,' said Bony. He wrote something into his notebook and, without looking up or interrupting his note taking, he said, 'I've kept yours very narrow compared with what most people are wearing.'

'I like them narrow,' said the D-G, standing upright as if on parade.

'It's just a matter of your okay, Sir Henry,' said Bret, in an effort to squeeze an approval from the old man while he was occupied with the details of his new suit.

'Two pairs of trousers?' said Bony. He put some pins between his lips while he tugged with both hands at the jacket.

'Yes,' said the D-G.

'Isn't that a bit old hat, Sir Henry?' said Frank Harrington, speaking for the first time. Frank was very close to the old man. They'd trained together at some now defunct wartime establishment, and this was a mysterious bond they shared. It gave Frank the right to speak to Sir Henry in a way that no one else in the building dared, not even the Deputy.

'No, always do. Always did, always do,' said the old man, stroking his sleeve.

'Gets damned hot, doesn't it?' said Frank, persisting with his ancient joke. 'Wearing two pairs of trousers.'

The D-G laughed dutifully, a deep resonant sound that might have been a bad cough.

'I feel we must continue,' said Bret, trying now to press the meeting forward without saying anything that Bony might understand. 'We've had a bad start, but we must go on and get something out of it.'

'I'm coming under a great deal of pressure,' said the old man, plucking at his shoulder seam. 'I'll need more room under there, Bony.' He pushed his fist under his arm to show where he wanted it and then stretched an arm high into the air to show that it constricted his movement.

Bony smoothed the material and sniffed. 'You're not supposed to play golf in it, Sir Henry. It's a lounge suit.'

'If we stop now, I fear we'll come out of it badly,' said Bret. 'The trouble we ran into was simply a matter of bad luck. There was no actual operational failure.' The operation was a success but the patient died.

Bony was behind the D-G now, tugging at the remnants of the half-made garment. 'Keep still, sir!' he ordered fiercely, in a voice that shocked us all. Not Bret nor even Frank Harrington would have spoken to the D-G like that.

'I'm sorry, Bony,' said the D-G.

Bony did not graciously accept the apology. 'If we get it wrong, you'll blame me,' he said, with the righteous indignation of the self-employed artisan.

'Have you brought the fabrics?' said the D-G. 'You promised to bring the swatches.' There was a retaliatory petulance in the D-G's voice, as if the swatches were something that Bony had failed to bring more than once in the past.

'I wouldn't advise the synthetics,' said Bony. 'They're shiny. That wouldn't suit a man of your position, Sir Henry. People would think it was a suit bought off the peg.' Bony did all but shudder at the idea of Sir Henry Clevemore wearing a shiny synthetic ready-made suit.

Bret said, 'We have excellent prospects, Sir Henry. It would be criminal to throw away a chance like this.'

'How long do you want?' said the D-G.

Bony looked at him to see if he was asking about the delivery time of the suit, decided it wasn't a question for him, and said, 'I want you to look at the wool, Sir Henry. This is the sort of thing for you.' He waved samples of cloth in the air. They all seemed virtually identical to the material of the suit the D-G was wearing when we came in; virtually identical to the fabrics the D-G always wore.

'Two weeks,' said Bret.

'You like it to go quickly,' said the D-G.

Both Bony and Bret denied this, although it appeared that the D-G was addressing this accusation to Bony, for he added, 'If everyone insisted on hard-wearing cloth, it would put you all out of business.'

Bony must have been more indignant than Bret, for he got his rebuttal in first and loudest. 'Now that's nonsense, Sir Henry, and you know it. You have suits you had from me twenty years ago, and they're still good. My reputation depends upon my customers looking their best. If-I thought a synthetic material would be best for you, I'd happily supply it.'