London Match (40 page)

'All the more reason why they would keep quiet. Have your analysts reported anything yet?'

'I'll try and find out,' I promised. Erich knew that my reply was an evasion, and yet there was no way I could keep him from guessing the right answer to that question. The analysts had been monitoring the East Bloc radio and TV and watching the press for anything that could relate to Erich Stinnes. And they'd especially scrutinized the restricted publications and given particular attention to the diplomatic KGB radio traffic by means of which Moscow controlled its embassies and agents throughout the world. So far there had been nothing that could be recognized as a reference to Erich Stinnes or his enrolment by our Department. It was as if he'd disappeared into outer space. He smiled. He knew there had been nothing.

'
I
'd need only ten days, two weeks at the most. I know this network, and I'd approach it another way. If you were prepared to pick them up without evidence, I could give them to you in less than a week.'

'No. Here on this side of the world we have this inconvenient necessity to provide the courts with clear evidence. Even then, the juries free half the people sent up for trial.'

'Plant something on them. I'll give evidence.'

'We haven't had a clear decision on whether we can use you in court yet,' I said.

'If I agree . . .'

'It's not that easy. There are legal difficulties. My Department isn't empowered to handle this sort of prosecution. If you were cross-questioned in open court, it might become embarrassing.'

'And your Home Office won't help? Why don't you change this antiquated system? The KGB is centrally controlled to work against the enemies within and the enemies without. Separate agencies — one working to locate foreign agents within Britain and another to penetrate foreign countries — is cumbersome and inefficient.'

'We like it a bit cumbersome and inefficient,' I said. 'An agency like the KGB can take over its government any time it wishes.'

'It hasn't happened yet,' said Stinnes primly. 'And it never will. The Party remains supreme and no one challenges its power.'

'You don't have to proclaim the Party line any more, Erich. We both know the Soviet Union is facing a crisis.'

'A crisis?' he said. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and hands clasped tight together. His pinched face was very pale and his eyes bright.

'There are urgent demands for incentives to be built into the declining economy. I don't have to tell you all that, Erich.' I smiled but he didn't respond to my smile. I seemed to have touched a nerve.

'And who is fighting against such reforms?' He hunched his shoulders more. I wondered exactly where Stinnes had placed himself in this struggle. Or was he still denying that there was one?

Well, if this was the only way to bring him alive, I'd pursue it. 'The moribund Party officials, who meddle with the economy at grassroots level and skim the cream from it. They don't want to be replaced by skilled factory managers, technical experts, and trained administrators, the only ones who might be able to create the kind of system of incentives that eventually produces an expanding economy.'

'The Party . . .'

'. . . remains supreme. Yes, you already said that.'

'Is close to the work force,' said Stinnes. He was clearly agitated by my remarks.

'It's close to the work force because of the way in which the Party's come to a tacit agreement with them. The workers stay out of politics and the Party makes sure that no one has to work very hard. That was all right in Lenin's time but it can't go on much longer. The Russian economy is a disaster.'

Stinnes rubbed his cheek, seemingly alarmed at the idea. 'But if they let the factories get rid of the lazy and hire only the hard workers, then they will be reintroducing into the system all the greed, fears, and strife of competitive capitalism. The Revolution will have been for nothing; they will have revived the class war.'

'That's the problem,' I said.

'The Party will stand firm against that kind of reform,' said Stinnes.

'But the economy will continue to decline. And one day the Soviet generals and admirals will encounter resistance to their profligate spending on guns and tanks and ships. The economy won't be able to afford such luxuries.'

'Then the military will throw in their lot with the reformers?' said Stinnes scornfully. 'Is that your contention?'

'It's possible,' I said.

'Not in your lifetime,' said Stinnes, 'and not in mine.' He'd been leaning forward, eyes bright and active as he pursued the arguments, but now he sighed and slumped back in the sofa. Suddenly, for a brief moment, I glimpsed a different Stinnes. Was it the heaviness that comes with constant pain? Or was Stinnes regretting the way he'd let me see a glimpse of what he really was?

'Why do you care, Erich?' I said. 'You're a capitalist now, aren't you?'

'Of course I am,' he said. He smiled, but the smile was not reassuring.

From Berwick House I drove straight back to London for a conference that was scheduled for half past five that afternoon. It was a high-powered departmental meeting that had already been going for nearly an hour. I waited in the anteroom and was called in just before six.

The Director-General — wearing one of his baggiest suits — was in the chair. At the table there were Morgan, Frank Harrington, Dicky and Bret Rensselaer. It wasn't exactly the full complement. The Deputy was attending to private business in Nassau and the Controller Europe was at a meeting in Madrid. Everyone had a glass and there was a jug of ice on the conference table; also the usual selection of booze was arranged on the side table, but everyone seemed to be keeping to Perrier water, except for Frank Harrington who was nursing a large whisky in both hands and looking into it like a gypsy consulting a crystal ball. In deference to the D-G no one was smoking. I could see that this was putting Frank under some strain. He seemed to guess what I was thinking; he smiled and wetted his lips in the way he did when about to light his pipe.

'Ah . . .' said the D-G. Twisting round to see me as Morgan ushered me into the conference room, he knocked his pencil off the table.

'Samson,' supplied Morgan. It was one of his duties to remind the D-G of the names of the staff. So was retrieving things the D-G knocked to the floor without noticing,

'Ah, Samson,' said the D-G. 'You've just been to talk with our Russian friend. Why don't you pour yourself a drink.'

'Yes, sir.' The fluorescent lights were reflected in the polished table top. I remembered Fiona saying that fluorescent lighting made gin taste 'funny'. It was of course an insight into her pampered upbringing, a rationalization of why she didn't want to drink in cheap restaurants, corner bars or offices. And yet I was never able to completely shed the suspicion that her theory might be true. I didn't let it interfere with my drinking, though.

While I poured myself a stiff gin and tonic I looked round the room. Sir Henry Clevemore seemed to be in good form today. Despite his wrinkled face and heavy jowls, his eyes were clear under those heavy lids, and his voice was firm. His sparse hair had been carefully arranged to make the most of it, and today there was no sign of the trembling that sometimes made him stutter.

I wondered exactly what they'd been talking about. It was unlikely that Bret had been asked any pointed questions at such a gathering; the D-G wouldn't have Dicky and Morgan along to witness Bret being put through the wringer. If I knew anything about the old man, if things came to the crunch he would stand aside as he had done before. He'd hand the whole business over to Internal Security and let them get their hands dirty. For the old man had a horror of disloyalty and he'd run a mile to get away from any sniff of it.

And certainly Bret showed no sign of strain. He was sitting next to the D-G and being his usual urbane shop-window-dummy self. Dicky was wearing a suede jacket as a sartorial concession to the D-G, Morgan was twitchy, and Frank looked bored. Frank could afford to look bored — he was the only one in the room who would probably remain unaffected if they opened an orange file on Bret. In fact, with Bret put on the back burner, Frank would probably be asked to stay on in Berlin. Knowing Frank and his vociferous requests for retirement, that would mean the offer of a bigger pension and a lot of fringe benefits to keep him happy.

'Did you record your interrogation?' Morgan asked me.

'Yes. But it wasn't exactly an interrogation,' I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the other end of the table to face the D-G. 'The recording is being transcribed now.'

'Why wasn't it an interrogation?' said Morgan. 'That was your instruction.' Morgan brandished the notepad and pencil. He had a new suit — dark grey, almost black, and tight fitting, with white shirt and stiff collar — so that he looked like the ambitious junior newspaper reporter that he'd been not so long before.

I didn't reply to Morgan. I stared into the D-G's red-rimmed eyes. 'I went to Berwick House because the senior interrogator was getting nowhere. My task was to find out what the trouble was. I'm not a trained interrogator and I've very little experience.' I spoke loudly, but even so, the D-G cupped his ear.

'What do you make of him?' said the D-G. The others were politely holding back, giving the D-G first go at me.

'He's sick,' I said. 'He seems to be in pain.'

'Is that the most important thing you discovered?' asked Morgan, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

'It's something you aren't likely to get from the tape recording,' I said.

'But is it of any importance?' said Morgan.

'It might be very important,' I said.

'Do we have his medical sheet to hand?' the D-G asked Morgan.

Waiting until after Morgan had registered confusion, Bret answered. 'He has consistently refused a physical. It didn't seem worth getting tough with him about it. But we've been taking it easy with him just in case.'

The D-G nodded. The D-G, like many of the senior staff, was able to nod without making it a gesture of agreement. It was just a sign that he'd heard.

Encouraged by the D-G, I went quickly through my conversation with Stinnes, giving particular attention to his suggestion that he be allowed to break the Cambridge net.

Bret said, '
I
'd feel uneasy about releasing him in the new hope that he would pull it off on his own.'

'We're not achieving much by keeping him where he is,' said Morgan. He tapped his pencil on the notepad. The way in which Morgan came to such meetings in the role of note taker for the D-G and then spoke to senior staff as an equal annoyed Bret. It annoyed other people too. I wondered if the D-G failed to understand that or simply failed to care. His ability to play one person off against another was legendary. That was the way the Department had always been run.

'I'm coming under a lot of pressure to transfer him to the Home Office people,' said the D-G, pronouncing the final words with what was almost a shudder of distaste.

'I hope you won't give way to them,' said Bret. He was very polite, but there was an edge in his voice that implied that the D-G would fall from grace if he succumbed to such pressure.

Dicky had consistently resisted any temptation to become involved with the Stinnes debriefing, but now he said what was in everyone's mind. 'I understood that we would hold him for the best part of a year. I understood that the whole idea was to use Stinnes as a way to measure our successes or failures over the past decade. I thought we were going to go through the archives with him.'

Dicky looked at the D-G and Frank Harrington looked at Dicky. Frank Harrington would not emerge shiny bright from any close inspection of the Department's successes and failures. It was a maxim of the German desk that successes were celebrated in Bonn and rewarded in London, but failures were always buried in Berlin. Berlin was the one job you had to do sometimes, but no one had ever built a career upon Berlin.

'That was the original plan,' said Morgan. He looked at the D-G to see if he required more prompting.

The D-G said, 'Yes, that was the original plan but we have had setbacks. More setbacks than you have yet heard about.' Was that, I wondered, a reference to a pending enquiry for Bret? The D-G spoke very slowly and anyone replying immediately was likely to find himself speaking over him. So we all waited, and sure enough he spoke again. 'It's something of a poker game. We have to decide whether to go on with our bluff, trust this Russian, and hope he can deliver the goods that will provide us with a strong bargaining position.' Another long pause. 'Or should we cut our losses and turn him over to MI5?'