Mexico set, p.33
Mexico Set, page 33
Bret continued hurriedly, as if to cover up for the way I’d made a fool of myself. ‘We were in a hurry to debrief Stinnes for reasons that must be all too clear to you.’
‘To question him about Fiona’s defection?’ I said. ‘Would you push that ashtray down the table, please?’
‘It wasn’t a defection, buddy. To defect means to leave without permission. Your wife was a KGB agent passing secret information to Moscow.’ He slid the heavy glass ashtray along the polished table with that violent aplomb with which bartenders shove bourbon bottles in cowboy films.
I took the ashtray, tapped ash into it and said, ‘Whatever it was she did, you wanted to question Stinnes about it?’
‘We wanted to question him about your role in that move. There are people downstairs who’ve always thought that you and your wife were working together as a team.’ I saw Frank edge his chair back an inch from the table, his subconscious prompting him to dissociate himself from anyone who thought that.
I said, ‘But when she ran I was already there. I was in East Berlin. Why would I come back here to put my head in a noose?’
Bret held one of his cuff-links and twisted his wrist in the starched white cuff. His eyes were fixed on me. He said, ‘That was the cunning of it. What guilty man would come running back to the department he betrayed? The fact that you came back was the most ingenious defence you could have contrived. What’s more, Bernard, it’s very you.’
‘I say, Bret. Steady on,’ said Frank Harrington. Bret looked at Frank for long enough to remind him who’d given him his present posting and who could no doubt get him a staff job in Iceland if he felt inclined. Frank turned his objection into a cough and Bret looked down the table to me.
‘Very me?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Bret. ‘It’s exactly the kind of double-bluff that you excel at. And you are one of the few people who could swing it. You are cool; very cool.’
I inhaled on my cigarette and tried to be as cool as he said I was. I knew Bret; he worked on observation. It was his standard method to throw his weight around and then see how people reacted to him. He even did it with the office clerks. ‘You can invent some exciting yarns, Bret,’ I said. ‘But this particular parable leaves out one vitally important event. It leaves out the fact that I was the one who flushed Fiona out. It was my phone call to her that made her run.’
‘That’s your version of events,’ said Bret. ‘But it conveniently overlooks the fact that she got away. I’d say that your phone call warned her in time for her to get away safely.’
‘But I told Dicky too.’
‘Only because you wanted him to stop her taking your children.’
‘Leaving my motivation aside,’ I said, ‘the fact is that I stampeded her into immediate flight. Even the report says that she seems to have taken no papers or anything of importance with her.’
‘She took nothing because she was determined to be clean for Customs and immigration. The way the British law stands, there were no legal grounds for preventing her leaving the country with or without a passport. She knew that if she had nothing incriminating with her we would have had to wave goodbye with a smile on our faces when she took off.’
‘I don’t want to be side-tracked into a discussion about the British subject’s rights of exit and re-entry,’ I said primly, as if Bret was trying to evade the subject of discussion. ‘I’m just telling you that she was unprepared. With proper warning she could have dealt us a bad blow.’
Bret was all ready for that one. ‘She was a burned-out case, Bernard, and she’d run her course. The evidence that would incriminate her was there. If you hadn’t stampeded her, the next agent in would have done. But, by having you do it, Moscow were going to make you a golden boy here in London. That’s what chess players call a gambit, isn’t it? A piece is sacrificed to gain a better position from which to attack.’
‘I don’t know much about chess,’ I said.
‘I’m surprised,’ said Bret. ‘I would have thought you’d be good at it. But you’ll remember that next time you’re playing – about losing a piece to get into a better position – won’t you?’
‘Since my duplicity was so bloody obvious, Bret, why didn’t you arrest me then, as soon as I got back here?’
‘We weren’t sure,’ said Bret. He shuffled in his seat. Bret was a shirt-sleeve man. He didn’t look right sitting there with his jacket on like a shop-window dummy.
‘You didn’t ask me to face a board. There wasn’t even an inquiry.’
‘We wanted to see what you would do about enrolling Stinnes.’
‘That’s not very convincing, Bret. The fact that you wanted to enrol Stinnes, and question him, was a measure of your doubt about my guilt.’
‘Not at all. This way, we could confirm or deny your loyalty and have Stinnes as a bonus. Dicky and I talked that one over. Right, Dicky?’ Bret obviously felt that Dicky wasn’t giving him the support he needed.
Dicky said, ‘I’ve always said that there was insufficient evidence to support any action against Bernard. I want to make that clear to everyone round this table.’ Dicky looked round the table making it clear to everyone.
Well, good old Dicky. So he’s not just a pretty face either. He’d realized that this might well turn out to be the opportunity he’d been waiting for; the opportunity to dump a bucket of shit over Bret’s head. Dicky was going to sit on the sidelines, but he’d be cheering for me now that Bret had adopted the role of my prosecutor. And, if I proved to be guilty, Dicky would still be able to wriggle free. The present company were well equipped to understand every nuance of Dicky’s carefully worded communiqué to the future. He’d said there was insufficient evidence to support any action against me. Dicky wasn’t going to stick his neck out and say I wasn’t guilty.
Seeing that Bret was momentarily disconcerted by his remark, Dicky followed with a quick right and left to the body. ‘And if Bernard didn’t manage to persuade Stinnes to defect that would prove his guilt?’ Dicky asked. He used a rather high-pitched voice and a little smile. It was Dicky’s idea of the droll Oxford don that he’d once hoped to be, but it ill fitted a man in trendy faded denim and Gucci shoes. Dicky persisted, ‘Is that it? It sounds like those medieval witch trials. You throw the accused into a lake and if he comes up you know he’s guilty so you execute him.’
‘Okay, Dicky, okay,’ said Bret, holding up a hand and admiring his signet ring, his fraternity ring and his manicure. ‘But there are still a lot more questions unanswered. Why did Bernard make Biedermann sacred?’
It was a good tactic to address the question to Dicky Cruyer, but Dicky leaped aside like a scalded cat. He knew that being cast as my counsel was just one step away from being my accessory. ‘Well, what about that, Bernard?’ said Dicky, turning his head towards me with an expression that said he’d gone as far as any man could go to help me.
I said, ‘I was at school with Biedermann. I knew him all his life. He was never of any importance.’
‘Would you like to see a rough listing of Biedermann’s business holdings?’ said Bret. ‘Not a bad spread for a nothing.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I’m talking about what he did as an agent. He was of no importance.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ said Bret.
‘Biedermann’s death is a red herring. He could never be anything more than a very small piece of the KGB machinery. There is nothing to suggest that Biedermann has ever had access to any worthwhile secrets.’ They all looked at me impassively; they all knew that I’d play down Biedermann whatever he was.
Tiptree spoke for the first time. He used his hand to smooth his well-brushed ginger hair and then fingered his thin moustache as if making sure it was still gummed on. He was like a nervous young actor just about to make his first stage appearance. He said, ‘Carrying secrets this time though, eh?’
‘I’ll wait for the official assessment before saying anything about that,’ I said. ‘And, even if it’s worthwhile material, I’ll bet you that it will reveal nothing about the Russians.’
‘Well, of course it will reveal nothing about the Russians,’ said Tiptree in his measured, resonant voice. ‘This chap was a Soviet agent, what?’ He looked round the table and smiled briefly.
Morgan spoke for the first time. He explained to Tiptree what I was getting at. ‘Samson means that we’ll learn nothing about Soviet aims or intentions from the submarine construction report that was being carried by Biedermann.’
‘The only thing we’ll learn from it’, I added, ‘is that the KGB chose a document that will involve the maximum number of security organizations: France, Denmark, Norway, Britain, several Latin American customers. Mexico where he was resident and the US because of his passport.’
‘But the material was important enough for him to be killed,’ said Tiptree.
‘He was killed to incriminate me,’ I said.
‘Well,’ said Tiptree with studied patience. ‘There’s no avoiding the fact that you gave him the drink that poisoned him.’
‘But I didn’t know what it was. We’ve been through all that. Just before we came in here Bret told me that the Sûreté have even found someone who identified the girl who gave me the poisoned coffee.’
Bret fidgeted in his chair. He liked to swing round in his swivel chair in his office. This wasn’t a swivel chair but Bret kept throwing his weight from one side to the other as if hoping that it might become one. He corrected me. ‘I said, the Sûreté found someone in the building who remembered seeing the girl you described. Hardly the same thing, Bernard. Hardly the same thing.’
‘You say that Biedermann was of no account,’ said Tiptree, still exhibiting that mannered patience with which great minds untangle ignorance. ‘I wish you could give us just one reason for believing that.’
‘Biedermann was so unimportant that the KGB killed him just to implicate me. Doesn’t that prove something?’
Bret said, ‘It proves nothing, as well you know. For all we can figure, Biedermann was in this up to his neck and you were working with him. That sounds a more likely motive for his murder. That explanation shows why you made him sacred without putting his name on our copy of the filing sheets.’
‘I wanted a favour from him. I was preparing the way for it.’
‘What favour?’
‘I wanted him to help me persuade Stinnes.’
Bret said, ‘What help were you going to get from the unimportant little jerk you described?’
‘Stinnes was in contact with Biedermann. I thought Stinnes would choose to work through him instead of Werner Volkmann.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s what I would have done.’
‘So why didn’t Stinnes do it through Biedermann?’
‘I think he planned to do it that way but that the KGB began to get worried about what was happening and stopped him.’
‘Play that back at half-speed,’ said Bret.
‘I think Moscow encouraged Stinnes to tease us a little at first. But then Stinnes realized he had the perfect cover for coming over to us. But Moscow never trusts anyone, so I think they are monitoring Stinnes and his contacts with us. He has an assistant – Pavel Moskvin – who might be someone assigned by Moscow Centre to spy on him. It could well be that they have other people spying on him. We all know that Moscow likes to have spies who spy on spies who spy on spies. I think someone higher up told Stinnes not to use Biedermann as the go-between. They had other plans for Biedermann. He was to be murdered.’
Bret fixed me with his eyes. We both knew that by ‘someone higher up’ I meant Fiona. I half expected him to say so. Once I’d suspected him of being Fiona’s lover. Even now I’d not entirely dismissed the idea. I wonder if he knew that. He said, ‘So you thought Biedermann would be valuable to us. That’s why you made him sacred?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler, and more logical, to think you covered for Biedermann because he was a buddy?’
‘Are we looking for simplicity and logic?’ I said. ‘This is the KGB we’re talking about. Let’s just stick to what is likely.’
‘Then how likely is this?’ said Bret. ‘Biedermann is your KGB contact. You make him sacred to keep everyone else off his back. That way you’ll be the first to hear if he attracts the attention of any NATO intelligence agency. And your excuse for contacting him, any time you want, night or day, is that you are continuing the investigation into his activities.’
‘I didn’t like Biedermann. I’ve never liked him. Anyone will tell you that.’ It was a feeble response to Bret’s convincing pattern and he ignored it.
‘That sort of cover – investigation – has been used before.’
‘Biedermann was killed in order to frame me for his murder, and because while he was alive his evidence would support everything I’ve told you. There’s no other reason for what was otherwise a completely gratuitous killing.’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Bret. ‘All to get you into deep trouble.’
I didn’t answer. The KGB’s operational staff had done their work well. Given all the facts against some other employee of the department, I too would have been as suspicious as Bret was.
Dicky stopped biting his nail. ‘Shall I tell you what I think,’ said Dicky. His voice was high and nervous but it wasn’t a question; Dicky was determined to share his theory. ‘I think Stinnes never gave a damn about Biedermann. That night in Mexico, when he first made contact with the Volkmanns, he apparently went across to the table because he mistook Zena Volkmann for the Biedermann girl. I say Stinnes was after Zena Volkmann. Hell, she’s a stunner, you know, and Stinnes has a reputation as a woman chaser. I think we’re making too much of Biedermann’s role in all this.’
‘Well, think about this one,’ I said. ‘Suppose Stinnes was sent to Mexico City only because Zena and Werner were already there. He told them that he’d been there a few weeks but we have no proof of that. We’ve been congratulating ourselves on the way that we put out an alert and then the Volkmanns spotted him. But suppose it’s the other way round? Suppose Stinnes knew exactly who the Volkmanns were that night when he went over to their table in the Kronprinz Club? Suppose the whole scenario had been planned that way by the KGB operational staff.’
I looked around. ‘Go on,’ said Bret. ‘We’re all listening.’
I said, ‘How could he mistake Zena Volkmann for Poppy Biedermann? No one could mistake one for the other; there’s no resemblance. He pretended to mistake Zena for the Biedermann girl in order to bring Biedermann into the conversation, knowing that we’d find out Paul Biedermann was in Mexico and that we’d make contact with him. Suppose they were thinking of involving Biedermann right back when we started?’
‘With what motive?’ said Dicky and then regretted saying it. Dicky liked to nod things through as if he knew everything. He touched his bloodless lips as if making sure his mouth was shut.
‘Well, he’s not done too badly, has he?’ I said. ‘He’s got everyone here jumping up and down with excitement. You’re accusing me of being a KGB agent and of murdering Biedermann on KGB instructions. Not bad. We’d be very proud to have the KGB floundering about like this, trying to find out who’s on which side.’
Bret frowned; my accusation of floundering found a target. Frank Harrington leaned forward and said, ‘So how far will they go? Send Stinnes here to give us a lot of misinformation?’
‘I doubt if he could sustain a prolonged interrogation.’
‘Then why the hell would they bother?’ said Bret.
‘To get me to run, Bret,’ I said.
‘Run to Moscow?’
‘It fits. They send Stinnes to Mexico so that Volkmann will spot him because they guess that I’ll be the chosen contact. And then they plan Biedermann’s murder so that they can incriminate me. They might even have guessed I’d make Biedermann NATO sacred – it’s been done before: we all know that – and now they want to pin his murder on me.’ There were all sorts of other things – from the black girl’s clumsy approach, to MacKenzie’s murder – that supported my theory but I had no intention of revealing those. ‘The whole thing adds up to a way of making me run.’
‘That’s what physicians call a “waste-paper basket diagnosis”,’ said Bret. ‘You throw all the symptoms into the pot and then invent a disease.’
‘Then tell me what’s wrong with it,’ I said.
‘I’d want to see you completely cleared of suspicion before I started racking my brains about why they might be framing you,’ said Bret. ‘And we’ve still got a long way to go on that one.’
Frank Harrington looked round the table and said, ‘It would be worth a lot to them to have Bernard there asking for political asylum. I think we have to take into account the way that Bernard has stayed here and faced the music.’ Until that moment I’d wondered if Frank’s offer to let me run off to Checkpoint Charlie had been in response to some directive from London. But now I decided that Frank had done it on his own. I was more than ever grateful to him. And if Frank seemed lukewarm in his contribution to this meeting that might be because he could offer more support to me behind the scenes if he showed no partisanship.
To me Bret said, ‘That’s your considered opinion, is it; that all this evidence against you is part of a Moscow plan to have you running over there?’ He paused, but no one said anything. Sarcastically Bret added, ‘Or could it just be your paranoia?’
‘I’m not paranoid, Bret,’ I said. ‘I’m being persecuted.’
Bret exploded with indignation. ‘Persecuted? Let me tell you –’
Frank put a hand on Bret’s arm to calm him. ‘It’s a joke, Bret,’ he said. ‘It’s an old joke.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes,’ said Bret. He was embarrassed at losing self-control if only for a moment. ‘Well, it’s hard to imagine KGB Operations cooking that one up.’
I said, ‘I could tell you some even more stupid ideas that we’ve followed through.’
Bret didn’t invite me to tell him any of the stupid ideas. He said, ‘But what you describe would be a change of style, wouldn’t it? The sort of thing someone new might dream up, to show what a genius they were.’ Everyone round the table knew what he meant but when he remembered there were no notes or recordings he said it anyway. ‘Someone like your wife?’
