A Perfect Spy (37 page)

“No, no, old boy, it's real,” you insisted with a laugh. “Why should a nice chap like me use a false name?”

Why indeed, when you had diplomatic cover? You invited him for a glass of sherry before lunch tomorrow, Boxing Day, and you said you would have sent him an invitation if you'd known his address, which was clever of you, because of course you knew it perfectly well: address, date of birth, education and all the other nonsense we imagine gives us ascendancy over those we seek to obtain. Then you did an amusing thing. You took an invitation card from your pocket and in the crammed porch while everyone went on woof-woofing you spun Pym round and, using his back to press on, wrote his name along the middle line and handed it to him: “Captain and Mrs. Jack Brotherhood request the pleasure.” You scratched out the “RSVP” to emphasise that the deal was done, and you scratched out the “Captain” to show what pals we were. “If you want to stay on afterwards you can help us eat up the cold turkey. Rough clothes,” you added. Pym watched you stride off through the rain exactly as he knew you had carried yourself through the gunfire of all the battlefields where you had triumphed single-handed over Jerry, while Pym was doing nothing braver than carve Sefton Boyd's initials on the wall of the staff lavatory.

Next day he presented himself punctually at your little diplomatic house, and as he pressed the bell he read your visiting card framed in the panel above it. “Captain J. Brotherhood, Assistant Passport Officer, British Embassy, Bern.” You were married to Felicity in those days, you may remember. Adrian was six months old. Pym played with him for hours in order to impress you, a habit that soon became a feature of his dealings with the younger members of your trade. You questioned him in a perfectly agreeable way and, where you left off, Felicity as the good Secret Service squaw took over, God forgive her: “But what
friends
have you got, Magnus, you must be so
lonely
here?” she cried. “What do you do for
fun,
Magnus?” And was there much in the way of an extracurricular life at the university, for instance—she asked—political groups and so forth? Or was it all a bit flat and dreary like the rest of Bern? Pym didn't find Bern flat or dreary at all, but for Felicity he pretended he did. In the chronology, Pym's friendship with Axel was by now twelve hours old, but he didn't give him a thought—why should he when he was so taken up with impressing you both with himself?

I remember asking what crowd you fought with, sir, expecting you to say “Fifth Airborne,” or “Artists' Rifles” so that I could look suitably awed. Instead you went a bit gruff and said, “General List.” I know now that you were exercising the double standard of diplomatic cover: you wanted it to cover you, but you also wanted Pym to see through it. You wanted him to know you were an irregular, and not one of those intellectual little ponces from the Foreign Office, as you call them. You asked him whether he got around the country and suggested that, on occasions when you were making an official car journey somewhere, he might like to come aboard and amuse himself the other end. The two of us put on boots and went for what you called a bash: meaning a forced march through the Elfenau woods. In the course of it you told Pym he needn't call you “sir,” and when we came back, Felicity had fed Adrian, and there was an older, smirking man sitting talking to her. You introduced him as Sandy from the Embassy and Pym sensed you were colleagues and vaguely that Sandy was your boss. I know now that he was your Station Head and you were his number two, and that he was performing his standard task of looking over the property before allowing you to buy your way any further in. But at the time Pym just thought of Sandy as headmaster and you as housemaster, a construction you would not have disapproved of.

“How good's your German, by the by?” Sandy asked Pym through his smirk while the three of us munched Felicity's mince pies. “Bit hard to learn here, isn't it, with all this Swissie dialect about?”

“Magnus knows rather a lot of university émigrés,” you explained for me, underlining a selling point. Sandy let out a silly laugh and slapped his knee.

“Does he, does he though? I'll bet there's some rum characters among
that
crowd!”

“He could probably tell us a good deal about them too, couldn't you, Magnus?” you said.

“You wouldn't mind?” said Sandy quizzically, still smirking.

“Why should I?” said Pym.

Sandy forced the card cleverly. He sensed that Pym liked taking rash decisions in front of people, and he used this knowledge to press a commitment out of him before he knew what he was committing to.

“No high-minded scruples about the sanctity of academic study or anything like that?” Sandy insisted.

“None at all,” said Pym boldly. “Not if it's for my country,” and was rewarded by Felicity's smile.

What version of himself Pym supplied that day, and had to live with for the coming months, I do not remember, which means it must have been a fairly restrained one, short on those awkward story-points that too often had to be paid for later. As best he could, he gave you what he thought you were looking for. He was prudent enough not to admit he was earning money, which went down well with you, for you knew already he was working “black,” as the Germans call it—meaning illegally, and at night. Shrewd chap, you thought; resourceful; not above a bit of larceny. He played down family life with the Ollingers since proxy parents undermined his self-image as a mature exile. When you asked him whether he knew any girls—the shadow of homosexuality, is he one of those?—Pym got the message at once, and wove a harmless fantasy around an Italian beauty called Maria whom he had met at the Cosmo Club and was keen on, but only as a stopgap for his regular girlfriend Jemima, back in England.

“Jemima who?” you asked, and Pym said Sefton Boyd, which produced an audible sigh of social satisfaction. A real Maria did indeed exist and was indeed beautiful but Pym's adoration of her was private to himself, for he had never spoken to her.

“Cosmo?” said you. “Don't think I've heard of that one. Have you, Sandy?”

“Can't say I have, old boy. Sounds fishy to me.”

Pym explained that the Cosmo was a sort of foreigners' political forum, and Maria was some sort of officer of it, like treasurer.

“Any particular complexion?” Sandy asked.

“Well she's dark,” said Pym ingenuously and you and Felicity and Sandy laughed and laughed, like Little Audrey, and Felicity remarked that it was
quite
clear what Magnus's politics were. After that no meeting was complete without somebody asking after Maria's complexion, and everyone cracking up over such a marvellously healthy misunderstanding. It was evening by the time Pym left your house and you had given him a present of a duty-free bottle of scotch to keep out the cold. Cost to the Firm in those days: I guess around five shillings. You offered to run him home but he said he loved to walk, thus earning further Brownie points. And walk he did, on air. He skipped and laughed and hugged his bottle and himself; he hadn't felt so blessed in all his seventeen years. In a single Christmas, God had dished him up two saints. The one was on the run and couldn't walk, the other was a handsome English warlord who served sherry on Boxing Day and had never had a doubt in his life. Both admired him, both loved his jokes and his voices, both were clamouring to occupy the empty spaces of his heart. In return he was giving to each man the character he seemed to be in search of. His decision to keep them secret from each other was never taken. Let each be the mistress that keeps the other home intact, Pym thought. If he thought at all.

“From whom did you steal it, Sir Magnus?” Axel asked in his formal English, looking curiously at the label.

“The chaplain,” said Pym without a second's hesitation. “He's a terrific bloke. Ex-army. I didn't steal it. He gave it me, actually. A free bottle for regular attenders. They get it at diplomatic rates, of course. They don't have to pay like in the shops.”

“He didn't offer you cigarettes as well, did he?” said Axel.

“Why should he?”

“A bar of chocolate for a night with your sister?”

“I haven't got a sister.”

“Good. Then let's drink it.”

Do you remember our car journeys, Jack? I begin to think you do. Have you ever wondered how our forebears managed to run their agents in the days before the motorcar? Our first trip could not have come more handy. You had a date in Lausanne. You would need three hours. You gave no reason why you needed three hours in Lausanne, though you could have given me any cover story under the sun. Once again with the advantage of hindsight I know that you were deliberately admitting me to the secrecy of your work without letting on what the work was. You asked nothing of Pym on that occasion. You were building intimacy. The most you did was give him a rendezvous and a fallback and see whether he managed them. “Look here, it's just possible I'll have to make another call. If I'm not outside the Hotel Dora at three, be at the west side of the main post office at three-twenty.” Pym wasn't good at east and west but he asked about six people till one of them got it right for him, and he made the fallback at three-twenty exactly, even if he was panting his heart out. You circled the square and the second time round you kept the car rolling and pushed open the door, and Pym hopped in like an airborne soldier to show you how able he was.

“I've been talking to Sandy,” you said as we drove to Geneva a week later. “He wants you to do a job for him. Mind?”

“Of course not.”

“You any good at translation?”

“What sort?”

“Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“I think so.”

You gave him his first Target for Tonight: “We get technical stuff in from time to time. Mainly about funny little Swissie firms that are manufacturing things we don't much like. Nasty things that blow up,” you added with a smile. “It's not exactly secret, but we hire a lot of local labour in the Embassy so we'd rather have it done by someone outside. Preferably a Brit. Someone we trust. You game?”

“Of course.”

“We pay. Not much, but it'll buy you a dinner with Maria now and then. Heard from Jemima recently?”

“Jem's fine, thanks.”

Pym had never been so scared in his life. You handed him the envelope, he put it in his pocket, you gave him your Master of Intrigue look and said “Good luck, old chap”—Yes, Jack, you did! We talked to each other like that—and Pym walked home changing that damned envelope from one pocket to another so many times he must have looked like a bookie on the run. And what was in it? Don't tell me, I'll tell you: junk. Photocopied junk from out-of-date armaments catalogues. It was Pym's soul you were after, not the piffling translation. He lost the envelope about six times in his attic too. Under the bed, under the mattress, behind the mirror, up the chimney. He translated its contents in hours even Axel didn't know he had. You paid Pym twenty francs. The technical dictionary had cost twenty-five but he knew that gentlemen didn't mention things like that, even if Rick's cheques, if they came at all, tended to meet with failure.

“Been to the Cosmo Club recently?” you enquired lightly as we headed towards Zurich, where you said you had a man to see about a dog. Pym confessed he had not. With Axel and Jack Brotherhood as his cosmos, who needed another?

“I'm told some of the people who go along there are a bit outspoken. Nothing against Maria, mind. Those outfits always have a broad spectrum. Part of democracy. Might be a good idea all the same if you took a closer look,” you said. “Don't stick out. If they expect you to be a Leftie, let them think you are one. If they're looking for a Right-of-centre Brit, give 'em one. If necessary give 'em both. But don't go overboard. We don't want you getting into trouble with the Swissies. Any other Brits there, apart from you?”

“There are a couple of Scottish medical students but they told me they come for the girls.”

“A few names would help,” you said.

With that one conversation, looking back, Pym was Pym no longer. He was our man in the Cosmo, don't use the telephones for anything delicate. He was a symbolised agent, graded semiconscious, which is our sweet way of saying he sort of half knows what he is sort of doing and sort of why. He was seventeen years old, and if he needed you urgently he was to ring Felicity and say his uncle was in town. If you needed him you'd phone the Ollingers from a callbox and say you were Mac from Birmingham passing through. Otherwise it was meeting-to-meeting, which means we always fix the next one at this one. Float, Magnus, you said. Get in there and be your own charming self, Magnus. Keep your ears and eyes open, see what sticks, but for God's sake don't get us into trouble with the Swissies. And here's your next month's alimony, Magnus. And Sandy sends his love. I tell you, Jack: we reap as we sow, even if the harvest is thirty-five summers in the growing.

 

The secretary of the Cosmo was a vapid Rumanian royalist called Anka who wept unaccountably in lectures. She was gangly and wild and walked with her wrists turned inside out, and when Pym stopped her in the corridor she scowled at him with red eyes and told him to go away because she had a headache. But Pym was on spy's business and brooked no rejection.

“I'm thinking of starting a Cosmo newsletter,” he announced. “I thought we might include a contribution from each group.”

“The Cosmo don't got no groups. The Cosmo don't want no newsletter. You are stupid. Go away.”

Pym pursued Anka to the tiny office that was her lair.

“All I need is a list of members,” he said. “If I have a list of members I can send out a circular and find out who is interested.”