Spy Line (13 page)

‘They’re fine. They miss you.’ I amended it: ‘We all miss you.’ Her eyes mocked me. ‘Billy is so big. As tall as you perhaps. He has a craze for motorcars; posters, models and even a big plastic engine that he keeps taking to pieces and reassembling.’

‘Was that your Christmas present?’ she asked, demonstrating
her remarkable intuition. It was madness to try to keep any secret from her, and yet I still tried.

‘Yes. It was labelled “educational toy”,’ I said. She gave a little laugh recognizing our long-standing joke that I fell prey to anything so labelled. ‘Sally has been chosen to play Portia at school. I believe Billy is a bit jealous.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, he would be. Billy is the actor. Portia:
The Merchant of Venice?’

‘Julius Caesar.’

‘Of course.

‘Am I yourself,

But, as it were, in sort, or limitation,

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,

And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,

Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.’

‘What a memory you have.’

Fiona said, ‘You’re supposed to reply,

‘You are my true and honourable wife,

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops

That visit my sad heart.

‘Didn’t you learn any Shakespeare at school?’

‘I learned it in German,’ I said.

That amused her. ‘I read a lot nowadays: Dickens, Jane Austen, Trollope, Thackeray, Shakespeare.’

A note of alarm sounded somewhere deep in my mind. The books were all English ones. Most security people would be alarmed at what smelled awfully like home-sickness. But I didn’t say that. I said, ‘Portia will have a lovely costume; blue with gold edging.’

She held out her hand to me. I took it. I found an amazing
intimacy in this formal gesture. Her hand was small and warm, she’d always had warm hands. She said, ‘How absurd that it should be like this,’ and then hurriedly, as though to preclude other discussions that she wanted to avoid, she added, ‘There were so many difficulties about my leaving Berlin, and then suddenly I had to go to a conference in Prague and it was easy.’ There was an unconvincing gaiety in her voice as she said it, the tone I remembered from times when she tried to make a joke about Billy getting the ’flu and spoiling his birthday, or her opening the car door angrily and scratching the paintwork. ‘How much have they told you?’

I stood back to look at her. She was as lovely as ever. Her hair was drawn back tight in the severe style she’d adopted since going to the East. She wore a simple dark green suit that was almost Chanel, but I guessed it had been made by some wonderful little woman she’d found round the corner. Fiona could always find some ‘treasure’ to do things she wanted done. On her finger she had our wedding band. She looked down at our clasped hands as if in some renewed pledge of her vows. This was the ravishing girl I’d married so proudly. But that was a hundred years ago and the changes that the recent stressful years had brought were evident too. I could see within her something I’d never seen before: some weariness, or was it apprehension? Perhaps that’s what at first I’d mistaken for smallness of stature.

She turned her hand in mine. I said, ‘You’ve lost our engagement ring.’

‘We’ll get another.’

I said nothing.

‘I was working in Dresden. A man was killed. It was a terrible night. I washed my hands at the infirmary. It was careless of me. I turned the car round and went back but it wasn’t there and no one had seen it.’

She was clenching her hands as if telling me about the lost ring had been a fearsome ordeal. But I could also see that Fiona was as undaunted as she’d ever been. I knew the way
she contained her fear by means of willpower, as some brilliant actress might play a role and bring an unconvincing character to life. Giving me no time to reply she added, ‘They are not the trousers for that suit. The new lady in your life is not looking after you, dearest.’ She was cool and relaxed now; the gruesome memories locked away again.

‘I’m all right.’

‘Does she iron your shirts? You were always so fastidi ous about your shirts. Sometimes, away from you, I have found myself worrying about the laundry. It’s silly isn’t it?’ There was bitterness there. A trace of the real Fiona showing through. It was all jokes of course: the laundry and these exploratory probes about other women. Everything was a joke until Fiona blew the whistle and joking ended.

‘She’s decent: she’s loyal and she loves me,’ I blurted out in the face of Fiona’s sarcasm. No sooner was it said than I regretted it, but it was what she wanted. Once I’d revealed my feelings, Fiona was ready to proceed. ‘How much have they told you?’ she asked again.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘They told me nothing.’ I thought back to Stowe’s furrowed brow and guarded answers. Obviously Stowe had been told nothing either. I wondered who the hell did know exactly what was going on.

‘Poor darling, but perhaps it was the best way.’

‘You’re coming out now,’ I said, confirming by my words what my eyes found it hard to believe. ‘I was right wasn’t I?’ Even now I was not unquestionably sure that she’d been working for London all the time.

‘Not long now,’ she said.

‘You’re not going back to Berlin?’

‘Just for a little while.’

‘Why?’

‘You know how it is…there are other people who would be in danger. I’ll have to tidy things up. A few weeks, that’s all. Perhaps only days.’

I didn’t reply. The dog in the yard barked as if at an
approaching stranger. Fiona looked at her watch. I suddenly remembered how much I’d hated the way that Fiona’s dedic ation to the Department came before everything. Competing with her career was worse than having to compete with an irresistible lover. She must have seen those feelings in my face for she said, ‘No recriminations, Bernard. Not now anyway.’

I knew then that I had handled the whole thing wrongly. With grotesque misjudgement I had taken her at face value, and all women hate that. Some other kind of man would have swept her off her feet, made love to her here and now, and damn the consequences. Some other kind of woman might have provided the opportunity for me to do so. But we were us: two professionals discussing technique man to man.

She stepped away from me and, while studying her wedding ring, said, ‘I’m the only one who can make that sort of decision and I say I must go back.’

‘Why come here? Why take the chance?’ I said. I’m sure she’d found a convincing excuse for this meeting with the enemy but it was madness for her to risk her life meeting me. I could remember so many good men who had been lost because of such foolishness. Men who had to see a girlfriend for the last time. Men who couldn’t resist a meal in a favourite café, or men like old Karl Busch who hid me for three agonizing days in Weimar, then, after we’d got away, went back home to get his stamp collection. They were waiting for him. Karl Busch was taken down to the security barracks in Leipzig and was never heard of again.

‘Oh Bernard.’ There was a sigh.

‘Why?’

‘Because of you. Don’t be so dense.’

‘Me?’

‘You were raking through everything…About me…’ She made a gesture of despair with her open hand.

‘Are you telling me that you’ve made this reckless sidetrip just to tell me to stop digging out the facts?’

‘London Central tried everything to reassure you but you carried on.’

‘They tried everything, except simply telling me the truth,’ I said emphatically.

‘They hinted and advised. Finally they couldn’t think of any way to persuade you. I didn’t know how far they would go…I said you must hear it from me. We put together this official – but off-the-record – meeting. London has already made concessions: I go back looking like a skilful negotiator. It will be all right.’

‘The bloody fools! Didn’t you tell them how dangerous it is for you sitting out here talking with me?’

‘They know it’s dangerous but you kept snooping into everything. You were putting together a picture of the whole operation. Leaving a trail too. That was even more dangerous.’

‘Of course I was snooping. What did you expect me to do? You are my wife.’ I stopped. I was exasperated. Although my theory had been proved correct I couldn’t accept the enormity of it: London Central had sent Fiona to be a field agent in the East and decided not to confide in me. ‘For God’s sake…’

‘It seemed a clever idea at the time,’ said Fiona calmly. Despite the phrase there was nothing in her voice to suggest it wasn’t a clever idea now.

‘Who thought it was a clever idea?’

‘Your surprise, or let’s rather say astonishment…Your anger, indignation and obvious bewilderment protected me, Bernard.’

‘I asked you, “Who thought it was a clever idea?”’

‘I wanted to tell you everything, darling. I insisted upon it at first. I wanted you in at the briefings and the preparation. The original idea was that you would be my case officer, but then it became obvious that there couldn’t be a case officer in the ordinary sense of that term. There was no question of frequent regular contact.’

‘So who decided otherwise?’

‘At the beginning the D-G was against the whole scheme. He gave it no more than a twenty-five per cent chance of coming off.’

‘I would have given it less than that.’

‘The D-G made it a condition that you would not be told.’

‘The D-G…Sir Henry?’

‘He has his good days as well as his bad ones.’

‘So the more fuss I kicked up the better?’

‘At first, yes. And it certainly worked,’ said Fiona. ‘In the first few weeks Moscow put you under their priority surveillance; they watched you with the greatest interest. They even had one of their psychological behaviour experts write a report on you. Erich Stinnes got hold of a copy and I read it. It said that no actor could have put on a performance like yours. And of course they were right. It was your behaviour that finally convinced them that I was really theirs.’

‘Didn’t they guess the truth? That you acted without telling me?’

‘The Soviet Union may have women fighter pilots and crane operators but marriage is a sacred institution here. Thanks to the millions of war casualties, Marx’s views on marriage – like his views on a lot of other things – have been shelved indefinitely. Wives in the USSR do as their husbands say.’

I looked at her without speaking. She smiled. I wondered why I had been surprised by this whole business. Fiona: cultured privileged daughter of philistine nouveau riche father; exceptional Oxford graduate who studied Russian at the Sorbonne. She joins the Department and marries a man who never went to college and whose sole claim to any sort of respect is his reputation as a field agent. Why wouldn’t such a person prove to be the ultimate exponent of women’s emancipation? Why wouldn’t such a woman want to be an even better field agent, at whatever the cost to me and the children and everyone else around her?

‘When did all this start?’ I asked.

‘Long ago,’ she replied airily.

‘September 1978?’ That was the night of one of those ‘Baader-Meinhof’ panics. The content of a Russian army signals intercept got back to Karlshorst so quickly that everyone thought we had a superspy sitting in Operations. She nodded. ‘You leaked that intercepted signal to them? So you were working both sides already.’ I took a moment or two to recollect what had happened. ‘Joe Brody was called in to handle the subsequent investigation, just in order to calm the anxiety in American hearts. In some way or other you slipped past him. But with you in the clear the blame was put upon Werner Volkmann and he wasn’t even given a chance to defend himself. Frank wouldn’t use him any more, and Werner took it badly.’

‘That’s right,’ she said and bit her lip. She’d always disliked Werner, or at least dismissed him as something of a simpleton. Had some feeling of guilt, at the part she’d played in framing him, seeded that dislike? She said, ‘Then when they opened an orange file on Trent the blame was put on him.’

‘Trent was killed,’ I said.

She had her answer ready. Her voice was calm and concili atory. ‘Yes, killed by your friend Rolf Mauser. With a gun he borrowed from you. You can’t implicate the Department in Trent’s death.’

‘But how convenient it was. Trent took his secret to the grave, and the secret was that he
didn’t
give that intercept to the Russians.’

She said nothing.

I said, ‘Were you approached at Oxford? Was it that long ago?’

‘By the Department? Yes.’

So that was it. Those stories of her joining Marxist groups at college were true but it had been done to try her out. Of more personal concern was the way she’d let me recommend her for a job with the Department. That had all been
a ruse: a way of covering her previous service. She must have been in regular contact with the KGB by then. Getting the SIS job would have made her case officer feel ecstatic. I could see the long-term planning that had made her so convincing as a Russian agent. It made me feel a damned fool but I controlled my anger. ‘Who else knew?’ I asked.

‘I can’t tell you that, darling.’

‘Who else?’

‘No one else. Not Coordination, not Central Funding, not Internal Security, not even the Deputy.’

‘The D-G knew,’ I persisted.

‘No one working there now,’ she said pedantically. ‘That was the condition the D-G made. No one!’

‘You made my life hell,’ I told her gently.

‘I thought you’d be proud of me.’

‘I am,’ I said, trying to put some feeling into my words. ‘I really am. But now is the time to pull out. Come back to Vienna with me. Your KGB identification plus my special identity card would get us through the control. We could catch an evening plane to London.’

‘I’m not sure that it would, Bernard. The crossing points are all on the computer nowadays. Believe me, it’s something I know about.’ I knew that tone of voice; there was no arguing with it.

She’d heard me say a million times that field agents have to have the last word in such matters. I’d always used my experience as a field agent to have the final decision. Now my wife had proved to be the most amazing field agent of all. She’d moved into the top echelon of the East’s espionage network and fooled them all. I was in no position to argue with her.