Spy Hook

'Another year like last year and we'll be laying off personnel,' he said awkwardly.

'How long will it take to get a cab?'

'It's not as if my drag-assing over to London would make a difference to you personally…'

'Someone told me that some cabs won't go to the airport in this kind of weather.' I wasn't going to crawl to him, no matter how urgent London was pretending it was.

'If it's for you, say the word. I owe you, Bernie. I owe you.' When I didn't react, he stood up. As if by magic the door opened and he told his secretary to phone the car pool and arrange a car for me. 'Do you have anything to pick up?'

'Straight to the airport,' I said. I had my shirts and underwear and shaving stuff in the leather bag that contained the faxed accounts and memos that the embassy had sent round to me in the middle of the night. I should have been showing them to Jim but showing him papers would make no difference. He was determined to tell London Central that he didn't give a damn about them or their problems. He knew he didn't have to worry. When he'd told them he was going to Washington to work, they'd taken his living accommodation to pieces and given him a vetting of the sort that you never get on joining: only on leaving. Especially if you work in Codes and Ciphers.

So Jim clean-as-a-whistle Prettyman had nothing to worry about. He'd always been a model employee: that was his modus operandi. Not even an office pencil or a packet of paper-clips. Rumours said the investigating team from K-7 were so frustrated that they'd taken away his wife's handwritten recipe book and looked at it under ultraviolet light. But Jim's ex-wife certainly wasn't the sort of woman who writes out recipes in longhand, so that might be a silly story: no one likes the people from K-7. There were lots of silly stories going round at the time; my wife had just defected, and everyone was nervous.

'You work with Bret Rensselaer. Talk to Bret: he knows where the bodies are buried.'

'Bret's not with us any more,' I reminded him. 'He was shot. In Berlin… a-long time back.'

'Yeah; I forgot. Poor Bret, I heard about that. Bret sent me over here the first time I came. I have a lot to thank him for.'

'Why would Bret know?'

'About the slush fund Central Funding set up with the Germans? Are you kidding? Bret master-minded that whole business. He appointed the company directors – all front men of course – and squared it with the people who ran the bank.'

'Bret did?'

'The bank directors were in his pocket. They were all Bret's people and Bret briefed them.'

'It's news to me.'

'Sure. It's too bad. If half a million pounds took a walk, Bret was the man who might have pointed you in the right direction.' Jim Prettyman looked up to where his secretary stood at the door again. She must have nodded or something for Jim said, 'The car's there. No hurry but it's ready when you are.'

'Did you work with Bret?'

'On the German caper? I okayed the cash transfers when there was no one else around who was authorized to sign. But everything I did had already been okayed. I was never at the meetings. That was all kept behind closed doors. Shall I tell you something, I don't think there was ever one meeting held in the building. All I ever saw was cashier's chits with the authorized signatures: none of them I recognized.' He laughed reflectively. 'Any auditor worth a damn would immediately point out that every one of those damned signatures might have been written by Bret Rensselaer, For all the evidence I have, there never was a real committee. The whole thing could have been a complete fabrication dreamed up by Bret.'

I nodded soberly, but I must have looked puzzled as I picked up my bag and took my overcoat from his secretary.

Jim came with me over to the door, and through his secretary's office. With his hand on my shoulder he said, 'Sure, I know. Bret didn't dream it up. I'm just saying that's how secret it was. But when you talk to the others just remember that they were Bret Rensselaer's cronies. If one of them put his hand in the till, Bret will probably have covered it for him. Be your age, Bernie. These things happen: only rarely I know, but they happen. It's the way the world is.'

Jim walked with me to the elevator and pushed the buttons for me the way Americans do when they want to make sure you're leaving the building. He said we must get together again, have a meal and talk about the good times we had together in the old days. I said yes we must, and thanked him and said goodbye, but still the lift didn't come.

Jim pressed the button again and smiled a crooked little smile. He straightened up. 'Bernie,' he said suddenly and glanced around us and along the corridor to see that we were alone.

'Yes, Jim?'

He looked around again. Jim had always been a very careful fellow: it was why he'd got on so well. One of the reasons. 'This business in London…'

Again he paused. I thought for one terrible moment that he was going to admit to pocketing the missing money, and then implore me to help him cover it up, for old times' sake. Or something like that. It would have put me in a damned difficult position and my stomach turned at the thought of it. But I needn't have worried. Jim wasn't the sort who pleaded with anyone about anything.

'I won't come. You tell them that in London. They can try anything they like but I won't come.'

He seemed agitated. 'Okay, Jim,' I said. 'I'll tell them.'

'I'd love to see London again. I really miss the Smoke… We had some good times, didn't we, Bernie?'

'Yes, we did,' I said. Jim had always been a bit of a cold fish: I was surprised by this revelation.

'Remember when Fiona was frying the fish we caught and spilled the oil and set fire to the kitchen? You really flipped your lid.'

'She said you did it.'

He smiled. He seemed genuinely amused. This was the Jim I used to know. 'I never saw anyone move so fast. Fiona could handle just about anything that came along.' He paused. 'Until she met you. Yes, they were good times, Bernie.'

'Yes, they were.'

I thought he was softening and he must have seen that in my face for he said, 'But I'm not getting involved in any bloody inquiry. They are looking for someone to blame. You know that don't you?'

I said nothing. Jim said, 'Why choose you to come and ask me…? Because if I don't go, you'll be the one they finger.'

I ignored that one. 'Wouldn't it be better to go over there and tell them what you know?' I suggested.

My reply did nothing to calm him. 'I don't know anything,' he said, raising his voice. 'Jesus Christ, Bernie, how can you be so blind? The Department is determined to get even with you.'

'Get even? For what?'

'For what your wife did.'

'That's not logical.'

'Revenge never is logical. Wise up. They'll get you; one way or the other. Even resigning from the Department – the way I did – makes them mad. They see it as a betrayal. They expect everyone to stay in harness for ever.'

'Like marriage,' I said.

'Till death do us part,' said Jim. 'Right. And they'll get you. Through your wife. Or maybe through your father. You see.'

The car of the lift arrived and I stepped into it. I thought he was coming with me. Had I known he wasn't I would never have let that reference to my father go unexplained. He put his foot inside and leaned round to press the button for the ground floor. By that time it was too late. 'Don't tip the driver,' said Jim, still smiling as the doors closed on me. 'It's against company policy.' The last I saw of him was that cold Cheshire Cat smile. It hung in my vision for a long time afterwards.

When I got outside in the street the snow was piling higher and higher, and the air was crammed full of huge snowflakes that came spinning down like sycamore seeds with engine failure.

'Where's your baggage?' said the driver. Getting out of the car he tossed the remainder of his coffee into the snow where it left a brown ridged crater that steamed like Vesuvius. He wasn't looking forward to a drive to the airport on a Friday afternoon, and you didn't have to be a psychologist to see that in his face.