Spy Sinker

'No, Sylvy, I've never heard of him,' said Bret. 'For these Brits, internationally famous means known in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. How many books?'

Bernstein smiled briefly. 'Maybe half a dozen.'

'You'd better get them for me.'

'His father's books? What for? You're not going to read them?'

'Of course I am.' Bret was thorough, and he wanted Bernstein to be reminded of that.

'As long as you don't ask me to read them,' said Bernstein.

'No,' said Bret. 'There is no call for you to read them, Sylvy.'

'You haven't suddenly taken against smoking, have you?' When Bret shook his head Bernstein took out a packet of Lucky Strike and shook one loose.

Bret said, 'Could you initiate a file for me?'

Bernstein flicked open a well-worn Zippo lighter with an inscription that read 'Rung Sat Special Zone', a souvenir of an unhealthy trip into a mangrove swamp southeast of Saigon during the Vietnam war. He kept it to remind himself, and anyone else who had to be reminded, that he'd had another sort of life not so long ago. He took his time lighting a cigarette and then said, 'What's on your mind?'

'A secret file, recording meetings, reports and payments and so on. A file of stuff coming in from one of our own people.'

'We don't work like that. No one works like that. No one keeps all the information from one agent in the same file. The Coordination people take it and distribute it. They make damn sure no name, nor any clue to the source, is on it.'

'I didn't ask you how we work,' said Bret.

Bernstein blew smoke while looking at Bret. Bret stared back. 'Oh, I see what you mean. A bogus file.' Bret nodded. 'A file to prove that someone was one of our people when actually he wasn't one of our people.'

'Don't let's get too deeply into existentialism,' said Bret.

'A file with real names?'

'A few real names.'

'You want to frame Martin Pryce-Hughes? You want to make someone think he's reporting to us?'

'That's what I want.'

Sylvy blew more smoke. 'Sure. It can be done; anything can be done. How far back would you want to go?'

'Ten years?'

'That would take us back to the days of mechanical typewriters.'

'Maybe.'

'You're not thinking of something they could take back to Moscow and put under the microscope?'

'No. Something to show someone briefly.'

' 'Cause real good forgeries cost. We'd need real letterheads and authentic department names.'

'Not that ambitious.'

'And I get it back?'

'What for?'

'To feed it into the shredder.'

'Oh, sure,' said Bret.

'Why don't I throw something together then? I'll sort out some photocopies and provide a sequence of material the way it would be if we filed it that way. It will give us something to look at and talk about. When we get that the way you want it, I'll find someone good to do the forgeries.'

'Great,' said Bret. He wished Bernstein wouldn't use words such as forgeries, it made him feel uneasy. 'Keep it very circumstantial. We're not trying to produce exhibit A for Perry Mason.'

'A subtle, tasteful kind of frame-up. Sure, why not? But I'd need to know more.'

'You take it and show it to this creep and lean on him,'

'How's that?'

'Lean on him. Say you're from a newspaper. Say you're from the CIA, say anything but scare the shit out of him.'

'Why?'

'I want to see which way he jumps.'

'I don't see your purpose. He'll know it's a fake.'

'Do it.'

Bernstein looked at him. He knew Bret because he knew other men like him. Bret didn't have any operational purpose for frightening the old man: he just felt vindictive. 'It would be cheaper just to beat him up,' said Bernstein.

Bret scowled. He knew exactly what Bernstein was thinking. 'Just do it, Sylvy. Don't second-guess me.'

'Whatever you say, doc.'

Bret smiled politely. 'Anything more on the woman?'

'No. She hasn't seen the boyfriend for a week. Maybe they had a fight.'

'Boyfriend? Is that it?' said Bret as casually as he could.

'Oh, sure. She doesn't go along to his fancy apartment in Maida Vale to play chess.'

help them. And look at her husband. I've met him a few times. He's a really rough diamond, isn't he?'

'You said…'

'That I liked him. And I do up to a point. He's dead straight: I wouldn't like to cross him.' It was quite an accolade coming from Bernstein. 'He's a man's man: not the sort you'd expect to find hitched to a twin-set and pearls lady like that.'

Bret bit his lip and was silent for a moment before saying, 'Sometimes things are not…'

'Oh, I know what you're going to say. But I've been doing this kind of work for a long time now. Two people like that… She goes to his apartment: alone, never with her husband… He never goes to her place. And you only have to see them together to know he's crazy about

'He's a psychiatrist,' said Bret.

'I'll bet he is.'

Bret found that offensive. He didn't want that kind of wisecrack; this was strictly business. 'Just four beats to the bar, Sylvy,' he said. It was the nearest he got to a reprimand.

Bernstein smoked and didn't reply. So this wasn't just a job, there was more to it. Was this guy Kennedy a relative of Bret Rensselaer, or what? 'If she wanted to consult him, why wouldn't she go and consult him at the hospital?'

'She would have to report any kind of medical treatment, especially a visit to a psychiatrist,' said Bret. 'Remember the way it goes?'

'So this might be a way of seeing a shrink in secret? Is that what you mean?'

'She's under a lot of strain.'

Bernstein took a quick drag at his cigarette. 'Yeah, well, I'm not asking you too many questions about this one, Bret, because you told me it's touchy, but…'

'But what?'

'Kennedy isn't that kind of shrink. Not any more he's not. At the clinic he's doing work on crowd hysteria and hallucination. He doesn't see patients; he analyses figures, gives lectures and writes dissertations on the herd instinct and that kind of junk. The clinic is paid by some big US foundation and the work they publish is studied by various police departments.'

'So tell me your theory,' said Bret.

'What can I tell you: he's a good-looking guy. An airplane freak. Canadian. Soft-spoken, well-heeled, smartly dressed, very, very bright and muy simpatico. You get the picture? This Samson lady… she's a very attractive woman.' He stopped. A conversation with Bret, when he was in a touchy mood like this, was like a stroll through a minefield. He smoked his cigarette as if trying to decide what to say next. 'Maybe that kind of soft shoulder, and the Canadian charm this guy Kennedy peddles, is just what she's short of.'

'A good-looker, is he?'

'You saw the photos, Bret.'

'Looked like he was assembled from a plastic kit.'

'He's a natty dresser, I said that. But even people who don't like him admit he's brilliant. Good flyer, good doctor and good lover too maybe. He's one of those people who always come out on top in exams: fluent, adaptable and sophisticated.'

'And on the down side?'

'My guess is: neurotic, restless and unhappy. He can't settle down anywhere. But lots of women go for guys like that, they figure they can help them. And look at her husband. I've met him a few times. He's a really rough diamond, isn't he?'

'You said… '

'That I liked him. And I do up to a point. He's dead straight: I wouldn't like to cross him.' It was quite an accolade coming from Bernstein. 'He's a man's man: not the sort you'd expect to find hitched to a twin-set and pearls lady like that.'

Bret bit his lip and was silent for a moment before saying, 'Sometimes things are not…'

'Oh, I know what you're going to say. But I've been doing this kind of work for a long time now. Two people like that… She goes to his apartment: alone, never with her husband… He never goes to her place. And you only have to see them together to know he's crazy about her.' He flicked ash into an ancient ceramic ashtray around the rim of which the words 'Long May They Reign. Coronation 1937' were faintly visible. It was part of his wife's collection of commemorative china-ware. He moved it, so there was no danger of it being knocked and broken, and waited for Rensselaer to react.