'It's improbable,' pronounced Bret.
'You say it's improbable. Okay, you're the boss. But do my job for a little while, and maybe you'd start thinking you can't use that word improbable, because when boys and girls get together, nothing is improbable.'
Bret smiled but he felt sick at heart. In his own futile way he loved and cherished Fiona Samson, and didn't want to believe she was having a casual affair. 'Okay, Sylvy. You usually get it right.'
'There's always a first time. Maybe they just drink tea, look at pictures of his airplanes and talk about the meaning of life. But really I don't think so, Bret.'
Bret Rensselaer got up, overcome with anger. He looked around angrily, as if an escape from the room would bring with it escape from the facts he didn't want to face. He couldn't get out of his mind the wonderful relationship that he believed had developed between him and Fiona Samson over the weeks and months since he'd started preparing her for what would undoubtedly be the intelligence coup of the century. Fiona was the perfect pupil. 'Pupil' perhaps wasn't the right word and it certainly wasn't a word he would use to her about their relationship. Protégée, perhaps; although that wasn't the right word either. In a grimmer truth the relationship was more like the one a prizefighter has with a trainer, a manager, or a promoter.
She needed his support nowadays. The strain was beginning to tell on her, but that was only to be expected. He liked to help her, and of course Bret would not have denied that there was a certain frisson to the way that they had to meet covertly, in such a way that her husband wouldn't start suspecting. For by now Bret had reluctantly come round to the D-G's idea that advantages could be obtained from Bernard Samson's dismay at his wife's defection.
'How could she?' It was only when he stole a glance at Bernstein that Bret realized that he'd asked the question aloud. He turned away and went across to the dining table to lean upon it with both arms outstretched; he had to think.
Bret and Fiona, they had become so close that lately he'd dared to start believing that she was becoming fond of him. He'd arranged fresh flowers whenever she came, and she'd remarked on it. Her rare but wonderful smiles, the curiously fastidious way she poured drinks for both of them, and sometimes she brought silly little presents for him, like the automatic corkscrew which replaced the one he'd broken. There was the birthday card too: it came in a bright green envelope and said 'With all my love, Fiona'. Bad security, as he told her at their next meeting, but he'd placed it by his bedside clock; it was the first thing he saw when he woke up each morning. Bret closed his eyes.
Bernstein watched him twisting and turning but said nothing. Bernstein waited. He wasn't puzzled; he didn't puzzle about things he wasn't paid to puzzle about. He'd discovered over the years how mysterious could be the ways of men and women, and Bret Rensselaer's wild pacing and unrestrained mutterings didn't alarm him or even surprise him.
Bret hammered a fist into his palm. It was inconceivable that Fiona was having an affair with this man Kennedy. There must be some other explanation. Bret had come to terms with the fact that, when she said goodbye to him, Fiona Samson went home to her husband and children. That was right and proper. Bret liked Bernard. But who the hell was Kennedy? Did Fiona smile and make jokes with Kennedy? Even more awful to think about, did she go to bed with this man?
It was at that point that Bret Rensselaer steadied himself on the mantelpiece, drew back his foot and kicked the brass fender as hard as he could. The matching fire-irons crashed against the fireplace with such force that the grate sang like a tuning fork, and one of the tiles of the hearth was hit hard enough to crack.
'Take it easy, Bret!' said Bernstein in a voice that, for the first time, betrayed his alarm. He found himself standing up, holding, for safety, the two Queen Victoria Diamond Jubilee plates that were his wife's most treasured items.
This displacement activity seemed to release some of Bret's anger, for the desperate nature of his movements subsided, and he stepped more carefully about the room and pretended to look at the books and then out of the window to where his car was parked. It was not often that Bret was lost for words but he simply could not get his thoughts in order. 'Jesus Christ!' he said to himself, and resolved to get Fiona Samson assigned to Berlin right away, perhaps by the weekend.
When Bret sat down again both men remained silent for a while and listened to the dustmen collecting the garbage: they banged the bins and yelled to each other and the truck gave a plaintive little hooting noise whenever it backed up.
'Give me a butt, Sylvy.'
Bernstein let him take one and flicked the Zippo open. He noticed that Bret was trembling but the cigarette seemed to calm him down.
Bret said, 'What would you say to a regular job?'
'With your people?'
'I just might be able to fix it.'
'Are you getting tee'd off with paying me out of your own pocket?'
'Is that what I'm doing?' said Bret calmly.
'You never ask for vouchers.'
'Well, what do you say?'
'I wouldn't fit into a British setup.'
'Sure you would.'
'The truth is, Bret, that I wouldn't trust the British to look after me.'
'Look after you how?'
'If I was in trouble. I'm a Yank. If I was in a jam, they'd feed me to the sharks.' He stubbed out his cigarette very hard.
'Why do you say that?' Bret asked.
'I know I'm stepping out of line, Bret, but I think you're crazy to trust them. If they have to choose between you and one of their own, what do you think they are going to do?'
'Well, let me know if you change your mind, Sylvy.'
'I won't change my mind, Bret.'
'I didn't know you disliked the Brits so much, Sylvy. Why do you live here?'
'I don't dislike them; I said I don't trust them. London is a real nice place to live. But I don't like their self-righteous attitude and their total disregard for other people's feelings and for other people's property. Do you know something Bret, there is not an Englishman living who hasn't at some time or other boasted of stealing something: at school or in the army, at their college or on a drunken spree. All of them, at some time or other, steal things and then tell about it, as if it was the biggest joke you ever heard.'
Bret stood up. Bernstein could be sanctimonious at times, he thought. 'I'll leave all this material. I've read it all through. I don't want it in the office.'
'Anything you say, Bret.'
Bret brought out his wallet and counted out twenty fifty-pound notes. Bernstein wrote 'one thousand pounds sterling' on a slip of paper without adding date or signature or even the word 'received'. It was the way they did business.
Bret noticed the freshly cut leather on the toe of his shoe and touched it as if hoping it would heal of its own accord. He sighed, got up and put on his hat and coat and began thinking of Fiona Samson again. He would have to face her with it, there was no alternative. But he wouldn't do that today, or even tomorrow. Much better to get her off to Berlin.
'This guy Pryce-Hughes,' said Bret very casually as he stood near the door. 'What do you make of him, Sylvy?'
Bernstein was not sure what Bret wanted to hear. 'He's very old,' he said finally.
Bret nodded.
8
West Berlin. September 1978.
The afternoon was yellowing like ancient newspaper, and on the heavy air there came the pervasive smell of the lime trees. Berlin's streets were crowded with visitors, column upon column, equipped with maps, cameras and heavy rucksacks, less hurried now as the long day's parading took its toll. The summer was stretching into autumn, and still there were Westies here, some of them fond parents using their vacations to visit draft-dodging sons.