Spy Sinker

'They sure are late. What kind of car are they in?' Bernstein asked with the glasses still to his eyes. 'A Lada? One of those two-stroke jobs maybe?'

'Deep water too,' explained Bret. 'And sand and fine gravel; it's got to have a sea bed that won't rip the belly out of you. Yes, they'll come here. It's one of the few landing spots the Soviets would dare risk a sub at night.'

'Take the glasses. I think I saw a movement on the water.' He offered them. 'Beyond the end of the jetty.'

'Forget it! You won't see anything. They won't surface until they get a signal, and they won't get a signal until their passengers are here.'

'Don't the Brits track them on the ASW… the sonar or radar or whatever they got?'

'No way. It can be done but there's the chance that the Russkie counter-measures will reveal they are being tracked. Better they don't know that we are on to them.'

'I suppose.'

'I could have asked the navy to track them with a warship but that might have scared them away. Don't fret, they will come.'

'Why not a plane, Bret? Submarines! Jesus, that's Riddle of the Sands stuff.'

'Planes? This is not Nam. Planes are noisy and conspicuous and too risky for anything this important.'

'And where do they go from here?'

'Somewhere close; East Germany, Sassnitz has submarine facilities. From there the train ferry could take her to Stockholm. Plane to Berlin.'

'A long way round. Why not take a train from Sassnitz to Berlin?'

'They are devious folk. They like to route their people via the West. It looks better that way,' said Bret. 'I'm going back to the car to phone. There was a car following them right from the time they left London.'

Bernstein pulled a face. His confidence in the British security and intelligence organizations, right down to their ability to follow a car, was very limited.

Bret Rensselaer walked back along the road and climbed the broken steps to where they'd left the car. It was out of sight behind the last remaining wall of the Sick Bay where, in 1945, Bret had been ignominiously deposited by his submarine captain after falling down a ladder during an Atlantic patrol.

Before getting into the car he took a look at the bay. The water was like black syrup and the horizon was getting brighter as the storm headed their way. He sighed, shut the door and phoned the other car. 'Johnson?'

It answered immediately. 'Johnson here.'

'Boswell. Where the hell have you got to?'

'A spot of trouble, Boswell. Our friends had a little collision with another car.'

'Anyone hurt?'

'No, but a lot of arguments about who was drunk. They've sent for the police.'

'How far away are you?'

'About an hour's drive.'

'Get them back on the road, Johnson. I don't care how you do it. You've got a police officer with you?'

'Yes, he's here.'

'Get him to sort it out. And do it quick.'

'Will do, Boswell.'

'And phone me when they are on their way. I'll stay in the car.'

'Will do.'

The phone gave the disengaged tone and Bret put it back in its slot. He looked up to find Bernstein standing by the car. 'Get inside and warm up,' said Bret. 'Another hour. At least another hour.'

Bernstein got into the car and settled back. 'Is it all okay? It's beginning to rain.'

Bret said, 'I figured I might sometimes be wiping the backsides of the Brits, but I didn't figure I'd be doing it for the Russkies too.'

'You're really master-minding this one, Bret. I hope you know what you're doing.'

'If I do,' said Bret, 'I'm the only one who does.' He started the engine and switched on the heater.

'Who owns this spread nowadays?' said Bernstein, looking down upon the abandoned brick buildings that had once been the administration block.

'The British Admiralty hung on to it.'

'Some chutzpah, those Russkies.' He reached into his pocket.

'It suits us,' said Bret. 'We know where to find them.' He raised his hand in warning. 'Don't smoke please, Sylvy. It affects my sinuses.'

Bernstein sat fidgeting with his hands as he tried to decide whether it was better to smoke outside in the freezing cold or sit desperately deprived in the warm. Bret watched him clasping his hands together and after five minutes or more of stillness and silence said, 'Are you all right?'

Bernstein said, 'I was meditating.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's okay.'

Bret said, 'Did you really get into Buddhism?'

'Yeah. In Nam: Zen Buddhism. I was living with a beautiful Cambodian girl who taught me about meditation. I was really taken with it.'

'You're a Jew.'

'The beliefs are not mutually exclusive,' said Bernstein. 'Meditation helped me when I was captured.'

'Captured by the Viet Cong?'

'Only for about twelve hours. They questioned me.' He was silent for a moment, as if just saying it caused him pain. 'It was dark when I came conscious again and I got loose and escaped, crawling away into the jungle.'

'I didn't know that, Sylvy.'

'So who wants to know about Nam? The guys who fought there were shafted by everyone, from the White House down to the liberal newspapers; and that's pretty damn low. That's why I came and lived in Europe.'

'Look at that lightning. It's going to be rough out there. How would you like to be putting out to sea tonight?'

'She was still seeing that guy Kennedy, right up to the end.'

Bret swung his head round with an abrupt movement that betrayed his surprise. 'She swore it was all over.'

'How many husbands send their wife a dozen dark red long-stem roses with a note inviting them to come to tea?'

'You're sure?'

'Florists are a must.'

'What do you mean?'

'Bret, for a spell, when times were tough, I took divorce jobs. I can probably get the bill for the roses if you want to see it.'

'We'll have to turn Kennedy over,' said Bret.

'We found nothing last time. We checked his medical qualification and his military service. The clinic where he works say he's hardworking and reliable. Anyway it's a bit late now, isn't it?' said Bernstein. 'She's on her way.'

Bret looked at him. He'd told him only as much as he had to be told, but Sylvy Bernstein had spent a lifetime in the intelligence world. He knew what was happening. 'We still need to know,' said Bret.

'It was kind of fortuitous, the way Kennedy picked her up at Waterloo Station, wasn't it?' Bernstein rubbed his chin. He had a tough beard and he needed a shave. 'Serendipitous is the word: I read it in a book.'

'She's a very attractive woman,' said Bret, repeating what Bernstein had said many times, and dismissed the idea of it being an enticement.

'And he's a real smooth shrink. But is he the kind of guy who picks up ladies in railroad stations?'

Bret still couldn't face it. 'It was a special situation, Sylvy. Kennedy's daughter ran away. You talked to the railway cop. You said…'

'Okay, okay. It was really his cousin's daughter and Kennedy is a Canadian. It won't be easy to do a complete vetting job on him. And a guy who gives a false name to a cop is likely to have given a few false names to a lot of other people. But why should I talk myself out of an assignment? I need the money.'

'We'd better turn him right over, Sylvy,' said Bret, as if saying it for the first time. The preliminary check on Kennedy had turned up nothing incriminating but foreign nationals – especially those who moved around a lot – were sometimes difficult to investigate. Perhaps he should have been more thorough right from the start, but he'd been so shocked at the idea of Fiona being unfaithful to her husband that he'd not given proper consideration to a full investigation of the man. And yet what could be more obvious? If the KGB were going to use her in a top job it would be standard procedure to place someone close to her: very close to her. A lover! That was the way the minds of the KGB always worked. Bret said, 'Do a complete vetting job: birth record, the Canadian police computer, Washington too. Check his medical school and military service. Have someone talk to his neighbours, colleagues, friends and family: the full procedure. Your way of doing things is faster than if I do it through official channels.'