'What am I looking for?'
'Jesus, Sylvy! Suppose this guy Kennedy turns out to be a KGB fink?'
'Okay. I'll work as fast as I can, Bret, but you can't hurry these things without showing your hand, and I know you want the lid kept on it.'
'A dozen red roses,' said Bret. 'Well, maybe we'll find they were from her sister or her father.'
'I think I'll stretch my legs,' said Bernstein. He felt as if he'd expire unless he smoked a cigarette.
12
London. May 1983.
Fiona's defection – despite the way in which the Department made sure no word of it leaked to press or TV – caused a sensation amongst her immediate circle.
Of those working in the Department that day, Bret Rensselaer was the only person who knew the whole story of Fiona Samson's going. Temporarily assigned to him as a secretary, there was a nineteen-year-old blonde 'executive officer' called Gloria Kent. Bret had contrived to have this strikingly attractive trainee working with him, and her presence helped to straighten an ego bent after his wife's departure. Alone in Bret's office, it was Gloria who was the first to hear that Bernard Samson had been arrested in East Berlin. She was appalled.
Gloria Kent had had a schoolgirl crush on Bernard Samson ever since she had first seen him in the office. Perhaps her feelings showed on her face when she brought the bad news to Bret Rensselaer, for after a muttered curse he told her, 'Mr Samson will be all right.'
'Who will tell his wife?' said Gloria.
'Sit down,' said Bret. Gloria sat. Bret said, 'According to our latest information Mrs Samson is also in East Germany.'
'His car is on a meter and covered in parking tickets.'
Bret disregarded this complication. 'I don't want this to go all round the office, Miss Kent. I'm telling you because I will need you to work with me to allay fears and stop silly rumours.' He looked at her: she nodded. 'We will have to assume that Mrs Samson has defected, but I have no reason to believe that her husband was a party to her activities.'
'What will happen to her children?'
Bret nodded. Miss Kent was quick: that was one of the problems on Bret's mind. 'There is a nanny with them. I have been trying to phone Mrs Samson's sister, Tessa Kosinski – but there is no reply.'
'Do you want me to go and knock on the door?'
'No, we have people to do that kind of thing. Here's the phone number. Keep trying it. And the office number for her husband is in my leather notebook under Kosinski International Holdings. See if he knows where his wife might be. Don't tell him anything other than that both Samsons are delayed on duty overseas. I'm going to the Samsons' house. Ring me there and tell me what's happening. And tell the duty armourer I'm coming down to collect a gun.'
'Yes, sir.' She went back to the office and started phoning. The idea of Fiona Samson defecting to the communists was too overwhelming for her to properly consider the consequences. Everyone in the Department had watched the steady rise of Fiona Samson. She was a paragon, one of those amazingly lucky people who never put a foot wrong. It was impossible not to envy her: a beautiful woman from a rich family who had left her mark on Oxford. Cordon Bleu cook, charming hostess, with two children and a wonderfully unconventional husband whom Gloria secretly coveted.
'Yes?' came a slurred and sleepy voice. 'Ahhhh. What's the time? Who's there?'
It was Tessa, who liked to sleep until eleven o'clock, awakened by the phone. Gloria told her that Mr and Mrs Samson had been unavoidably detained abroad. Would it be possible for Mrs Kosinski to go to the Samsons' house and take charge of the children? She tried to sound very casual.
It took a few moments to allay Tessa's fears that her sister had been hurt in an accident, but Gloria's charm was well up to the situation and Tessa soon decided that the best way to find out more was to go to the Samson house and ask Bret Rensselaer.
In record time Tessa bathed, put on her make-up, found the Chanel beret with camellia that she always wore when her hair was a mess, and threw a plaid car coat round her shoulders. She looked into the study where her husband was studying share prices on his computer and told him what little she knew.
'Both of them? What's it all about?' he said.
'Neither of them said anything about going anywhere,' said Tessa.
'They don't tell you everything.' George had grown used to the secretiveness of his wife's family.
'I don't like the sound of it,' said Tessa. 'I thought there was something odd going on when Fiona asked me to look after her fur coat.'
'Is there anything for lunch?' asked George.
'There's a home-made chicken stew in the freezer.'
'Is that still all right? It's dated 1981.'
'I spent hours on that stew,' said Tessa, aggrieved that such rare forays into domesticity were not appreciated.
By the time that Tessa arrived at the Samson house, two heavily built men who answered to Bret were rolling up the overalls they had worn to probe between the floorboards and investigate every inch of the dusty attic. Bret Rensselaer was standing before the fireplace wearing a black trenchcoat. He finished the coffee he was drinking.
He'd recently seen Tessa at Whit elands, and without preliminaries said, 'Mrs Samson has taken a trip to the East.' He put his cup on the mantelshelf. 'For the time being the children need someone to reassure them… The nanny seems to be taking it very calmly but your presence could make all the difference.' Bret had insisted that Fiona engage a reliable girl who could survive a proper security vetting. The present nanny was the daughter of a police inspector. Now and again Fiona had complained that she was not a very good nanny but now Bret's caution was paying off.
'Of course,' said Tessa. 'I'll do anything I can.'
'We're very much in the dark at present,' Bret told her, 'but whatever the truth of it there will be no official comment. If you get any calls from the Press, or any other kind of oddball, say you are the housekeeper, take their number and call my office.' He didn't tell Tessa that every call to this phone was being monitored and two armed men were watching the house to make sure that Moscow didn't try to kidnap the children.
One of the children – Billy – came from the kitchen where Nanny was frying eggs and sausages for lunch. 'Hello, Auntie Tess. Mummy is on holiday.'
'Yes, isn't that fun?' said Tessa, leaning down to kiss him. 'We are going to have a wonderful time too.'
Billy stood there looking at Bret for a moment and then summoned up the courage to say, 'Can I look at your gun?'
'What's that?' said Bret, uncharacteristically flustered.
'Nanny says you have a gun in your pocket. She says that's why you won't take your raincoat off.'
Bret wet his lips nervously, but long before he could think of any reply, seven-year-old Sally appeared and grabbed Billy by the arm. 'Nanny says you are to come to the kitchen and have your lunch.'
'Come along children,' said Tessa. 'We'll all have lunch together. Then I'll take you somewhere lovely for tea.' She smiled at Bret and Bret nodded his approval and appreciation.
'I'll slip away soon,' said Bret. He'd heard somewhere that Tessa Kosinski had been using hard drugs, but she seemed very normal today, thank heavens.
In the dining room, Nanny was dishing up the food. She had set the big polished table for four, as if guessing that Tessa would eat with them.
After the two technicians had packed away their detection apparatus and left, Bret took a quick look round on his own account. Upstairs on Fiona's side of the double bed a nightdress was folded neatly and placed on the pillow ready for her. On the bedside table he saw a book from the Department's library. He picked it up and looked at it: a coloured postcard – advertising a 'hair and beauty salon' off Sloane Street – was being used as a bookmark. He stood there for a moment relishing the intimacy of being in her bedroom. From a security point of view there was nothing to worry him anywhere. The Samsons had worked for the Department a long time: they were careful people.