Spy Sinker

Bret got his handkerchief to his nose just in time before sneezing. When he recovered he dabbed his face again and said, 'I'm quite sure, Sir Henry, but that's not all. When I started digging into this fellow Kennedy's past, I discovered that he has been a party member since the time he was a medical student.'

'Party member? Communist Party member? This fellow she was having it off with? Bret, why the hell didn't you tell me all this? Am I going mad?' He was straining forward in his chair as if trying to get up and his dog was looking angrily at Bret.

'I appreciate your concern, sir,' said Bret in the gravelly American accent that he could summon when he needed it. 'Kennedy is a Canadian. His father was a Ukrainian with a name that couldn't be written on an English typewriter so it became Kennedy.'

'I don't like the smell of that one, Bret. Are we really dealing with a Russian national wielding a Canadian birth certificate? We've seen a lot of those, haven't we?'

'Ottawa RCMP have nothing on him. Served in the air force with an exemplary record. Medical schooclass="underline" postgraduate and so on. The only thing they could turn up was an ex-wife chasing him for alimony. No political activity except for a few meetings of the party at college.' Bret stopped. The fact that the fellow was being chased for alimony payments made Bret sympathize.

'Well, don't leave it like that, Bret. You're not trying to break it to me that Mrs Samson might have been…' The D-G's voice trailed away as he considered the terrifying complexities that would follow upon any doubts about Fiona Samson's loyalties.

'No, no worries on that account, Sir Henry. In fact they are both clear. I have no evidence that Dr Kennedy has been active in any way – in any way at all – during the time he was seeing Mrs Samson or afterwards.'

'How do you know?'

'I've been keeping an eye on him.'

'You personally?'

'No, of course not, Sir Henry. I have had someone keeping an eye on him.'

'Someone? What someone? A Department someone?'

'No, of course not, sir. I arranged it privately.'

'Yes, but not paid for it privately, eh? It's gone on the dockets. Perhaps you didn't think of that. Oh, my God.'

'It's not on any dockets, Sir Henry. I paid personally and I paid in cash.'

'Are you insane, Bret? You paid personally? Out of your own pocket? What are you up to?'

'It had to be kept secret,' said Bret.

'Of course it did. You don't have to tell me that! My God. I've never heard of such a thing.' The D-G slumped back in the chair as if in collapse. 'What kind of whisky have you got?' he said finally.

Bret reached for a bottle of Bell's, poured a stiff one into a tumbler for the D-G and gave it to him. After sipping it, the D-G said, 'Confound you, Bret. Tell me the worst. Come along. I'm prepared now.'

"There is no "worst",' said Bret. 'It is as I told you. There is nothing to show any contact between Kennedy and the Soviets.'

'You don't fool me, Bret. If it was as simple as that you would have told me long ago, not waited until I faced you with collaring Pryce-Hughes.'

Bret was still standing near the bottles. He had never been a drinker, but he poured himself a tiny one to be sociable, took it to the window and nursed it. He wanted to get as far away from the dog as he possibly could. The smell of the drink was repulsive and he put it down. He pressed his fingers against the cold window-pane. How well he knew this little house. Glenn Rensselaer had brought him here while still wearing the uniform of a US Army general. Glenn had been someone Bret had loved more than he could ever love the pathetic alcoholic who was his father.

'It's no more than a hunch,' said Bret, after a long time of just looking down at the cobbled mews and the shiny cars parked there. 'But I just know Kennedy is a part of it. I just know he is. I'm sure they put Kennedy in to run a check on Mrs Samson. They met at a railway station; I'm sure it was contrived.' He let a little whisky touch his lips. 'She must have got through whatever test he gave her, because the signs are that Dr Kennedy is in love with her and continues to be. But Kennedy is a bomb, ticking away, and I don't like it. I kept an eye on Pryce-Hughes because I hoped there would be some contact. But it's a long time ago: I guess I was wrong.'

'Too much guessing, Bret.'

'Yes, Sir Henry.'

'Facts trump the ace of hunches, right?'

'Yes, of course, sir.'

'You'll collar Pryce-Hughes?'

'I'd rather leave that a little longer, Director. I tried to provoke him into a response a few years back. I had someone produce an elaborate file that "proved" Pryce-Hughes was working for London Central. It was a magnificent job – documents, photos and all sorts of stuff – and it cost an arm and a leg. I went along when it was shown to him.'

'And?'

'He just laughed in our faces, sir. Literally. I was there. He laughed.'

'I'm glad we had this little chat, Bret,' said the D-G. It was a rebuke.

'But the file I compiled to incriminate Pryce-Hughes could be very useful to us now, sir.'

'I'm listening, Bret.'

'I want to have the whole file revised so it will incriminate this KGB Colonel Pavel Moskvin.'

'The thug who murdered that lad in the Bosham safe house?'

'I believe he's a danger to Fiona Samson.'

'Are you sure this is not just a way of using that damned file?'

'It will cost very little, sir. We can plant it into the KGB network very easily. That Miranda Keller woman would be perfect in the role of Moskvin's contact.'

'It would be a bit rough on her, wouldn't it?' said the D-G.

'It's Fiona Samson we have to think of,' said Bret.

'Very well, Bret. If you put it like that I can't stop you.'

19

England. Christmas 1983.

Gloria Kent felt miserable. She had brought Bernard Samson's two young children to spend Christmas with her parents. She was tall and blonde and very beautiful and she was wearing the low-cut green dress she had bought specially to impress Bernard.

'Why isn't he with his children?' Gloria's mother asked for the umpteenth time. She was putting the Christmas lunch dishes into the dishwasher as Gloria brought them from the table.

'He was given Christmas duty at the last minute,' said Gloria. 'And the nanny had already gone home.'

'You are a fool, Gloria,' said her mother.

'What do you mean?'

'You know what I mean,' said her mother. 'He'll go back to his wife, they always do.' She dropped a handful of knives and forks into the plastic basket. 'A man can't have two wives.'

Gloria handed over the dessert plates and then put clingfilm over the remains of the Christmas pudding before putting it into the refrigerator.

Ten-year-old Billy Samson came into the kitchen. He was still wearing the paper hat and a plastic bangle that he'd got from a Christmas cracker. 'Sally is going to be sick,' he announced, without bothering to conceal his joy at the prospect.

'No she's not, Billy. I just spoke to her, she's doing the jigsaw. Is the video finished?'

'I've seen it before.'

'Has Grandad seen it before?' asked Gloria. It had been established that Gloria's father was Grandad.

'He's asleep,' said Billy. 'He snores.'

'Why don't you help Sally with the jigsaw?' said Gloria.

'Can I have some more custard?'

'I think you've had enough, Billy,' said Gloria firmly. 'I've never seen anyone eat so much.'

Billy looked at her for a moment before agreeing and wandering off to the drawing room. Mrs Kent watched him go. The little boy was so like the photos of his father. She was sorry for the poor motherless mite but was convinced that her daughter would know only pain from her reckless affair with 'a married man at the office'.

'I know everything you want to say, Mummy,' said Gloria, 'but I love Bernard desperately.'