'Any dates?'
'Nothing since July 1978. Mind you, we have both seen recently how slack the clerks can be when filing the amendments.'
Her head began to throb and she felt sick. 'What did he do for us?'
'Details of that sort are not entered on our files. London Residency would have filed that directly to Moscow. I would guess it to have been surveillance or providing accommodation or arranging references: that's the sort of job such men are used for.'
So that was it: July 1978, a month before the 'accidental' meeting on Waterloo Station. She'd warned Martin off and so Moscow had simply found another way to monitor her. Yes, that would be time enough for Harry to be briefed and prepared. So Harry Kennedy had been assigned by Moscow to check up on her. Was that to be his role in Berlin too? 'Nothing since 1978?'
'Shall I ask Moscow if he is still under instructions?'
'No, Herr Renn, I don't think that would be wise.'
He looked at her and saw that she was not feeling well. 'Whatever you say, Frau Direktor.' He picked up some papers and tactfully left the room.
She swallowed three aspirin tablets: she had packets of them everywhere but they seldom did more than reduce the intensity of the pain. She held her hands over her eyes. By concentrating her mind upon old memories she could sometimes get over these attacks by willpower alone. Pictures of her husband and children flickered in the mind's eye, as blurred and jerky as old film clips. For a long time she sat very still, as someone might recompose themself after stepping out of a wrecked car unscratched.
21
Berlin. March 1984.
The Director-General – restless and demanding – was on one of his unofficial flying visits to Berlin. Frank Harrington, Berlin supremo, cursed at having his daily schedule turned upside-down at short notice, but the old man was like that. He'd always been like that and lately he was getting worse. Not only did he have sudden inconvenient inspirations that everyone was expected to adapt to without question, but Sir Henry was a terrible time-waster. Ensconced in the most comfortable armchair, with a glass of vintage Hine in his hand, Sir Henry Clevemore would talk and talk, periodically interjecting that he must depart as if he was being detained against his will.
That's how it had been that afternoon. The message from the D-G's office had requested 'a German lunch'. Tarrant, the old valet who had been with Frank longer than anyone could remember, arranged everything. They ate in the dining room of the lovely old Grunewald mansion that came with the job of Berlin resident. Frank's cook did a Hasenpfeffer that had become renowned over the years, and the maid wore her best starched apron and even a lace hat. The old silver cutlery was polished and out came the antique Meissen china; the table had looked quite extraordinary. The D-G had remarked on it in Tarrant's hearing: Tarrant had permitted himself a smug little grin.
After lunch the two men had gone into the drawing room for coffee. That was hours ago, and still the D-G showed no signs of departing. Frank wished he'd asked about the return flight, but to do so now would seem impolite. So he nodded at the old man and listened and desperately wanted to light up his pipe. The old man hated pipe tobacco – particularly the brand which Frank smoked – and Frank knew it was out of the question.
'Well, I must be going,' said the D-G, as he'd said it so many times that afternoon, but this time he actually showed signs of moving. Thank goodness, thought Frank. If he could get rid of the old man by seven he'd still be in time for an evening of bridge with his army chums. 'Yes,' said the D-G, looking at his watch, 'I really must be getting along.'
There was a chap Frank Harrington had known at Eton who went on to be a doctor with a practice serving a prosperous part of agricultural Yorkshire. He said that he'd grown used to the way in which a patient coming to him with a problem would spend half an hour chatting about everything under the sun, get up to go and then, while actually standing at the door saying goodbye, tell him in a very casual aside what was really worrying him. So it was with the Director-General. He'd been sitting there exchanging pleasantries with Frank all the afternoon when he picked up his glass, swirled the last mouthful round to make a whirlpool and finished it in a gulp. Then he put the glass down, got to his feet and said once again that he would have to be going. Only then did he say, 'Have you seen Bret Rensselaer lately?'
Frank nodded. 'Last week. Bret asked my advice about the report on the shooting in Hampstead.' Frank got to his feet and made a not very emphatic gesture with the brandy bottle but the old man waved it away.
'May I ask what you advised?'
'I told him not to make a report, not in writing anyway. I told him to go through it with you and then file a memorandum to record that he'd done so.'
'What did Bret say?'
Frank went across the room to put the bottle away. He remained slim and athletic in appearance. In his Bedford cord suit he could easily have been mistaken for an officer of the Berlin garrison, in his mid-forties. It was difficult to believe that Frank and the D-G had trained together and that Frank was coming up to retirement. 'I remember exactly. He said, "You mean cover my arse?" '
'And is that what you meant?'
Frank stopped where he was, in the middle of the Persian rug, and chose his words carefully. 'I knew you would file a written version of his verbal report to you.'
'Did you?' A slight lift on the second word.
'If that was an appropriate action,' said Frank.
The D-G nodded soberly. 'Bret was nearly killed. Two Soviets were shot by Bernard Samson.'
'So Bret told me. It was lucky that our people were well away before the police arrived.'
'We're not out of the woods yet, Frank,' said the D-G.
Frank wondered whether he was expected to pursue it further but decided that the D-G would tell him in his own time. Frank said, 'From what I hear in Berlin, a KGB heavy named Moskvin was behind it. The same ruffian who killed the young fellow in the Bosham safe house.'
'Research and Briefing take the same line, so it looks that way.' The D-G turned and came back to where he'd been sitting. Looking at Frank he said, There will have to be an inquiry.'
'Into Bret's future?'
'No, it hasn't quite come to that, but the Cabinet Office are going through one of those periods when they dread any sort of complaint from the Russians.'
'Two dead KGB thugs? Armed thugs? Hardly likely that Moscow are going to declare an interest in such antics. Sir Henry.'
'Is that a considered opinion based on your Berlin experience?'
'Yes, it is.'
'It's my own opinion too, but the Cabinet Office do not respond to expert opinions; they are too concerned about the politicians they serve.' The D-G said it without resentment or even displeasure. 'I knew that, of course, when I took the job. Our department's strategy, like that of every other government department, must be influenced by the varying political climate.'
'The last time you told me that,' said Frank, 'you added, "but the tactics they leave to me".'
'The tactics are left to me until tactical blunders are spread across the front pages of the tabloids. Did you see the photos of that launderette?'
'I did indeed, sir.' Big front-page photos of the launderette, with the sprawled dead men and blood splashed everywhere, had made a memorable impression upon the newspaper-reading public. But whatever was being said about the shooting in London's bars and editorial offices, the story printed was that it was another gangster killing, with speculation about drugs being offered for sale in all-night shops and launderettes.
' "Five" are pressing for an inquiry and the Cabinet Secretary is convinced that their added expertise would be valuable.'
'A combined inquiry?'
'I can't defy the Cabinet Office, Frank. I will bring it up in committee, and look to you for support.'