Spy Sinker

5

Somerset, England. Summer 1978.

The Director-General was an enigmatic figure who was the subject of much discussion amongst the staff. Take, for instance, that Christmas when a neat panel bearing the pokerwork motto ‘Only ignorance is invincible’ was hung in a prominent position on the wall beside his desk. The questions arising from that item were not stilled by the news that it was a Christmas present from his wife.

His office was a scene of incomparable chaos into which the cleaning ladies made only tentative forays. Books were piled everywhere. Most of them were garlanded with coloured slips of paper indicating rich veins of research that had never been pursued beyond the initial claims staked out for him by his long-suffering assistant.

Sir Henry Clevemore provided a fruitful source for Bret Rensselaer’s long-term anthropological study of the English race. Bret had categorized the D-G as a typical member of the upper classes. This tall shambling figure, whose expensive suits looked like baggy overalls, was entirely different to anyone Bret knew in the USA. Apart from his other eccentricities the D-G encouraged his staff to believe that he was frail, deaf and absent-minded. This contrived role certainly seemed to provide for him a warm loyalty that many a tougher leader would have envied.

One of the disagreeable aspects of working in close cooperation with Sir Henry was the way he moved about the country in such a disorganized and unplanned style that Bret found himself chasing after him to rendezvous after rendezvous in places both remote and uncomfortable. Today they were in Somerset. In the interests of privacy the D-G had taken him to a small wooden hut. It overlooked the sports field of a minor public school of which the D-G was a conscientious governor. The D-G had made a speech to the whole school and had lunch with the headmaster. Bret at short notice had had to be driven down at breakneck speed. There had been no time for lunch. No matter, on a hot day like this Bret could miss lunch without feeling deprived.

The school’s surroundings provided a wonderful view of mighty trees, rolling hills and farmland. This was the English countryside that had inspired her great landscape painters: it was brooding and mysterious despite the bright colours. The newly cut grass left a pungent smell on the air. Although not normally prone to hay fever, Bret found his sinuses affected. Of course it was an affliction aggravated by stress and it would be unwise to conclude that the prospect of this meeting with the Director-General had played no part in bringing on the attack.

Through the cobwebbed window two teams of white-clad teenagers could be seen going through the arcane gymnastics that constitute a cricket match. Entering into the spirit of this event, the D-G had changed into white trousers, a linen jacket that had yellowed with age, and a panama hat. He had seated himself in a chair from which he could see the game. The D-G had wiped his piece of window clear but Bret saw the scene through the grimy glass. Bret was standing, having declined to sit upon the cushioned oil drum that the D-G had indicated. Bret kept half an eye on the game, for the D-G referred to it at intervals seeking Bret’s opinions about the way it was being played.

‘Tell the husband,’ said the D-G, shaking his head sadly, ‘and it’s no longer a secret.’

Bret didn’t answer immediately. He watched the left-handed batsman thumping his bat into the ground and waiting for the ball to come. The fielders were well spread out anticipating some heavy swings. Bret turned to the D-G. He’d already made it clear that in his opinion Fiona Samson’s husband would have to be told everything: that she was a double agent and was being briefed to go over there. ‘I will see her later today,’ Bret said. He’d hoped to get the D-G’s okay and then he would brief Bernard Samson too. By tonight it would all have been done.

‘What are you doing with her at present?’ the D-G asked.

Bret walked away a couple of paces and then turned. From that characteristic movement the D-G knew that unless he nipped it in the bud he was going to get one of Bret’s renowned lectures. He settled back in his chair and waited for an opportunity to interrupt. Bret had no one else he could explain things to. The D-G knew that providing Bret with a sounding board at frequent intervals was something he could not delegate. ‘If we are going to place her in the sort of role where she will pull off the sort of coup we’re both hoping for, we can’t just leave things to chance.’

‘Bravo!’ said the D-G, reacting to a stroke that sent the ball to the far boundary. He turned to Bret and smiled. ‘We haven’t got too much time, Bret.’

‘We need ten years, Director, maybe twelve.’

‘Is that your considered opinion?’

Bret looked at the old man. They both knew what he was thinking. He wanted Fiona Samson in place before he came up for retirement. Forget the modest, self-effacing manner that was his modus operandi, he wanted glory. ‘It is, Sir Henry.’

‘I was hoping for something earlier than that.’

‘Sir Henry, Fiona Samson is nothing more than an agent in place as far as Moscow is concerned. She has never done anything. She has never delivered.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘She should be posted to Berlin. I want them to have a closer look at her.’

‘That would speed things up. They would start thinking of getting her over there quickly.’

‘No, they want her in London where the big stuff is hidden.’ Bret got out his handkerchief and self-consciously blew his nose, making as little noise as possible. ‘Forgive me, Sir Henry. I think the newly cut grass …’

‘Then why Berlin?’

‘She will have to do something for them.’

The D-G looked at him and pulled a face. He didn’t like these stunts which required that the KGB were given things. They were always given good things, convincing things, and that meant things that the Department should keep to itself. ‘What?’

‘I haven’t got as far as that, Director, but we’ll have to do it, and do it before the end of the year.’

‘Would you acquaint me with a little of your thinking? Wait one moment, this fellow is their fast bowler.’

Bret waited. It was a hot day: the grass was bright green and the boys in their cricket clothes made it the sort of English spectacle that under other circumstances Bret might have relished. The ball came very fast but bounced and went wide. Bret said, ‘Mrs Samson goes to Berlin. During her time there she gives them something substantial …’ Bret paused while the D-G winced at the thought, ‘… so that we have a big inquiry from which she emerges safe. Preferably with their help.’

‘You mean they arrange that one of their agents takes the blame?’

‘Well, yes. That, of course, would be ideal,’ said Bret.

The D-G was still watching the match. ‘I like it,’ he said without turning round.

Bret smiled grimly. It was an uphill struggle, but that was something of an accolade coming from Sir Henry Clevemore, although it could of course have been prompted by some cricketing accomplishment that Bret had failed to understand. He said, ‘Mrs Samson comes back here to London and they tell her to keep still and quiet.’

‘That’s one year,’ the D-G reminded him.

Bret said, ‘Look, sir. We can deliver Mrs Samson to them right away, of course we can. She’s like a box of nuts and bolts: an all-purpose agent they can use anywhere. But that’s not good enough.’

‘No,’ said the D-G, watching the cricketers and wondering what was coming.

‘We must take this woman and clear her mind of everything she knows.’

‘Classified material?’

‘I’m already making sure she sees nothing that would affect the Department.’

‘How did she take that?’

‘We have to make our plans as if she will be interrogated … interrogated in the cellars at Normannenstrasse.’ In the silence that followed a big fly buzzed angrily against the window glass.

‘It’s a nasty thought.’

‘The stakes are high, Sir Henry. But we’re playing to win.’ He looked around the hut. It was insufferably hot and the air was perfumed with linseed oil and weed-killers for the lawn. Bret opened the door to let a little air in.

The D-G looked at Bret and said, ‘A good thunderstorm would clear the air,’ as if this was something he could arrange. Then he added, ‘You’re making me wonder whether a woman is right after all.’

‘It’s too late to change the plan now.’

‘Surely not?’ Even the D-G was feeling the heat. He mopped his brow with a red silk handkerchief that had been protruding from his top pocket.

‘Mrs Samson knows what we intend. If we change to another agent our plan is known to her. I have shown her the figures and the graphs. She knows that the skilled and professional labour force is our target. She knows that we want to bleed their essential people and she knows the sort of opposition groups we intend to support over there.’

‘Wasn’t that a little premature, Bret?’

‘It will all depend upon her once she’s there. She must understand our strategy so well that she can improvise her responses.’

‘I suppose you’re right. I wish it was you explaining it all to the Cabinet Secretary next week. All your charts and mumbo-jumbo … You see Bret, if we don’t persuade him to go along with the fundamental idea … Do you have an operational name yet?’

‘I thought it was better not to ask the Department for an operational name.’

‘No, no, no, of course not. We’ll think of one. Something that suggests the weakening of the economy without prejudicing the security of our operation. Any ideas?’

‘I thought Operation Haemorrhage? Or Operation Bleeder?’

‘Blood; casualties. No. And bleeder is an English expletive. What else?’

‘Leaker?’

‘Vulgarism with connotations of urinating. But Sinker might do.’

‘Sinker then. Yes, of course, Sir Henry.’

‘Oh, my God, this fellow is useless. Left-handed and look at the way he’s holding the bat.’ He turned to Bret. ‘You understand what I mean about persuading him to the basic idea?’

Bret understood exactly. If the Cabinet Secretary didn’t go for the economic target then they’d start having second thoughts about using Bret. Mrs Samson would be provided with a different case officer.

The D-G said, ‘There still remains the problem of the Soviets engaging her for operational service over there. We can’t leave that to chance.’

‘Agent X has to be created from scratch,’ said Bret, having decided that naming Mrs Samson might be creating doubts in the D-G’s mind. ‘I must deliver to them an agent who is so knowledgeable and experienced in one specific field of activity that they will have to put her in the place we want.’

‘You’ve lost me now,’ said the D-G without taking his eyes from the cricket.

‘I shall spend this year studying the Russian links with the East German security police, particularly the KGB-Stasi operational command in Berlin. I’ll come to you with a complete picture of their strengths and weaknesses.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘I spent most of last week reading Operational Briefs. Give me a closer look at the command structure over there, and my analysts could build a detailed picture. It will take time but we’ll get what we need.’

‘Their security is good,’ said the D-G.

‘We will be trying to discover what they need … the things they don’t know. I have good people in my section. They are used to sifting through figures and building a picture of what is going on.’

‘For economics, yes. It’s possible to do that with statistics of banking, exports, imports and credit and so on because you’re dealing with hard facts. But this is far more complex.’

‘With respect, Sir Henry, I think you’re wrong,’ said Bret Rensselaer with a slight rasp to his voice that betrayed his tension.

The D-G forgot the cricket and looked at him. Bret’s eyes were wide, his smile fixed, and a wavy lock of his blond hair had fallen out of place. Until this very moment he hadn’t realized to what extent Bret Rensselaer had become consumed with his new task.

For the first time the D-G began to feel that this mad scheme might actually work. What a staggering coup it would be if Bret really did it: planting Mrs Samson into the East Berlin command structure where she could use their own secret records on protest groups, dissidents and other anti-communists to guide the Department as they planned the economic destruction of the communist regime. ‘Time will tell, Bret.’

‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

The D-G nodded to Bret. Was it the prospect of moving from a vitally important, but somewhat wearisome, world of committees into the more dashing excitement of operations that had so animated him? Or had the departure of his wife, now seemingly a permanent separation, provided him with more time? Or had the loss of his spouse to another man made it necessary for Bret to prove himself? Perhaps all of those. And yet the D-G had not allowed for Mrs Fiona Samson and the influence her participation had had upon Bret Rensselaer’s strength and determination.

‘Give me a free hand, sir.’

‘But ten years …’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have given a time frame.’ His sinuses hurt: he felt an overwhelming need to blow his nose again and did so.

The D-G watched him with interest. He didn’t know Bret had sinus problems. ‘Let’s see how it goes. What about finance?’ He turned back to the cricket. The left-handed batsman had hit a superb catch – up up up it went and curved down like a mortar bomb – but luckily for him there was no fielder able to reach it. One fellow ran in for it but was unable to judge where it would land. The ball hit the ground and there was a concerted groan.

‘I’ll need money and it must not be routed through Central Funding.’

‘There are many ways.’

‘I have a company.’

‘Do it any way you like, Bret. I know you won’t waste it. What are we talking about? Roughly?’

‘A million sterling in the first year. Double that in the second and all subsequent years, adjusted for inflation and the exchange rate. No vouchers, no receipts, no accounts.’

‘Very well. We’ll have to concoct a route for the money.’ The D-G shielded his eyes with a folded newspaper. The sun had come round to shine through the window. ‘Have I forgotten anything?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I’ll not keep you then. I’m sure you have things to do. Look at this: the captain has put another fast bowler on. And he’s rather good. What do you think, Bret?’

‘Very good indeed, sir. Very fast. A problem will arise when we send Mrs Samson to work in Berlin. Will they continue to use this Welsh socialist as the contact? If not we’ll have to be very careful setting up the new one. Berlin is quite different to London: everyone knows everyone.’

‘And everyone hates everyone,’ said the D-G. ‘You’d better have her float the possibility before them and see what reaction she gets.’

‘The Welshman is very supportive,’ said Bret. ‘He’s determined to believe that she’s the KGB superspy. She’s his protégée. She could make a terrible blunder and he’d still hold on to his trust in her. But when she goes to Berlin they’ll be more suspicious. You know how it is when someone’s treasure is scrutinized by a rival: the KGB will turn her over.’

The D-G frowned. ‘Is this some narrative form of second thinking?’ he said tartly.

‘No, sir. I am sure the Berlin tour is an essential part of the plan. I’m simply saying that she will be under a lot of stress.’

‘Out with it then.’ The D-G stood tall and bent his head to see Bret over his glasses.

‘We’re asking her to give up her husband and children. Her colleagues will despise her …’

‘When did she say all this to you?’

‘She hasn’t said it.’

‘She hasn’t expressed doubts at all?’

‘Not to me. She’s a patriot: she has a wonderful sense of purpose.’

The D-G sniffed. ‘We’ve seen patriots change their minds, haven’t we, Bret?’

‘She won’t,’ said Bret firmly and certainly.

‘Then what is it?’

‘The husband. He should be told. He will be able to give her the sort of help and encouragement she’ll need. She’d go East knowing that her husband will be keeping her family intact. It would be something for her to hang on to.’

‘Oh, don’t let’s go through that again, Bret.’ The D-G turned away.

‘You said I’d have a free hand.’

He swung round, and when he spoke there was a hard note in his voice. ‘I don’t remember saying any such thing, Bret. You asked for a free hand: almost everyone in the Department asks for a free hand at some time or another. It makes me wonder what they think I am paid to do. I will of course give you as much freedom as possible. I’ll guard you from the slings and arrows of outrageous officialdom. I’ll give you non-voucher funds and I’ll listen to any crackpot idea you bring me. But a secret is a secret, Bret. The only chance she has of coming out of this in one piece is to have her husband overwhelmed and horrified when she goes over there. That will be the ace card that saves her. Never mind help and encouragement, I want Bernard Samson to become demented with rage.’ He used the newspaper to slam at the buzzing fly and after a couple of swipes the fly fell to the floor. ‘Demented with rage!’

‘Very well, sir. I’m sure you know best.’ Bret’s tone did nothing to make the D-G think he’d changed his opinion.

‘Yes, I do, Bret. I do know best.’ They both watched as the batsman swung and then seemed to leap backwards, blundering into the wicket so that the stumps were knocked asunder. A fast ball had hit him in the belly. He went down clutching his stomach and rolled about in agony. ‘Left-handed,’ pronounced the D-G without emotion. The other cricketers gathered around the fallen boy but no one did anything: they just looked down at him.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Bret. ‘Well, I’ll be off.’

‘She might waver, Bret. Agents do when the time gets close. If she does you’d better make sure she toes the line. There is too much at stake now for a last-minute change of cast.’

Bret stood there in case the D-G had more to say. But the D-G flicked his fingers to dismiss him.

Once outside Bret blew his nose again. Damn this grass: he’d keep away from cricket matches on freshly mowed grass in future. Well, the old man could still provide a surprise or two, thought Bret. What a tough old bastard he was. Bernard must not be told under any circumstances. So that was what ‘Only ignorance is invincible’ meant. By the time he got to his car Bret’s sinus problem was entirely gone. It was the stress that brought it on.

6

London. August 1978.

Fiona Samson, a thirty-one-year-old careerist, was a woman of many secrets and always had been. At first that had made her relish her demanding job in London Central – the most secret of all the government’s secret departments – but as her role as a double agent developed and became more complex she found there were times when it all became too much for her. It had always been said that double agents eventually lose their own sense of direction and fail to distinguish which side they really work for, but for Fiona it was different. Fiona could not envisage ever becoming a supporter of communist regimes: her patriotism was a deeply rooted aspect of her upper middle-class upbringing. Fiona’s torment came not from political doubts: she worried that she would not be able to cope with the overwhelming task that she’d been given. Bernard would have been perfect for such a double agent role; like most men he could compartmentalize his brain and keep his family concerns quite separate from his work. Fiona could not. She knew that her task would become so demanding that she would have to neglect her husband and children more and more and finally – with no possible warning – leave them to fend for themselves. She would be branded a traitor and they would be spattered with the dirt. The thought of that distressed her.

Had she been able to discuss it with Bernard it might have been different, but authority had decreed that her husband should not know the plan. In any case she was not good at talking with Bernard. No less spirited than her extrovert sister Tessa, Fiona’s fires were damped down and seldom showed a flicker. Sometimes, or even often, Fiona would have enjoyed being like Tessa. She would have got great and immediate relief and satisfaction from the sort of public performance – displays of anger or exhilarated madness – for which her sister was famous, but there was no choice for her.

Fiona was beautiful in a way that had sometimes separated her from other women. Fiona’s beauty was a cold perfect radiance of the sort that is to be seen in the unapproachable models posing with such assurance in glossy magazines. Her brain was cold and perfect too; her mind had been bent by pedantic university teachers to think in terms of male priorities and had sacrificed many of the unbridled joys of femininity in order to become a successful surrogate male. Fiona’s miseries, her tensions and her times of great happiness were shared only reluctantly – grudgingly sometimes – with those around her. Emotion of any sort was always to be hidden, her father had taught her that. Her father was an insensitive and opinionated man who had wanted sons, something he explained to his two children – both daughters – at every opportunity, and told them that boys didn’t cry.

Fiona’s marriage to Bernard Samson had changed her life forever. It was love at first sight. She’d never met anyone like Bernard before. A big bear-like man, Bernard was the most masculine person she’d ever met. At least he had the qualities that she thought of as being masculine. Bernard was practical. He could fix any sort of machine and deal with any sort of people. He was of course a male chauvinist: categorical and opinionated. He never thought of helping in the house and couldn’t even boil an egg successfully. On the other hand he was constantly cheerful, almost never moody and quite without malevolence. Inclined to be untidy he gave no thought to his clothes or his appearance, never put on airs or graces and while enjoying art and music he was in no way ‘intellectual’ or ‘artistic’ in the way that so many of her male acquaintances were determined to be.