Spy Hook

When after thirty minutes or more Frank returned he was dressed in what for him were informal clothes: an old grey herringbone tweed jacket and flannels, but the starched shirt and striped tie wouldn’t have disgraced any Mess. Just as I was able to make new clothes look shabby, so Frank was able to invest even his oldest garments with a spruce look. His cuffs emerged just the right amount and there was a moiŕe kerchief in his top pocket and hand-sewn Oxfords that were polished to perfection. He went across to the drinks trolley and poured himself a large Plymouth gin with a dash of bitters. ‘What have you got there?’ he asked.

‘I’m all right, Frank,’ I said.

‘Wouldn’t you rather have a real drink?’

‘I’m trying to cut back on the hard stuff, Frank.’

‘That bottle must have been on that trolley for years. Is it still all right?’ He picked up the bottle I’d poured my drink from, and studied the label with interest, and then he looked at me. ‘Vermouth? That’s not like you, Bernard.’

‘Delicious,’ I said.

He came and sat opposite me. His face had the war-painted look that dedicated skiers wore at this time of year. His skin was dark, with pale surrounds where his goggles had been. Frank knew a thing or two about the good life. I didn’t ask after his wife. She spent most of the time at their house in England nowadays. She had never liked Berlin, and rumours said there had been a row when Frank accepted the invitation to stay on past his official retirement date.

He’d read the interim report in his bath, he told me. We knew that it had been roughly cobbled together in London and we both knew it was just a lengthy way of saying nothing at all. He flicked through it very quickly again and said, ‘Does Dicky want me to deposit someone in there?’

‘He’s going to great pains not to say so,’ I said.

‘I’ll do anything for the poor bastards who are in trouble,’ he said. ‘But this is Berlin. I can’t think of anyone here who could go to Frankfurt an der bloody Oder and do anything to help them.’ He touched his blunt military moustache. It was going very grey.

‘They don’t like to sit in London doing nothing,’ I said.

‘How do they think I like it?’ said Frank. Just for a moment his face and his voice revealed the strain of the job. I suppose there were plenty of agents being picked up all the time but it was only when there was monitored Soviet radio traffic about them that London got interested and concerned. ‘The army got wind of it,’ said Frank. ‘They’re keen to try their hand.’

He must have seen my face go white, and my teeth clench, or whatever happened when I became so terrified that I wanted to scream. ‘The army?’ I said, holding tight to my drink and keeping my voice under control.

‘The Brigadier was reminding me about the Military Mission staff we have with the Russian army headquarters. They are able to move about a little more freely nowadays.’

‘What else did your Brigadier say?’

‘He was quoting the behaviour of these GRU bastards our chaps have to put up with at Bunde. Counting those with the French army at Baden-Baden, and those with the Yanks, there are about fifty Soviet Military Mission staffers. GRU agents every one, and many of them with scientific training. They wear leather jackets over their uniforms and deliberately muddy their car registration plates so they’re not recognized while they go pushing their way into, and photographing, everything that interests them.’ He grinned. ‘“What about tit for tat?” that’s what the Brigadier says.’

‘You didn’t tell your army pal about Bizet?’

‘I’m not senile, Bernard.’

‘The idea of some keen young subaltern sniffing around in Frankfurt an der Oder is enough to give me a nightmare.’

‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

‘You said the army had wind of it,’ I reminded him.

‘Did I? I should have said that the army know we have a crisis of some sort.’ He looked at me and added, ‘They have a good radio monitoring service, Bernard.’

‘For listening to Russian army signals.’

‘Along the border, that is true. But here in Berlin – right in the middle of the DDR – they hear all the domestic stuff. They monitor GRU and KGB traffic; they like to know what’s going on. I would never object to that, Bernard. In an outpost like this, the army need to keep a finger on the pulse.’

‘Maybe I will have something stronger,’ I said. But at that moment Frank’s German maid came in to say dinner was served.

I pushed all my worries, about what Frank might have said to his army cronies, to the back of my mind. We sat in the grand dining room, just me and Frank at one end of the long polished table. He’d had someone decant a bottle of really good claret: the empty bottle was on the sideboard. It was something of an honour. Frank kept his best wines for people either important enough to merit them, or choosy enough to notice. He poured some for me to taste when the egg and bacon tart arrived. The portions were very small. I suspected that the cook was trying to eke out Frank’s meal and make enough for me. Frank seemed not to notice. He wanted to hear all the latest gossip from the Department, and I told him how the Deputy was slowly but surely changing the Department to his own wishes.

From my own point of view I rather welcomed the new ideas. It was time the old gang were shaken up a bit. Frank agreed, but with less enthusiasm.

‘I’m too old to welcome changes just for the sake of change, Bernard. I was in the Department with your father back in 1943. I did a training course with Sir Henry Clevemore – “Pimples” we called him – a damned great hulking kid. He fell into a drainage ditch on one of the assault courses. It needed four of us to haul him out.’ He drank some more wine, and after a reflective pause added, ‘My wife says I’ve given my life to the Department, and a large chunk of her life too!’ It was a heartfelt declaration of pride, resentment and regret.

He went on talking about the Department through the cottage pie, the bread and butter pudding and the Cheddar cheese. No matter how long he lived here, and how assimilated he became, the output from Frank’s kitchen remained defiantly British public school. I was happy to listen to him, especially when he mentioned my father. He knew that of course, and all the stories he told showed my father in such a glorious light that I knew he was just putting it on for me. ‘Your dad sat for days and days in some filthy apartment with only this German fellow for company: arguing and swearing most of the time according to your dad’s account. They were waiting for news of Hitler’s assassination. When the news came that the assassination attempt had failed, in came this Gestapo agent. Your dad was ready to jump out of the window but it turned out that it was the other chap’s brother … I’m probably getting it all muddled,’ said Frank with a smile. ‘And I’m sure it was all just one of your father’s yarns. But whenever your dad could be persuaded to tell that story he’d have me, and everyone else, in fits of laughter.’ Frank had some more wine and ate some cheese. ‘None of the rest of us had ever been in Nazi Germany of course. We hung on your dad’s every word. Sometimes he’d be pulling our leg mercilessly.’

‘The other day someone hinted that the Department might get to me through my father,’ I said as casually as I could.

‘Pressure you?’

‘That was the implication. How could they do that, Frank? Did Dad do anything …’

‘Are you serious, Bernard?’

‘I want to know, Frank.’

‘Then may I suggest you seek clarification from whoever gave you this bizarre idea.’

I changed the subject. ‘And Fiona?’ I asked as casually as I was able.

He looked up sharply. I suppose he knew how much I still missed her. ‘She keeps a very low profile.’

‘But she’s still in East Berlin?’

‘Very much so. Flourishing, or so I hear. Why?’

‘I was just curious.’

‘Put her out of your mind, Bernard. It’s all over now. I suffered for you but now it’s time to forget the past. Tell me about the new house. Do the children like having a garden?’

Our conversation was devoted to domestic small-talk. By the time we went back to the drawing room to drink coffee, Frank was in a mellow mood. I said, ‘Remember the last time we were together in this room, Frank?’

He looked at me and after a moment’s thought said, ‘The night you came over asking me to get Bret Rensselaer off the hook. Is it really that long ago? Three years?’

‘You were packing your Duke Ellington records,’ I said. ‘They were all across the floor here.’

‘I thought I was retiring and going back to England.’ He looked round remembering it all and said, ‘It changed my life, I suppose. By now I would have been pensioned off and growing roses.’

‘And been Sir Frank Harrington,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about the way it all worked out, Frank.’ It was generally agreed that the débâcle resulting from my intervention had deprived Frank of the knighthood he’d set his heart on. London Central had been saved from humiliation, by my warning and Frank’s unilateral action, but they’d still not forgiven either of us. We’d been proved right, and for the mandarins of the Foreign Office that was a rare and unpardonable sin.

‘It must be nearly three years,’ he said, unrolling his tobacco pouch and stuffing his Balkan Sobranie tobacco into the bowl of a curly pipe. Oh God, was Frank going to smoke that pipe of his? ‘I was disappointed at the time but I’ve got over it now.’

‘I suppose Bret got the worst of it.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Frank, lighting his pipe.

‘Last I heard he was having night and day nursing care and sinking fast,’ I said. ‘He’s not still alive?’