I could see he had something to tell me, but I contributed my share of office small-talk and let him take his time. When he’d eaten his segment of pork pie - each mouthful spread with a large dollop of fierce English mustard - he poured a second glass of claret for both of us and said, “That bloody Zena.” He said it quietly but with feeling. “I could kill her.” I looked at him with interest. In the past Frank had always indulged Zena. Infatuated was the only word for it. “Is she all right?” I asked casually between pieces of pork pie. “She was off to Frankfurt an,der Oder, the last I heard of her. Werner was worried.”
He looked at me as if trying to decide how much I knew, and then said, “She was running up and down on the Berlin-Warsaw express.”
“The “paradise train”? What for?” I asked but I’d already guessed the answer.
“Black market. You’ve been on that train: you know.”
Yes, I’d been on that train and I knew. Once over the Polish border it became an oriental bazaar. Black-market traders – and in the subtle nuances of East Bloc social life, brown- and greymarket traders too - moved from compartment to compartment buying and selling everything from Scotch whisky to Black & Decker power tools. I remembered loud Polish voices and hands waving bundles of dollar bills and suitcases almost bursting with pop music records and cartons of Marlboro cigarettes. The “paradise train” would provide plenty of opportunities to buy rare artifacts and manuscripts. “What was Zena doing on the train?” I asked.
“They picked her up coming back ... on the platform at Friedrichstrasse. It sounds as if they were tipped off.” “Where is she now?”
“They let her go.”
“What did she have?”
“Old engravings. And an icon and a Bible. They confiscated everything and let her go.”
“She was lucky,” I said.
“She told them she’d happily take a receipt for only one item and they could divide the rest of it up between them.” “I still say she was lucky. An offer like that to the wrong man and she’d end up with ten years for attempted bribery.” Frank looked at me and said, “She’s a good judge of men, Bernard.”
There was no answer to that. I sipped the lovely Chiteau Palmer and nodded. The wine was coming to life now, a wonderful combination of half-forgotten fragrances. The anger that the memory of Zena had regenerated now subsided again. “Silly little cow,” he said, with a measure of affection in his voice. He smiled. “What about a pudding, Bernard? I believe they do a splendid apple crumble here.” “No thanks, Frank. Just coffee.”
“Werner came to London. He went into the office on Friday and kicked up no end of fuss,” said Frank. “I was in Berlin, of course. By the time the Deputy came through to me, I’d heard that Zena was safe at home. I was able to tell him that all was well. I came out of it smelling of roses.”
“I wasn’t in London,” I said. “I was in California.” “I’ll have a savoury: Angels on Horseback, they do it rather well here. Sure you won’t have something?” When I shook my head he called to the waiter and ordered it. “I must say, Sir Percy is doing a damned good job,” said Frank. But I wasn’t going to let him steer the conversation round to the Deputy’s abilities or lack of them. “Did you know that Bret is alive? I saw him in California.”
“Bret?” He looked at me full in the eye. “Yes, the old man told me ... a couple of days ago.”
“Were you surprised?”
“I was damned annoyed,” said Frank. “The old man had actually heard me say that Bret was dead and had never contradicted me or confided the truth of the matter.” “God knows. The old man can be a bit childish at times. He just laughed and said Bret deserved a bit of peace. And yet it was the old man who told me Bret was dead. It was a little supper party at the Kempi; there were other people present: outsiders. I couldn’t pursue it. Perhaps I should have done.” “But why say he was dead? What was it all about?”
“You saw him: I didn’t. What did Bret tell you?”
“I didn’t ask him why he wasn’t dead,” I replied woodenly. Frank preferred to see it as a harmless subterfuge. “Bret was at death’s door. What difference did it make? Perhaps it was better security to say he was dead.”
“But you don’t know of any special reason?” “No. I don’t Bernard.’He drank some more wine, studied its colour and gave it great attention.
I said, “Posh Harry button-holed me over there.” Frank raised an eyebrow. “He wanted to tell me that, whatever Bret was doing, Washington like it.”
“Well, Posh Harry would know. He’s landed a cushy job,” said Frank. “They use him like an errand boy but his starting salary is more like a king’s ransom.”
“Sounds just like my job,” I said, “apart from the salary.”
“Why did Posh Harry button-hole you?”
“He said I was asking too many questions.” “Mistaken identity. That doesn’t sound at all like you,” said Frank with his laborious sense of humour. “Questions about Bret?”
“Fiona was involved. Some kind of financial bore-hole. A lot of money. Prettyman was a signatory ... probably a go between for Central Funding.”
“You’re not still going around saying Prettyman was murdered, are you? I looked at the homicide figures for Washington - it’s horrific - and I know the Deputy arranged for the FBI to take a special look at the Prettyman killing. There’s nothing to support the idea of it being anything but the casual sort of murder that muggers commit over there. A miserable business, but nothing there to justify any further investigation.” “It seemed like a chance to find out more about Fiona.” “I thought we’d found out all there was to find out about Fiona.”
“Her motives. Her accomplices and so on.”
“I’d imagine the Department followed up every lead, Bernard. For months afterwards they were sniffing around everyone who’d even heard of Fiona.”
“Even you?”
“No one is above suspicion in that sort of inquiry, Bernard. I would have thought you’d know that better than anyone. The D-G had the Minister breathing down his neck for week after week. I think that was what made the old man ill.” “Is the D-G really ill?” I said. “Or is it just a stunt so he can retire early or do something else?” Frank and the old man had been together during the war, they were close friends. “Sir Henry’s not around very much is he? They’re probably letting him work out the contract for the sake of his pension. But I can’t see him taking up the reins again.”
“Will Sir Percy take over?”
“No one knows at present. They say the PM is very keen to have someone from outside ... putting one of the younger Law Lords into the driver’s seat might ease the pressure on her to have a Parliamentary Committee sitting in judgment on everything we do.”
Frank’s “Angels on Horseback” arrived; a couple of cooked oysters wrapped in fried bacon and balanced on a triangle of warm toast. Frank liked savouries. At his dinner parties he stubbornly kept to the Victorian tradition of serving such salty, fiery tidbits after the dessert. “Clears a chap’s palate for the port,’ he’d explained to me more than once. Now he ate it with a relish that he’d not shown for anything else except the claret, and said nothing until it was finished and the plate removed. Then he wiped his lips with one of the huge linen napkins and said, “You’re miffed aren’t you, Bernard?”
“I miffed?”
Frank grinned. “You’re put out. Don’t pretend you’re not.”
“Why would I be?” I insisted.
“I’m not such an old fool,” said Frank. “You’re remembering that recently I said Sir Henry hadn’t been to Berlin for many years. Now I’ve told you that he was at the Kempi hosting a supper party and your ears are flapping. Right, Bernard?” “It’s not important,” I said.
“Exactly. The “need to know” principle: the only people told the secrets are those who need to know. Not those who simply want to find out.” He lifted the wine bottle to pour more but the waiter had done it already. The bottle was empty. “A dead soldier!” said Frank holding the bottle aloft. “And dead men tell no tales, eh? So what about a glass of Madeira?” “No more for me, Frank,” I said, “or I’ll fall asleep over my desk.”
“Quite right. What was I saying? Yes, need to know.” “You were telling me not to put my nose into matters not my concern.$ “Not at all. I was simply explaining to you the policy of the Department. I heard that you were on another of your crusades. I’m just trying to convince you that there’s nothing personal about it. Any extra-curricular activities of that sort, by any employee, worries Internal Security.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re not still trying to find a mole?” He smiled again. Frank had a resolute faith in his superiors, providing they had attended the right schools, or done well in the army. For him any such suspicions were genuinely comical. “No, Frank. No, I’m not.”
“I’m on your side, Bernard.”
“I know you are, Frank.”
“But you do have enemies - or perhaps more accurately rivals and I don’t want them to be given an excuse to clobber you.” “Yes.”
“You’re what . . .” he paused no more than a moment, “forty-four last birthday.” So Frank even had my birthdays registered in his memory.
I grunted an affirmative.
“With those two lovely kids you should be thinking more about your career, not seeing how many different ways you can upset the chaps on the top floor.’ Another pause while that sank in. “That’s just a word to the wise, Bernard.” He dropped his napkin on the table and got to his feet to show me that his little lecture was at an end.
“Okay, Frank,” I said. “Strictly need to know, from now onwards and for ever more.”
“That’s a sensible fellow,’ said Frank. “Think of the children, Bernard. They rely on you now that Fiona’s gone.” “I know they do, Frank.”
I hadn’t promised Frank Harrington anything I hadn’t already promised myself. It seemed as if everyone in the Western world was keen to tell me that Bret Rensselaer was clean-cut, upright and true. It would have been stupid in the light of so many reassurances to continue poking and probing into the work he was doing before my wife Fiona defected.
That afternoon I went back to work with renewed vigour. By Thursday my desk - despite a second onslaught from Dicky’s out-tray - was virtually clear. To celebrate my new freedom from extra-curricular detective work I took, Gloria and the children for a weekend in the country. It was the new girl’s first weekend off, having worked for us for no less than six days. We started early Saturday morning. In a ten-acre field near Bath we visited a “Steam Engine Rally”, a collection of ancient steam powered machines: harvesters, roundabouts, tractors and rollers. All working. The children adored every moment of it. Gloria seemed to become even younger and more beautiful.
Despite the constant presence of the children she kept saying how wonderful it was to have me to herself. I think it was the first time that all four of us discovered that we were a family, a happy family. Even twelve-year-old Sally, who’d hitherto shown a certain reserve about Gloria, now embraced her in a way I’d almost stopped hoping for. Billy - usually so prosaic and self-contained - took Gloria for a walk and told her the story of his life, and gave her a few hints and tips on handling the new girl’s “ratty” moods, which seemed to be frequent and varied. I was not optimistic about the girl. Doris, I now realized, wasn’t so bad after all.
On Saturday evening we found Everton, a pretty little village. We had dinner in the hotel. It was a long drive back to London, so on impulse we stayed there overnight. Gloria with feminine foresight had put some overnight things, including the children’s toothbrushes and pyjamas - and even the spare elastic bands Billy had to put on his wired teeth - into a bag in the back of the car. I remembered that weekend for ever afterwards. Gloria’s future education was not discussed. On Sunday morning we all went for a walk across the fields without seeing another living soul. We followed a stream that was filled with fish and ended up in a tiny riverside pub decorated with photos, theatre programmes, playbills and other mementoes of Maria Callas. We drank a bottle of Pol Roger. Billy got very muddy and Sally picked flowers. Gloria told me that it could be like this for ever and ever, and I allowed myself to believe her. The children were growing up so- fast that I could hardly reconcile this tall young fellow walking alongside me with the child that Billy had been only a few months ago. “Girls don’t understand about moving,” he said, as if continuing a conversation we’d already started, although in fact we’d been giving all our attention to the prospect of scrambling across a stream. “Sally you mean?”
“Yes, , she had these special friends at her school in Marylebone.”
“More special than your friends?” I said.
“It’s all right now. She likes it at the new place. Girls only want to talk about clothes,” said Billy, “so it hardly matters where she is.”
“And what about you?”
“I’m going to join the Vintage Car Club.”
I concealed my surprise. “Are you old enough? Don’t you have to have a car?”
“They will probably let me help ... fixing the engines and pumping up the tyres.” He looked at me. “I like our new house, Dad. So does Sally. So don’t worry about us.”
“I’ll go first,” I said and I took his arm and swung him across the water. He was heavy, damned heavy. I would never carry him on my shoulder again.
Now it was Billy’s turn to extend a hand to me. And when I’d negotiated the steep muddy bank he said, “I saw Grandpa the other day.”
“Grandpa?”