'Don't give me all that crap,' I said. 'You left the building with Rensselaer at seven-fifteen. You were in his Bentley when he drove out of the garage. Then I discovered he'd left the reception desk at the Connaught as his contact number for the night-duty officer.'
'You haven't lost your touch, darling,' she said with ice in every syllable. 'Once a field man, always a field man – isn't that what they say?'
'It's what people like Cruyer and Rensselaer say. It's what people say when they are trying to put down the people who do the real work.'
'Well, now it's paid off for you,' she said. 'Now all your old expertise has enabled you to discover that I had dinner at the Connaught with Bret Rensselaer.'
'So why do you have to lie to me?'
'What lies? I told you I had to do some work for Rensselaer. We had dinner – a good dinner, with wine – but we were talking shop.'
'About what?'
She pushed past me into the front room and through into the dining room that opened from it in what designers call 'open plan'. She picked up the clean plates and cutlery that had been left for me. 'You know better than to ask me that.' She went into the kitchen.
I followed her as she put the plates on a shelf in the dresser. 'Because it's so secret?'
'It's confidential,' she said. 'Don't you have work that is too confidential to talk to me about?'
'Not in the grillroom of the Connaught, I don't.'
'So you even know which room we were in. You've done your homework tonight, haven't you.'
'What was I supposed to do while you're having dinner with the boss? Am I supposed to eat cold chicken and watch TV?'
'You were supposed to be having a beer with a friend, and then collecting the children from their visit to my parents' house.'
'Oh, my God! I forgot. 'I clean forgot about the children,' I admitted.
'I phoned mother. I guessed you'd forget. She gave them supper and brought them here in a minicab. It's all right.'
'Good old Mum-in-law,' I said.
'You don't have to be bloody sarcastic about my mother,' said Fiona. 'It's bad enough trying to have an argument about Bret.'
'Let's drop it,' I said.
'Do what you like,' said Fiona. 'I've had enough talk for one night.' She switched off the light in the dining room, then opened the door of the dishwasher, closed it again, and turned it on. The sprays of the dishwasher beat on its steel interior like a Wagnerian drumroll. The noise made conversation impossible.
When I came from the bathroom, I expected to see Fiona tucked into the pillow and feigning sleep; she did that sometimes after we'd had a row. But this time she was sitting up in bed, reading some large tome with the distinctive cheap binding of the Department's library. She wanted to remind me that she was a dedicated wage slave.
As I undressed, I tried a fresh, friendly tone of voice. 'What did Bret want?'
'I wish you wouldn't keep on about it.'
There's nothing between you, is there?'
She laughed. It was a derisory laugh. 'You suspect me… with Bret Rensselaer? He's nearly as old as my father.'
'He was probably older than the father of that cipher clerk – Jennie something – who left just before Christmas.'
Fiona raised her eyes from her book; this was the sort of thing that interested her. 'You don't think she…? With Bret, you mean?'
'Internal Security sent someone to find out why she'd left without giving proper notice. She said she'd been having an affair with Bret. He'd told her they were through.'
'Good grief,' said Fiona. 'Poor Bret. I suppose the D-G had to be told.'
'The D-G was pleased to hear the girl had proper security clearance, and that was that.'
'How broad-minded of the old man. I'd have thought he would have been furious. Still, Bret isn't married. His wife left him, didn't she?'
'The suggestion was that Bret had sinned before.'
'And always with someone with proper security clearance. Well, good for Bret. So that's why you thought…' She laughed again. It was a genuine laugh this time. She closed her book but kept a finger in the page. 'He's going through the regular routine about the danger of security lapses.'
'I told him about Giles Trent,' I said. 'I kept Tessa out of it.'
'Bret has decided to talk to everyone personally,' said Fiona.
'Surely Bret doesn't suspect you?'
Fiona smiled. 'No, darling. Bret didn't take me to the Connaught to interrogate me over the bones of the last of this season's woodcock. He spent the evening talking about you.'
'About me?'
'And in due course of time he will take you aside and ask about me. You know how it works, darling. You've been at this business longer than I have.' She put a marker in her book before laying it aside.
'Oh, for Christ's sake.'
'If you don't believe me, darling, ask Bret.'
'I might do that,' I said. She waited until I got into bed, and then switched out the lights. 'I thought there was protein in cheese,' I said. She didn't answer.
9
Dicky Cruyer was in Bret Rensselaer's office when they sent for me on Wednesday. Cruyer had his thumbs stuck in the back pockets of his jeans and his curly head was tilted to one side as if he were listening for some distant sound.
Rensselaer was in his swivel chair, arms folded and feet resting on a leather stool. These relaxed postures were studied, and I guessed that the two of them had taken up their positions when they heard me at the door. It was a bad sign. Rensselaer 's folded arms and Cruyer's akimbo stance had that sort of aggression I'd seen in interrogating teams.
'Bernard!' said Dicky Cruyer in a tone of pleasant surprise, as if I'd just dropped in for tea, rather than kept them waiting for thirty minutes in response to the third of his calls. Rensselaer watched us dispassionately, like a passing taxicab passenger might watch two men at a bus stop. 'Looks like another jaunt to Big B,' said Dicky.
'Is that so?' I said without enthusiasm. Bret was jacket less. This slim figure in white shirt, bow tie and waistcoat looked like the sort of Mississippi riverboat gambler who broke into song for the final reel.
'Not through the wire, or anything tricky,' said Dicky. 'Just a call into our office. An East German has just knocked on Frank Harrington's door with a bagful of paper and demands to be sent to London. Won't talk to our Berlin people, Frank tells me.' Dicky Cruyer ran his finger through his curls before nodding seriously at Rensselaer.
'Another crank,' I said.
'Is that what you think, Bernard?' said Rensselaer with that earnest sincerity I'd learned to disregard.
'What kind of papers?' I asked Dicky.
'Right,' said Cruyer. But he didn't answer my question.
Rensselaer took his time about describing the papers. 'Interesting stuff,' he stated cautiously. 'Most of it from here. The minutes of a meeting the D-G had with some Foreign Office senior staff, an appraisal of our success in tapping diplomatic lines out of London, part of a report on our use of US enciphering machines… A mixed bag but it's worth attention. Right?'
'Well worth our attention, Bret,' I said.
'What's that supposed to mean?' said Cruyer.
'For anyone who believes in Santa Claus,' I added.
'You mean it's a KGB stunt?' said Rensselaer. 'Yes, that's probably it.' Cruyer looked at him, disconcerted by his change of attitude. 'On the other hand,' said Rensselaer, 'it's something we ignore at our peril. Wouldn't you agree, Bernard?'
I didn't answer.
Dicky Cruyer moved his hands to grip the large brass buckle of his leather cowboy belt. 'Berlin Resident is worried – damned worried.'
'Old Frank is always worried,' I said. 'He can be an old woman, we all know that.'
'Frank's had a lot to worry about since he took over,' said Rensselaer, to put his loyalty to his subordinates on record. But he didn't deny that Frank Harrington, our senior man in Berlin, could be an old woman.
'All stuff from here?' I said. 'Identifiably from here? Verbatim? Copies of our documents? From here how?'