I looked at him. Now both of us knew it wasn't true. Frank smiled.
Then Bret Rensselaer came back from the phone, and I said, 'Nine of them; they just came through Checkpoint Charlie. They'll be here at any time.' Behind Bret there was a German kid — Peter — who'd been assigned to provide Bret's personal protection. He was a nice kid, but he took it too seriously, and now he wouldn't let Bret out of his sight.
Bret nodded and joined us for a moment at the window before sinking into one of the soft grey suede armchairs. The VIP suite at the Steigenberger runs the whole length of the building, but the entrance to it is inconspicuous, and many of the hotel's residents don't even know it exists. For that reason the suite is used for top-level meetings both commercial and political and by publicity-shunning tycoons, politicians, and film stars. There's a dining room at one end and an elegant office area at the other. In between there's a TV lounge, sitting room, bedrooms, and even a small room where the waiters can open champagne and prepare canap
é
s.
Champagne and canap
é
s were ready for the KGB party, but higher on the list of priorities were the extra locks, the security devices and doors that close off this part of the top floor, and the suite's private elevator that would enable the KGB delegates to arrive and depart without mixing with the other hotel guests.
'What is their weakest point?' said Bret, speaking from behind us as if talking to himself. Bret had recovered some of his confidence by now. He had the American talent for bouncing back; all he'd needed was a hot shower, clean linen, and the sports pages of the
Herald Tribune
.
I didn't answer, but Frank said, 'Fiona.'
'Fiona?' Did I hear resentment in Bret's voice? Was there a proprietorial tone that came from some affection Bret still had for her? 'Fiona is their weakest point? What do you mean, Frank?'
Frank turned around and went and sat in the armchair opposite Bret. Ever since I'd brought Bret into Frank's house in Grunewald there had been a distance, almost a coldness, between the two men. I couldn't decide to what extent it was a latent hostility and to what extent it was embarrassment, a sign of Frank's concern for the humiliation that Bret was suffering.
Frank said, 'She is a latecomer to their organization. Some of them probably still view her with suspicion; no doubt all of them have some kind of hostility towards her.'
'Is that view based upon received reports?' said Bret.
'She's a foreigner,' said Frank. 'Putting her in charge over there means that everyone's promotion expectations are lessened. Compare her position with ours. We've all known each other many years. We know what we can expect from each other, both in terms of help and hindrance. She is isolated. She has no long-term allies. She has no experience of what actions or opinions can be expected from her colleagues. She is constantly under the microscope; everyone around her will be trying to find fault with what she does. Everything she says will be examined, syllable for syllable, by people who are not in sympathy with what she's doing.'
'She's a Moscow appointment,' said Bret. Again there was some indefinable note of something that might have been affection or even pride. Bret looked at me, but I looked at my drink.
Frank said, 'All the more reason why the staff in her Berlin office will resent her.'
'So what are you proposing?' Bret asked Frank.
'We must give her the opportunity to negotiate while separated from the rest of her people. We must give her a chance to speak without being overheard.'
'That won't be easy, Frank,' I said. 'You know why they send such big teams. They don't trust anyone to be alone with us.'
'We must find a way,' said Frank. 'Bernard must move the chat onto a domestic plane. There must be something he could talk to her about.'
'Talk about the kids,' said Bret. I could cheerfully have throttled him, but I smiled instead.
'She might have thought all this out for herself,' said Frank, who also knew Fiona well. 'She might get time alone with us by some ruse of her own.'
'And what about us?' said Bret. 'What's our weakest point?' Peter, his bodyguard, watched Bret all the time and tried to follow the conversation.
'That's easy,' said Frank. 'Our weakest point is Werner Volkmann.' Frank's dislike of Werner was based upon the affair Frank had had with Werner's wife, Zena. Guilt breeds resentment; Frank disliked Werner because he'd cuckolded him.
'Werner's name hasn't even been mentioned,' said Bret. 'At least, that's what Bernard told us.'
'I'm sure Bernard told us the truth,' said Frank. 'But they're holding Werner Volkmann, and Werner is Bernard's very closest friend. They know what we want in return.'
'What we are
pretending
to want in return, Frank,' I said. 'Our real benefit is revealing to London Central that Stinnes is Moscow's man who's trying to frame Bret and make trouble for everyone else. We have to do that without Moscow realizing what our true purpose is. Making them release Werner is a convenient smokescreen.'
Frank smiled at what he regarded as my rationalization. He thought Werner was my real motive for setting this one up. But Frank was wrong. I wouldn't let either of them discover my real motive. My real motive was my children.
'Bernard!' All of a sudden my wife came walking through the door. 'What a glorious suite. Did you choose it?' A cold smile, just in case anyone thought she was sincere.
She stood there as if expecting the usual kiss, but I hesitated, then extended my hand. She shook it with a mocking grin. 'Hello, Fi,' I said. She was dressed in a grey woollen dress. It was simple but expensive. She was not living like a worker, but like the ones who told the workers what they were allowed to do.
'Hello Frank; hello Bret,' she said. Fiona smiled at them and shook hands. She was in charge of the party and she was determined to show it. This was her first official visit to the West. Looking back afterwards I realized that despite our reassurances, she was wondering if we were going to arrest her. But she carried it off with the same brisk confidence with which she did everything. Her hair was different. She'd let it grow and taken it back into a sort of bun. It was the sort of hair style that Hollywood might provide for a Communist official in the sort of movie where she takes off her glasses, lets her hair down, and becomes a capitalist in the last reel.
Ninotchka
. But I saw no sign of Fiona shedding the chrysalis of Communism. Indeed, if appearances were any guide, it seemed to suit her.
After everyone had shaken hands with everyone, a waiter — that is to say, one of our people, armed but dressed as a waiter — served drinks. Frank offered champagne. He'd bet me five pounds that they wouldn't accept it. He'd got some Russian white wine in the cooler anticipating that they'd ask for something like that, just to be difficult. But Fiona said champagne would be wonderful, and after that, they all said they'd have champagne. Except me; I had another scotch.
There were not nine of them in the room. Two armed KGB men were in the lobby, another was assigned to help the drivers make sure no one tampered with the cars, and someone was supervising the use of the private elevator. There were three actual negotiators and two clerks. The only one I knew, besides Fiona, was Pavel Moskvin, whose path kept crossing mine. He shed his ankle-length black overcoat and dumped it onto the sofa. He stared at me. I smiled and he looked away.
There was a much younger man with their party, a blond man of about twenty-five, wearing the kind of suit that KGB men wore if they couldn't get out of Moscow. He must have been on the teaching machines, for his German and English were perfect and accentless and he even made little jokes. But he was very much in Fiona's pocket and he watched her all the time in case she wanted something done. Alongside him was the third negotiator; a white-haired man who did nothing but frown.
'I hope you agree that tune is the vital factor,' said Bret. It was his show; Frank had agreed to that right from the start. Bret had most to lose. If the meeting was going to become a fiasco, then Bret would have only himself to blame. And no doubt Frank would toss him to the wolves in a desperate attempt to save himself. Where would Frank's explanation leave me? I wondered.
'Yes,' said Fiona. 'May we take notes?'
Bret said, 'So we thought we'd break the meeting up into one-to-one discussions. The prime discussion will be about your man Stinnes. We can discuss procedure at the same time, in the hope that we'll reach agreement. Are you the senior officer?'
'Yes,' said Fiona. She drank some champagne. She knew what was coming, of course, but she kept very serious.
'Our senior negotiator is Mr Samson,' said Bret.
There was a long silence. Pavel Moskvin didn't like it. He'd not touched his champagne, which was going flat on the dining table. He showed his hostility by folding his arms and scowling. 'What do you think,
Colonel
Moskvin?' Fiona asked. Colonel Moskvin, was it . . . look out, Major Stinnes, I thought.
'Better we all stay together,' said Moskvin. 'No tricks.'
'Very well,' said Bret. He motioned for them to sit at the circular dining table. The waiter topped up the glasses. The blond youth put his chair behind Fiona so that he could sit with his notepad on his knee.
'What is it you want?' said Moskvin, as if trying to take over from Fiona, who sat back and said nothing. His folded arms strained his jacket across the back and showed where he had a pistol stowed under his armpit.
'We have your man Stinnes,' said Bret. 'It was a good try but it failed. So far we've held the press at bay, but there's a limit to how long we can do that.' The blond youth translated for Moskvin. Moskvin nodded.
'Is that why you brought him to Berlin?' said Fiona.
'Partly. But the Germans have newspapers too. Once the story breaks, we'll have no alternative but to hand him over to the DPP and then it's out of our hands.'
'DPP?' said Moskvin. 'What is this?' Obviously he could understand enough English to follow most of what was said.
'The Director of Public Prosecutions,' said Bret. The British state prosecutor. It's another department. We have no control over it.'
'And in return?' said Fiona.
'You've arrested Werner Volkmann,' I said.
'Have we?' said Fiona. It was very Russian.
'I haven't come here to waste time,' I said.
My remark seemed to anger her. 'No,' she said with a quiet voice that throbbed with hatred and resentment. 'You have come here to discuss the fate of Erich Stinnes, a good and loyal comrade who was shamelessly kidnapped by your terrorists, despite his diplomatic status. And who, according to our sources, has been systematically starved and tortured in an attempt to make him betray his country.' Fiona had quickly mastered the syntax of the Party.
It was quite a speech and I was tempted to reply sarcastically, but I didn't. I looked at Frank. We both knew now that I was right, and I could see the relief in Frank's face. If the official KGB line was going to be that Erich Stinnes had been kidnapped, starved, and tortured, Stinnes would be reinstated in his KGB rank and position. Even the most thick-skulled men in London would then have to accept the fact that Stinnes had been planted to make trouble. 'Let's not make this meeting a forum for political bickering,' I said. 'Werner Volkmann for Major Stinnes; straight swap.'
'Where is Comrade Stinnes?' said Fiona.
'Here in Berlin. Where's Werner?'
'Checkpoint Charlie,' said Fiona. It was strange how after all these years the Communists still used the US Army name for it.
'Fit and well?'
'Do you want to send someone over to see him?' she asked.
'We have someone at Checkpoint Charlie. Shall we agree to do that while we go on talking?' I asked. She looked at Moskvin. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
'Very well. And Comrade Stinnes?' said Fiona. I looked at Bret. The exchange was Bret's worry.
'We have him here in the hotel,' said Bret. 'But you must nominate one of your number to see him. One. I can't let you all go.' Good old Bret. I didn't know he had it in him, but he'd pipped that one on the wing.
'I will go,' said Fiona. Moskvin was not pleased, but there was little he could do about it. If he objected, she'd send him and then she'd still have a chance of speaking to me in private.
Erich Stinnes was in a suite along the corridor. Frank's men had virtually abducted him from Berwick House waving authorizations and a chit signed by Bret in his capacity as chairman of the committee, a position which technically he still held. But I took us to an empty suite next door to the one where Stinnes was being held.