"Spy Hook" - читать интересную книгу автора (Deighton Len)

15

Disorientated and jet-lagged, my mind reeling with memories, I slept badly that night. That damned house was never quiet, not even in the small hours. Not only was there the relentless whine and hum of machinery close by but I heard footsteps outside my open window and muttered words in that thick accented Spanish that Mexican expatriates acquire in Southern California. I closed the window, but from behind the house there came the sounds of guard dogs crashing through the undergrowth and throwing their weight against the tall chainlink fence that surrounded the house and kept the animals in the outer perimeter. Perhaps the animals sensed the coming storm, for soon after that came the crash of thunder, gusting winds and rain beating on the window and drumming against the metal pool furniture on the patio.

The storm passed over rapidly, as storms out of the Pacific so often do, and about four o'clock in the morning a new series of loud buzzes and resonant droning of some nearby machines began. It was no good, I couldn't sleep. I got up to search for the source of the noise. Dressed in one of the smart towelling robes that Mrs O'Raffety thoughtfully provided for her guests, I explored the whitewashed corridor. Here were doors to the pantry, the larder, the kitchen and various store rooms. The main lighting was not working – perhaps the storm had caused a failure – but low-wattage emergency lights were bright enough for me to see the way.

I passed the boiler room and the fuse boxes and the piled cartons of bottled water that Mrs O'Raffety believed was so good for the digestion. The mechanical sounds grew louder as I got to the low wooden door next to the kitchen servery. The key was left in a big brass-bound lock. By now I'd come far enough around the house to be behind the guest rooms.

I opened the door and stepped cautiously inside. The hum of machinery was louder now and I could see a short flight of worn steps leading down into a low-ceilinged cellar. Along one wall there were four control panels lit with flickering numbers and programs. The glimmer of orange light from them was enough to reflect the large puddle that had formed on the uneven flagstones of the floor. It was the laundry room, with a battery of washing and drying machines. On the top of one of the dryers there was an empty beer can and some cigarette butts. The machines were aligned along the wall that I guessed must back on to mine. From somewhere close by I heard a cough and an exclamation of anger. It was one of the Mexicans.

I went past the machines to find another room: the door was ajar and there was bright light inside. I opened the door. Four men were seated round a table playing cards: three Mexicans and Buddy. He was wearing his stetson. It was tilted well forward over his brow. There was money on the table, some cans of beer and a bottle of whisky. Propped against the wall there was a pump-handle shotgun. The machinery sounded loud in here but the men seemed to be inured to it.

'Hi there, Bernard. I knew it was you,' murmured Buddy. He hadn't looked up from his cards. The three Mexicans had turned their heads and were studying me with a passive but unwelcoming curiosity. All three of them were men in their mid-thirties; tough-looking men with close-cropped hair and weather-beaten faces. 'Want to sit in?'

'No,' I said. 'I couldn't sleep.'

'I wouldn't go strolling around at this time of night,' said Buddy, rearranging the cards he was holding. 'The night-shift guards are too damned trigger-happy.'

'Is that so?' I said.

Now, for the first time, he looked up and studied me with the same discontent that he'd given to his hand of cards. 'Yes, Bernard. It is so.' He wet his lips. 'We had a break-in last month. Some young punk got past our little soldiers, over the outer fence, past the dogs, cut his way through the inner fence using bolt-cutters, opened the security bolt on Mr Rensselaer's office, and tried to lever open the goddamned desk. How do you like that! Mrs O'Raffety fired the whole army. She said they were asleep or drunk or spaced-out or something. She's wrong about that, but new brooms sweep clean. These new recruits are hungry, and raring to do things right. Know what I mean?'

'I didn't know Mr Rensselaer had an office,' I said.

'A kind of sitting room,' amended Buddy and shrugged. 'If you want to see my cards…'

'No,' I said. 'No, I don't.'

'These guys are taking me to the cleaners,' complained Buddy light-heartedly. He poured himself a drink and swallowed it quickly.

'What happened to the kid?' I said.

'The kid? Oh, the punk who got in. I'm not sure, but he won't be operating bolt-cutters in the foreseeable future. An excited soldado with a shotgun was a bit too close. Both barrels. He'd lost a lot of blood by the time we got him to the hospital. And then of course there was hassle about whether he had Blue Cross insurance before they'd take a look at him.'

'That was a tough decision for you,' I said.

'Nothing tough about it,' said Buddy. 'I'll make damn sure Mrs O'Raffety doesn't find herself paying the medical bills for any stiff who comes up here to rob her. It was bad enough clearing up the blood, and repairing the damage he did. So I told the night nurse I found him bleeding on the highway, and I had these guys with me to say the same.' He nodded at the three Mexicans.

'You think of everything, Buddy.'

He looked up and smiled. 'You know something, Bernard. That joker wasn't carrying a weapon, and that's darned unusual in these parts. He had a camera in his pocket. Olympus: a darn good camera too, I've still got it somewhere. A macro lens and loaded with slow black and white film. That's the kind of outfit you'd need to photograph a document. I said that to Mr Rensselaer at the time but he just smiled and said maybe.'

'I'll try sleeping again.'

'What about a shot of Scotch?'

'No thanks,' I said. I'm trying to give it up.'

I went back to bed and put a pillow over my head to keep the sound of the machines from my ears. It was getting light when eventually I went to sleep. A deep sleep from which I was roused by the buzzing of my little alarm clock.

The next morning brought a sudden taste of winter. The temperature had dropped, so that I went digging into my bag for a sweater. The Pacific Ocean was greenish-grey with dirty white crests that broke off the waves to make a trail of spray. Overhead the dark clouds were low enough to skim the tops of the hills, and even the water in the pool had lost its clarity and colour.

Time passed slowly. The London plane was not due to depart until the early evening. It was too cold to sit outside, and there was nowhere to go walking, for beyond the wire the dogs ran free. I swam in the heated pool which steamed like soup in the cold air. By ten o'clock the rain had started again. I drank lots of coffee and read old issues of National Geographic Magazine. The 'family room' was big, with dark oak beams in the ceiling and a life-size painting, in Modigliani style, of Mrs O'Raffety in a flouncy pink dress. Mrs O'Raffety was there in person, and so were Bret and Buddy. There was not much talking. A jumbo-sized TV, tuned to a football game, had been wheeled into position before us. No one watched it but it provided an excuse for not speaking.

We sat sprawling on long chintz-covered sofas, arranged around a low oak table. On it there stood a gigantic array of flowers in an ornamental bowl that bore the gold sticker of a Los Angeles florist. In a huge stone fireplace some large logs burned brightly, their flames fanned by the wind that howled in the chimney and was still fierce enough to whip the palm fronds.

Both Mrs O'Raffety and Bret missed lunch. Buddy and I ate hamburgers and Caesar salad from trays that we balanced on our knees as we all sat round the fire. They were huge burgers, as good as I've ever tasted, with about half a pound of beef in each one. But Buddy only picked at his meal. He said he'd slept badly. He said he was sick but he managed to eat all his French fries.

Outside the weather got worse and worse all morning until the grey cloud reached down and enveloped us, cutting visibility to almost nothing, and Mrs O'Raffety made Buddy phone the airport to be sure the planes were still flying.

For the rest of the afternoon Mrs O'Raffety – in red trousers and long pink crocheted top – exchanged small talk with her son-in-law, politely including me in the exchanges whenever a chance came along. Bret turned his head as if to show interest in what was said but contributed very little. He looked older and more frail. Buddy had confided that Bret had bad days and this was obviously one of them. His face was lined and haggard. His clothes – dark blue open-neck linen shirt, dark trousers and polished shoes – worn in response to the colder weather emphasized his age.

Mrs O'Raffety said, 'Are you sure you can't stay another day, Mr Samson? It's such a pity to come to Southern California and just stay overnight.'

'Maybe Mr Samson has a family,' said Buddy.

'Yes,' I said. 'Two children, a boy and a girl.'

'Do they swim?' said Mrs O'Raffety.

'More or less,' I said.

'You should have brought them,' she said in that artless way that rich people have of overlooking financial obstacles. 'Wouldn't they just love that pool.'

'It's a wonderful place you have here,' I said.

She smiled and pushed back the sleeves of her open-work jumper in a nervous mannerism that was typical of her. 'Bret used to call it "paradise off the bone",' she said sadly. It was impossible to miss the implication that Bret was not calling it that these days.

Bret made a real attempt to smile but got stuck about halfway through trying. 'Why "off the bone"?' I asked.

'Like fish in a restaurant,' she explained. 'Every little thing done for you. Enjoy. Enjoy.'

Bret looked at me: I smiled. Bret scowled. Bret said, 'For God's sake, Bernard, come to your senses.' His voice was quiet but the bitterness of his tone was enough to make Mrs O'Raffety stare at him in surprise.

'Whatever are you talking about, Bret?' she said.

But he gave no sign of having heard her. His eyes fixed on me and the expression on his face was fiercer than I'd ever seen before. His voice was a growl. 'You goddamn pinbrain! Search your mind! Search your mind!' He got up from his low seat and then walked from the room.

No one said anything. Bret's outburst had embarrassed Mrs O'Raffety, and Buddy took his cues from her. They sat there looking at the flower arrangement as if they'd not heard Bret and not noticed nun get up and leave.

It was a long time before she spoke. Then she said, 'Bret resents his infirmity. I remember him at high school: a lion! Such an active man all his life… it's so difficult for him to adjust to being sick.'

'Is he often angry like this?' I asked.

'No,' said Buddy. 'Your visit seems to have upset him.'

'Of course it hasn't,' said Mrs O'Raffety, who knew how to be the perfect hostess. 'It's just that meeting Mr Samson makes Bret remember the times when he was fit and well.'

'Some days he's just fine,' said Buddy. He reached for the coffee pot that was keeping hot on the serving trolley. 'More?'

'Thanks,' I said.

'Sure,' said Buddy. 'And some days I see him standing by the pool with an expression on his face so that I think he's going to throw himself in and stay under.'

'Buddy! How can you say such a thing?'

I'm sorry Mrs O'Raffety but it's true.'

'He has to find himself,' said Mrs O'Raffety.

'Sure,' said Buddy, hastily trying to assuage his employer's alarm. 'He has to find himself. That's what I mean.'

We took the coast road back. Buddy wasn't feeling so good and so one of the servants – Joey, a small belligerent little Mexican who'd been playing cards the previous night – was driving Buddy's jeep and leaning forward staring into the white mist and muttering that we should have taken the canyon road and gone inland to the Freeway instead.

'Buddy should be doing this himself,' complained the driver for the hundredth time. 'I don't like this kind of weather.' The fog rolled in from the Ocean and swirled around us so that sudden glimpses of the highway opened up and were as quickly gone.

'Buddy felt ill,' I said. Car headlights flashed past. A dozen black leather motorcyclists went with suicidal disregard into the white wall of fog, and were swallowed up with such suddenness that even the sound of the bikes was gone.

'Ill!' said Joey. 'Drunk, you mean.' The rain was suddenly fiercer. The grey shapes of enormous trucks came looming from the white gloom, adorned with a multitude of little orange lights, like ships lit up for a regatta.

When I didn't respond Joey said, 'Mrs O'Raffety doesn't know but she'll find out.'

'Doesn't know what?'

'That he's a lush. That guy puts down a fifth of bourbon like it's Coca Cola. He's been doing that ever since his wife dumped him.'

'Poor Buddy,' I said.

'The sonuvabitch deserves all he gets.'

'Is that so?' I said.

In response to my unasked question Joey looked at me and grinned. 'I'm leaving next week. I'm going to work for my brother-in-law in San Diego. Buddy can shove his job.'

A few miles short of Malibu we were stopped by a line of flares burning bright in the roadway. Haifa dozen big trucks were parked at the roadside. A man in a tan-coloured shirt emerged from the mist. Los Angeles County Sheriff said the badge on his arm. With him there were two Highway Patrol cops in yellow oilskins; a big fellow and a girl. They were all very wet.

'Pull over,' the cop told Joey, pointing to the roadside.

'What's wrong?' The slap and buzz of the wipers seemed unnaturally loud. 'A slide?'

'Behind the white Caddie.' The man from the Sheriffs Office indicated an open patch of ground where several patient drivers were parked and waiting for the road to be cleared. The cop's face was running with rainwater that dropped from the peak of his cap, his shirt was black with rain. He wasn't in the mood for a long discussion.

'We've got a plane to catch: international,' said Joey.

The cop looked at him with a blank expression. 'Just let the ambulance through.' The cop squeegeed the water from his face, using the edge of his hand.

'What happened?'

The ambulance moved slowly past. The cop spoke like a swimmer too, in brief breathless sentences. 'A big truck – artic – jack-knifed. No way you'll get past.'

'Any other route we can take?' Joey asked.

'Sure but you'd add an hour to your trip.' The cop squinted into the rain. 'LAX, you say? There are a couple of guys in a big old Lincoln limo. They said they were going to turn around and head back downtown. They'd maybe take your passenger.'

'Where are they?'

'Other side of the wreck. Maybe they left already but I could try.' He switched on his transceiver. There was a burst of static and the cop said, That big dark blue limo still there, Pete?'

There was a scarcely intelligible affirmative from the radio. The cop said, 'Ask them if they'd take someone in a hurry to get to LAX.'

With bag in hand I picked my way past a line of cars and the monster-sized truck that was askew across the highway and completely blocked the road both ways. I found the limousine waiting for me and by that time – despite my plastic raincoat – I was very wet too.

The man beside the driver got out into the heavy rain and opened the rear door for me, and that's the kind of thing you do only if you've got a job you are determined to keep. Now I could see the man in the back: a short thickset man with a rotund belly. He wore an expensive three-piece dark blue suit – gold pocket watch chain well evidenced – and a shirt with a gold collar pin below the tight knot of a very conservative striped tie. It was too Wall Street for the Pacific Coast Highway, where pants and matching jackets went out of fashion with laced corsets and high hats.

'Bernie. Jump in,' said the well dressed man in the back. His voice was low, soft and attractive; like his car.

I hesitated no more than a moment. Wet, stranded and without transport I was in no position to decline and Posh Harry knew that. He smiled a welcome that had an element of smug satisfaction in it, and revealed a lot of teeth and some expensive dentistry. I climbed in beside him. Or as beside him as I had to be on a soft leather seat wide enough for four.

'What's the game?' I said. I was angry at the simple trick.

'Take Mr Samson's bag,' Posh Harry told the man in the front seat.

'It's valuable,' I protested.

'Valuable,' scoffed Harry. 'What do you think is going to happen to it? You think I've got some dwarf hidden in the trunk to ransack your baggage on the way to the airport?'

'Maybe,' I said.

'Maybe!' He laughed. 'Did you hear that?' he asked the men in the front. 'This guy is a real pro. From this one you could learn a thing or two.' And then, in case they were taking him seriously, he laughed. 'So nurse the bag, Bernie, if that's the way you prefer it. Let's go, driver! This man has a plane to catch.'

'You didn't do all this just for me?' I asked cautiously. But how could they have collared me so neatly without positioning the truck as well?

'Not my style, baby,' said Posh Harry. He paused before adding, 'But my boss: it sure is her style!'

One of the men in the front laughed softly enough not to interrupt but loud enough to be heard.

'Her?' I said.

'We got a female Station Chief here. You mean you hadn't heard? Yup. We've got a "Chieftess" running things.' He laughed.

'A woman!'

He waved a manicured hand in a dismissive gesture of impatience. 'You guys in London know all that stuff. It was in the monthly briefing last September.'

'In London there were bets on which one of your LA men was calling himself Brigette,' I said.

'You bastard!' said Harry. He sniggered.

The driver said, 'Right on! Half those young guys in the office have got earrings and permanent waves. Faggots!'

'It was Brigette's idea,' insisted Harry. 'I told her I knew you. I wanted to phone Bret and keep it all cool but she had her mind all made up. She said we'd have to pay for the truck rental anyway. The ambulance was her idea: a nice touch huh? It was all fixed up by then so she insisted we go ahead. Not like the old days, eh Bernie?'

'Is that her real name: Brigette?'

'She's a hard-nosed little lady,' said Harry with respect. 'She runs that office… I mean those guys jump. Not like the old days, Bernie. I mean it.'

'So what's this really about then?' I said, now that the mandatory exchange about the CIA's first female Station Chief was over and done with.

'It's about Bret,' said Posh Harry. 'It's about Bret Rensselaer.' Delicately he scratched his cheek with the nail of his little finger so that I saw his starched linen cuffs and the gold cuff-links. His complexion was yellow enough to suggest Japanese blood but his hands were paler. And his nails were carefully manicured. It was in line with his natty appearance. I'd never seen him anything but perfectly haircut and shaved with talc on his chin and a discreet smell of aftershave in the air. His clothes were always new looking and a perfect fit, so that he was like a carefully assembled plastic toy. Perhaps it says more about me -or about the gangster films of my childhood – that I always saw in his polished appearance a certain hint of menace.

'Yeah?' I said.

'The word is, that you have some kind of feud – some land of private vendetta – with Bret.' Very serious now: with the smile gone, hands loosely clasped across his belly like a temple Buddha taking a day off.

'And?'

'Private vendettas don't get the rent paid. Vendettas are turn-offs, Bernie. Bad news for Bret: bad news for you: bad news for London and bad news for us.'

'Who's "us"?'

'Don't put me through the mangle, baby; the laundry's dried and aired. You know who us is. Us is the Company.'

'And what in hell has it got to do with you?'

Hand raised in a gesture of pacification. 'Did I handle this all wrong? Maybe we could start over? Right?'

I'm not likely to get out and walk,' I said.

'No. Sure.' He sat well back in his seat and watched me from under lowered eyelids as he picked up the pieces of good will and figured how to glue it all back together again. Posh Harry was pretty good at that kind of thing. For years he'd been a Mr Fixit, working both sides of the street, and he only got paid when everyone was happy.

We drove on in silence. I put my bag between my feet and turned away to watch the rain falling on the millionaires' shacks that line this part of the beach. Here and there I saw groups of surfers in shiny black rubber wet-suits. Anyone crazy enough to go looking for big waves in the Pacific Ocean was not deterred by bad weather.

I sat back in my seat and stole a glance at Posh Harry. I'd heard that he'd taken a permanent job with the CIA. Some said he'd never been anything but then – paid mouthpiece, but I doubted that. I'd known him a long time. I'd watched him scratching a living in that shady world where secret information is bought and sold like gilts and pork bellies. He'd always been something of an enigma, an Hawaiian who'd taken to Europe in a way that few strangers ever do. Posh Harry's mastery of the German language – grammar, pronunciation and idiom – belied the rather casual, relaxed demeanour he liked to display. Adult foreigners who will devote enough time and energy to acquire German like this have to be dedicated, demented or Dutch.

'Why would you care?' I asked him. 'What's Bret to you?'

'They like him,' said Harry.

'Brigette you mean?'

'I mean Washington,' he said.

'Is Bret so important to the boys in Langley?' I asked very casually.

Like a scalded cat he jumped aside from the implication of that one. 'Don't get me wrong,' said Harry. 'Bret is not a CIA employee and he never has been.' There was an old-fashioned formality about that statement and about the way he said it.

'Everyone keeps telling me that,' I said. By 'everyone' I meant Posh Harry. We'd been all through this years ago.

With ostentatious patience he said, 'Everyone keeps telling you that because it's true.'

' Washington?'

'Will you listen, Bernard. Bret is not – repeat not – an Agency employee. We know nothing about what Bret does for you. I wish the hell we did.'

'Did you put someone over the fence there last month, Harry? Was that one of your people trying to get a line on Bret?'

Harry looked at me for a moment and then said, 'Someone got shot up there. An intruder was hurt bad. Yes, I heard about that.'

'A friendly Agency gumshoe dropping in to pass the time of day? Off the record,' I coaxed. 'Was that one of yours?'

But Harry would not be coaxed into an admission like that. 'I'm not talking about the Agency; I'm talking about Capitol Hill, Bret's got some good friends there. His family deploy a lot of muscle in that town. They won't stand by while Bret is smeared.'

'While Bret is smeared? Harry, I wish I knew what you're talking about,' I said. 'I didn't know Bret was still alive until I got here.'

'Don't snow me, Bernie. Dead or alive, you've been bad-mouthing Bret Rensselaer. Don't deny it.'

I felt a sudden pang of fear. There were three of them. There were plenty of lonely stretches of coastline nearby and the desert. With more boldness than I felt I said, 'Put away the brass knuckles Harry. That's not your style.' But rumours from long ago said it was exactly his style.

He smiled. 'They said you were becoming paranoid.'

'You get that way when jerks shanghai you on the highway and bury you under horse-manure.'

He ignored that and said, 'This guy Woosnam for instance. This guy is a kosher businessman.'

'What?'

'Bret came through to the office last night and asked for an urgent check-up on the passenger you sat next to on the plane. He's a nothing, Bernard. A two-bit building contractor who made it big in real estate. That's what I mean about you being paranoid.'

'Bret asked? About Woosnam?' I said.

'Sure. Bret came on the phone. The way I heard it, Bret was mad. He wanted to know if we'd put someone on the plane with you but I knew we hadn't. We didn't even know you were coming until you'd arrived. Bret persuaded someone to make it a number one priority. Dig out this Woosnam baby, and dig him out fast. So they made the airline go through the manifests. They dug people out of then – beds and had them working all night. They weren't pleased, I can tell you. It being a weekend too.'

'And Woosnam wasn't working for London Central?'

'Jesus Christ. Even now you don't believe me. I can see it in your face.'

'Who cares,' I said.

'I care. Bret cares. Everyone who likes you cares. We wonder what's happening to you, Bernard baby.'

I made a noise to indicate that I didn't want to talk about the wretched Mr Woosnam. Posh Harry nodded sagely and leaned forward to push a button that made the glass partition slide into position, so the men in front couldn't hear us. Although if this was the kind of CIA limo I think it was, there would be a hidden tape recorder button built into the upholstery so that Brigette, and God knows who else, would be able to refer to a transcript of what I said. Or was I becoming paranoid? 'Let's talk turkey, Bernie. Let's cut out all the crap, eh?'

'Which crap was that, Harry?'

He ignored my question. He looked out of the car to see how near LA International we were and decided to get to the point. 'Listen,' he said. 'Big men in Washington hear you are running around trying to pin some old London screw-up on to Bret… Well, Washington gets touchy. They talk to your people in London Central. They say, shit or get off the pot. What charges? they ask. Where's the evidence? They want to know, Bernard. Because they don't like the way Bret is expected to take all your lousy flak without getting a proper chance to answer.' Just for a moment there had been a glimpse of the real Posh Harry: the savage little guy inside this soft smiling cerebral Charlie Chan.

'If Bret thinks that…' I started to say.

'Hold the phone, Bernie.' The amiable smile was back in place. I'm saying that this is the way Washington sees it. Maybe they got it wrong, but that's the way it was looking to them, by the time they got on to London Central and started asking questions.'

'And what did London say?' I said with genuine interest.

' London said just what Washington expected them to say. They said this was just Bernie Samson, on a one-man crusade that had no official authorization. London said they'd talk to Bernard Samson and cool him off a little.'

'And how did Washington feel about that?'

' Washington said that was good. These big men in Washington said that if a little help was needed in cooling this maverick Brit off, they'd be happy to arrange for someone to break his arms in several places just to show him that his extra-curricular energies would be better employed with wine, women and song.'

'In a manner of speaking,' I said.

'Sure, in a manner of speaking, Bernie.' No smiles now, just blank face and cold stare before Posh Harry turned away to look out at the neon signs and the restaurant forecourts that were packed with the cars of people who liked their lunch to go on till sundown. He touched the condensation that had formed on the windows and seemed surprised when a dribble of water ran down the glass. 'Because these big men in Washington don't believe what your people tell them,' said Harry, talking to the window. 'They don't think London really have got some wild man who likes to go off to stir the dirt on his own time.'

'No?'

'No. Washington think he's on assignment. They wonder if maybe those bastards in London Central are getting ready for the big reshuffle that their deck of marked cards has needed so long.'

'Tell me more about that,' I said. 'I'd like to know.'

He turned his head and gave me a slow toothy smile. 'They think your top guys are very clever at burying the bodies in a neighbour's yard.'

Now I was beginning to see it. 'London Central are going to blame some of their disasters on Bret?'

'It would be a way of handling it,' said Harry.

'A bit far-fetched, isn't it?'

Harry gave a tight-lipped smile and didn't answer. We both knew it wasn't far-fetched. We knew it was exactly the way that our masters handled their difficulties. And anyway I didn't feel like working hard to convince him that London Central wouldn't do anything like that. The alternative would focus the wrath of Bret's Washington fan club upon me. And I have always been opposed to violence, even when it's in a manner of speaking.