I, Said the Spy. Derek Lambert
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as he considered what Helga Keller was now doing in Danzer’s bedroom. Did she imagine she was the only one? She should hear some of the other recordings.
Prentice, lean-framed with scholarly good looks, which he managed to conceal partially by his own indifference to them – that worked, he found, when you were over thirty – lit a cigarette. Acquaintances of Prentice, none of them close, sometimes commented that there was an unfulfilled air about him, that he had sublimated his personality. They were right but they were never able to elaborate: Prentice didn’t let them.
He turned his attention to the Daily Telegraph crossword. He had been on the point of breaking his record, ten minutes, when he had been interrupted by Danzer and the girl. The clues now seemed more enigmatic than before; he had lost contact with the mind of their author.
In fact the conversation which he had overheard had disturbed him more than he had so far admitted to himself. It was as though he had unlocked a room and found the perfume of a woman he had once loved still lingering there. Stupid bitch, he thought again.
He poured himself a Scotch and soda and wished that Anderson would get back. He should have arrived on the Swissair flight from New York two hours ago, at 11.40 am, to resume his duties. And Anderson’s duties – at least when Danzer was in town – were confined to electronic surveillance: you didn’t let a 6ft. 2 inch, 220 pounds black loose in Zurich without attracting attention.
Prentice had been surprised to discover that the head of security at Bilderberg also worked for the CIA; Anderson, apparently, had experienced no such astonishment that a former Professor of Economics at Oxford played a dual role. ‘It’s not Oxford that worries me,’ he had said. ‘It’s those sons-of-bitches from Cambridge.’
The buzzer beside the small grille on the wall sounded. Prentice pressed the button. ‘Who is it?’ Anderson’s voice accompanied by street noises: ‘It’s me.’ (‘Owen,’ if there was any trouble.)
‘Come on up.’ (‘Okay I’ll let you in,’ if there were uninvited visitors in the apartment.)
‘How did it go?’ Prentice asked as Anderson tossed his raincoat and overnight bag onto an easy chair.
‘Routine. I had to make a statement for some goddam Senate investigation.’
‘Bilderberg?’
Anderson poured himself a beer. ‘Christ no. I assume we’re clean?’ sitting down and drinking thirstily.
‘Of course.’
‘If it had been Bilderberg I wouldn’t have returned. You don’t return from the dead.’ He grinned. ‘How’s it been going here?’
‘Danzer finally got the girl into bed.’
‘You listened?’
‘Up to a point,’ Prentice said. ‘You can take over if you want.’
‘You’re a cold fish, George,’ Anderson said.
Now, yes. But it hadn’t always been so.
They appraised each other across the small lounge. A working relationship, nothing more. Prentice guessed that Anderson knew a lot about him; how much he didn’t know.
Anderson opened another can of beer and said: ‘I wish Danzer would get the hell out of this town. I feel as if I’m in a cell in San Quentin.’
‘Thanks,’ Prentice said. The cell was his apartment. It was small – two bedrooms, lounge, kitchen and bathroom – but, Prentice believed, tastefully furnished if, perhaps, a little bookish; the lounge with its leather chairs was a study, really, and the bedrooms were used only for sleeping.
‘Sorry, George. You know something?’ Anderson drank some beer. ‘You’re the least likely looking spy I ever did see. But I thought that about Danzer. People’s appearances change when you get to know all about them. Danzer looks like a spy now.’
‘You look like a contender for the world heavyweight title,’ Prentice observed. ‘I always imagine you wearing a red robe waving your fists above your head.’
‘Not the champ?’
‘No,’ Prentice said firmly, ‘the contender.’
‘Let’s see how the champ’s getting on,’ Anderson said, crossing the room to the desk, switching on the radio receiver and slipping the earphones over his head. He listened for a minute, then removed the earphones and said: ‘It’s all over. They’re back in Siberia listening to balalaikas. Give it ten minutes and they’ll be back to politics. Are you political, George?’
Prentice shook his head.
‘But you enjoy our game, huh?’
‘Of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it.’
Which was true. The game, as Anderson called it, was all he had.
‘Motives?’
‘I happen to believe in what we’re doing. Just the same as I would have believed in fighting the Germans in 1939. We’re merely fighting an extension of that enemy. One tyranny succeeds another.’
Anderson tapped his forehead with one finger. ‘Do you have a brain or a computer up there, George?’ He picked up the Telegraph crossword. ‘You didn’t do so well here. Ins out a form of art singer. Sinatra,’ Anderson said, filling in the blank squares.
‘What are your motives?’ Prentice asked curiously.
‘Much the same as yours, I guess. Just a little more flamboyantly so. None of that kitchen-sink stuff for me.’
‘You enjoy the game?’
‘It’s the only one I know. But I’ll be glad when this series is over. How much longer, George?’
‘Not long now,’ Prentice said. ‘Do you want to eat?’
‘I assume it’s cold roast beef and …. What do you call that mess?’
‘Bubble-and-squeak,’ Prentice told him. ‘You guessed right.’
‘It wasn’t difficult,’ Anderson said with resignation. ‘We had it the day I left. And the day before. Do you ever eat anything else?’
‘I take it you want some?’
‘I could eat a horse,’ Anderson said. ‘Come to think of it, that would make a pleasant change.’
Prentice went into the tiny kitchen and tossed a mixture of mashed potatoes and cooked cabbage into a frying pan.
From the living-room Anderson said: ‘Three down. You should have gotten this, George. Notice without direction an agent.’
‘Spy,’ Prentice said over his shoulder.
‘How long is not long, George?’
The cabbage and potatoes sizzled. Prentice turned them; they were a little burnt on the underside. ‘When I get access to his bank account.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult for you. You’re the guy with the contacts in Zurich.’
‘It’s not that easy any more. Article 47 of Swiss Banking Law. It sets out the penalties for divulging bank secrets, i.e. the names behind the number accounts. Jail sentences and fines.’
‘So, what’s new?’
‘The banks are getting very touchy since the British Inland Revenue broke the secrecy.’
‘Was that you, George?’
Prentice ignored the question and quoted: ‘ … the banker has no discretion in this matter and, by law is required to maintain silence about his client’s affairs under penalty of heavy fines and even imprisonment. As laid down by the Swiss Bank Corporation, the Swiss Credit Bank and the Union Bank of Switzerland. The Big Three.’ He cut four slices of cold, overdone beef.