Читать книгу Berlin Game - Len Deighton - Страница 11

On Monday afternoon I was in Bret Rensselaer’s office. It was on the top floor not far from the suite the D-G occupied. All the top-floor offices were decorated to the personal taste of the occupants; it was one of the perks of seniority. Bret’s room was ‘modern’, with glass and chrome and grey carpet. It was hard, austere and colourless, a habitat just right for Bret, with his dark worsted Savile Row suit and the crisp white shirt and club tie, and his fair hair that was going white, and the smile that seemed shy and fleeting but was really the reflex action that marked his indifference.

The nod, the smile, and the finger pointed at the black leather chesterfield did not interrupt the conversation he was having on his white phone. I sat down and waited for him to finish telling a caller that there was no chance of them meeting for lunch that day, next day, or any day in the future.

‘Are you a poker player, Bernard?’ he said even while he was putting the phone down.

‘Only for matchsticks,’ I replied cautiously.

‘Ever wonder what will happen to you when you retire?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘No plans to buy a bar in Málaga, or a market garden in Sussex?’

‘Is that what you’re planning?’ I said.

Bret smiled. He was rich, very rich. The idea of him working a market garden in Sussex was hilarious. As for Málaga and its plebeian diversions, he’d divert the plane rather than enter its air space. ‘I guess your wife has money,’ said Rensselaer. He paused. ‘But I’d say you’re the type of inverted snob who wouldn’t want to use any of it.’

‘Would that make me an inverted snob?’

‘If you were smart enough to invest her dough and double it, you’d do no one any harm. Right?’

‘In the evenings, you mean? Or would that be instead of working here?’

‘Every time I ask you questions, I find you asking me questions.’

‘I didn’t know I was being questioned,’ I said. ‘Am I being vetted?’

‘In this business it does no harm to flip the pages of someone’s bank account from time to time,’ said Rensselaer.

‘You’ll find only moths in mine,’ I said.

‘No family money?’

‘Family money? I was thirty years old before I got a nanny.’

‘People like you who’ve worked in the field always have money and securities stashed away. I’ll bet you’ve got numbered bank accounts in a dozen towns.’

‘What would I put into them, luncheon vouchers?’

‘Goodwill,’ he said ‘Goodwill. Until the time comes.’ He picked up the short memo I’d sent him about Werner Volkmann’s import-export business. So that was it. He was wondering if I was sharing the profit in Werner’s business.

‘Volkmann is not making enough dough to pay handsome kickbacks, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ I said.

‘But you want the Department to bankroll him?’ He was still standing behind his desk; he liked being on his feet, moving about like a boxer, shifting his weight and twisting his body as if avoiding imaginary blows.

‘You’d better get yourself some new bifocals,’ I said. ‘There’s no suggestion that the Department give him a penny.’

Bret smiled. When he got tired of playing the shy Mr Nice Guy, he’d suddenly go for confrontation, accusation and insult. But at least he was unlikely to go behind your back. ‘Maybe I read it hurriedly. What the hell is forfaiting anyway?’

Bret was like those High Court judges who lean over and ask what is a male chauvinist, or a mainframe computer. They know what they think these things are, but they want them defined by mutual agreement and written into the court record.

‘Volkmann raises cash for West German companies so they can be paid promptly after exporting goods to East Germany.’

‘How does he do that?’ said Bret, looking down and fiddling with some papers on his desk.

‘There’s a hell of a lot of complicated paperwork,’ I said. ‘But the essential part of it is that they send details of the shipment and the prices to an East German bank. They sign them and rubber-stamp them and agree that it’s all okay with the East German importers. They also agree on the dates of the payments. Volkmann goes to a bank, or a syndicate of banks, or any other source of cash in the West, and uses that “aval” to discount the cash that pays for the goods.’

‘It’s like factoring?’

‘It’s more complicated, because you’re dealing with a lot of people, most of them bureaucrats.’

‘And your pal Volkmann gets a margin on each deal. That’s sweet.’

‘It’s a tough business, Bret,’ I said. ‘There are a lot of people offering to cut a fraction of a percentage off the next one, to get the business.’

‘But Volkmann has no banking background. He’s a hustler.’

I breathed in slowly. ‘You don’t have to be a banker to get into it,’ I said patiently. ‘Werner Volkmann has been doing those forfaiting deals for several years now. He has good contacts in the East. He moves in and out of the Eastern Sector with minimum fuss. They like him because they know he tries to do tie-in deals with East German exports –’

Bret held up his hand. ‘What tie-in deals?’

‘A lot of the banks just want to handle cash. Werner is prepared to shop around for a customer in the West who’ll take some East German exports. In that way he can save them some hard currency or maybe even swing a deal where the export price equals the money due for the imports.’

‘Is that so?’ said Bret reflectively.

‘Volkmann could be very useful for us, Bret,’ I said.

‘How?’

‘Moving money, moving goods, moving people.’

‘We do that already.’

‘But how many people do we have who can go back and forth without question?’

‘So what’s Volkmann’s problem?’

‘You know what Frank Harrington is like. He doesn’t get along with Werner, and never has.’

‘And anyone Frank doesn’t like, Berlin never uses.’

‘Frank is Berlin,’ I said. ‘It’s a small staff there now, Bret. Frank has to approve every damned thing.’

‘And you want me to tell Frank how to run his Berlin office?’

‘Do you ever read anything I send you, Bret? It says there that I just want the Department to approve a rollover guarantee of funds from one of our own merchant banks.’

‘And that’s money,’ said Bret triumphantly.

‘We’re simply talking about one of our own banking outfits, using their own expertise to give Werner normal facilities at current bank rates.’

‘So why can’t he get that already?’

‘Because the sort of banks which best back these forfaiting deals want to know who Werner Volkmann is. And this Department has an old-fashioned rule that onetime field agents shouldn’t go around giving the D-G as a reference, or saying that the way they got to learn about the forfaiting business was by running agents across the Wall since they were eighteen years old.’

‘So tell me how Volkmann has stayed in business.’

‘By going outside the regular banking network, by raising money from the money market. But that means trimming his agent’s fee. It’s making life tough for him. If he gives up the forfaiting business, we’ll lose a good opportunity and a useful contact.’

‘Suppose he fouls up on one of these deals and the bank doesn’t get its money.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bret. The boys in the bank are big enough to change their own nappies.’

‘And they’ll squeal bloody murder.’

‘What do we have those lousy banks for, unless it’s for this kind of job?’

‘What kind of dough are we talking about?’

‘A million Deutschemark rolling over would be about right.’

‘Are you out of your tiny mind?’ said Bret. ‘A million D-mark? For that no good son of a bitch? No, sir.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘Did Volkmann put you up to all this?’

‘Not a word. He likes to show me what a big success he is.’

‘So how do you know he’s strapped for cash?’

‘In this business,’ I said, ‘it does no harm to flip the pages of someone’s bank account from time to time.’

‘One of these days you’ll come unstuck doing one of your unofficial investigations into something that doesn’t concern you. What would you do if the bells started ringing?’

‘I’d just swear it was an official investigation,’ I said.

‘The hell you would,’ said Rensselaer.

I started to leave the room. ‘Before you go,’ he said, ‘what would you say if I told you that Brahms Four asked for you? Suppose I said he won’t trust anyone else in the Department? What would you say about that?’

‘I’d say he sounds like a good judge of character.’

‘Okay, smart ass. Now let’s have an answer for the record.’

‘It could simply mean he trusts me. He doesn’t know many Department people on personal terms.’

‘Very diplomatic, Bernard. Well, downstairs in Evaluation they are beginning to think Brahms Four has been turned. Most people I’ve spoken with downstairs are now saying Brahms Four might have been a senior KGB man from the time Silas Gaunt first encountered him in that bar.’

‘And most people downstairs,’ I said patiently, ‘wouldn’t recognize a senior bloody KGB officer if he walked up to them waving a red flag.’

Rensselaer nodded as if considering this aspect of his staff for the first time. ‘Could be you’re right, Bernard.’ He always said Bernard with the accent on the second syllable; it was the most American thing about him.

It was at that moment that Sir Henry Clevemore came into the room. He was a tall aloof figure, slightly unkempt, with that well-worn appearance that the British upper class cultivate to show they are not nouveau riche.

‘I’m most awfully sorry, Bret,’ said the Director-General as he caught sight of me. ‘I had no idea you were in conference.’ He frowned as he looked at me and tried to remember my name. ‘Good to see you, Samson,’ he said eventually. ‘I hear you spent the weekend with Silas. Did you have a good time? What has he got down there, fishing?’

‘Billiards,’ I said. ‘Mostly billiards.’

The D-G gave a little smile and said, ‘Yes, that sounds more like Silas.’ He turned away to look at Bret’s desk top. ‘I’ve mislaid my spectacles,’ he said. ‘Did I leave them in here?’

‘No, sir. You haven’t been in here this morning,’ said Bret. ‘But I seem to remember that you keep spare reading glasses in the top drawer of your secretary’s desk. Shall I get them for you?’

‘Of course, you’re right,’ said the D-G. ‘The top drawer, I remember now. My secretary’s off sick this morning. I’m afraid I simply can’t manage when she’s away.’ He smiled at Bret, and then at me, to make it perfectly clear that this was a joke born out of his natural humility and goodwill.

‘The old man’s got a lot on his plate right now,’ said Bret loyally after Sir Henry had ambled off along the corridor muttering apologies about interrupting our ‘conference’.

‘Does anyone know who’ll take over when he goes?’ I asked Bret. Goes gaga, I almost said.

‘There’s no date fixed. But could be the old man will get back into his stride again, and go on for the full three years.’ I looked at Bret and he looked back at me, and finally he said, ‘Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know, Bernard.’