Funeral in Berlin - Len Deighton

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door.

      ‘I’m not being horrible Edmond Dorf,’ I said a little louder.

      ‘You don’t have to shout,’ said Jean, ‘and I’m afraid the travel vouchers and tickets are ordered. Berlin has been told to expect Edmond Dorf. If you want it changed now you must do it yourself unless I leave the Semitsa work.’

      Jean was my secretary, really it was her job to do as I told her.

      ‘OK,’ I said.

      She said, ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you on a wise decision, Mr Dorf,’ and left the room quickly.

      Dawlish was my boss. He was around fifty, slim and meticulous like a well-bred boa-constrictor. He moved with languid English grace across the room from his desk and stood staring out into the jungle of Charlotte Street.

      ‘They thought one wasn’t serious at first,’ he said to the window.

      ‘Uh huh,’ I said; I didn’t want to appear too interested.

      ‘They thought I was joking – even the wife thought I wouldn’t go through with it.’ He turned away from the window and fixed me with a mocking gaze. ‘But now I’ve done it and I don’t intend to kill them off.’

      ‘Is that what they want you to do?’ I said. I wished I had been listening more closely.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I’m not going to do it.’ He walked across to me in the big leather armchair like Perry Mason appealing to the jury. ‘I like weeds. It’s as simple as that. Some people like one sort of plants and some people like others. I like weeds.’

      ‘They are easy to cultivate,’ I said.

      ‘Not really,’ said Dawlish sharply. ‘The most powerful ones tend to strangle the others. I’ve got hedge parsley, comfrey, meadow cranesbill, primroses … it’s just like a country lane, not a damned by-pass. One has wild birds and butterflies. It’s something to walk in; not one of these things with flower-beds, laid out like a cemetery.’

      ‘I agree,’ I said. I agreed.

      Dawlish sat down at his antique desk and arranged some typewritten sheets with file cards that his secretary had brought from the IBM machine. He aligned all the paperwork in geometrical patterns with his pencils and stapling machine and then began to polish his spectacles.

      ‘And thistles,’ said Dawlish.

      ‘Pardon?’ I said.

      ‘I’ve got a lot of thistles,’ said Dawlish, ‘because they attract butterflies. Later we’ll have tortoise-shells, red admirals, yellow brimstones, perhaps even commas. Fabulous. The weed-killers are destroying life in the country – it’s a disgrace.’ He picked up one of the folders and began to read it. He nodded once or twice and then put it down.

      ‘I rely on you to be discreet,’ he said.

      ‘That sounds like a change of policy,’ I said. Dawlish sprinkled a cold smile over me. He wore the sort of spectacles that customs men tap for hollow noises. He rested them on his large ears and then tucked a handkerchief as big as a bedsheet into his cuff. It was a signal that we were what Dawlish called ‘on parade’.

      Dawlish said, ‘Johnnie Vulkan’. Then he rubbed the palms of his hands together.

      I knew the sort of thing Dawlish was going to complain about now. We had other people in Berlin, of course, but Vulkan was the one we always used; he was efficient, understood what we needed, he knew the Berlin layout and, most important, he was noisy enough to draw attention away from our residential boys whom we preferred to let lie fallow as long as possible.

      Dawlish was saying ‘… can’t expect any of our people to be saints …’ I remembered Vulkan. He could deliver a bomb or a baby and smile as he did it.

      ‘… no orthodox way of collecting information and there never can be …’ Vulkan may have had a mixed political background but he knew Berlin. He knew every cellar, bandstand, bank account, brothel and abortionist from Potsdam to Pankow. Dawlish sniffed loudly and rubbed his hands again.

      ‘Even earning additional payments need not be out of the question but unless he gives us full details of these associations he will no longer enjoy the protection of this department.’

      ‘Protection,’ I said. ‘What sort of protection have we ever offered him? The only protection he ever had from us was old-fashioned money. People like Vulkan are in danger – physical danger – every moment of every day. The only weapon they have is money. If Vulkan is always asking for more, it’s worth considering the motives.’

      ‘Men like Vulkan don’t have motives,’ said Dawlish. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. Vulkan is working for us – however remotely – and one will work like the very deuce to see that he is looked after, but don’t move this discussion into the sublime world of philosophy. Our friend Vulkan changes his motive every time he comes through that East Berlin checkpoint. When men become double agents it’s just a matter of time before they lose their grip on reality. They begin to drown in a sea of confusion. Any piece of information they can snatch at will keep them afloat and alive for a few more hours.’

      ‘You want to write Vulkan off?’

      ‘Not at all,’ said Dawlish, ‘but one does want to keep him in a cul-de-sac. A fellow working against us can be very useful if we have him in a nice sterile test-tube.’

      ‘You are being a bit complacent,’ I said. Dawlish raised an eyebrow.

      ‘Wait now …’ said Dawlish.

      Dawlish touched his finger-tips together and looked at me sardonically.

      ‘You think I am too old for this job, don’t you?’

      I said nothing.

      ‘If we decide not to continue with Vulkan’s contract there is no question of leaving him available for the highest bidder.’

      I didn’t think old Dawlish could make me shiver.

       4

      The Berlin Defence is a classic defence by means of counter-attack.

       Sunday, October 6th

      The parade ground of Europe has always been that vast area of scrub and lonely villages that stretches eastward from the Elbe – some say as far as the Urals. But halfway between the Elbe and the Oder, sitting at attention upon Brandenburg, is Prussia’s major town – Berlin.

      From two thousand feet the Soviet Army War Memorial in Treptower Park is the first thing you notice. It’s in the Russian sector. In a space like a dozen football pitches

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