'A stube in Kreuzberg.'
'You should keep away from greasy spoons like that,' said Dicky. And, with commendable concern for the affairs of the nation, added: 'Suppose you'd been carrying Category One papers?'
'I was,' I said. 'But I swallowed them.'
After a tight condescending smile he said: 'Frank told me you'd withdrawn the previous dissertation and were bringing a replacement.'
'I only got back late last night.'
'Back from where, old chap?' It was all mockery of course. He was showing me how good he was at keeping the lid on his anger while allowing a little of it to blow steam and dribble down the outside of the pot.
'I went to Zurich.'
'To Zurich. What pressing business took you there?' I knew then that Dicky's stringers in Berne had failed to locate me in Switzerland, and I got an infantile pleasure from having outwitted him and his snoopers.
'I was talking to Werner.'
'Werner? Werner Volkmann? I wish you hadn't done that, Bernard, old sport.'
'Why, Dicky?'
'Your old sparring partner is persona non grata with us all at this moment in time.' There was the sudden whine of a distant electric coffee-grinder. He looked at the door, raised an arm and screamed: 'Coffee! Coffee for God's sake!' in the feigned rage that he claimed amused his staff.
'It was a domestic matter,' I said. 'I took two days from the leave owing me, and paid my own fare. There were other things I had to attend to there.'
'Your brother-in-law. Yes, I heard he'd become a tax exile.' Then the coffee arrived. The drinking of coffee was a ritual that provided for Dicky one of his most treasured moments of the day. It was not just any old coffee; it was a choice import that was brought from the shop of Mr Higgins, the famous London coffee merchant. It was conveyed at high speed by one of our official motor-cycle messengers and ground in Dicky's ante-room only minutes before brewing, using a special electric grinder Dicky had found in Berlin. It was all worth while of course. Dicky's coffee was renowned. There was no question of him being reprimanded for using the messengers for his personal errands. All the top-floor staff, even the old D-G, would come hurrying along the corridor to share Dicky's coffee. Now he put a strong cup of it before me and watched contemptuously as I poured cream into it. 'Ruins it,' he pronounced. 'These are the finest coffee beans you can buy. The flavour is as delicate as a good claret. And do you know, I'm beginning to think I can distinguish from one plantation to another.' After he'd poured his own coffee, he didn't go back round the table; instead he propped himself against the table's edge and looked down at me quizzically.
'Amazing,' I replied. 'Even the plantation, eh?'
'I've always had this delicate palate.' He watched me. 'Really fine coffee like this is completely spoiled by cream or sugar.'
'Sugar. Yes, good. Have you got sugar?'
He reached behind his back and found the sugar on the tray without looking for it. He'd known what I was going to say. 'Here you are, you barbarian.' Perhaps I would have taken my coffee sugarless and black, as Dicky drank his, except that it would have deprived him of his chance to explain what a fine palate he had.
'You'll have to go back again, Bernard,' he said. 'You'll have to go and see what's happening.'
'I've only just arrived in London,' I complained. 'There's so much to do here.'
'I've got no one else.'
'What about that kid I took along?'
'Not for this one.'
'Why?'
'I'll tell you why, Bernard. Because you aren't telling me the whole truth, that's why. You are playing games with me.'
'Am I?'
'Frank thinks you are reluctant to tell us what you really think happened last week. Who were those people in the car that chased you? I know you have a theory, Bernard. Share it with me. Let's not waste time equivocating. Who were they?'
'It's possible that one of them was VERDI.'
'In the car behind you!' I knew my suggestion would ignite Dicky and I was not disappointed. He put down his coffee, his excitement causing him to spill some of it. Then he looked at me, gave a broad boyish smile, and smashed a fist into his open palm. 'VERDI!' Then he went to the window and looked out. 'So the dead man was someone else?'
'We should keep an open mind.'
'Was it something you found in the pockets?' he said hurriedly. 'I noticed that you didn't list what you found in the pockets of the dead man.'
'There was nothing in his pockets.'
'Nothing?' All the fire puffing Dicky up cooled suddenly and he deflated, and began gnawing at the nail of his little finger for solace. 'Nothing at all?'
'That's what I thought so damned odd,' I said.
A couple of nods. 'He was still warm but someone had found time enough to completely empty his pockets,' he mused aloud.
'Difficult to do that, Dicky,' I said, guiding his thoughts gently. 'More likely the mysterious someone made him empty his pockets first.'
'Then shot him. Yes, of course.'
'It's all negative,' I admitted, and tried to think of something else to please him. 'But it troubled me at the time. It's something I can't remember before: there's always something in an old suit ... ticket stubs, a tiny coin, a pencil, a handkerchief ...'
'Unless someone has taken a lot of trouble to make sure there is nothing,' growled Dicky, the flame in his heart now burning bright again. 'Yes, indeedy. And the dudes in the car?'
'They didn't shoot back,' I said.
'Perhaps they weren't armed?'
I smiled. 'You've never been over there, Dicky, or you wouldn't seriously suggest that possibility.'
He frowned as he tried to think of some other explanation. 'They don't shoot; so it's VERDI?'
'It's not conclusive, Dicky. Of course not. But you don't shoot at the other side when you are negotiating to defect.'
He didn't smile, but this line of thinking pleased him and he was ready to acknowledge that. 'You're not just a pretty face, Bernard.'
I wondered if perhaps I'd gone too far with my improvisation, although among London Central's minions there was a theory that in bending reality to please one's superiors you could never go too far. 'This is only a hazy suspicion, Dicky. It's not a theory we should act upon. That's why I didn't want to put it in writing.'
He was lost in his thoughts. 'Yes, that's why they shot him in the head. No identification. Then VERDI chases after you. You think he's ... and you shoot at him. It all fits together.'
I didn't want to say No, it doesn't all fit together, because that would have marred Dicky's obvious satisfaction. But once anyone began tapping this fragile hypothesis with the fingertip of reasoning, it would fall into a thousand brittle fragments. But at present my theory was the only thing that was keeping that smile on Dicky's face, and I needed his good will to get into the Data Centre. 'We should keep this notion just between the two of us,' I said. 'If it does eventually prove to be flawed, we don't want to be left with egg on our faces.'
'Don't worry, Bernard, old son,' said Dicky, patting my shoulder in an uncharacteristic gesture of support, and chuckling at what he thought was the reason behind my apprehension: 'I won't steal all the credit for your theory.'
'I wasn't worrying about that, Dicky,' I said. 'You are welcome to the theory, but I think we should keep it to ourselves for the time being.'
'I'm sorry about putting you into that little box-room with all those filing cabinets,' said Dicky, with what almost sounded like genuine contrition. 'We'll find you something better a somewhere with a window a when they confirm me in Operations.'
'It makes no difference,' I said, although it was difficult to ignore the fact that not only was Dicky's two-window office, with its view across the park, one of the largest in the building, but he'd annexed the grand office next door as an ante-room for his secretary, with an extra partitioned area where visitors could kick their heels waiting for him to receive them. No chance that on the floor of my little sanctum I'd have a lion-skin rug like this one in Dicky's office, for the simple reason that my room was smaller than an average-sized lion could stretch its legs.
'No other insights, I suppose?'
'Not right now, Dicky.'
'What's next then?'
'I'd like to spend a couple of hours in the Data Centre,' I said.
'What for?'
'I'd like to try something on the computer.'
'About VERDI?'
'Yes. It could have a bearing on it.'
'Very well, Bernard. My secretary will give you a chit for the Data Centre. Our time over there is being rationed nowadays. I suppose you heard that?'
'Yes, I heard.'
'More coffee?' It was a signal for me to depart.
I got to my feet. 'No, it's exquisite but one cup is my ration.'
He smiled. His capacity to drink gallons of strong black coffee was something Dicky liked to boast about.
When I got to the door and opened it, Dicky came striding after me. He seized the door and pushed it closed in a gesture of confidentiality, although there was no one behind it to eavesdrop. 'What you don't know,' said Dicky, 'is that what you've just told me fits in with what I know already.'
'What do you know?'
'As far as the opposition is concerned, VERDI has completely disappeared. We've heard nothing about anyone being shot in Magdeburg and VERDI has not responded to any of our signals.'
'That's hardly confirmation, Dicky.'
'Don't be silly, of course it is. We've looked after this man like a cherished possession: we've assigned goodbye codes, drops and safe houses. He only has to raise an eyebrow. Until now he's ignored it all.'
'Am I allowed to know why VERDI is so important to us?' I asked. 'Does he have some special knowledge or what is it?' I opened the door, but Dicky took a grip on it and closed it again. When determined he could muster considerable strength.
'Yes,' said Dicky earnestly, 'VERDI has very special knowledge. He's bringing a lot of data with him. We need to keep him alive and all in one piece because he'll have to unravel it all. We have special plans for him. The big brass is asking me how long it's all going to take.'
'And what do you tell them?' I asked, as I suspected that whatever Dicky was promising the big brass, someone like me was going to be struggling to deliver.
'I don't promise them anything, Bernard.'
I breathed a sigh of relief. 'The only sensible thing to do is to wait until VERDI feels safe enough to make contact again.'
'Hah!' said Dicky, as if I'd tried to trick him. 'And we'll still be waiting for him at Christmas.'
'Don't push him, Dicky. You might be prodding a hornet's nest.'
'I'll give him a couple of days,' said Dicky, as if driving a bargain with me. 'Then someone will have to go and track him down and see what's happening.'
A couple of days! My blood turned to water. 'Lovely coffee, Dicky,' I said, finally wrenching the door open. 'But they say too much of it makes some people very tense.'
'Not me,' said Dicky, biting into a fingernail. 'I'm used to it.'
The money to build the London Data Centre had been voted through when the USSR was at its most bellicose. Various sums had been suggested as the cost of it; five hundred million pounds was one of the more modest guesses.
The 'Yellow Submarine' occupied three recently dug levels below the cellars of Whitehall. The entrance was in the Foreign Office, so that it was difficult for outsiders to spot or film those who made regular visits to the big computer. I handed in my duly signed chit to the guard in the security room. Nowadays not only did he have to identify me as an authorized user by calling up my computerized photo and description on the video screen, he also had to book me in, so that my time in the Centre was charged in hours and minutes to the Department's allotted time.
'Been on holiday somewhere lovely, Mr Samson?' said the guard as the video screen pronounced me persona grata and he waved me through.
'No, we won a sun-lamp at bingo,' I said.
I pinned on the big red plastic badge displaying my photo, its bright red surround announcing my right to be in the third, deepest and most secret level. From the lobby I took the shiny new lift past the mainframes, past software storage and down to secret data access. I got out and blinked at the fierce and unrelenting blue glare that came from the concealed ceiling lighting. There were offices all round this level. Access to them was from a corridor formed by a clear glass wall. Through the glass wall there was a view of an open area where sixty work-stations a buzzing, humming and clicking a were arranged in waist-high bull-pens, each pen just tall enough to provide privacy for anyone seated there. Almost all the bull-pens were occupied, their status signalled by the tiny red lights that shone from the top of each occupied console when its computer was switched on.
I walked along until I spotted Gloria. She was occupying one of the best pens a the ones at the corners a and had made it into a den. She was perched on one of the primitive typist chairs that the accountants insisted were good for the spine, although they didn't use them themselves. The chairs in the cashier's department were all soft, expensive and bad for you.
On her lap Gloria balanced a couple of printed reference books and a notebook garlanded with yellow flags. Her waste-bin was overflowing with discarded print-out and there were memos, reports, paper coffee cups, Coke cans and ballpoint pens scattered around as if she'd been working here non-stop for a week.
It was the first time I'd seen her for many weeks, and now I looked at her and remembered. She must have felt my eyes on her for she looked up suddenly. Burdened by her books she raised her arm and waved her hand, rippling her fingers in a gesture that hit me with a sudden pang of recognition.
I walked over to her. 'Gloria. Hello,' I said diffidently. As I said it, a movement in the next row of machines revealed the inquisitive and unfriendly eyes of a man named Morgan peeping over the top of the bull-pen. Morgan was a malevolent denizen of the top floor who was working on a PhD in gossip.
Gloria put her books on to the floor and stood up. 'Bernard! How wonderful. I was hoping ... I heard you had arrived.' The greeting was warm but her manner was reserved. But then she softened a little: 'Your poor face. What did you do, Bernard?' She leaned forward and touched my bruises tenderly, bringing our faces very close so that I could smell her perfume and feel her breath and the warmth of her body. 'Is it awfully painful?' Must she lean so close like that? Was it some kind of test of my passion? Or was she testing her own self-control? Still undecided about her motives, and knowing that Morgan was watching us, I compromised by giving her a brief brotherly kiss on the cheek. She smiled and touched her cheek where my lips had been. Her fingers were slim and elegant, but there was ink on the fingertips to remind me of the sixth-form schoolgirl she'd been only a short time ago.
'You're looking well,' I said. It was a stupid thing to say but I doubt if she heard me: everything that was happening between us was going on in the intimacy of our memories.
She was slim, and so astoundingly young, both attributes emphasized by her tight black jeans and equally close-fitting white sweater. I could hardly believe that this was the same creature I had bedded and lived with as my wife. No wonder at the consternation that domestic reshuffle had caused amongst my friends and colleagues. She smiled nervously and looked as if she was about to offer to shake hands. There was a certain clumsiness about her. Her face was soft and unwrinkled and the expression on it was more of bewilderment than of confidence; and above all she exuded sexual attraction. She seemed entirely unaware of the effect she was having on me, although that might be more rationally explained as a measure of my lifelong failure to understand women. So while I found myself succumbing to this intoxicating sexual allure there was another a sober a half of my brain that saw what was happening, wondered why, and advised against it.
Perhaps she realized that Morgan was in a nearby cubicle, for she lowered her voice almost to a whisper. 'I was going to come to California and rescue you,' she said with a grin. 'I thought they were holding you prisoner.' She'd had her blonde hair cut quite short and it was held with a cheap plastic clip. This added to the schoolgirl appearance. I wondered if she knew that.
'Not quite a prisoner,' I said, although upon reflection I suppose she was right. I don't think it would have been very easy to push my way out of there, shout goodbye to Bret, and depart.
'I sent a postcard. Did you get it?'
'No,' I said.
'Van Gogh: the postman in the blue uniform.'
'I didn't get it.'
'They're letting me work on the Hungary desk.'
'So I heard. I suppose you are making a name for yourself.'