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Authors: Len Deighton
Tags: Fiction
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guys?’ said Vulkan.
‘Trade delegation,’ said Wilson.
‘Thirty-nine,’ said Vulkan reflectively.
‘It would be no trouble to you,’ said Wilson. ‘Just bring them with you when you come back with a Russian. You are the only guy I know who ever rides through Checkpoint Charlie with a Russian.’ He laughed nervously.
‘Thirty-nine must be the delegation of American radio and TV producers. Poetsch is running that, isn’t he?’
‘Aw,’ said Wilson, ‘don’t go yelling it around. I told you in strict confidence. If you can deliver them before…’
‘You told me nothing,’ said Vulkan. ‘I told you. I’m not a camera dealer, tell Poetsch that.’
‘Leave P’s name out of this.’
Vulkan gently blew smoke at Wilson, saying nothing.
‘Don’t cross me, Vulkan,’ Colonel Wilson said. ‘You don’t want me spilling it to your British pal that I’m no longer a US Army major.’
‘No longer,’ said Vulkan gleefully, almost choking on his drink.
‘I can make plenty of trouble,’ said Wilson.
‘And you can make a one-way trip through the wire,’ said Vulkan quietly.
They stared at each other. Wilson swallowed to moisten his throat and turned back to his drink.
‘OK Johnnie,’ Wilson said over his shoulder. ‘No hard feelings, eh, pal?’
Johnnie pretended not to hear and moved along the bar calling for another bourbon.
‘Two?’ said the barman.
‘One will be enough,’ said Johnnie.
He could see Wilson’s face in the mirror; it was very pale. He could see the girl from Wedding too, touching the hair at the nape of her neck like she didn’t know she was straining her brassiere. She crossed her legs and smiled at his reflection.
‘Poetsch,’ Johnnie thought.
He had wanted to get something on Poetsch, if only to cut down his ranting at the bar. He could hear his voice now. Poetsch was saying, ‘The very same people who made the great little TV film about the tunnel. The whole thing was paid for by the TV company, NBC. And what I’m saying, folks, is that those fifty-nine people who escaped owe their very freedom to our American system of unshackled enterprise and bold corporate drive…’ There were a couple of favours Poetsch could do for Johnnie Vulkan. Johnnie relished the idea of telling Poetsch about them; even the girl from Wedding wasn’t a better prospect than that.
The lounge was beginning to fill up now. Vulkan leaned back against the bar, tensed his muscles and relaxed. It was good to feel he knew them all and that even Americans like ‘Colonel Wilson’ couldn’t take advantage of him. Johnnie Vulkan could pick out the tarts and the queens, the hustlers and the fairies. He knew all the heavies waiting assignment: from the nailers-up of notices to the nailersup of Christs. He saw the girl from Wedding trying to catch his eye. Poetsch’s crowd had grown too. There was that elderly English queer with the dyed hair, and a stupid little Dresdener who thought he was going to infiltrate the Gehlen Bureau—except that Johnnie had told them all about him last week. He wondered whether Helmut had been serious about having the Dresdener killed in a traffic accident. It was possible. King was right as a code name Vulkan decided; they acknowledged his stature by alloting it to him. Freudian. King Vulkan of Berlin.
He supposed the red-haired girl talking to Poetsch now was the one Poetsch had mentioned to him; the girl from Israeli Intelligence.
‘Boy, oh boy!’ thought Vulkan. ‘What a town this is!’ and he eased his way down the bar towards them, smiling at Poetsch.
----
1 Mir kann keener: you can’t fool me (a typical Berliner comment).
Chapter 11
Zugzwang: to move a chess piece under duress.
London, Thursday, October 10th
I moved into top as I passed Parliament Square. The night was young and it had nothing much to do. Tiny moons moved across St James’s Park playing tiddly-winks with the shiny leaves, and the speedometer moved up to nudge sixty. The
‘Trade delegation,’ said Wilson.
‘Thirty-nine,’ said Vulkan reflectively.
‘It would be no trouble to you,’ said Wilson. ‘Just bring them with you when you come back with a Russian. You are the only guy I know who ever rides through Checkpoint Charlie with a Russian.’ He laughed nervously.
‘Thirty-nine must be the delegation of American radio and TV producers. Poetsch is running that, isn’t he?’
‘Aw,’ said Wilson, ‘don’t go yelling it around. I told you in strict confidence. If you can deliver them before…’
‘You told me nothing,’ said Vulkan. ‘I told you. I’m not a camera dealer, tell Poetsch that.’
‘Leave P’s name out of this.’
Vulkan gently blew smoke at Wilson, saying nothing.
‘Don’t cross me, Vulkan,’ Colonel Wilson said. ‘You don’t want me spilling it to your British pal that I’m no longer a US Army major.’
‘No longer,’ said Vulkan gleefully, almost choking on his drink.
‘I can make plenty of trouble,’ said Wilson.
‘And you can make a one-way trip through the wire,’ said Vulkan quietly.
They stared at each other. Wilson swallowed to moisten his throat and turned back to his drink.
‘OK Johnnie,’ Wilson said over his shoulder. ‘No hard feelings, eh, pal?’
Johnnie pretended not to hear and moved along the bar calling for another bourbon.
‘Two?’ said the barman.
‘One will be enough,’ said Johnnie.
He could see Wilson’s face in the mirror; it was very pale. He could see the girl from Wedding too, touching the hair at the nape of her neck like she didn’t know she was straining her brassiere. She crossed her legs and smiled at his reflection.
‘Poetsch,’ Johnnie thought.
He had wanted to get something on Poetsch, if only to cut down his ranting at the bar. He could hear his voice now. Poetsch was saying, ‘The very same people who made the great little TV film about the tunnel. The whole thing was paid for by the TV company, NBC. And what I’m saying, folks, is that those fifty-nine people who escaped owe their very freedom to our American system of unshackled enterprise and bold corporate drive…’ There were a couple of favours Poetsch could do for Johnnie Vulkan. Johnnie relished the idea of telling Poetsch about them; even the girl from Wedding wasn’t a better prospect than that.
The lounge was beginning to fill up now. Vulkan leaned back against the bar, tensed his muscles and relaxed. It was good to feel he knew them all and that even Americans like ‘Colonel Wilson’ couldn’t take advantage of him. Johnnie Vulkan could pick out the tarts and the queens, the hustlers and the fairies. He knew all the heavies waiting assignment: from the nailers-up of notices to the nailersup of Christs. He saw the girl from Wedding trying to catch his eye. Poetsch’s crowd had grown too. There was that elderly English queer with the dyed hair, and a stupid little Dresdener who thought he was going to infiltrate the Gehlen Bureau—except that Johnnie had told them all about him last week. He wondered whether Helmut had been serious about having the Dresdener killed in a traffic accident. It was possible. King was right as a code name Vulkan decided; they acknowledged his stature by alloting it to him. Freudian. King Vulkan of Berlin.
He supposed the red-haired girl talking to Poetsch now was the one Poetsch had mentioned to him; the girl from Israeli Intelligence.
‘Boy, oh boy!’ thought Vulkan. ‘What a town this is!’ and he eased his way down the bar towards them, smiling at Poetsch.
----
1 Mir kann keener: you can’t fool me (a typical Berliner comment).
Chapter 11
Zugzwang: to move a chess piece under duress.
London, Thursday, October 10th
I moved into top as I passed Parliament Square. The night was young and it had nothing much to do. Tiny moons moved across St James’s Park playing tiddly-winks with the shiny leaves, and the speedometer moved up to nudge sixty. The
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