A Perfect Spy

But first, in the same perfectly balanced and dispassionate voice, Lederer describes the situation as it had stood in August, when it was agreed on both sides — Lederer casts a respectful glance towards his hero Brotherhood — that the Pym case should be abandoned and the committee of investigation dissolved.

“But it wasn’t abandoned, was it?” Brotherhood says, not bothering this time to give warning of his interruption. “You kept a watch going on his house and I don’t mind betting you left a few other meters ticking too.”

Lederer glances at Wexler. Wexler scowls into his hands to say keep me ah out of this. But Lederer has no intention of fielding that ball, and waits boorishly for Wexler to do it for him.

“The determination on our side, Jack, was that we should capitalise the ah existing appropriation of resources,” Wexler says reluctantly. “We opted here for a gradual reduction of a — ah phased and undramatic running down.”

In the silence Brammel gives a sporting smile. “So you mean you did keep the surveillance going? Is that what you’re saying?”

“On a limited basis only, very low key, very minimal at all levels, Bo.”

“I rather thought we said we’d all call off our dogs at once, Harry. We certainly kept our half of the bargain, I know.”

“The ah Agency decided here to honour that agreement in spirit, Bo, but also in light of what was deemed operationally expedient having regard to ah all the known facts and indicators.”

“Thanks,” says Mountjoy and tosses down his pencil like a man refusing food.

But this time Wexler bites back and Wexler can do that: “I think you may find your gratitude is well placed, sir,” he snaps, and pushes his knuckles combatively across the tip of his nose.

The case of Hans Albrecht Petz, Lederer continues, surfaced six months ago in a context that at first sight had nothing whatever to do with the case against Pym. Petz was simply another Czech journalist who had appeared at an East-West conference in Salzburg and been talent-spotted as a new face. An older man, withdrawn but intelligent, passport details supplied. Lederer put his name on watch and signalled Langley for a routine background check. Langley signalled “nothing recorded against” but warned that it was irregular that a man of Petz’s age and profession should not have come to notice. A month later Petz surfaced again in Linz, purportedly to cover an agricultural fair. He didn’t hobnob with other journalists, didn’t try to ingratiate himself, was seen seldom at the tents and contributed nothing. When Lederer had his press readers comb the Czech press for contributions by Petz, the most they came up with was two paragraphs in the Socialist Farmer, signed “H.A.P.,” on the limitations of Western heavy tractors. Then, just when Lederer was disposed to forget about him, Langley came back with a positive identification. Hans Albrecht Petz was identical with one Alexander Hampel, a Czech intelligence officer, who had recently attended a conference of non-aligned journalists in Athens. Do not approach Petz-Hampel without an authorisation. Stand by for more information.

Hearing himself say “Athens,” Lederer has a feeling that the air pressure has dropped inside the safe room.

“Athens when?” Brotherhood growls irritably. “How can we follow this stuff without dates?”

Nigel’s hair has become a sudden and intense worry to him. He is shaping the greying horns above one ear again and again with his immaculate fingertips while he frowns in pain.

Wexler once more cuts in, and to Lederer’s pleasure he is beginning to shed his shyness and respect. “Athens conference was July 15 to 18, Jack. Hampel was sighted on the first day only. He kept his hotel room the three nights but didn’t sleep in it once. Paid cash. According to Greek records he arrived Athens on July 14 and never left the country. Most likely he went out on a different passport. Looks like he flew to Corfu. Greek flight lists are the usual pig’s breakfast, but looks like he flew to Corfu,” he repeats. “By this time we’re getting very interested in this man.”

“Aren’t we running ahead?” says Brammel, whose sense of the proprieties is never sharper than in moments of crisis. “I mean damn it, Harry, it’s the same old game. It’s guilt by coincidence. It’s no different to the radio stuff. If we were looking to frame a man, we’d play the same game on them. We’d get some old member of the Firm, a bit tarnished but nothing discreditable, and we’d run him parallel to some poor chap’s movements and wait for the opposition to say ‘W hoo-hoo, our man’s a spy.’ Get them to shoot themselves in the foot. Dead easy. All right. Hampel is trailing Pym around. But what’s to show that Pym’s an active partner?”