Mexico Set. Len Deighton

chuckled scornfully. ‘If I don’t jog and have a decent breakfast I can’t get going.’

      ‘Perhaps we should have found a hotel right here in town. Going backwards and forwards to Cuernavaca eats up a lot of time.’

      ‘A couple of miles jogging every morning would do you good, Bernard. You’re putting on a lot of weight. It’s all that stodge you eat.’

      ‘I like stodge,’ I said.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Look at all these wonderful fresh vegetables and delicious fruit. Look at those great heaps of chillies. There must be fifty different kinds. I wish I’d brought the camera with me now.’

      ‘Does Frank know anything about Stinnes?’

      ‘Ye gods. Frank knows everyone in Berlin. You know that, Bernard. Frank says Stinnes is one of their brightest people. Frank has a fat file on him, and all his activities from one end of the world to the other.’

      I nodded. Frank always claimed to have fat files on everything when he was away from his office. It was only when you were with him in Berlin that the ‘fat file’ turned out to be a small pink card with ‘Refer to Data Centre’ scribbled on it. ‘Good old Frank,’ I said.

      This end of the market beyond the vegetables was occupied by food stalls. Almost everyone in the market seemed to be eating. They were eating and buying, eating and selling, eating and chatting, and even eating as they smoked and drank. Some of the more dedicated were sitting down to eat, and for these aficionados seats were provided. There were chairs and stools of every kind, age and size, with nothing in common but their infirmity.

      Most of the stalls had steaming pots from which stewed mixtures of rice, chicken, pork and every variety of beans were being served. There were charcoal grills too, laden with pieces of scorching meat that filled the air with smoke and appetizing smells. And the ever-present tortillas were being eaten as fast as they could be kneaded, rolled out and cooked. An old lady came up to Dicky and handed him a tortilla. Dicky was disconcerted and tried to argue with her.

      ‘She wants you to feel the texture and admire the colour,’ I said.

      Dicky gave her one of his big smiles, fingered it as if he was going to have it made up into a three-piece suit, and handed it back with a lot of ‘Gracias, adios’.

      ‘Stinnes speaks excellent Spanish,’ I said. ‘Did Frank tell you anything about that?’

      ‘You were right about Stinnes. He went to Cuba to sort out some of their security problems. He did so well that he became the KGB’s Caribbean trouble-shooter all through the early seventies. He’s been to just about all the places where the Cubans have sent soldiers; and that’s a lot of travelling.’

      ‘Does Frank know why Stinnes is here?’

      ‘I think you’ve answered that already,’ said Dicky. ‘He’s here running your friend Biedermann.’ He looked at me and, when I didn’t respond, said, ‘Don’t you think so, Bernard?’

      ‘Arranging a little money to prop up a trade union or finance an anti-nuke demo? Not exactly something for one of the KGB’s brightest people, is it?’

      ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Dicky. ‘Central America is a top KGB priority, you can’t deny that, Bernard.’

      ‘Let me put it another way,’ I said. ‘Covert financing of that sort is an administration job. It’s not something for Stinnes with his languages and years of field experience.’

      ‘Ho ho,’ said Dicky. ‘Hint, hint, eh? You mean, you chaps with field experience and fluent languages are wasted on the sort of job that administrators like me can manage?’

      It was exactly what I thought, but since it wasn’t what I’d intended to say I denied it. ‘Why the German name?’ I said. ‘And why does a man like that work out of Berlin? He must be forty years old; a crucial age for an ambitious man. Why isn’t he in Moscow where the really big decisions are made?’

      ‘Si, maestro,’ said Dicky very slowly. He looked at me quizzically and ran a fingertip along his thin bloodless lips as if trying to prevent himself from smiling. Instead of concealing my own feelings, I’d subconsciously identified with Stinnes. For I was also forty years old and I wanted to be where the big decisions are made. Dicky nodded solemnly. He might be a little slow on languages and fieldwork but in the game of office politics he was seeded number one. ‘Frank Harrington had an answer for that one. Stinnes – real name Nikolai Sadoff – married a German girl who couldn’t master the Russian language. They lived in Moscow for some time but she was miserable there. Stinnes finally asked for a transfer. They live in East Berlin. Frank Harrington thinks a Mexico City assignment will probably be a quick in and out for Stinnes.’

      ‘Yes, he talked as if he was going soon – “when I’ve gone back to Europe”, he said.’

      ‘He said the Englishwoman had put him in charge of one of her crazy schemes, didn’t he?’

      ‘More or less,’ I said.

      ‘And we both know who the Englishwoman is, don’t we? Your wife is running this operation. It was your wife who sent the telex from Berlin that they grudgingly obeyed. Right?’

      I said nothing.

      Dicky stared at me, his mouth pursed, his eyes narrowed. ‘Is it right or not?’ He smiled. ‘Or do you think they might have some other Englishwoman running the KGB office in Berlin.’

      ‘Probably Fiona,’ I said.

      ‘Well, I’m glad we agree on that one,’ said Dicky sarcastically. It was only when I heard the contempt in his voice that I realized that he hated working on this job with me as much as I did with him. In the London office our relationship was tolerable; but on this type of job every little difference became abrasive. Dicky turned away from me and took a great interest in the various pots of stew. One of the stallholders opened the lids so that we could sniff. ‘Smell that,’ I said. ‘There’s enough chilli in there to put you into orbit.’

      ‘Obit, you mean,’ said Dicky, moving on quickly. ‘Put you into the Times obit column.’ His dinner with the Volkmanns had lessened his appetite for the chilli. ‘Our friend Paul Biedermann is going soggy on them. He starts making up stories about British spies telephoning him, and who knows what other sort of nonsense he’s been telling them. So they get nervous and Stinnes is sent over here to kick arses and get Biedermann back into line.’

      ‘Is that also what Frank says?’

      ‘No, that’s what I’m saying. It’s obvious. I don’t know why you are being so baroque about it. Maybe it’s not a very big deal. But these KGB people like a nice little jaunt to Mexico, fresh lobster salad and a swim in the Pacific to brighten up their working days. Stinnes is no different.’

      ‘It doesn’t feel right. Biedermann is rich and successful; he is woolly-minded and flabby with it. He doesn’t have the motivation, and he certainly doesn’t need the money.’

      ‘So what? Biedermann was frightened for his family. Shall we eat here? Some of this food looks really good. Look at that.’ He read the sign. ‘What are carnitas?’

      ‘Stewed pork. He’s serving it on chicharrones: pork crackling. You eat the meat, then eat the plate. Biedermann wouldn’t give that plate of pork for his family, and especially not for distant relatives in Rostock.’

      ‘We’ll walk to the end and see what else there is and then come back here and try some,’ Dicky suggested. Dicky could always surprise me. Just as I had decided he was the archetypal gringo tourist, he wanted to have lunch at a fonda. ‘So what’s your theory?’

      ‘I have no theory,’ I said. ‘Agents come in many shapes and sizes. Some are waiting for the socialist millennium, some hate their parents, some get angry after being ripped off by a loan company. Some simply want more money. But usually it begins with opportunity. A man finds