Horse Under Water. Len Deighton

Nembutal.

      She said, ‘Did you straighten out the Navy?’

      ‘You make me sound pragmatic,’ I said.

      ‘And it’s not true, is it?’ She poured the coffee into the big art-pottery cups. ‘You were followed here, you know.’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ I said quietly.

      ‘Don’t do that,’ said Jean.

      ‘What?’

      ‘You know very well. It’s your Oreste Pinto voice. You say things to provoke a fuller reply.’

      ‘All right. All right. Relax.’

      ‘You don’t have to tell …’

      ‘I was followed by a black Anglia, BGT 803, maybe all the way from Portsmouth, certainly from Hindhead. I’ve no idea who it is, but it could be the Electrolux company.’

      ‘Pay them,’ said Jean. She stood well back from the window still looking down towards the street. ‘They could be from the refrigerator company; one of them has an icepick in his hand.’

      ‘Very funny.’

      ‘You have a wide circle of friends. The gentlemen across the road feature an azure Bristol 407. It’s rather dreamy.’

      ‘You’re joking, of course.’

      ‘Come and see, child of Neptune.’

      I walked to the window. There was a Bristol 407 of brilliant blue, sufficiently muddied to have done a fast journey down the A3. It was awkwardly parked amid the dense mortuary of vehicles in the street below. On the pavement a tall man in a flat peaked cap and short bold-patterned overcoat looked like a wealthy bookmaker. I focused the Zeiss and studied the two men and their car carefully.

      I said, ‘They aren’t working for any department we know, judging from the tax bracket they’re in. Bristol 407 indeed.’

      ‘Do I detect a faint note of envy?’ asked Jean, taking the binoculars and looking down upon my would-be companions.

      ‘Yes,’ I said.

      ‘You wouldn’t join the enemies of democracy and threaten the existence of freedom-loving western capitalism for a Bristol 407, would you?’

      ‘What colour?’

      Jean was looking out of the tall narrow window. ‘He’s getting back into it again. They are going to park outside 26.’ She turned back to me. ‘Do you think they are Special Branch?’

      ‘No: only West End Central cops have big cars.’

      ‘Do you think they’re friends?’^fn1

      ‘No, they wouldn’t let an overcoat like that through the front door of the H.O.’

      Jean put down the field-glasses and poured out the coffee in silence.

      ‘Go on,’ I said, ‘there are plenty more security departments.’ Jean handed me the big cup of black coffee. I sniffed it. ‘It’s Continental roast.’

      ‘You like Continental roast, don’t you?’

      ‘Sometimes,’ I said.

      ‘What are you going to do?’

      ‘I’ll drink it.’

      ‘About the men.’

      ‘I’ll find out who they are.’

      ‘How?’ asked Jean.

      ‘Well, I shall go upstairs, climb out along the roofs, find another skylight, go down through the house. You, meanwhile, put on my overcoat and move about near the window so that they catch sight of what they think is me. At a prearranged time-lapse, say twenty minutes, you will go across and start up the engine of my VW. They will have to pull out the Bristol in order to have any chance of catching my car before it disappears. Got it?’

      Jean said, ‘Yes,’ very slowly and doubtfully.

      ‘By that time I shall be in the porch of, say, Number 29. When they get their car started I will take a potato, which I shall have taken from your vegetable basket and, running forward, crouching very low, I shall jam the raw unpeeled potato on to their exhaust pipe and hold it there. It’s only a matter of moments before the pressure builds up enough to blow the cylinder head off with a tremendous crash.’ Jean giggled. ‘There they will be with an expensive disabled car. They will never get a taxi at this time of day at Gloucester Road cab rank, so they will have to ask for a lift in the VW, which by this time will have had the heater going long enough to make it warm and comfortable. On the way to wherever they wish to go I shall say – quite casually, mark you – “what are you two young fellows doing in this neck of the woods on a Saturday midday?” and from one thing and another I shall soon find out who they work for.’

      Jean said, ‘It’s not had a good effect on you, that Naval Depot.’

      I dialled the Ghost exchange number and switchboard answered. I put a hand over the mouthpiece while asking Jean, ‘What is the code word for the week-end?’

      ‘Fine pickle you’d be in without me,’ she said from the kitchen.

      ‘Don’t carp, girl. I haven’t been in to the office for a week.’

      ‘It’s “cherish”.’

      ‘Cherish,’ I said to the switchboard operator, and he connected me to the W.O.O.C.(P) duty officer, ‘Tinkle’ Bell.

      ‘Tinkle,’ I said, ‘cherish.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Tinkle. I heard the click of the recording machine being switched into the circuit. ‘Go ahead.’

      ‘I have a tail. Anything on W.M.?’ Tinkle went to look at the Weekly Memoranda sheets that came from the Joint Intelligence Agency at the Ministry of Defence. I heard Tinkle’s outsize brogue shoes pad lightly back to the desk. ‘Not a sausage, old boy.’

      ‘Do me a favour, Tinkle.’

      ‘Anything you say, old boy.’

      ‘You have someone you could leave in charge if you nipped down to Storey’s Gate for me?’

      ‘Certainly, old chap, pleasure.’

      ‘Thanks, Tinkle. I wouldn’t bother you on Saturday if it wasn’t important.’

      ‘Precisely, old boy. I know that.’

      ‘Go up to the third floor and see Mrs Welch – that’s W-e-l-c-h – and tell her you want one of the C-SICH^fn2 files. Any one. I tell you what, make it a file we’re already holding. You with me?’

      ‘Sinking fast, old boy.’

      ‘Ask her for some file we already have and she’ll tell you we already have it, but you say we haven’t. She will show you the receipt book. If she doesn’t offer to, raise hell and insist that she does. Get a good eyeful of all the receipt signatures down the right-hand column. What I want to know is who receipted file 20 W.O.O.C.(P) 287.’

      ‘That’s one of our personal dossiers,’ said Tinkle.

      ‘Mine, to be precise,’ I said. ‘If I know who’s handled my file lately I have a lead on who might be tailing me.’

      ‘Very crafty,’ said Tinkle.

      ‘And, Tinkle,’ I added, ‘I want a quick check on two car registrations, a black Anglia and a Bristol 407.’ I waited while Tinkle read back the numbers.

      ‘Thanks, Tinkle, and ring me back at Jean’s.’

      Jean poured me a third cup of coffee and produced some pancakes with sugar and cream. ‘You are a bit careless on an open line, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘C-SICH and file numbers and all that.’

      I said, ‘If anyone listening isn’t in