Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Spy

the carpet in front of the log fire, staring all the time at the ceiling and puffing smoke. 'It was July of 'seventy-one. Berlin was stinking hot… you know the way it can get in that town, Bekuv. We'd included one of our kids in a party of trade union officials who were being given the treatment: that apartment block on the Alice that they pretend is full of workers' families, and the creche near the Wannsee and the banquet where they drink the dudes under the table with endless toasts to the unity of the proletariat. Silly to put one of our boys into a scrum like that. It was an American trade union lawyer from Pittsburgh who reported him to the Russians. When we got him back, his arse was raw with untreated cigarette burns, and his bloodstream was full of pentathol. We flew him back to the best surgeon in the States but he never got the full use of his right hand again…' Mann smiled one of his cold smiles at Bekuv.

Bekuv had never taken his eyes off Mann as he paced up and down. Now he said, 'It's not so simple to recall the details.'

'I was trying to help,' said Mann.

'I need more time,' said Bekuv.

Mann smiled again. He consulted his watch. 'Just look at the time. We'd better finish these cigars and join the ladies.' He threw his cigar away and ushered us out.

'It's a beautiful place,' said Red Bancroft. She was looking out of the window, cupping her hands to keep out the reflections. 'The moon is coming out. It is a wonderful evening for a walk.'

'It's freezing,' I said 'Wrap up well, Pop,' she said scornfully. 'You can put on that nice new leather overcoat.'

I nodded my agreement, and I saw Red and Mrs Mann exchange that sort of knowing look with which women greet the downfall of a male.

The film show ended at ten minutes past ten. Red and I were walking through the cobbled yard at the rear of the house to get a closer look at the vintage bus and the old Packard. We'd heard 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes' and 'Change Partners' coming faintly through the heavily curtained room where the movie was playing. As the finale music swelled, the back door opened, and some men came out into the cold air. One of them coughed and another slapped his back helpfully. Two more of the men lit cigarettes.

'London!' said one of the men. 'That's where I first saw that movie. I was a gunner, nineteen — youngest top-kick in the group — and I'd met this shy English kid. We went to a movie with her mother; can you imagine… with her mother! I was crazy about her.'

'What was her mother like?' said a second man. The first man laughed politely.

'I saw it with my Daddy and Ma,' said another voice. 'I was a shavetail, just out of pilot training. I was on leave before joining a bomb group in England. My folks just smiled and listened to me tell them how I couldn't wait to get into the fighting… and all the time they were figuring the odds against my getting killed.. it's only now, when I've got kids of my own, that I understand what that cost them.'

'We all came back,' said another man. 'Sometimes I wonder why.'

'Not all of us,' said the man who'd been in pilot training. 'I lost a lot of real good buddies.'

'They shipped the squadron from England to France without warning,' said the first man. 'I forgot how to find the house in Manchester where she lived, and I never took down the address. I went back twice and walked the streets… but it was no use.'

'Wartime romance,' said the second man.

'It was more than that,' said the first man. 'I still think about her. Every week or so I remember her. That proves it, doesn't it.'

The door opened again and some women came out into the yard. 'What are you doing out here?' one of them asked shrilly. 'It's so cold!'

A second woman said, Telling dirty stories; I know what they were doing. Admit it now, Norm, you were telling dirty stories.'

'That's right,' said the man from pilot training. 'That's what we were doing.'

The proprietor's son was taking down the shutters from the room in which they'd been watching the film. As he did so, the light from inside lit up the yard. It was bright enough to see the men and women standing there. They were all in their late forties or early fifties. The women wore old-fashioned party dresses, arid the men were in army uniforms. But the uniforms were not those of the modern army, they were the pink trousers, olive-drab jackets and soft-topped flyers' caps of the U.S. Army Air Force, circa 1943..

Chapter Eight

It was breakfast-time on Christmas Eve. Low-angled winter-morning sunshine made slatted patterns on the wallpaper. 'Nostalgia isn't what it used to be,' pronounced Mann. He'd been reading aloud from the brochure that was included on our breakfast-table in the sitting-room. 'Nostalgia Inn' said the headline and there was a photograph of the hotel taken the previous summer when a vintage-car club used it for a convention. The furnishings, the recorded music, the film shows and even the menus had been chosen to give the clientele a chance to wallow in their memories and their illusions.

'This month and next month is the World War Two period,' Mann said. 'But last Christmas they did a 1914 week, and I hear it was terrific.' He was wearing a tweed jacket, white roll-neck sweater and khaki cotton trousers. It would do for World War Two.

'All we're saying,' repeated Bessie Mann patiently, 'is that you should have told us.'

'And had you buying special gowns and hair-dos.'

'Well, why not?' said Bessie.

'It would have loused up the security,' said Major Mann. 'This is supposed to be a way for our Russian friends to stay incognito. You telling every store clerk in Blooming-dales about it would have blown us all wide open.'

'You never trust me,' said Bessie Mann.

'Damn right,' agreed Mann cheerfully.

'Give me the car keys,' she said.

'Where are you going?' said Mann.

'I'm getting a 1940 hair-do and a party dress.'

'Don't curb those new radials,' said Mann. Bessie Mann aimed a playful blow at her husband's head. He ducked and grinned.

Red touched my hand across the table. 'Shall I go too? I need cigarettes.'

'Buy a dress and give me the bill,' I said. 'Happy Christmas.'

Red leaned over and kissed me.

'Break it up, you two,' said Mrs Mann.

'Listen, honey,' said Mann. 'Take a cab into town just in case I need the car.'

Soon after Mrs Mann and Red departed to go to town, Mrs Bekuv emerged through the connecting door. She was dressed in a blue silk pants-suit. It was a little flashy for my taste but it showed her blonde hair, and full figure, to advantage. Major Mann poured coffee for her, and offered her the butter. Only two warm rolls remained under the starched cloth in the basket. Mrs Bekuv broke one of them open and chewed a piece of its crust. She was still looking down at the plate as she spoke. 'You'll never get anywhere with my husband by threats, Major Mann.'

Mann put his coffee down and turned on his full unabated charm. 'Threats?' he said as if encountering the word for the first time. 'Is that what he told you, Mrs Bekuv? Perhaps he misunderstood. A long drive… all the strain of the last few days… he is looking a little tired.'

'Neither of us like threats, Major Mann,' she said. She buttered her roll.

Mann nodded his agreement. 'No one does, Mrs Bekuv. No one I've ever met.'

'That's why we left the Soviet Union.'

Mann raised his hand as if to shield his eyes from a bright light. 'Now that's not quite true, Mrs Bekuv. You know it's not quite true. Your husband defected because he'd been passed over for promotion on four successive occasions, and because he was finally posted to that lousy little job in Mali, where he didn't get along with his boss.'

'That boss,' said Mrs Bekuv with great distaste, 'was a junior assistant to my husband only five years