Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Spy

Mann sat down in the soft armchair and closed his eyes tight.

'Are you all right?' I asked.

'I'm all right,' said Mann but his face had gone grey, and he looked as if old age had overtaken him very suddenly. I waited for him to speak. I waited a long time.

'Henry Dean.' I reminded him of the name Mrs Bekuv had given us. 'Dr Henry Dean.'

'Hank Dean,' said Mann. He tightened his tie.

'You've heard of him?' I asked.

'Hank Dean: airline executive's son, born in Cotton-wood, South Dakota. High school athlete; track star, truly great pitcher, tipped for pro baseball until he got injured.'

'How do you know so much about him?' I asked.

'We grew up together in a village just outside Cleveland. My dad was a pilot and his was sales manager for a tinpot airline, flying contract mail between Chicago and New York City. The airline families lived alongside the airfield, and the village kids beat shit out of us. The war came, we both went into the army. Hank was a bright kid, came out a captain in the airborne, but he'd done a few drops in civilian clothes. At the end of the war, the army kept him on, but sent him to M.I.T. to get his masters. He wound up with a Ph.D. before he got back into uniform. Next thing I heard he was working in Berlin for a little company that made high-voltage electrophoresis machines for medical labs… you're beginning to get the picture?'

'I get the picture,' I said. This little engineering company had a very lenient policy about employees who disappeared for long weekends, and came back with their hair slightly ruffled and a hole in the hat.'

'Yeah, a C.I.A. front, and a very active one. Henry Dean was making quite a name for himself. They switched him back into the army and gave him the police desk in Berlin. Then they began saying that Dean would be running Operations in Langley before he was thirty-five — that kind of crap, you know.'

'I know.'

'But Dean got into the juice. His old man was a lush, I remember. That's why his dad quit flying and went to sales. Hank was very close to his dad: he used to hide the bottles, argue with him, plead with him, but it was no use. Poor Hank — and Berlin is a bad place for a guy who is easily tempted.'

'Yes,' I said.

Mann passed a hand across his eyes as if trying to see into the past. When he spoke again it was the voice of a man half asleep. 'Got into the juice. There was some kind of foul-up… a row about some documents being given to the East Germans… there was an inquiry. I don't know the details but Dean was never the same again after that. They gave him a second chance. The next thing was a back-up assignment for a routine crossing. It was unlikely that he'd be needed, but suddenly he was, and they dug him out of a bar on the Ku-damm, stoned out of his mind. There was a lot of static from Langley, and a lot of promises from Dean. But it was the third time that ended his career.

'Berlin in the late 'fifties — it was heavy stuff, and two really good guys went that night. Those two had a lot of friends, and the friends blamed Hank Dean. He was finished for that kind of field-work. He went back to Washington but he couldn't handle a scene like that — it needs a light touch — Washington 'A list' hostesses, all that muscle from the satellite embassies, too many whizzkids chasing your job. No, that wasn't Hank Dean.'

I tried to pour some tea. There was only a trickle left, and that was cold. There were no lights on in the sitting-room, and Mann was no more than a silhouette against the darkening sky. The silence lasted.so long that when he spoke again it made me start.

'He stayed on the wagon for years,' said Mann. 'And then finally Special Services found something for him in Vietnam. They wanted me to sign a chit sponsoring him…' Mann sighed. 'I thought about it all day and all night. I was sure he'd foul-up and spatter me with shit.. so I said no.'

I tried to ease some of the guilt off his back. 'Hindsight reveals a wise decision,' I said.

It did nothing to cheer Mann. Against the wintry light from the window, I saw him pinch the bridge of his nose. He was slumped lower now, his chin almost on his chest. 'Can't be sure of that, can we?' he said. 'Maybe if I had signed it we wouldn't be running our pinkies down the Christmas airline schedules.'

'Maybe,' I agreed.

'There comes a time in your life when you have to do the human thing — make the decision the computer never makes — give your last few bucks to an old pal, find a job for a guy who deserves a break, or bend the rules because you don't like the rules.'

'Even in this job?'

'Especially in this job, or you end up as the kind of dispassionate robotic bastard that communism breeds.'

'Are you going to bring Dean back, or try to turn him?'

'I've embarrassed you, have I?' said Mann bitterly.

'Because if you are going to bring him back, there will be a lot of paperwork. I'll want to get started on it as soon as possible.'

'You like baseball?' Mann asked. 'He was second baseman. I saw the whole thing… a double play and this little fink put a set of sharpened cleats into his knee. He would have turned pro, I'm sure. He'd never have come into this lousy racket.'

'Turn Dean,' I said, 'and perhaps we could do without the Bekuvs.'

'Hank Dean… big noisy lummox… full of farts and funny stories… untrimmed beard, dirty dishes in the sink, rot-gut in flagons, and a sleeping-bag in the bathroom if you're too drunk to drive home. You'd never recognize him for this bright kid who got the sharpened cleats in his leg. Funny how a thing like that can change a man's whole life.'

'This is just a way of getting at you,' I said.

'It looks like it,' said Mann. 'I wonder how long ago they started working on it.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Poor old Hank. A K.G.B. operation — I can smell it from here, can't you? Payments into his bank balance, witnesses who can identify him, microdots pasted into his copy of Thunderball, you know what they get up to. Jesus! — and I've got the choice of handing over to another investigating officer, the way the book tells it, or of bending the rules and try and make it easy on him.'

'If the K.G.B. have set it up, they will have dotted every i and crossed every t. They dare not risk something like this blowing up in their faces.'

'They've not necessarily framed him,' said Mann calmly. 'They might have just offered him enough dough to get him working for them.'

'You don't believe that.'

'I don't want to believe it,' said Mann. 'Do you know something.. For a moment there I wasn't even going to tell you that I knew Dean. I was just going to press on with the investigation and keep stumm.'

If the Russians wanted to compromise or discredit Mann, they'd chosen a racking — dilemma for him. But they'd misjudged their target. Many would have folded under such pressure, most would have handed the file over to someone else, but not Mann. He was shaken, but not for long.

'Already it's working,' Mann said. 'Already there is a gap between us.'

The neon signs and the lights of the near-by town were turning the night sky fiery. 'No gap,' I said.

'No gap,' said Mann scornfully. 'Already you are getting nervous — worrying about your pension and trying to decide how much you can afford to play along with me.'

'No.'

'Why no?' he asked. 'Why no, Frederick Antony, old buddy?'

He deserved some warmer reassurance, something that reflected the times we'd had together. Something that told him I'd stake my life upon his judgment — be it good or bad. But I was too English for such extravagances. Coldly I said, 'Because I trust you more than I trust Mrs Bekuv. For all we know she could be planted by the K.G.B… acting on their instructions, and giving us the spielmaterial they want to feed to us.'

The phone rang but Mann made no attempt to answer it.

I said, 'That will be the girls reminding us about the dance they've dressed up for.'

Mann didn't move, and soon the phone ceased to ring. The side of his knee,' said Mann. 'His left leg, he still limps.'