Spy Story by Len Deighton Page B

dribbles from it.
    â€˜Stand by for flying glass.’
    â€˜Little swine.’ He held the brimming glass at chest height and lowered his head to it. He was like a great untidy bear and had all the clumsy strength of that much maligned creature.
    â€˜What were Blue Suite doing: two subs close together like that?’
    Ferdy gave a knowing smile. He wiped his mouth with a black silk handkerchief from his top pocket. ‘Schlegel buttering up the admirals. Telling them how to win the game.’
    â€˜Do yourself a favour, Ferdy. What happened today was just Blue Suite at their most typically inept. It wasn’t Schlegel. If he decides to cheat on you, he’s not going to muff it like that.’
    â€˜Machine failure, then?’ said Ferdy. He allowed himself a grin.
    â€˜That’s about it, Ferdy.’ I drank some more champagne. Machine failure was our way of describing any of the more stupid sort of human errors. Ferdy shrugged and raised a hand to usher me into the drawing-room. As I passed him he touched my arm to halt me. ‘I’ve lost that damned Northern Fleet battle order.’
    â€˜So what? You can get another.’
    â€˜I think Schlegel stole it. I know he came into Red Ops while I was at lunch.’
    â€˜He gets his own copy. He’s only to ask for a dozen if he wants more.’
    â€˜I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He patted his hair, then he picked up his drink and swallowed the whole of it before putting the glass down.
    â€˜I don’t get it,’ I said.
    â€˜Boudin, Boudin.’ He crouched down and called the dachshund but it still didn’t come to him. ‘Don’t you see that it’s just a devious way of getting me kicked out?’ His voice came from under the hall stand.
    â€˜By inventing some sort of security stunt?’
    â€˜Well, it would work, wouldn’t it?’ He spat out the words and I knew that he’d not completely eliminated me from the conspiracy. Perhaps telling me was only his way of complaining to Schlegel.
    â€˜Life’s too short, Ferdy. Schlegel’s a bastard, you know that. If he wanted to get rid of you he’d just have you in the office, and give it to you right between the eyes.’
    Ferdy took another glass of champagne and handed it to me, taking my empty in exchange. He said, ‘I keep telling myself that.’
    The doorbell sounded. Ferdy looked anxiously at the front door. ‘Kick him in the crutch, you say?’
    â€˜Mind he doesn’t grab your ankle.’
    He smiled. ‘It’s all right, I’ll attend to the door,’ he called. He picked up his drink and finished it. ‘We’re having drinks in the library. See yourself in, will you? I think you know everyone.’
    It was a curious evening and yet there is no easy way to convey the atmosphere that was generated. Anyone might have guessed that attention would be on Schlegel. Not because he was Ferdy Foxwell’s boss – not everyone present knew that, so perfunctory were Ferdy’s introductions – but rather owing to Schlegel’s personality. It was not entirely Schlegel’s profligate expenditure of energy. Nor was it his resonant voice, that made shouting unnecessary. It was an atmosphere of uncertainty that he generated, and seemed to relish. For instance, there was what Schlegel did to the wood carvings.
    Schlegel walked around the library, peering close at the engravings and the furniture and the ornaments and the bookcase. When he got to the medieval wooden pilgrim that stood five feet tall in the corner, Schlegel rapped it with his knuckles. ‘Damn nice, that,’ he said in a voice that no one missed.
    â€˜Let me give you a drink,’ said Ferdy.
    â€˜Is it real?’
    Ferdy gave Schlegel another drink.
    Schlegel nodded his thanks and repeated his question. ‘Real, is it?’ He rapped the priest on the arm as he’d so often rapped me, and