Faith. Len Deighton

singing from the blows with the metal flashlight. Even worse was the near-mortal blow that had been delivered to my self-confidence. How could I have been so easily caught off-guard by a muscle-bound bird-brain like Wim? Only a year or so ago I would have recognized such a thug at first sight, and knocked him cold before he could raise a hand against me.

      For perhaps the first time in my life I saw Bernard Samson as so many others had always seen him. I’m not talking about any kind of symbolism: my despair was practical, not philosophical, just as my joy had always been. But I was only in this predicament because I had gone out of my way to disobey orders from London Central about contacting Werner. I’d beaten Wim more ferociously than was necessary to escape him, and no doubt left enough evidence for an energetic police inquiry to trace me back to the ride I got out of Berlin. Worse was the fact that I had no one to turn to for help. Who at London Central would risk their career covering for me? Not even Frank would go that far. The two women in my life had nothing to thank me for, and Werner seemed to have gone to a great deal of trouble to make contacting him difficult. I was totally alone, in deep trouble and friendless. But I must get to Werner nevertheless: he was the only person who would understand my predicament. The fact that he was in no position to help me was a secondary consideration.

      The nudges and winks, the hints and outright slanders I’d heard over the past few weeks, about Werner’s sudden departure from the Departmental payroll, had not fooled me. If any of those stories, about Werner embezzling money or otherwise upsetting the applecart, were true, the Department would have put out a worldwide alert, found him and punished his misdeeds. But they had not done that, they’d left him in Switzerland to wither on the vine. That suggested one thing above all others. I knew only one sin that London would temporize, compromise and negotiate about: betrayal. Werner must have let something slip when he was over there on one of his business trips. It was easy enough to do. I would hate to be called into account for all the times I had sailed close to the wind. But for the time being Werner was in no position to help my career, even if he had the inclination to do so.

      Rain washed my bruised and bloody face and squelched inside my shoes. The highway was completely silent and the sour stink of diesel fumes grew fainter as it was washed away by the rain. At this time of night even long-distance drivers are tempted to find a spot on the road to shut their eyes for an hour or so. I had no alternative but to wait, but so much time was passing that I walked back past the slip road which led to Wim’s transporter. Several times I fancied I saw him walking around under the trees there, but they were no more than shadows conjured up by my troubled imagination. All the same, not wanting to take the risk of Wim spotting me at the roadside, I walked farther along the road, back the way we’d come. I was still walking when a car caught me in its main beams and slowed to pick me up.

      It was a dented Audi with a middle-aged German in a damp raincoat sitting at the wheel. As he wound the window down cigarette smoke billowed into my face. ‘What are you doing out here at this time of night?’ he said in a quarrelsome tone.

      ‘I had a breakdown,’ I said. ‘Could you take me to the nearest town?’

      ‘Get in,’ he said.

      I didn’t get in. It was at that very moment that my mind suddenly exploded, and the events of the last hour or so assumed a new and terrifying pattern. How could I have mistaken Wim for a psychopath who killed skinny kids and foolhardy girls for kicks, or to get his hands on their meagre cash and belongings? My narrow escape had been from an assigned hit by a KGB professional. Wim had been sent to kill me. It all fitted together. He had been waiting in the right Autobahn interchange at the right time and selected me in the driver’s canteen. He had beckoned me, and when getting me aboard had stopped at the ramp, a place where he made sure that no witnesses were around to see him picking me up. It had all been carefully planned: the offer of a swig from his gin bottle, and the heater turned fully up to make me drowsy. No firearms: bullets would leave bullet holes and too much blood.

      I shuddered. It was a narrow escape. Had my luck not prevailed Wim would now have just finished burying me in a shallow grave by the roadside, where a body could lay undiscovered for years, maybe for ever. Wim was not some homicidal maniac; he was a professional killer.

      The driver of the Audi was looking at my well-worn coat and the cheap bag with the skyscraper on it. ‘Do you want a lift with me, or are you waiting for a Rolls-Royce?’

      I suddenly became aware that I was standing in the heavy rain and looking at him blankly. ‘Yes. Yes, thanks,’ I said.

      ‘Get in,’ he told me again, and I threw my bag into the car and climbed in after it.

      ‘I thought no one would ever stop,’ I said.

      He didn’t reply. He was about forty, overweight, with slicked-back hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. ‘You’re not German,’ he said accusingly.

      ‘Yes, I am.’ My hands were trembling as I thought about Wim and the men who might have sent him. Had I not been thinking of something else I would not have claimed to be German. It would have been easier to be a British soldier on leave.

      ‘Maybe. So where did you get the accent?’ he said, examining my face carefully. Over-confident, I’d been careless. He’d heard some false note and one false note was enough. He narrowed his eyes: ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

      ‘No, you don’t know me. I’ve been away in Canada,’ I said. If Wim had been positioned to pick me up and kill me, he would have a back-up to support him. If the site chosen for his attack was prearranged, why not have this toughie sweep up along the road to make sure that it had all gone according to plan? If it hadn’t gone according to plan, if I was still alive, the back-up could stop and offer me a ride and make sure of me.

      ‘Bullshit,’ said the man. ‘Canada; bullshit. And what the hell have you been doing? Fighting?’ Despite the darkness he could see my face and its bruises and marks. One of my eyes was getting so puffy that it was impeding my vision.