The mechanism pushing the voiceless cuckoo out whirred. McEwen smoothed his white moustache. Graf Bornhof studied the stack of paper. They sat like gamblers, each confident of having better cards. Graf Bornhof knew it was his turn. Call? Raise the ante? Or make it look that he was folding? He had called McEwen to Pullach to inform him that his transferred networks were not working out. They were promising on paper, yes, but when touched they collapsed, like cardboard structures. And now this irrational vendetta against a consul in Berlin? Another flimsy construction rising up from baseless conjectures. How, Graf Bornhof asked himself, might McEwen be neutralized? How to end the game? “More coffee, Randolph?” he asked. “And a biscuit?” He poured from the thermos and slipped him a tray. “Compelling material,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose we ought to call the bailiff.”
“That would be most wise,” McEwen said.
“We will want to check out some small points first, but I doubt it will take long.”
“Prudence can be beneficial,” agreed McEwen, smiling kindly. “How do you expect Sherwood Forest will end? A triple arrest? Robin Hood declared persona non grata?”
“Possibly. It might go in one of a dozen ways,” Graf Bornhof said evasively, paging through the Sherwood Forest dossier. “We’ll do the right thing. I assure you.”
The business done, talk turned to retirement. Where would McEwen settle? Yorkshire, he answered. He planned to buy a farm. Graf Bornhof described his cottage. Anne wanted to go back to her roots and spend their golden years close to Oxford. “When we’ve settled in, I shall visit you in Yorkshire,” he said.
“It would be my pleasure,” McEwen replied, munching on a cookie.
From the rear seat of the Mercedes, McEwen did not salute the guards. They had a brief glimpse of a tranquil figure lost in thought. Outside the gate, the car accelerated smoothly and took the road to Munich. On the train back to Berlin McEwen ran out of things to read and spent time staring out the window. Graf Bornhof’s last words, like a recording, began playing in his head. We’ll do the right thing. Fuzzy words. What did they mean? Can any Hun be trusted if he says he’ll do the right thing? Suddenly the Cold War warrior stiffened. Why hadn’t Graf Bornhof asked for his remaining networks, his pipeline into the diplomatic scene? Had he been suckered into playing a part in a despicably elaborate Pullach game? Did Sherwood Forest now rest in the hands of an untrustworthy man? McEwen’s instincts told him something was amiss. A new bout of spite set in, but quickly it transformed as an empathy for the Beavers came on strong. The Beavers were dependable, partners in the great days of empire, cut from the same stock. Thinking of the Beavers soothed the master meta-diplomat. He resolved the moment he was back in Berlin to make a transatlantic call. It was never a bad idea to anticipate perfidy, to take out some insurance against the Hun.
McEwen reached for his briefcase. He had an urge to spend the remainder of the journey with Maid Marian. Hauling out the sheaf of clippings, he began once more to read the earliest letters from Gregor to his mother. As the train neared Berlin, an old man’s nostalgia hit. Why couldn’t he have run into someone like Gundula years before? Taking a folded photo from his wallet, he fixed his eyes on her.
CHOPIN PLAYS ON THE TITANIC
Six time zones apart, Anthony Hanbury and Irving Heywood were in a concurrent rush. The consul was absorbed in late-afternoon final preparations for what was to have been a cosy housewarming party, but somehow turned into a great feast staged by Gifford. Even the invitations had a special aura – society watchers sensed it – that the event would be the diplomatic season’s highlight. Florists, caterers, waiters, musicians – all were arriving on the consul’s front steps more or less at once. All wanted to know from whom they should be taking orders. As Hanbury stood in the swelling confusion and nervous countdown that precedes large parties, Heywood was unceremoniously puffing his way down a corridor towards a lift. It would raise him eight stories, then eject him into the high priest’s ante-chamber. The high priest was new, and rumoured to be mean.
“Is this Irving Heywood?” the high priest had said with a voice drawn from high grade tensile steel. “Yes it is,” Heywood growled back. The caller identified himself. “Sir!” Heywood said with a changed tone. “Welcome. We are proud you were appointed to lead the Service.”
The new high priest was not of the Service. He had been parachuted in after a stay with the Tithe Collectors across town. The reputation he earned there was fearsome. Naturally, the Service rank and file sniggered when he came up in conversation. Sniggering was habitual; it accompanied all the stories of the exploits of the senior men. This time too, in the cafeteria, or on the evening busses delivering the working levels back to waiting families in the suburbs, there was buzz about the new high priest. But the tittering he brought on was different from the others. It was shallower and short-lived. Plaintive silence hung between the bursts of gossip. The high priest’s mandate, rumour had it, was to decimate the Service. Heywood had heard it too. At his age, he knew, he was especially vulnerable.
Heywood, though assertive on the phone, was actually overcome by an unpleasant sensation. Physically, his innards began roiling; mentally, he felt small. “Irv,” said the high priest icily. “Gotta see you fast. Get your ass up here.” “Yessir.” The telephone went dead.
Heywood thought feverishly about reasons for the call. He had just completed the annual Investitures task of drawing up new ambassadorial nominations. A secret memorandum had been sent to the high priest, but had brought no echo. A problem with the list? Seen as too conservative? True, it did read as a kind of Who’s Who of Old Farts. But they were Heywood’s friends. If any one of them had become Investitures priest instead of him, he, most assuredly, would not have been forgotten and would have his place on the list that matched men with plums. The priestly conspiracy demanded it. Heywood suddenly turned suspicious. Had someone blown the whistle? Had ambitious young bucks approached the high priest? Heywood knew about the previous year’s complaint, of the unruly talk that there was incest within the senior ranks. The high priest’s tone had not been reassuring. Heywood grabbed a copy of his memorandum and hurried off. “Mr. Heywood,” cried one of the girls, “can I get a signature? It’s really urgent!” “Sorry,” the Investitures priest called back over his shoulder. “The high priest is waiting.” Half a dozen underlings looked up. They witnessed an unstately departure down the hallway – a quivering rear end of many pounds trudging off without a single ounce of grace.
In the high priest’s ante-chamber, sweat formed as Heywood waited. He dabbed his brow with a tissue. “It won’t be much longer,” soothed the receptionist. “He’s on the phone. It’s like this all the time. On the phone. On the phone. On the phone. It never stops.” A loud roar of laughter rose on the other side of the door, then subsided. There was some shouting, more laughing and garbled loud talking. The Investitures priest began to review his memorandum. It was a defensible list, for the most part, he consoled himself. What else can be done with the twilight generation of the Service except make them ambassadors? Headquarters was no place for them. It wasn’t a geriatric ward. These men no longer had the strength for bone-crunching, never-ending hours. That was the underlying purpose of the list, to offer a solution. What would the Service be without the safety valve of the annual ambassadorial rite?
The door flung open. A tall, slim-hipped, wide-shouldered figure fixed aggressively on Heywood. The belt sported a wide buckle and the shirt – two breast pockets closed with flaps – had a subtle western look; the necktie was a strip of leather. Meet Bo Bilinski, the second son in a cow-punching family that owned a spread in Alberta’s Buffalo Head Hills. Because the business hadn’t been big enough for three grown men with egos, Bo gravitated East when he was young, where his government career advanced meteorically. Bilinski had learned a few tricks before he turned his back on steers. And so it was that in no time at all he punched the country’s economic policies from the left end of the spectrum over to the right.
When he roped in the industrial subsidies, he set a new world record. Then he turned to the toughest steer he ever wrestled – bureaucratic waste – and laid it low. And now he was beginning a wild ride on a heaving bull – running the country’s foreign service. Everyone knew Bilinski had strength, but the unanswered question was, did he have a quick-enough response? Could he stay on the shifty beast for the distance? Or would he be thrown and trampled like others before him? The stands were packed to watch the great event.
Bilinski scowled at Heywood. “You Irv?”
“I am,” Heywood said, rising.
“Elma. No calls.” He beckoned Heywood with a finger. Inside his office he pointed at a chair while he went to a far corner where glass panels went from floor to ceiling. Bilinski stood for a bit, seemingly lost in thought. The view was north-facing. The frozen river below was covered with snow. Lit up in the morning sun, it resembled an immaculate avenue defined by patches of black wintering trees along the banks reaching east to Montreal. In the distance beyond Hull rose the Gatineaus, magnificently textured hills speckled black and white and, on this day, looking soft and downy. The early spring light attacked the snow, which sent it flying back, making the view blinding.
Why was Bilinski lost in thought? Heywood convinced himself the high priest was experiencing a silent exultation over the inspiring landscape. Before Bilinski earned this office – the inner sanctum, the best part of the tabernacle – he would have had a standard cell across town, one of those colourless cubicles in a jungle of government concrete. Heywood once saw an office there and he had shuddered. “Lovely scene,” he offered. “The nicest of any foreign ministry in the world. I have a cottage in those hills. Knowing it was there kept us sane through many a hardship assignment.”
“That’s nice,” Bilinski said with the tone of,Who cares? Threateningly he turned around. “Tell me Irv, who the hell is Anthony Hanbury?”
Heywood, surprised, shifted on the leather chair. “Hanbury? Why, he’s on assignment in Berlin.”
“That, Irv, I had figured out. Jesus! What I mean is, what kind of asshole is he?” Bilinski had the hooked nose and slicked-back hair look of a professional wrestler.
“I know him somewhat,” Heywood said, sucking in his breath. Bilinski had moved to stand in front of him, the prominent belt buckle not too far from his forehead. “Tony is quiet, unassuming,” Heywood said. He looked straight ahead, then quickly upwards. “Not the type to put the world on fire, but not unsuitable for some assignments. He seems to be settling down in Berlin. He wrote us a charming note before Christmas.”
“Is that so? And do you know Harry Manteaux?”
“Oh yes. We work closely with his people. Their intelligence assessments may be somewhat…well…alarmist, but still, they identified some Soviet agents back then, when there were agents. Some of Manteaux’s people are under the same roof as us abroad.”
“Don’t bullshit, Irv. I want you to know something. I hate Harry’s fucking guts.”
“I see,” said Heywood.
“Spent two weeks with Harry years ago. One of those bullshit courses for senior pencil-pushers. Hated every minute of it. Manteaux was the pedant in the crowd, a son-of-a-bitch of a whiner. It disturbed me. He’s pissing me off all over again just thinking about it.” Bilinski moved back to the window. All Heywood saw was the broad back, narrow waist and long athletic legs. “So Harry phones. Like an idiot I take the call. He wants to discuss my man in Berlin. I tell you Irv, a cock and bull story. A pain in the ass. A goddamn waste of time. So when he said I should terminate some joker called Hanbury, I told Harry to screw himself. High time someone told him that. What it was about, I can’t figure out. Some shitty problem with reporting from Berlin. Reporting! Christ! Who needs reporting? We’ve got to shut the thousands of report scribbling bureaucrats off, Irv, not turn ’em on.”
“We share most of our reports with Manteaux’s people,” Heywood said, trying to be helpful.
“Well, Irv, I tell you, I don’t give a goddamn about that. What I want you to do is phone that fairy in Berlin and tell him I don’t like being called by Harry or any of the other spooks. I never want to hear Harry’s goddamn voice again and if it takes a report or two to do that – if that’s the problem – I’m prepared to bend my principles. Tell that shithead Hanbury to send the spooks a couple of reports. OK?”
“Of course.”
Bilinski turned around. “So, whatcha waiting for?” He gestured to the door.
The Investitures priest fingered the secret memorandum. “Sir,” he said, “could we quickly go over this year’s Head-of-Mission proposals? I sent you a note a few days ago.”
“Never saw it.” The high priest looked accusingly at the top of his vast black desk. The only things on it were a fountain pen in a stand and a photograph of a smiling wife hovering over three radiant children. “Wait.” He picked up his phone and jabbed a button. “Robbie? You got something there from someone called Heywood? Yeah? Bring it in won’t you?” Bilinski pushed a palm towards Heywood. “Stay. This’ll take thirty seconds flat. Heads of mission, that’s them pampered ambassadors. Am I right?”
“It is important to name experienced people,” Heywood said. “With the wrong man in charge, an embassy goes off the rails in no time.” Bilinski was silent. Heywood felt relieved. No young buck had got to the high priest. The door opened silently and a young woman slipped in.
“Robbie,” Bilinski said. “Met Irv yet?”
“No! High time I did. Hi Irv.” The high priest’s executive assistant was a lovely creature. She lowered herself into the chair opposite Heywood and crossed her legs.
“So, we’re about to decide who becomes ambassador, right?” Bilinski said, setting out some ground rules. “Have you read Irv’s piece of paper, Robbie? Can I have a peek?” Robbie gave the secret memorandum to the High Priest. “Why these guys, Irv?” Bilinski asked matter-of-factly.
“Can I say something, Bo?” Robbie said, cutting Heywood off with a smile.
“Shoot.”
“We should freeze the list. There’s heaps of time. It’s only March. Changes don’t take effect until summer.”
“Well just a second,” Heywood interjected robustly. “These aren’t high school drop-outs. They’re senior people. They need time to prepare themselves.”
Bilinski looked at Robbie. He looked at Heywood. With the way he moved his head, he transmogrified in that instant into a mountain hawk, about to swoop and dig talons into quarry.
“That’s the problem with the list,” said Robbie sweetly. She wore a fluffy white blouse done up to the neck and expensively tailored black pants. “The list isn’t intergenerational.”
“Is that true Irv?” Bilinski demanded with suspicion.
Heywood saw the writing on the wall. The young bucks hadn’t got to the high priest: they got to Robbie. They must have smelled her from afar. Never underestimate the rutting that takes place in the hallways. He also knew, given Robbie’s comment, that he had no more than two seconds – maybe only one – if he wanted to survive as priest. “I wouldn’t exactly say it isn’t intergenerational,” the Investitures priest said slowly, to gain precious milliseconds, “but Robbie has put her finger on a problem. We have a lot of senior people, sir. Maybe the list isn’t an ideal way to solve it.”
“Goddamn right, it isn’t,” the high priest said.
“That was going to be my next point,” Robbie said. “I’m just thinking out loud, Bo, but maybe this is the time to get Bitrap going. Get that done before we think about new ambassadors.”
Bilinski returned to the tall glass panels to observe the splendid hills. Too bad all that was park, he thought. Too bad he couldn’t start a ranch there. The kids were growing up and he feared they were turning into eastern softies. The other day it was minus twenty and they complained about the cold. Shit, up in the Buffalo Head Hills, minus forty was considered balmy. The time was coming to get back to the open spaces. He owed it to the kids. But some things needed
doing first. Get on with it, Bilinski urged himself, in the way he always did before his other superhuman feats. Was Irv the man for Bitrap? Bilinski wasn’t sure. Irv had put his finger on a problem all right. Allowing old shitters to spread their fat fannies on expensive crappers all over the world was no way to solve the population problem. Irv looked like a softy, but you never knew. Some damn good wranglers came out of the east. Son-of-a-bitch. Go for broke. He turned back from the window.
“Irv,” he said, “know what a trapezoid is?”
“I believe so. Geometry I think.”
“Right on. Good thinking. A trapezoid is like this.” The high priest drew an airy figure, a horizontal line, two sides sloping outward and then the broader base. “That’s this organization, Irv. It’s gone trapezoidal. It’s fat. That ain’t right. We gotta fix it. Out of the trapezoid we gotta get a pyramid. My solution, Irv, is to draw a line from the corner upper left down to the corner bottom right.” He traced the slanting line with an ominously pointed finger. “That, Irv, is a bisection. If everything above that line disappears,” – he waved half the trapezoid away – “you tell me what’s left. Bloody right. Bureaucratic perfection. The goddamn dip list isn’t the way to solve the population problem. Bitrap is. I’d like you to work on that for a few weeks. You know, bisect the trapezoid, get it done. When it’s finished, come back with a new list. Robbie will work with you, provide cover. We know from other places how everybody suddenly starts shooting if things gotta change. Your backside isn’t tiny, but don’t worry about it getting hit. No one slaps the projectile stuff back faster than Robbie. Okay? Thanks. Come back in two weeks.”
The Berlin Assignment Page 36