The Berlin Assignment (52 page)

He asked outright when they could get together again. Gundula almost said,
tonight
, but checked herself. She took time to think about it, claiming she was looking in her diary for an opening. Finally she answered, “Next week Wednesday?”

“That's fine. Super,” the ardent consul said. “I'm looking forward to it.” They could go to a pub of her choosing on a street where Trabi would blend in. And, if she liked, they could run a test: had the cowboy left his homestead well-enough prepared? The offer was punctuated with a renewed chuckle.

“Chopin,” she said lightly, “stick to what you're good at. Your music moved me.”

“As you wish. We shall sit at the piano until the sun comes up.”

Gundula laughed and hung up. When she refocused on the article, the heaviness had disappeared. The axe was now a chisel. The piece emerged quickly. Once it was dispatched to editing, she had time to think.

She kicked herself. Wednesday was six days away.
Super
, he said. Why wasn't he irritated? Why hadn't he howled?
Next Wednesday? By then I'll have forgotten what you look like!
But no, no howl. The consul was polite, happy as a choirboy. In some ways he resembled Vassiliev. Vassiliev often behaved as if he could do without her. Too late she realized it was because he didn't wish to own her.
What's best for you
, Vassiliev habitually replied when she asked him what he wanted. But what sort of love is that? He could have hollered,
Gundula! Stay! And if you do, I swear I'll make you happy!
But no, no demands. She misread the signals and left Kiev. He slipped away to marry someone else. Vassiliev hadn't been the owning type and Tony wasn't either. Something to keep in mind. But damn his patience all the same. Six days!

The next to strike by telephone was Irving Heywood. From a snow-surrounded tabernacle radiant in a morning sun, he got through to the consul as light was ebbing from the Berlin afternoon and the consul was about to depart for his appointment with von Helmholtz. “Recognize the voice?” the Investitures priest asked playfully. The line went still. Heywood thought the connection had been broken. “It's Irving,” he revealed. “Tony, how are you? Hiding your light under a bushel?” Another pause, then Hanbury's voice. “Enjoying Investitures?” “You have no idea,” said Heywood.

In truth, Bitrap was the opposite of Heywood's idea of a good time. He was sick of soul and needed to confide in someone. But whom? Not Hannah. She would use it as pretext to urge him to take the same
golden handshake he was offering everyone else. But suppose he did that, suppose he grabbed the money and left the tabernacle – forever – in an unseemly rush. What then? Days of staring at the empty crescent on which they lived waiting for the excitement of the mailman to come by? Sure, in summer, retirement might work. He would enjoy the cottage porch. He could watch the wind play in the trees and listen to loons rule the lake. But in winter? Four months when nothing stirred save a snowplough exploding into the crescent to administer two minutes of mayhem before roaring out. No thanks. Bitrap was awful, but retirement was worse. All the same, shoving his own generation over the edge was a dreadful act and he desired intimacy with someone on whom he could unburden his plight.

“And you, Tony?” Heywood asked sweetly, “enjoying Berlin?” The Investitures priest thought he sensed a tightening on the other end. It happened all the time. No one believed a call from Investitures was ever innocent.

“Some days are better than others,” was the reply from Berlin.

Tony, Heywood knew, never wasted words. Tony was a listener. Would he be willing to listen now? Would Tony be prepared to share a confidence about the reasons for his torment? Heywood wasn't sure. Prolong the pleasantries, he thought, get a better feel.

“You must be settled in pretty well by now,” he ventured.

“I know my way around.”

“Busy?”

“Overwhelming some days.”

“Good staff?”

“Cast in solid gold.”

“Wonderful, Tony. Sounds like you hit the jackpot. I knew you would. You deserved it after the Priory. The years were harrowing, I know.” Heywood went through a pulpy moment recalling the fabulous days of
the Cold War. The jobs in the Priory had been real. A pressure cooker, sure, but no pain then such as he had now.

“A wonderful gang we were. Everyone has drifted off. One by one. Did you know that?” Heywood experienced a surge of affection – for the Priory, for Hanbury, for the past. “The Priory was my high water mark, Tony. Yours too?”

“I learned a lot,” the former Priory deputy replied.

“I appreciate that, Tony. Thank you for saying it. Well, you know, I did my best. What more can one do?” Heywood's voice, like a teddy-bear's, was furry and soft.

“Not much,” said the consul.

Heywood hoped Hanbury would say more, provide stronger hints of telephone companionship. He wanted to confess his anguish more than ever. But the Berlin end stayed silent. Heywood sighed inwardly and carried on. “I know you must be wondering why I'm calling. I couldn't get through yesterday. I guess I tried a bit late.”

“I was flying the flag. Hosting a reception.”

“Went well?”

“A line or two in the gossip column.”

“No one could ask for more,” Heywood said gravely. Another pause, each waiting for the other. The Investitures priest cleared his throat. “The reason for my call…how shall I put it…Look, Tony, we know each other. I'll blurt it out. Something isn't right. There's a few people here, they want more reporting from Berlin. Wait…I know. It sounds odd. But you know me. I won't pussyfoot around. I'm telling you straight that's the verdict. I know there's a good reason for not reporting. I know you're damn busy. But I thought, at least, you and I, we should talk about it.”

The line once more seemed dead.

“Hullo?” Heywood sang. The priest made it sound expectant, like calling into a burial cave to determine if a resurrection has occurred.

“I'm here.”

Hanbury's calm voice was so near he could have been sitting inside Heywood's ear. “Tony. Don't misinterpret this.”

“Why would I?” The voice was precise. “The Zealots didn't want me to report. There was a broomstick of a girl. Very smart young lady. Slim hips. Keen on Italians.”

“Krauthilda?”

“That's it.”

“I knew it. Her days are numbered. As Krauthilda I mean. I'm sending her to Rome. Tony, listen, I know the Zealots told you that. Fair game. It's transpired, though, that others in town are taking an interest. Gently, nicely – I have to say that – nicely it was asked if once in a while you could, you know, send in a piece on what's happening there. If I recall, you did a bang-up job reporting in Kuala Lumpur. It's your reputation. A reputation doesn't just disappear. So there's an expectation.”

“Send in a piece on what?”

“Whatever you think is important. Whatever local fragrances tickle your nose.”

Fragrances. Heywood realized all the more that his task that day would have a putrid stench. In two hours, in his war council, the Investitures priest would perform a ceremony. With a knife that would turn horribly bloody he would cut the Service body in half. The hideousness of the looming act contrasted with the easy pleasure of ruminating with Tony. And Tony was saying if that was wanted he would try his hand at reporting. Anthony Hanbury, salt of the earth,
summa cum laude
graduate from the Heywood school of positive thinking. The Investitures priest could have bussed the consul. Heywood began formulating a glowing report to the high priest.
Sir, that little hiccup in Berlin. It's solved
. His mind wandered to the inner sanctum. The high priest would ask about Bitrap and he would have to confirm it, too, was done. Fucking good job Irv, would be the answer. Thinking this made Heywood blush. “I wish the damn pond weren't
between us, Tony,” a mushy Heywood said. “The years we spent in the Priory. We didn't get to know each other well enough. Too damn much work, I guess. Still, we were always there, I like to think, you know, when the other needed a boost. Do you look at it that way too?”

“There was no place like the Priory,” were the clipped words coming through the phone line.

Heywood took a deep breath. He was about to say,
Tony, just between the two of us, something truly awful's about to happen
, but the connection went dead, a cable cut by a submarine, or a satellite hit by a meteor. Heywood thought of redialling, but you can't restore the magic of a conversation that's been ripped apart. He consoled himself; he had confided enough. He had almost shared his burden. Tony would have listened. Words of support,
It's a test, Irving, your toughest. I admire you for facing it full square
, had
nearly
been expressed. Gratitude, a volcano of affection, erupted inside Heywood and he resolved that when he came to draw the Bitrap line, no matter the arguments from others, the consul in Berlin would have redemption. He owed him that.

The phones in the Rote Rathaus were also ringing. Most calls were standard fare – ambassadors claiming to have important instructions from imperious officials in capitals about planned visits by heads of state and demanding to speak to the Chief of Protocol. Such calls were shunted off to subordinates for rehearsed answers.
Of course the limo will be bullet proof. Yes, a masseuse will be on standby in the suite. Thank you, it's vital to know tomato soup causes the great man indigestion
. Important details, the nuts and bolts of protocol. But the call from Pullach, von Helmholtz took himself. Graf Bornhof inquired whether the consul had been in yet. “In about an hour,” the Chief of Protocol replied.

“Sorry to be pushy, but Randolph McEwen is calling daily.”

“It will be casually staged. I'll keep a lid on it.”

“I'm sure. I don't need much. Confirmation that you've read the riot act will be enough. With that I'll stare McEwen down.”

“He's done this before. He sees demons under his own pillow. I don't admire witch-hunts.”

“You don't have to convince me. He'll be retired in a few months. Let's coddle him that long.”

“I'll call you when I've spoken with him.”

The Chief of Protocol hung up. He shook his head. He had never heard a more ridiculous story. Plutonium smuggling! McEwen was old and eccentric and becoming deranged.

When Hanbury entered, Von Helmholtz was standing by the balcony doors, attention fixed on the skyline. With a slight head movement he bade the consul to join him before opening a door and stepping out. Traffic noise drifted up. The narrow balcony was wet from a rainshower. An upward draught transformed their breath into mist. “What will this look like in ten years?” von Helmholtz reflected. “The cranes spin their cocoons. I suppose we're optimistic something beautiful will burst out.”

“The process is extraordinary,” Hanbury said carefully.

“Without parallel. Is it happening too fast?” Jack hammers in the distance sounded like an artillery platoon. “Well, I didn't ask you here to listen to me speculate.” Von Helmholtz closed the door to his office behind them. “Thank you for last night's party,” he said. “I'm sorry I was unable to stay long.” The two men on the balcony stood surrounded by the city's dull roar. A new movement of air brought a drizzle so fine it didn't fall; it attached itself as a thin, damp veil to solid objects. “We're outside to avoid the risk of our conversation being overheard.” Von Helmholtz said this casually. Hanbury answered with a light remark about Berlin's traditions, but von Helmholtz ignored it. “Tell me about Günther Rauch,” he said. A moment passed. Von Helmholtz saw the consul keep his eyes on the skyline, eventually shifting his gaze to him, then back to
the skyline. His expression skewed into a question mark.

“Has Gundula talked to you about him?” Hanbury asked. “Is she in difficulty over her columns?” A question answered by a question, thought von Helmholtz. He knew about the evening in
Friedensdorf.
He knew more about it than he wanted. When Pullach suggested the consul should be told to leave, he put his foot down and rejected the wishy-washy case. He told Graf Bornhof he would agree to nothing without seeing details. A thick file was rushed up in which he read the biographies of three people. The two he knew something about had been twisted beyond recognition. “No, it's nothing to do with Gundula's columns,” von Helmholtz said. “I know you two went to see him. Tell me about your interest in Günther Rauch.” The consul shrugged. “There isn't much to say. I met him years ago, not long after the Wall went up. I wanted to see him again. Gundula located him. We went to a pub he uses. He hasn't changed.”

Going through the thick file, von Helmholtz read about all three. He skimmed reports from around the world by Warsaw Pact embassies on Hanbury the diplomat. He glanced through confidential personnel records on Hanbury the bureaucrat. He saw a photograph of a naked woman behind the window of the consul's house, proving Hanbury had loved. The part of the file that chronicled the life of Gundula Jahn had sickened him. But the account of the
Friedensdorf
evening with Günther Rauch he had read very closely, because the whole case hinged on that.

“Do you plan to see him again?” von Helmholtz asked.

“Probably yes. Why not?”

“Stay away from him,” von Helmholtz advised. He observed Hanbury grip the balcony railing.
I need an explanation for that one
, the body language said. “You were overheard in
Friedensdorf
,” the Chief of Protocol continued. “Günther Rauch talked about a new political party. He asked you to help with money.” From the beginning, despite all he had read, von Helmholtz had planned to say no more than this. “My
God!” Hanbury cried. “That was in jest. Günther Rauch was spinning a vision. He did that twenty-five years ago too. Who would take it seriously?”