The Berlin Assignment (57 page)

“Full time, maybe a week.”

“I'll take a vacation,” said Hanbury. When Schwartz protested that was going too far, Hanbury dismissed it. “I haven't had a day off since I got here,” he said. “Anyway, it's amusing in there. It's sort of like exploring.”

Sabine and Lisa returned from the kitchen and brought Ulrich back
to life. He stared at Hanbury. “The handyman,” he mumbled, rising onto unsteady feet. “What a story.”

“It was good,” said Sabine warmly. She stood with an arm through her husband's.

“I'll help you get him down,” Hanbury said to Lisa.

He held a swaying Ulrich firmly for two flights of stairs. “You were the life of the party,” Hanbury said.

“One day I'm going to visit America…” slurred Ulrich.

“You'd enjoy it.”

“…and get picked up for drunken driving.”

“Not that.”

“They'd put me in an electric chair.”

“Unlikely.”

“They would. A quick end. But first, Handyman, I'd want you to check the wiring.”

Outside, the midnight hum from the Ku'damm funnelled down Fasanenstrasse. Hanbury accompanied Lisa and her husband as far as the next U-Bahn station. “I suppose you have a gas guzzler parked somewhere,” she said severely. “North Americans are the worst in the world for energy waste and garbage production.” “He'll fix that soon enough,” said Ulrich with conviction. “No car,” said Hanbury. “I like walking.” “See!” said Ulrich to his wife as arm in arm they disappeared.

Hanbury began the trek to Dahlem along the Ku'damm. A store window with trinkets brought him to a halt; the kind of place that would have excited Zella. Further along, a Trabi clattered by, reminding him that he was in love with Gundula's sharp tongue. A tenderly linked couple stood waiting at a taxi stand. Sabine and her husband were like that at the door when they waved their guests goodbye – a liberating sight. All along the Ku'damm Hanbury received life's signals and each one was set on green. Nothing held him back. The path before him had an easy downward slope and, on auto pilot, all he had to do was coast.

The vacation Earl had promised Frieda was not far off. They were finished forever, he told her, with organized bus tours to Bavaria. From now on their annual outing would be five-star: grand hotels in Liechtenstein, or in the Engadin in Switzerland, or on the Côte d'Azur. To prove he meant it, he chartered a yacht for this year's holiday, a sixty-footer out of Monaco with a crew of four and a luxury apartment for them. She asked Earl to determine if their quarters would be soundproof. Frieda was not so concerned about hearing a bit of muffled engine noise, but she would be squeamish about the captain hearing
her
, when Earl made love. Earl checked. On a boat like that, he said, naturally she needn't worry.

Gifford wheeled his Mercedes into the club. By the time he was back from his vacation McEwen would have left. Retired. The car's climate control was on low, the June weather being spectacular. The air was light, easy to breathe, the sky a pristine window on the universe. The azaleas and rhododendrons had bloomed and Berlin's wide, tree-lined avenues had
disappeared under heavy foliage. The city was green. Green, green, green. The greenest city in the world. The Tiergarten was once more a paradise and boats with tourists on the upper decks drinking Berliner Weisse plied the Havel. The pleasantness was so intense it seemed it was never different before and would be forever thus. Which was how Gifford felt about his own existence.

In an urgent duck-walk, impressive hams shaking, he entered the club, a thick envelope squeezed under an arm. Something to share with McEwen. Gifford had suggested this rendezvous; the initiative was his. “Why Earl,” McEwen had said on the phone, “of course I have time. A few more weeks and I shall be history. Yes, yes. Do come down. We shall enjoy a pint. Been having them alone these past few months. Queer, how one gets used to it.”

The last time they tipped one, months before, the meta-diplomat had been embittered. He sat still then, teeth clenched. He spoke in high-pitched, nasal bursts. The newsy, nosy drinking companion, the confident wizard with unusual recipes for acquiring information, the serene uncle bringing wandering children back, was no more. All that was left of the old McEwen was restraint. Gifford had recognized this when the meta-diplomat admitted he was disappointed. Disappointed? Yes, with Uncle Teut of course, though rather more so with the Beavers.

“They went to sleep, Earl. With Uncle Teut I suppose it was to be expected. But the Beavers? What has happened to the propitious influence of the Crown? In earlier days half the evidence we had on Friend Tony would have triggered a full-scale, secret government inquiry. I can give you ten examples. Customarily there would have been de-indoctrination, re-indoctrination, possibly incarceration, certainly dismissal.” McEwen's pitch went up as he recalled an age when friend and foe were well-defined. He took a long gulp of his bitter. “And what happens in today's age of confusion? Uncle Teut requests Friend Tony to stay away from
Friedensdorf
. As if a tiny breach of etiquette occurred. And the Beavers
hide behind an instruction that their man in Berlin become more careful in reporting his questionable contacts.” The meta-diplomat's composure broke down for a moment, because he gave an impromptu, emotional little squeal. It was, Gifford assumed, his way of despairing. Gifford remembered he was uncomfortable at this point. He wanted to be done with the business. He wanted out.

“Less than a rap on the knuckles, Earl,” McEwen had gloomily continued. “I cannot fathom it. Can you?” Gifford had shaken a commiserating head at the stupidity and the injustice and kept his drinking in pace with McEwen's to show solidarity. Since then, no contact. No pints, no lunches, no gossip. The silence, Gifford had assumed, meant McEwen was arranging his affairs. Everybody at the end deserves some quiet to review mementos, some time to decide to throw everything out.

Gifford passing through reception saw McEwen was already at their table. “A splendid gesture, Earl,” a subdued McEwen said, rising, laying a hand on Gifford's shoulder. “Take a seat, take a seat. I was sitting here reflecting and it dawned on me that loyalty is the highest virtue. Your call made me realize that. We did well over the years. I won't forget you came to say good bye.” The once proud master of Berlin Station had shrivelled. Mustache untrimmed, eyes pushed back in lamp-black sockets, thin strands of white hair straggling down his forehead, cheek bones ready to break through sagging skin. Signs of age, if not insanity.

“Almost out to pasture, Earl,” McEwen said with senile optimism. “Already am, really. Things haven't quite turned out. No blaze of glory at the end. Still, I suppose I had my innings. Thank you for coming. Your pint is on the way.” With a doting grin he studied Earl's envelope. He assumed it contained a present. A plaque, perhaps. He began to describe Yorkshire and his new status: gentleman farmer. What was Earl's opinion of that? “Take a vacation first,” Earl advised. He, himself, was planning a proper break, he said. “You and Frieda? How splendid. Where?” “We've
always been fond of Bavaria. But this year there's a departure. A cruise. Frieda is becoming adventurous, more worldly.” “A sign of a mature woman, Earl. You're most fortunate.”

Gifford shifted on his great hams. He saw Frieda modelling the bikinis she was shopping for, putting them on and taking them off. Thin laces disappeared into the deep folds of her flesh. The vision stirred him, but he shook it. “I have something for you, Randy.” Gifford patted the envelope, as McEwen used to, before handing it over.

“Really? How unexpected.” A contented McEwen, the very picture of a patriarch, took a table knife and sliced it open. “How deeply mysterious,” he murmured happily. “Whatever could this be?”

“I looked in on Friend Tony's C-drive the other day.” Gifford said harshly. “Out of habit. That's what I found.” Gifford's tone shattered McEwen's mellow state of mind. He sipped his pint, but a change came over him. It was noticeable in the setting of his eyes. Sentimentality seeped out; a focus, an interest, a resilience flooded in. He explored the thickness of the emerging sheaf with a rifling thumb. “I thought it might interest you,” Gifford added. “Over eighty pages. He's been busy writing.”

“Writing?” McEwen said suspiciously. “Isn't that odd? Was he a bard before?”

“Certainly not,” confirmed Gifford.

“What, one wonders, has Friend Tony been writing?” McEwen studied some pages. An energy was being generated deep inside, for his forehead wrinkled and the stubby pencil came out. He wetted it with his tongue and began jotting in the margins.

Gifford drank patiently, one pint, another, watching a transformation, seeing McEwen's eyes begin to dance. His own thoughts drifted to the yacht. The brochure had a picture of the principals' bedroom. It brought him a new vision: Frieda on her back on the circular bed, rotating her hips, staring at her nakedness in a ceiling mirror.

“I don't know what to make of it,” McEwen said. “Political reports.
Bloody good actually. I've intercepted a few in my day and can tell. Have you read them?”

“No. I didn't discover them until yesterday. They date back months.”

“I see,” McEwen said slowly. “Why has he turned commentator, Earl? He never was before. Another attribute he kept hidden.”

Gifford shrugged. “He's been talking to many people. I asked him about it.
Just obtaining other points of view
, he said. That's fair, I thought. That's why the world has diplomats. Here's the list of people he's been seeing. Thought you might like it.”

“Ah, thank you, Earl. Good work. Let's see who he's been courting.” McEwen alternately hummed approval and shook his head. His attention returned to the reports. “Admirable objectivity,” he said, “presenting all sides of complex issues. Take this one on the Oder-Neisse line. Good arguments why the current border with Poland will never satisfy the Germans, why they will never stop looking for ways to get their eastern territories back. Then comes a contrary position: western-minded Germany has lost its territorial ambitions. And yet another view: German business heading east is finishing what Hitler's armies started. Territory is not important: control of markets is. Well argued, if you want my opinion.”

“You're right,” said Gifford.

“Oh, Earl,” cooed McEwen, “here's a good one. Listen.
Germany is an uneasy nation. It vacillates between extremes, between too little democracy and too much. Deep down, Germans don't want too much democracy. They desire strong government, clear decisions and, if necessary, the rule of an elite. Deep down they worry that pluralism slows them down
. Hear, hear! I wish I had written that. And here is the contrary position.
Historically Germans have achieved a high standard of humanism. Kant, Beethoven, Schiller, Goethe, they define the German nation, not Friedrich Nietzsche, Guido von List or Adolf Hitler. And the best Germany has historically offered is once more ascendant
. Do you believe that, Earl?
Poppycock, if you ask me. Ah, a word about you and me and the consul too.
Germans don't like foreigners. Foreigners erode tradition; they destroy the psychic immediacy of being German. The virtues of patriotism, duty, constancy and purity of blood are seen as being watered down by strangers. They want foreigners fenced-out, and fenced-in, to avoid dilution
. But we turn the page and suddenly the picture is not so clear.
Few countries are more tolerant than Germany. Refugees and asylum seekers flood in by the thousands. They are housed, fed, put on welfare. Other countries would long ago have closed the borders
.”

McEwen quoted more passages with the delight of someone reading another's mail. But Gifford scarcely listened. He had decided the material on the consul's C-drive amounted to kilobytes of rubbish. His focus was on real-world challenges, such as managing money and looking after Frieda. Once more he saw her on the bed. Its circularity meant he could creep at and slide over her from all directions.

“Remarkable material, Earl. I'll want to study it more closely.” McEwen was business-like. “A fine present. And otherwise? How has he behaved?”

“Close to normal, Randy. Devoted to his work. Punctual with his appointments. Responsible in his formal entertaining. Crisp with his consular responsibilities, although continuing to be away on certain afternoons. In addition to that…” Gifford searched for words that would appeal to McEwen, “…he has produced these respectable reports.”

“Quite, Earl. Quite. A good word. Respectable. But the afternoons off, for what purpose? Any clarity on that.”

“Not sure. It'll be more than that soon. For a start, next week he's taking the whole week off. A vacation. Mine begins after he returns. It's closely coordinated.”

“I suppose after so much scribbling he's tired. Going to a south sea island?”

“I asked him. He's staying put. I asked why. He said he wants to look
into something. Museums I suppose. He's been visiting museums regularly. He talks about them constantly.”

“How odd. He wants to look into something? He wants to do that at a museum?” McEwen raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And during his vacation? If he treats museums as part of his work, why would he visit them on his time off?”

“Perhaps not museums then,” said Gifford casually. “He said, above all, he wanted to be on his own.”

“On his own? How most curious.”

Gifford left and McEwen spent the afternoon studying the papers. He made a detailed list of subjects treated. Then he juxtaposed the list of people the consul had been meeting with those whose views were quoted. He struck off a name each time he matched it with a paragraph. After several hours, the names had entirely disappeared into the essays on the Germanic soul. Most of the material was attributable to specific sources. McEwen went through the reports once more, this time circling paragraphs without a source. Whose views, he wondered, did they portray? The question sustained McEwen through the weekend. He read the reports again, and again. He closed his eyes and meditated, seeking a template that would give sense to the paragraphs that had no attribution. The meta-diplomat was convinced the consul had not done the writing, not on his own. The break with his record was too severe. But who would have held the pen? Theory after theory crashed on the shores of things unknown.