The Berlin Assignment (63 page)

The second round of love lasted longer than the one on the landing. The smell of it lingered. As long as it did, Gundula didn't want to sleep. She lay wide awake, thinking of the future. Once the summer was finished, her evenings would again be spent in the halls of cabaret, and the mornings doing the reviews. But the afternoons would be used for learning English. And the words she learned she would practice on the consul after he came home at night. The whole time she was awake she thought forward to preparing for a great experiment. It was hours before she slept.

Bo Bilinski, like a caged Rocky Mountain cougar, was pacing back and forth along the bank of windows in his office. Elma was having trouble placing a call. The delay had brought him close to boiling. This day, like the ones before, had started well enough. For a few weeks now Bilinski had been enjoying an inner peace he hadn't known for years. The fact was, he had bought a ranch. Because of that he was now spending a good part of each day before the windows, studying the distant Gatineaus, thinking quietly of the future. Earlier this afternoon, he had slipped once more into a meditation. The Gatineaus didn't exactly remind him of the Alberta foothills. They were not as big, not rugged, certainly not dangerous. They lacked a spectacular unbroken mountain wall as soaring backdrop. But all the same, if he looked at them long enough – and made an imaginative jump – he could picture them as being emptier and wilder than they were. Which made him think of home. Here in the east, Sharon, the children, the whole family had bobbed on the surface of things too long. The little skiff that was their
life had been battered by the unclean Eastern sea. He was glad to be getting back to the West, back to purity and peace.

Bo had confided to Sharon that during the second half of his earthly existence he wanted to be surrounded by real things: open country, horses, cattle, the annual noise and dust of roundups. He went so far as to tell her that the years in government had made him feel polluted. It was because of Policy. Suppose, he asked her, that Policy's intangibility were transformed into some form of matter – what would it be? Festering mucous? Pus itself? And the nightmares hadn't helped. In them, he experienced a slimy substance oozing from his pores. “The crap of government,” he whispered to his wife during the hours of insomnia, “I tell you, Sharon, it's like sitting in a vat of goddamn filth.” Bo Bilinski cracked his knuckles as he recalled the fateful confession. The next day Sharon left for Calgary to find a ranch.

The Service had been the final straw. With it the nightmares began. All along Bilinski had known that work in government could make you walk and talk and smell like Policy, if you weren't careful. But he had always managed to outrun its peculiar fetor. Hadn't he shot Tax Policy to pieces without being corrupted? And blown Competition Policy apart with his swagger undiminished? Even a thorough evisceration of Industrial Policy hadn't threatened his survival as a human being. But running Foreign Policy forced him to the conclusion it was time to quit. Foreign Policy was inconstant, a moving target, weaving and ducking, all the time. Even if he happened to land a blow it seemed he had only punched a bog, because foul vapours were suddenly released. Bo Bilinski swore that Foreign Policy sucked at him, drew him in, and the harder he struggled, the faster he got pulled down.

Sharon's resolve saved him. The end of
all
Policy was in sight. Thumbs stuck in his belt, meditating by the windows, motionless as a medicine man on an outcrop over the Great Plains, Bo thought of
spiritual cleansing on his new Bo-Bil Ranch, and of the buffer – three hours hard riding – to the next-nearest sprinkling of civilization. His final weeks as high priest were characterized by one simple instruction to Elma.
No goddamn calls
.

But today, in the middle of the afternoon, during a reverie which had him doing an easy gallop through a gully, he suddenly got bushwhacked. He was instantly so fucking mad he wanted to quick-lynch the assailant. That son-of-a-bitch Manteaux was calling.
Tell him to bugger off
, Bilinski yelled at Elma through the intercom. Having to listen to Manteaux was worse than to coyotes howling. But Harry Manteaux was insistent, threatening to go higher.

“What do you want, Harry?” Bilinski finally snarled into the phone. “I'm pretty damn busy. I'm gonna put you on the speaker 'cause I've got urgent papers to sign. So, what'cha waiting for? Get on with it, goddammit.”

Bilinski heard Manteaux's excruciating voice through the speaker. Manteaux, Bilinski suspected, was a pervert because he sounded like one. He had a high, nasal voice which revved up like a siren. But this time, although Manteaux was whining, he was ordering too. He gave a speech full of orders. It made Bilinski listen. He stopped looking at the Gatineaus. “I gave explicit instructions to someone to tell that asshole to behave,” Bilinski yelled back at last in the direction of his desk. But the argument had no impact. Manteaux kept coming, kept jabbing through the phone, and Bilinski began hurting. He finally went to his desk, grabbed the mouthpiece and hissed. “Keep your paws off. He's my guy. I decide what happens. Not you. And not some dumb Kraut in Munich either. I'll have this fixed in half an hour. Somebody'll let you know. Bugger off, Harry.” Bilinski slammed the phone down. “Elma,” he ordered through the intercom, “get me that son-of-a-bitch Hanbury in Berlin.”

In Berlin, the phone rang and rang. Bilinski opened the door to the ante-chamber. “Well?” he barked. “No answer yet,” Elma sang brightly. But just as she was about to stop trying, the instrument in Berlin clicked. “Consul Hanbury?” Elma asked. “Yes? Thank goodness you're there. Please stand by for Mr. Bilinski.” Bilinski closed his door and took the phone. “Hanbury?” he threatened. “Where the hell were you?” Bilinski listened to a few words from the other end. He tensed. “You wanna know who I am?” he said with disbelief. “Oh Holy Jesus! Look in the goddamn phone book. Page one. At the top. The very top. Now listen, you've destroyed some of my time today, so what I'm gonna say is short and sweet. One ground rule. You listen. No questions, no rebuttals. You do as I tell you and you'll do it smartly. Understand? Tomorrow, Consul Hanbury, you'll be on a plane. I don't know which plane. I don't know where it'll take you. One thing is sure. It's gonna take you far away. After it leaves you're never gonna set foot in crappy Berlin again. Got that?” The high priest waited for an answer. “Got that?” he repeated. “Well good. In half an hour someone will call to tell you all you need to know. That's it. I'll share a personal comment. You screwed up a couple of months ago. Recall that? You've done it again. That's not good. If I didn't hate a certain pervert across town, you'd be out on your ass. If you wanna keep your job, watch yourself from now on. Okay? That's free advice.” Bilinski put the phone down. He buzzed Elma. “Get me Irving Heywood.”

The Investitures priest was used to the urgent calls. Bilinski kept in touch throughout Bitrap and Heywood came to believe that although rock hard on the outside the high priest was a squishy noodle, a kind of dreamer, underneath. At key moments his eyes would turn glassy and he didn't seem to hear. Heywood also concluded Bilinski hated being in the East, which, in his developing theory of causes and effects, might be the reason why Bilinski's mouth was so foul. On his home turf he might
be chatty, even witty, a man with rough but charming edges. Heywood liked to think this was true of himself too – tough as nails on the outside, but piloted by a caring soul. Realizing they had things in common gave Heywood a feeling of kinship with Bilinski.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” he said pleasantly when Elma put him through.

“Hi, Irv. How are you.”

“Very well, Sir. Thank you. How are Sharon and the children?”

“Good, Irv. Pretty damn fine.”

Bitrap from Heywood's perspective had been a wild success. As with any mass public execution, the first chop caused squeamishness to ripple through the Service. The second wasn't quite so bad, and the third easier still. From then on, the slaughter was routine. The old hands were soon gone. One reason why Bitrap's virulence played out so fast was Robbie. How she silenced the snipers! Too bad, Heywood had thought in the middle of the massacre, that Hannah had never borne him a daughter. She would have been like Robbie, he was sure. The diplomatic list was through too. With Robbie's help he had created a model of inter-generational correctness. Fresh-faced boys and girls were heading out into the world to play ambassador. The dip list through, Bitrap done: the Investitures priest believed there were good reasons for him and the high priest to be chummy.

“Irv, listen,” the high priest continued. “There's a job for you. Remember that fairy in Berlin? What's his name?” “Anthony Hanbury,” Heywood said crisply. “Right. Just talked to the son-of-a-bitch. Told him he's out.” “Sir!” Heywood exclaimed. “Whatever for? If it has to do with that problem of reporting, I had a good chat with him back then. He's been producing marvellous material.” “Irv, listen.” Bilinski lowered his voice, an invitation to participate in a secret. Heywood loved it
when the high priest did that. “I've got nothing against your buddy in Berlin. I want you to know it's that sodomite Manteaux again. Remember? He tried to bugger me that other time.” “I do,” said Heywood solemnly. “Are you sure he's a sodomite?” “Sure. His type, you know, spooks, they fuck the world in the strangest places.” “Well, yes,” Heywood half agreed, though he would have put it differently.

“This is what you gotta do. The longer we talk, the less time you got. By my watch there's twenty-five minutes left. You go through your bag of tricks and find your pal a new assignment. Not here. Somewhere out there. Phone him. Tell him where he's going. Get him booked on an airplane leaving Berlin tomorrow…”

“Sir! Tomorrow. That's impos…”

“
Irv
,” the high priest reprimanded, “don't interrupt. I haven't goddamn well finished.”

Bilinski continued his precise instructions. “Hanbury leaves Berlin tomorrow. Arrange it. Don't be sneaky about it, Irv. Send him some place. Far from here. Okay? After you've done it, get your secretary to phone Manteaux's lady. Don't do it yourself. Got that? We're not on speaking terms with buggerers. Not me. Not you. Not anybody who's got rank. So, your secretary tells the other one that our man in Berlin has new instructions. She phones once more later to pass on information on tomorrow's flights. That's it Irv. A half-hour. Not difficult. When it's done, relax. Forget it happened.” The high priest put the phone down.

A late afternoon mood was settling over the hills outside Bilinski's windows. His mind was back to where it was before, except he saw himself coming out of the gully. He had roped the bushwhacker, tied him to a tree. A pretty mountain valley stretched before him with light hard as a diamond and air clean as glacial ice.

Heywood dropped his head. His great frame heaved in a tearless sobbing. But he regrouped. If he had one strength, he liked to think, it was bouncing back. With a push of his feet, he rolled his chair to the computer. He scrolled through the list of diplomatic missions where staff openings had existed, not expecting much of a harvest. The annual assignment changes had all fallen into place. He had one hope, a position where the new incumbent hadn't yet left town. The Investitures priest checked dozens and found one. His first thought was that it was too good,
too senior
for Tony, but hang it, the situation wasn't ordinary. Besides, the Berlin reports had raised Tony's trading value. Resolved to do the high priest's will, he phoned Robert Etchley in the Asian Temple who, Heywood knew, had a wife, two children and a large debt on a new house in the suburbs.

“Bob?” Heywood said in a no-nonsense voice, a mimic of Bilinski's. “Irving Heywood. Bad news. Your assignment's off.” A pause, then excitement and much hand wringing. “Sorry. That's the way it is. Nothing's ever certain. You know that.” A long, emotional confession, Etchley revealing he could not
afford
headquarters any longer. His debts were mounting. Also, the wife and children were set to go. The garage sale was over, the kids' bikes sold, the house rented. “Too bad about all that,” said Heywood. Swearing came next. The Investitures priest listened patiently, but ignored the demand for an explanation. “Bob,” Irving said finally, “you'll be at the top of the list next year. I promise. We'll talk about it soon.” The Investitures priest hung up, leaving Etchley the task of breaking the news to his wife. Service experience showed, Heywood knew, that she was suddenly predestined to have an immediate and total breakdown.

Ten minutes were already gone. He next called South Africa. Luck was holding. Ambassador Lecurier was not yet in bed.

“Irving, how absolutely delightful to hear from you,” the ambassador exclaimed. “When are you coming this way? Make up a reason, then combine it with a holiday.”

“Hannah would love to get back to Africa, Jacques. Our second boy was born there. Did you know that?”

“It's a wonderful continent for making children,” the ambassador agreed.

“Jacques, listen, I'm a little pressed. We'll chat another time. I had to cancel Etchley. I'm sending you Anthony Hanbury instead. He'll be arriving tomorrow or the day after. I guess that's all right?”

“That's a bombshell,” said the ambassador calmly. “I was looking forward to Bob. He has a delightful wife. Ever met her?”

No, thought the Investitures priest, but I expect soon to hear her primordial scream penetrating all this way from the suburbs. “Haven't had the pleasure, Jacques.”

“Not being married myself, it helps if the number two has a presentable wife. Hanbury's wife – what's she like?”

“Hasn't got one.”