The Berlin Assignment (47 page)

Graf Bornhof sat without expression. In Pullach they had been through all this and drawn negative conclusions. He didn't mind the sarcasm, nor the venom. He liked McEwen's Englishness. His principal challenge, Graf knew, was to coax the old warrior into retirement, to convince him to begin it sooner. In The Lake District perhaps, or Kent, or the Cotswolds? The Cotswolds! Graf Bornhof loved the Cotswolds. He was younger than McEwen, though not by many years. He and Anne had made their retirement preparations. They had their Cotswolds cottage. Long walks after breakfast each day in the English countryside. The prospect inspired Bornhof. Why did McEwen not live in such happy anticipation? He was already a living legend. What drove the man? Why this lamentable insistence on breathing life into a stillborn case?

“That is in
your
binder, Alex,” McEwen summarized frostily. “It has no insight whether the dark lady came to buy or sell plutonium, but I know that. She came to
acquire
it. Would you be interested in knowing why I know that?”

Graf Bornhof continued to look at his guest with bemused kindness.

McEwen's quick fingers then undid the ribbon. His voice became a little sharper, the movements of his hands a little crisper, as he pushed document upon document crammed full of facts towards Graf Bornhof, who examined a page here, a page there, stacking the documents neatly in a rising pile before him. “Sherwood Forest!” McEwen revealed with a flourish. “Let's focus on Maid Marian first.” McEwen described how Gundula Jahn had been checked out by both Moscow and Kiev Stations and the resulting information was conclusive. “One of her former lovers, a certain Vassiliev – extract seven before you, Alex – manages a nuclear reprocessing plant in the Ukraine. He has plutonium coming out of his ears. It's rather informative to read the letters he wrote her. Extract eight.” McEwen pointed at the impressive pile. “
What an irony it is
, Vassiliev writes,
that we have great wealth all around us, but we can't sell it to meet our needs. We are counting on your help
.
That, or something like it, is in several of the letters. Vassiliev wants Gundula to organize a sale. And since Gundula is on the sales side, we can conclude the Asian lady came to buy.”

Graf Bornhof flipped through the photocopied letters, stopping to read several. “Part Russian, part broken German, Randolph,” he said. “I read Russian. Do you? The references to commodities for sale sound more like a description of the local economy. Vassiliev may be meaning vegetables for all we know. Carrots. Turnips. It sounds to me he wants Germany to help them get a distribution system going.”

“Much too charitable, Alex,” McEwen countered. “Our responsibility is to think worst case scenarios. These are clever people. They know how to lull authorities. Don't fall into that trap.” Lines on the graf's mouth tightened. He waited for the old man to go on.

McEwen was turning the pages of his notebook with more ceremony. “How far have we come? We have a seller of plutonium; we have a buyer. Missing only is a centre.” With scarcely concealed triumph he pushed a last document forwards. “This, Alex, is the centre.” A tolerant Graf Bornhof took a dozen, hand-written, stapled sheets, rifled through and placed them on the others. McEwen observed the disinterested nonchalance. “Then I shall tell you the contents.” He described a conversation overheard by one of his last spectators in East Berlin. “Picture Sherwood Forest, Alex, a dark place, a cellar in Prenzlauerberg. Who should be waiting there with open arms for Robin Hood and Maid Marian to come along? Little John is waiting. Do you remember Günther Rauch?”

“Quite well,” Graf Bornhof replied. He did not hide a first hint of irritation. “We checked him out. Not much there. A misguided, bitter Ossi who has a problem with the past, the present
and
the future. He is quite harmless.”

“You may not have checked with adequate thoroughness,” McEwen said coldly. “Knowing what transpired in that cellar would put most
people on alert. There was a long political discussion with a great deal of love expressed for Marx. Marxists are bad at many things, but at one thing they excel. They know how to hijack constitutions. And Little John, I'm afraid, wants yours. He merely needs a little money. So Robin Hood comes onto the scene to help. Read what the consul says:
A couple of phone calls and you'll all be in power
. It's there, Alex, black on white. All one needs do is read it.”

But Graf Bornhof had become inscrutable. “Randolph,” he said quietly at last. “Randolph, really.”

McEwen turned one more page in his notebook. He was icy calm. “I shall summarize,” he said. “The consul is a lifelong Marxist – we know that from his Berlin student days. For years, he bides his time and develops wonderful cover. An opportunity to return comes just as his old friend Günther Rauch is planning a new left wing movement. All he needs is cash to get it going. The consul meanwhile has developed exquisite connections to the international nuclear weapons scene through his work on disarmament issues. He is informed Gundula Jahn will be the go-between. He looks her up under the guise of routine diplomacy. He knows the buyers too. A mystery lady comes to talk business. If the consul brokers a deal, Günther Rauch's finances will be secure forever.” The meta-diplomat pushed what was left of his folder, an empty shell, towards Graf Bornhof and as an afterthought flicked him the ribbon through the air. “Sherwood Forest. Time to send the bailiff in.”

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.

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.