The Berlin Assignment (48 page)

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 Investitures priest sputtered, which made the high priest look severe, so then Heywood nodded. Bilinski smiled and made a gracious gesture to the door. “I've got some ideas on how to announce this, Irv,” Robbie said helpfully preceding Heywood out. “I'll pop down to your place after lunch.”

The underlings in Investitures noticed a leadenness in Irving Heywood's pace when he returned. In one hand he held a crumpled sheet of paper. “Broken by the high priest,” an observant young thing whispered. With his head held low, Heywood really did resemble a tired rodeo horse that had been outlasted by a champion rider.

Suppose we bisect, who'll do all the work
, Heywood had asked Robbie when they left the ante-chamber. “Irv,” she had said, “Irv, come into the modern era. Join us! The empirical evidence is in. Productivity increases are a function of the inverse of the reduction in the size of an organization. Across town that theorem is an absolute truth now. Cut an organization in half and the output quadruples. It's been proven.” Robbie had smiled at the older man. Heywood had asked,
if you cut the organization to a third, does that mean productivity goes up by nine?
Robbie had taken it as a serious question. She had said that for the government sector the evidence was not yet in, but the betting of the gurus was that proof would be available next year. “Anyway for the economy as a whole, the answer is likely to be a clear yes. Cutting one job creates two, maybe three, maybe even four.” “Miraculous,”
Heywood had said. His mouth was dry and he tried hard to stop his stomach from rebelling.

In his office Heywood organized his thoughts and made another list, not of ambassadors, but of things to do. The ability to think fast even when someone had him in the wringer once elevated Heywood into the ranks of priests; within five minutes a plan existed.
Easy, Irving
, he then calmed himself. First things first. Get rid of the undergrowth. Deal with the Hanbury problem, then tackle the bigger job. The Hanbury issue sounded trivial enough. Heywood dialled Manteaux's number, but Manteaux had just left for Canberra for a conference on post Cold War intelligence challenges.
Could it wait two weeks?
the secretary asked. “Not really,” growled Heywood.

He demanded to speak to Manteaux's executive assistant. No, the EA knew nothing about a reporting problem with Berlin. “You know there's two types of reporting from diplomatic missions,” the fresh assistant informed the Investitures priest. “There's substantive reports – like stuff that's in the papers, only better, you know, the inside dope. Then there's the contact reports – about brushes with security agents from the other side.” Concerning which of these two kinds of reporting, the EA wanted to know, was there a problem in Berlin? “I'm vaguely aware of the distinction,” Heywood sighed. “Listen. Harry initiated this. He knows, I assume, which reporting is the problem. Which is why I'm asking you. Are you his EA or what? Don't you know what's on his mind?”

“Mr. Manteaux keeps things close to his chest. I'm afraid I can't help you.”

Then stick your finger up your ass
, thought Heywood, taking a cue on management style from the high priest.

He turned to his computer. Contact reporting could
not
be the problem, Heywood reasoned. The Wall was down, the Warsaw Pact finished. East and West were friends. The spies had left Berlin for Baghdad
and Tehran. The complaint must be over-substantive reporting. Had Tony done some lunatic scribbling? Typical of Tony, to try to do the right thing, but miss the target. Heywood remembered only too well the near fiasco in Vienna over the PM's speech.

The computer booted, Heywood clicked in the archives code and called up the index to the general files.
Search?
appeared on a menu. Heywood typed
Berlin
. A new menu unfolded on the screen.
Berlin -Admin, -Consular, -Culture, -Reporting, -Staffing
. Heywood clicked
Reporting
. He scrolled through
economic, political, social, commercial
, one after the other. Each category was blank. That's it, crowed Heywood. No wonder Manteaux complained. Tony had filed no reports, not even translations of newspaper articles. Naughty, naughty Tony, spending all his time tomcatting around Berlin. But Heywood was cautious. Easy, Irving, he counselled, easy. Cover all the bases. Lack of substantive reporting from Berlin is
probably
the answer,
but check it out
.

Heywood phoned the European zealots and asked for the woman who good-humouredly bore the nickname Krauthilda. “Mr. Heywood!” she cried. “This is unexpected!” She was friendly. He remembered she had written him a memo asking for re-assignment to Rome.