The young professor tweaked the ends of his bow tie, and said, ‘Do we really want to measure the quality of life in output per cent? Do we really want to …’
‘Stick to the point, buddy,’ said Schlegel. ‘And pass that port.’
‘Well, Russians might want to measure it like that,’ said Flynn, ‘if all they had to eat was American grain.’
‘Look here,’ said Professor Allenby. ‘Russia has always been beset by these bad harvests. Marx designed his theories round the belief that Germany – not Russia – would be the first socialist land. A unified Germany would provide a chance to see Marxism given a real chance.’
‘We can’t keep on giving it a chance,’ said Flynn, ‘it’s failed in half the countries of the world now. And the West Zone will swallow the East Zone if they unify. I don’t like the idea of it.’
‘East Zone,’ said Ferdy. ‘Doesn’t that date you?’
‘The DDR, they call it,’ said Toliver. ‘I was there with a trade delegation the summer before last. Working like little beavers, they are. They are the Japs of Europe, if you ask me, and equally treacherous.’
‘But would the socialists support a reunification, Mr Toliver?’ said Flynn.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Toliver. ‘Simply because in the present climate of talks it looks like a sell-out. It’s a deal between the Americans and the Russians, out of which will come a bigger stronger capitalist Germany – no thanks. Those West German buggers are trouble enough already.’
‘And what’s in this deal for us Yanks?’ Schlegel asked sarcastically.
Toliver shrugged. ‘I wish I could answer that, but it won’t be any comfort for us British, and that you can be sure of.’ He looked round the others and smiled.
Professor Allenby said, ‘The official text says federation, not reunification. In the context of history, Germany was born out of a miscellany of principalities gathered around the royal house of Brandenburg. This is nothing new for them. Reunification is a dynamic process of historical reality leading inevitably to Marxism.’
‘You sure use fifty-dollar words,’ said Schlegel, ‘but don’t talk about historical reality to guys who carried a gun from the beaches to Berlin. Because you might get a swift kick in the principalities.’
The professor was used to flamboyant hectoring. He smiled and continued calmly. ‘The common language of the two Germanys is not a lubricant but an irritant. Most of the East–West tensions are simply extended, amplified versions of purely parochial arguments. Reunification is inevitable – lie back and enjoy it.’
‘Never,’ said Flynn. ‘A reunited Germany that moved closer to the West would make the Russians very nervous. If Germany moved closer to the East they’d make us nervous. If, and this is more likely, Germany decided to play man in the middle, the worst days of the cold war could be remembered with nostalgia.’
‘The Russians have made up their minds,’ said Toliver. ‘The Americans don’t care. There’s not much chance for anyone else. The mere fact that the Russians have agreed to talk in Copenhagen shows how keen they are.’
‘Why?’ asked Flynn. ‘Why are they so keen?’
‘Come along, George,’ Ferdy coaxed, and everyone turned to look at Dawlish.
‘My goodness,’ said the elderly grey-haired man, who had so far said so little. ‘Old codgers like me are not privy to such secrets.’
‘But you were in Bonn last week and Warsaw the month before,’ said Ferdy. ‘What are they saying?’
‘Being there and being told anything are two different matters,’ he said.
‘A diplomatic offensive,’ said Toliver, availing himself of Dawlish’s reluctance to explain. ‘A small group of Russian whizz-kids have pushed these proposals. If the unification goes through it will be such a triumph for that faction that they’ll assume command of Russian foreign policy.’
‘Surely it should have been debated,’ said Ferdy.
‘The Germans have debated it,’ said Eichelberger. ‘They want it. Is it right that foreigners should interfere?’
‘You can’t trust the Germans,’ said Toliver. ‘Let them all get together and they’ll be electing another Hitler, mark my words.’
‘We’ve got to trust someone,’ said Professor Allenby, without going further to remind Toliver that in the space of five minutes he’d condemned the Americans, the Russians, the Germans – East and West – and the Japanese. But the taunt was obvious to the men present, and there was a long silence during which Ferdy opened his boxes of cigars and passed them down the table with a maximum of displacement activity.
I resisted and passed them to Schlegel. He took one. He rolled it in his fingers and listened to its sound. Only when he had everyone’s attention did he bite the end off it. He lit it with a match that he struck with one hand, using his thumbnail. He fixed me with his beady eyes. ‘Big snafu at the Table today, after you left. Did you hear?’
‘Port for anyone who’d like some,’ said Ferdy nervously.
‘My informant said jackpot,’ I replied.
‘A host’s prerogative,’ said Schlegel. He inhaled, nodded and blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘No time now to pull the back off and probe the balance spring.’
Toliver waved away Schlegel’s cigar smoke and with measured care sipped enough of the Pauillac to commit its flavour to memory. ‘I’m glad there are still some people who serve a Bordeaux with game,’ he said. He finished his wine, then took the port decanter and poured himself some. ‘What kind of a meal can I expect if I visit your Studies Centre? Does your influence obtain there, Foxwell?’ He touched his wavy hair and moved it a fraction off his forehead.
‘You needn’t worry about the food,’ said Schlegel. ‘We don’t run tours.’
Toliver’s knuckles whitened as he grasped the neck of the decanter. ‘I’m not exactly a tourist,’ he said. ‘An official visit … on behalf of the House.’
‘No tourists, no journalists, no free-loaders,’ said Schlegel. ‘My new policy.’
‘Mustn’t bite the hand that feeds you,’ said Toliver. Dawlish watched the exchange. Gently he took the port decanter from Toliver’s clenched hand, and passed it to Eichelberger.
‘I’m not quite sure I understand your duties at the Studies Centre,’ said Dr Eichelberger to Ferdy. He took the decanter, poured himself some port and passed it.
‘War Games,’ said Ferdy. He was relieved to deflect the collision course of Toliver and Schlegel. ‘I usually do the Russian Navy side of it.’
‘That’s funny,’ said Toliver. ‘You don’t look Russian.’ He looked round and then laughed heartily with every one of his perfect white teeth.
‘But what does he do?’ Eichelberger asked Schlegel.
‘He introduces the element of human fallibility,’ said Schlegel.
‘And very important, too,’ said Eichelberger, and nodded seriously.
‘The nuclear submarine,’ said young Professor Allenby, ‘is the most perfect symbol of imperialistic aggression. It is designed solely for long-range use to distant countries and can only destroy the civilian populations of large cities.’
He fixed me with his bright eyes. ‘I agree,’ I said, ‘and the Russians have more of them than the American, British and French fleets combined.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the professor.
‘A palpable hit,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘What’s more,’ said Schlegel, poking a finger at Allenby, ‘your goddamn red buddies are building at a rate of one a week, have been for years, and show no sign of slowing construction.’
‘My goodness,’ said Flynn, ‘the seas must be filled with the awful things.’
‘They are,’ said Schlegel.
‘It’s probably time we joined the ladies,’ said Ferdy, dreading an argument among his guests.
Dawlish stood up politely and so did I, but Schlegel and his new-found enemy, Professor Allenby, didn’t give up so easily. ‘A typical example of propaganda from the rearmament lobby,’ said Allenby. ‘Isn’t it o
bvious that the Russians need more submarines: their coastline is incredibly long and they need naval forces for their land-locked seas.’
‘Then what the hell are they doing all over the Med, the Atlantic, the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean?’
‘Just showing the flag,’ said Allenby.
‘Oh, pardon me,’ said Schlegel. ‘I thought only cryptofascist reactionary imperialists did that.’
‘I don’t know why you Yanks should be so frightened of the Russians,’ said Allenby. He smiled.
‘You Brits should be a little more frightened of them, if you ask me,’ said Schlegel. ‘You depend upon imports just in order to eat. Hitler came into the war with twenty-seven long-range submarines. He sank enough of your merchant shipping to make it touch and go whether you could continue the war. Today, with a Royal Navy no longer visible to the naked eye, the Russian Navy has about four hundred subs, many of them nukes. Maybe they are just for showing the flag, Prof, but you want to start asking yourself where they are planning to run it up.’
‘I think we really should join the ladies,’ said Ferdy.
Coffee was served in the drawing-room. It was a fine room; tapestries, placed to absorb stray sounds, made its acoustics as good as any recital room. There were a dozen delicate gilt chairs placed equidistant upon the pale green Afghan carpet. The Bechstein grand piano had been stripped of family photos and cut flowers, and placed under the huge painting of Ferdy’s grandfather’s favourite horse.
The pianist was a handsome youth with an evening shirt even frillier than those currently de rigueur at Oxford, and his tie was bright red and droopy. He found every note of one of the Beethoven Opus 10 Sonatas, and held many of them for exactly the right duration.
Coffee was kept hot in a large silver samovar – OK, don’t tell me, but it was Ferdy’s samovar – and thimble-sized demi-tasses were positioned alongside it. Dawlish held his cigar in one hand and the coffee cup and saucer in the other. He nodded his thanks as I operated the coffee tap for him.
I held up the jug of hot milk and raised an eyebrow.
‘Worcester,’ said Dawlish, ‘late eighteenth century, and damned nice too.’
The old idiot knew that I was asking him if he wanted milk, but he was right. Holding a hundred pounds-worth of antiques in your hand to pour hot milk was part of the miracle of the Foxwells’ lifestyle.
‘Mozart next,’ said Dawlish. He was wearing an old-fashioned dinner suit with a high wing collar and a stiff-fronted shirt. It was difficult to know if it was an heirloom or whether he had them made like that.
‘So I read on the programme,’ I said.
‘That’s my car outside, that Black Hawk Stutz.’
‘Come along, you chaps,’ called Toliver from behind us. ‘Move along there. Can’t stand milk in coffee – ruins the whole flavour. You might just as well have instant if you’re going to put that stuff in it.’
‘I know you’re interested in motors,’ said Dawlish. On the far side of the room I heard the strident voice of the history professor proclaiming how much he liked cowboy films.
‘He’s going to play the Mozart A Major in a minute,’ said Dawlish.
‘I know,’ I said, ‘and I quite like that.’
‘Well then …’
‘It better have a heater.’
‘Our friend wants to look at the motor,’ he told Ferdy, who nodded silently and looked around to see if his wife Teresa was likely to see us abandon their protégé.
‘He’s had more practice with the Mozart,’ said Ferdy.
‘It’s a thirsty beast,’ said Dawlish. ‘Seven or eight miles to a gallon is good going.’
‘Where are you going?’ said Marjorie.
‘To see my motor,’ said Dawlish. ‘Overhead camshaft: eight cylinders. Do come, but put a coat on. They tell me it’s beginning to snow.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Marjorie. ‘Don’t be long.’
‘Sensible girl, that,’ said Dawlish. ‘You’re a lucky man.’
I wondered what climatic conditions he’d have invented had she accepted his invitation. ‘Yes, I am,’ I said.
Dawlish put on his spectacles and looked at the instruments. He said, ‘Black Hawk Stutz, nineteen twenty-eight.’ He started the engine and so got the primitive heater to work. ‘Straight eight: overhead camshaft. She’ll go, I’ll tell you that.’ He struggled to open the ashtray. Then he inhaled on his cigar so that his rubicund face loomed out of the darkness. He smiled. ‘Real hydraulic brakes – literally hydraulic, I mean. You fill them up with water.’
‘What’s all this about?’
‘A chat,’ he said. ‘Just a chat.’
He turned in order to tighten the already firmly closed window. I smiled to myself, knowing that Dawlish always liked to have a sheet of glass between himself and even the remotest chance of a parabolic microphone. The moon came out to help him find the handle. By its light I saw a movement in a grey Austin 2200 parked under the lime trees. ‘Don’t fret,’ said Dawlish, ‘a couple of my chaps.’ A finger of cloud held the moon aloft and then closed upon it like a conjurer’s dirty glove upon a white billiard ball.
‘What are they here for?’ I asked. He didn’t answer before switching on the car radio as another precaution against eavesdroppers. It was some inane request programme. There was a babble of names and addresses.
‘Things have changed a lot since the old days, Pat.’ He smiled. ‘It is Pat, isn’t it? Pat Armstrong, it’s a good name. Did you ever consider Louis to go with it?’
‘Very droll,’ I said.
‘New name, new job, the past gone for ever. You’re happy and I’m glad it all went so well. You deserved that. You deserved more than that, in fact, it was the least we could have done.’ A fleck of snow hit the windscreen. It was big, and when the moonlight caught it it shone like a crystal. Dawlish put a finger out to touch the snowflake as if the glass was not there. ‘But you can’t wipe the slate clean. You can’t forget half your life. You can’t erase it and pretend it never happened.’
‘No?’ I said. ‘Well, I was doing all right until this evening.’
I sniffed his cigar smoke enviously but I’d held out for about six weeks and I’d be damned if it was Dawlish who’d make me weaken my resolve. I said, ‘Was this all arranged? Us both being invited tonight?’
He didn’t answer. Music began on the radio. We watched the snowflake as the heat from his fingertip melted it. It slid down the glass in a dribble of water. But already another snowflake had taken its place, and another, and another after that.
‘And anyway there’s Marjorie,’ I said.
‘And what a beautiful girl she is. But good grief, I wouldn’t think of asking you to get mixed up in the rough and tumble side of it.’
‘There was a time when you pretended that there was no rough and tumble side of it.’
‘A long time ago. Regrettably, the rough parts have become much rougher since then.’ He didn’t elaborate on the tumbles.
‘It’s not just that,’ I said. I paused. No point in hurting the old boy’s feelings but already he had me on the defensive. ‘It’s simply that I don’t want to become part of a big organization again. Especially not a government department. I don’t want to be just another pawn.’
‘Being a pawn,’ said Dawlish, ‘is just a state of mind.’
He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a small multi-bladed device that I’d seen him use for everything from picking a despatch box lock to reaming his pipe. Now he used the pin of it to probe the vitals of his cigar. He puffed at it and nodded approval. He looked at the cigar as he began to talk. ‘I remember this boy – young man perhaps I should say – phoning me one night … This is a long time ago now … public call box … he said there’d been an accident. I asked if he wanted an ambulance, and he said it was worse than that …’ Dawlish puffed at the cigar and then held it up for us both to admire the improvement he’d wrought. ‘Do you know what I told him?’
‘Yes, I know
what you told him.’
‘I told him to do nothing, stay where he was until a car came for him … He was whisked away … a holiday in the country, and the whole business never got into the papers, never went into the police files … never even went on record with us.’
‘That bastard was trying to kill me.’
‘It’s the sort of thing the department can do.’ He gave the cigar a final adjustment and then admired it again, as proud as some old ferry-boat engineer putting an oily rag over an ancient turbine.
‘And I admire the way you’ve done it all,’ said Dawlish. ‘Not a whisper anywhere. If I went back into that house and told Foxwell – one of your closest friends – to say nothing of your good lady, that you used to work in the department, they’d laugh at me.’
I said nothing. It was typical of the sort of moronic compliment that they all exchanged at the Christmas party, just before that stage of inebriation when the cipher girls get chased round the locked filing cabinets.
‘It’s not a cover,’ I said. ‘Nothing to admire: I’m O.U.T.’
‘We’ll need you for the Mason business, though,’ he said.
‘You’ll have to come and get me,’ I said. From the radio came the voice of Frank Sinatra, change partners and dance with me.
‘Just an hour or so for the official inquiry. After all, it was you and Foxwell they were impersonating.’
‘While we were away?’
‘Stupid, wasn’t it? They should have chosen someone more remote, one of the radio-room clerks, perhaps.’
‘But it nearly came off.’ I was fishing for information and he knew it.
‘It did indeed. It seemed so genuine. Your old flat, your address in the phone book and one of them even looking a bit like you.’ He puffed smoke. ‘Ninety thousand pounds they would have collected. Well worth the money spent on those retouched photos. Beautifully done, those photos, eh?’ He gave the cigar another adjustment and then held it up for us both to look at it.
‘For what?’
‘Oh not just the ASW Task Force procedures. A whole lot of stuff – radio fuse diagrams, the latest SINS modifications, lab reports from Lockheed. A rag-bag of stuff. But no one would have paid that sort of money for it if they hadn’t set up all the pantomime of it coming from you and Foxwell.’