The Berlin Assignment (14 page)

“Very well,” replied the back seat smugly. “
That
man is perfect for
that
job.”

“Von Helmholtz? He should be. He's been at it for a century.”

“Sturm, do me a favour. Stop at a shoe store.”

“A what?”

“I need a pair of walking shoes.”

The chauffeur pondered this. “No you don't, Herr Konsul. Forgive me, but getting you around is my job. Leave your feet out of it.”

“I'll be doing more walking from now on. Reconnoitering. I think it's time.”

Sturm shook his head. A consul in hiking boots? Preposterous. Still, with the back seat seemingly at ease and sounding human, he was inclined to overlook the implications. Slowly he dawdled back to West Berlin. On Unter den Linden a woman in a Porsche flitted by, but he didn't let it bother him. From shoe stores, Sturm's thoughts moved on. He mentioned he'd seen the Chief of Protocol on TV. “Next to foreign visitors he looks good, very good,” Sturm observed. “Some of those visiting heads of state look like circus clowns.”

“Now, now,” the consul tut-tutted.

But Sturm was warming up. “Some have jaws so wide you'd think they were trained to eat spaghetti sideways. One African President we had was so cross-eyed that on Wednesdays he probably saw both Sundays. Then there was an Asian who had a pimple on his neck, except when the camera zoomed in, it turned out to be his head. Beside that crowd, Herr Konsul, our Chief of Protocol is a standout.”

“The very word, Randy.
Reconnoitering
. I asked Sturm to repeat it. He also said,
I think it's time
. Something's happening. He's been activated.”

Randolph McEwen nodded darkly. He was in a foul mood. The club had been invaded by a horde of Huns – an official dinner hosted by the Brigadier General – and his table had been requisitioned. He and Earl were crammed into a tight corner upstairs with not much of a view. All they had before them was a line of backsides squirming at the bar like horses in a stable. A meta-diplomatic crankiness was taking hold. McEwen snorted at the news that the consul was planning to engage in undisclosed reconnaissance. “It doesn't surprise me,” he said. “Not at all. It fits with other things I know.”

“He hit it off with the Chief of Protocol,” Gifford added brightly. “He came back quite bouncy.”

“Von Helmholtz? That
Wehrmacht
type? What did they discuss?”

“Told each other their life stories. Hanbury talked about prairie horizons. Von Helmholtz described shooting down Allied pilots and sending a Soviet tank corps into oblivion. Remarkable, Randy, how friendship develops, but that's what happened. But more difficult to grasp is why he's decided to go walking.”

“Friend Tony has decided to go walking?” McEwen took a notebook from his jacket, licked a stubby pencil and began taking notes.

“That's what he said.”

“And the reconnoitering part, the
I think it's time
statement?”

“He said that to Sturm.”

“Friend Tony told Sturm he was going to reconnoiter, but said nothing about it to you?”

“Perhaps it was an oversight.”

“Nothing is an oversight, not with Friend Tony.” McEwen's voice was turning soft and malignant. “Something is up. A clever act so far, Earl. Quite difficult to read.” He put the notebook away and took a key
from a small leather pouch, inserted it methodically into each end of a black case and turned the locks with a calm, deliberate precision. A thick folder emerged.

Earl Gifford sipped his ale. These moments, when all-knowing files emerged from McEwen's briefcase, enticed him. His palms went sweaty. He had the same contracting sensation in his groin as when Frieda stepped onto a coffee table and, hovering over him, disrobed. Gifford licked his lips. He stared at the folder, but he saw Frieda's folds of flesh.

“I'll start out by saying, Earl, that what we have on Friend Tony so far is cause for worry.” McEwen surveyed his surroundings slowly, severely, like a hawk on a perch. Ascertaining that no German waiter was observing, he flipped casually through the folder, reviewing the contents in his mind, playing the case through once more, giving his argument a final sharpening. McEwen relished knowing; he loved the power it brought. “Superficially,” he said slowly, controlling each syllable, “what is here may seem thin, but my instincts tell me these facts have tentacles. Friend Tony, I suspect, runs silent and he runs deep.” Gifford nodded confirmation. Sturm often complained about the consul's deep silence.

“First, the Beavers,” the meta-diplomat announced, as if they were a headline. “We know from elsewhere they are eager, hard working and love cooperation. We happily keep an eye on their people abroad. A duty we have, Earl, towards all countries that love the Crown. Likeable chaps, the Beavers. They did their best with Friend Tony. They admitted to some gaps and said they were embarrassed. I admire that. It's not something Uncle Sam would ever do. Still, gaps are gaps. Gaps cause regret. Record-keeping on that side of the pond is not yet an art form. I shall share with you what they had.” McEwen flipped to a marker half-way down the folder. “Personal History: Anthony Ernest Hanbury, born 19 March 1943 in Indian Head, Saskatchewan. Father
born in Moose Jaw: profession – soil scientist. Mother born in Montreal: née Cadieux, music teacher, housewife. No siblings. The psychological profile concludes his upbringing was sheltered. The father often absent, the mother with the boy full-time. She taught him piano. She believed he would be a world class soloist. Mothers, Earl, love them for being that way, always convinced their children will be the best. Schooling in Indian Head routine. A note from the principal expresses worry the boy sees himself as an outsider. Then off to university in the big city. Saskatoon.”

Gifford knew McEwen wasn't solely a schemer. Sometimes, unpredictably, he would relax, which happened now. After pronouncing
Saskatoon
, a impish smile passed over the meta-diplomat's face. “What's the expression used at rodeos, Earl?” he said. “
Whoopee!
I think.” They both chuckled for a moment. McEwen resumed his sombreness. “Friend Tony reads political science at the university. He is an average student and goes unnoticed. In the final year he writes an essay with a telling title:
The Evolution of Marxism and Leninism: The Future of East Europe
. The title is extant, but no copy in the archives. The first gap, Earl, a
regrettable
gap. What
would
Friend Tony have been prognosticating thirty years ago? Did he have a political ideal? Does he have one now? It would be nice to know.

“Skip a few years, Earl. Riveting years we'll come back to. When Friend Tony joins the Canadian Service, he is psychologically screened. Fortunately, the Beavers have it on record. Friend Tony is asked,
What caused you most unhappiness when you were young and what is your happiest memory?
The answer to the second question…” McEwen flipped through the folder to a page marked with a blue clip. “…I quote,
Vacations on my uncle's ranch
. We accept that, Earl. I liked the farm, too, when I was young. I look forward to owning one when I retire. But listen to the answer to the first question. Being passed over for the high
school basketball team. How revealing. Why didn't he make the team? Can we assume he was too short?”

“He is rather slight, yes, quite slight,” replied Gifford. Fresh pints arrived, but McEwen was busy digging deeper in his folder. “Cheers,” Gifford said.

McEwen mumbled
Cheers
back and absent-mindedly lifted his glass. “That's exhibit one. Your consul has a complex. Complexes motivate. Napoleon was slight. The Kaiser had a withered hand. Both wanted military domination. Toulouse-Lautrec was a great painter but a dwarf and he spent all his time peeping at women undressing. We could develop a long list. I suspect Friend Tony is as bent as the lot. But he hides his perversions.

“He takes a degree in '65. According to the Beaver records he then disappears from the face of the earth.
International travel
, the file says. No indication where. The Beavers now say they ought to have been more concerned at the time. No attempt was ever made to determine where he went. A
deplorable
lapse. In '67, blithely…yes,
blithely
…he joins the diplomatic service. But where did he spend the years prior to that? What did he do? Was he on the beaches of a Caribbean island performing esoteric exercises to improve his height? After all, his was the LSD generation. Or might he have been in some mecca for the pursuit of his favourite preoccupations, Marxism and Leninism? I'll come back to that too.

“Leave it to the Beavers. Once Friend Tony is in the Service the paper trail is better. His annual performance reports tell us a great deal. If you can stand the lachrymose style and ignore the extraordinary puffery, the reports are quite amusing. Page after page of swollen praise. I ran into that same requirement for volume in India. Funny, how the colonies suffer from linguistic puerility.

“Did he
innovate
that year? Did he
analyze
? Did he
plan
? Did
he
organize
? Every year the same answers,
yes, yes, yes, yes
. Why would anyone ask? Of course he did! To do so was his job! Quite incredible annual bombast, the descriptions of the simple fact that someone was working for a living. Where did we go wrong with the colonies, Earl? In my service, we keep an eye on the young ones and a quiet nod decides who moves up. Why were we not able to transplant such simplicity? Nevertheless, here and there in the annals of Friend Tony's performance, one finds a flash of insight, an occasional, entertaining turn of phrase. Listen.

“San Francisco, '68.
Mr. Hanbury admirably came to understand the sociological profundities of this exciting part of California. His providential reporting on the pullulating anti-Vietnam War movement at Berkeley University was accurate, realistic, and powerfully credible. He concluded with very promising reasoning, that the U.S. will not win the war on account of the strong disapprobation amongst America's youth. Accordingly, I have marked him outstanding in the category of political evaluation.

“Friend Tony is an outstanding political analyst, Earl. It says so black on white.

“Let's skip some years and go to Kuala Lumpur, '83. A gem. The first secretary is completing his second year. The ambassador writes –
Mr. Hanbury's potential is immense. He shows a fine feel for the rules of protocol and could rise to the highest levels in the Service. However, he needs to overcome diffidence. He is superb at developing options for action. Under the category “ability to plan” above, I already set out the example of his judicious determination of which movie houses in Kuala Lumpur would be suitable for showing the new documentary film on the James Bay Hydro Electric Project. However, it should be mentioned here that he was unable to decide which of such options would be best and, as time passed without a decision, only a small theatre was available in the end.
Unfortunately it was in an outer suburb. The Quebec delegation attending the showing remarked that they expected more from a federal embassy. Training in purposeful decision-making would remedy the defect.

“Hear, hear,” said Gifford.

“Most recently, the year's performance harvest came from a certain Irving Heywood. Ottawa, '89. Mr. Heywood writes –
Few directors will have been so blessed with virtually constant and faithful support from their deputies. During my absences, which due to the crushing burden of the international workload were frequent, Mr. Hanbury, a believer in the higher purpose of our mandate, managed Disarmament with a blessedly delicate touch which allowed the full creativity of my staff to be revealed without hindrance.
Do you like that, Earl? Do you appreciate Mr. Heywood's style. Does it remind you of a churchman reporting on the outcome of a Synod?

“A few more random items from the Beavers which have a bearing. It seems Friend Tony was not really qualified for Berlin. He wanted the position, but wasn't sufficiently senior. Since no one with appropriate seniority could be found, his going solved two problems; what to do with him and how to staff Berlin. That too, as we shall see, is of more than passing interest.”

McEwen stopped, sipped his bitter and inhaled deeply through his nose. He looked at the ceiling. Earl Gifford knew this was an interlude, a pause. A fresh wave of damning insight was about to be unleashed. But could the Hanbury story get better? When McEwen appeared stuck in thought, Gifford interrupted. “Time-consuming,” he said, “going through so much material.”

“A responsibility, Earl,” sighed the meta-diplomat. “A responsibility. That's the extent of the Beaver files, I'm afraid. Disappointing, frankly. Vital questions left unanswered. But we had that other tantalizing clue, the one you produced – Friend Tony having a previous connection to
Berlin. My presumption was that this might have occurred during the
international travel
period. When that was checked out – here in Berlin – information came in lorry loads. Everyone in Berlin knows Friend Tony: the university, the office for foreign registrations, the police. Even the Stasi had more on him than the Beavers.”

Gifford beamed. His info! He nodded with excited jerks; his great jowls quivered.

“He arrives in Berlin in ‘65 after taking the degree in Saskatoon and enrolls in the Goethe Institute. He has rooms in a building near Savignyplatz. He becomes competent in German and the next year is at the Free University attending political philosophy lectures. Listen to this, in early '67 he is arrested for participating in a left-wing demonstration. Friend Tony claimed he was an innocent bystander, although given his academic interests we can safely assume he was chummy with the lefties. No film footage of him carrying a placard, nor of him turning over cars and setting them on fire. He avoided the cameras. The police let him go. Participating in a demonstration like that without becoming part of the record shows extraordinary cunningness and skill, in my opinion.