The Berlin Assignment (66 page)

The captain, relaxing at the controls on the upper deck, took a Gauloise from his mouth and turned to the huffing client. “
Monsieur?
” he asked, wondering why the ceremony with the towel. Most guests on the open sea were so taken by the beauty of his boat and the spiced artistry of the ship's cuisine that they soon discarded their clothing. But this pair was different, reserved, always in their cabin. New money, he had concluded. Upstarts too up-tight to do their fornicating on the back deck in the open like the guests with established wealth. “Turn around!” the client shouted. With a free arm and an index finger he began to draw large urgent circles in the air.

“
Retournez. Vite. Maintenant
.”

“
Immédiatement? A Monaco?
”

“
Oui. Oui
,” Earl said.

The captain stuck the cigarette back between his teeth, shrugged and spun the wheel. The ship's lurch made Gifford lose his balance. He grabbed a railing with both hands. The towel dropped. The steward, walking down the gangway to see if lunch was to be served, bent down to pick it up. Helpfully he returned it. “
Monsieur
,” he said.

In the state room Frieda had begun to paint her toes. Gifford studied the fax. Seven sheets, the first three pages being an emotional outpouring from Frau Carstens. Who gives a fart, Gifford thought, what Frau Carstens felt when Sturm phoned from the mansion to say the consul was gone, maybe abducted. There was paragraph upon paragraph of brooding self-examination and thoughts about why she never learned to cope with the unknown. Only when Frau von Ruppin checked the fax machine where she found a message from someone called Arnold, did they stop fearing the worst. However, they remained anxious and decided to contact Gifford to ask for guidance on what should happen next.

Gifford scanned Arnold's pages. The first, a copy of a message
addressed to a certain Ambassador Lecurier in Pretoria, confirmed a flight from Berlin to Johannesburg for Mr. A. E. Hanbury. Gifford checked his watch. He would be over the Mediterranean by now, maybe directly overhead. The second, to Johannesburg, asked for a hotel reservation for one night, onward travel to Pretoria the next morning. The third was actioned to Berlin, copied to Pretoria, instructing the office to pack up and ship the consul's things. The fourth, a headquarters message issued by Arnold under authority of somebody called Heywood, said no information could be given yet about the arrival of a replacement consul. There was a shortage nowadays of qualified personnel. Gifford grunted.

“What's the panic,
Liebster
?” asked Frieda. She had shifted her attention from her toes to her fingers. “An urgent development at the office. We've got to get back.” “Ach nein!” Frieda protested again. She had just begun to like the yacht. Earl started to massage her shoulders. If he acted quickly, they could soon buy the yacht, he explained, and the crew too. Affectionately he rubbed and stroked until she whimpered and agreed that whatever he decided would be best. Earl began to work the phone to charter a jet from Monaco to Berlin. Time was of the essence. He had a mansion to get onto the market and he had to find a cozy little bungalow for the next man.

As for Irving Heywood, give him his due, he kept his promise to Etchley. When the next assignment cycle started, the Investitures priest asked him to come by. “You know, Bob,” Heywood began, “I liked the way you handled yourself last year. I know losing Pretoria was tough, but you didn't let it get you down. The wife's recovered?”

Etchley replied Judy was a trooper. She had picked herself up and kept on going. “Good, good,” nodded Heywood. “What's your wish, Bob?
I'm moving a couple of dozen people at your level and you're first.”

Etchley told Heywood his situation had changed. Last year he couldn't afford to stay; this year he couldn't afford to move. Once Judy got over the shock they did a frank assessment. “She's from Newfoundland, you know,” Etchley confided.

“No! I'm from Atlantic Canada too.” Heywood was inspired.

“Coming from Newfoundland, she knows about adversity.”

“Tell me about it! All of us from there do.”

Etchley said his wife, once their problem had been talked through, decided to find a job to help meet the payments on the house. The kids weren't babies any longer, she argued. Her working would be tough on all of them, but what's a family for if not for facing tough times together. She found a position as
Coordinator, Anti-racism Programs
in a bank. “Now she makes more than I do,” explained Etchley.

“That's wonderful,” replied the Investitures priest. “That is truly wonderful. I'd like to meet your wife. Why don't you bring her to the cottage. Hannah would love to meet her too, plus of course your little girls.”

This was how Heywood fell into reminiscing on the porch. It was a lovely summer day with a light air that made breathing effortless. Bob was drinking beer; Irving, thermos in hand, sipped whiskey. The two Etchley girls splashed happily in the water below. Hannah and Judy had sneaked off to a boutique in a nearby, restored mill. “You know, I never thanked you for your confidence in me last year when you rearranged the Service,” Etchley was saying. “You don't know how proud it made me – Judy too – that I wasn't cut, that I was able to stay on.”

“You were easy, Bobby,” Heywood said with pride. “Your reputation was sky high. You've done wonderful things over the years. Yes, yes. Bitrap…” Heywood sighed. “It brings back memories.”

He thought of Bo Bilinski and gulped more whiskey. Bilinski had sent a Christmas card. Who would have expected it? A photo had been
enclosed. Bilinski in western drag: a towering Stetson, buckskin jacket with fringes, a revolver on his hip and flaring rawhide breeches. He stood next to a great palomino stallion. Lovely mountain ashes in their brilliant autumn colour framed him on both sides. Behind, dusted by the first snow of the season, rose the Rockies. Bilinski looked into the camera with a steady, questioning, yet peaceful stare.

“Well, thanks all the same,” Bob Etchley continued. “Tell me, Mr. Heywood…”

“Irving, Bobby. Out here it's Irving. I don't like inter-generational barriers.”

“Thanks, Irving…”

“Irv's okay too.”

“Sure. You know, I shouldn't ask this, but since I didn't get Pretoria, can you tell me what really happened last year in Berlin?”

Heywood filled his great chest full of air. The air went in until it seemed he'd burst. He was leaning dangerously backwards by the time a slow exhalation started. He began to shake his head. “I don't know, Bobby. Really I don't. I'd tell you if I did. The high priest did that one on his own. He got a phone call from the spooks. Then he took out his great sacrificial knife and plunged it into Tony like a lamb on an altar. I swear, that's all I know.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Etchley. “That's pretty scary.”

“You said it.” Heywood shook his patriarchal head. “I was pretty close to the high priest, but he never told me a thing. I checked the file too. Everyday I looked, hoping something would come from somewhere, but nothing ever did. The spooks were involved. Maybe it had to do with his reports. Maybe his assessments were at odds with the stuff coming from Washington. Maybe he got caught in some kind of crossfire. He was doing marvellous reporting from Berlin. The best ever. Everybody said so.”

“I heard that too,” Bob Etchley confirmed.

“Sure you did,” Heywood agreed. “And you know, it wasn't just Berlin. He's still going strong. Between you and me, Bobby, I always thought you were best for Pretoria. You've got a presentable wife. Lecurier wanted you badly. I had my doubts about Tony. Pretoria is a big job. But he's doing fine. Poor Lecurier having that safari accident, the rhino puncturing his right lung. Suddenly Tony's running the embassy. He's got a woman helping him. From Berlin. She did a great job organizing the funeral. Turned the residence into a youth hostel for Lecurier's children. Dozens came, from every corner of the world. Apparently everybody loves her on sight. She's like your Judy, Bobby. A doer. And his political reports continue to be marvellous. He's way out front of the papers. The European Zealots did a study last month. One of them reads the German press. There's a rag there called Dee Seit, something like that.” “
Die Zeit
.” Etchley knew the international papers. “Yeah. That one. The stuff on South Africa in that paper has been remarkably good lately. Better than in
Le Figaro
. Better even than in the
New York Times
. And, get this, the study showed the stories in Dee… whatever…they confirm Tony's reports down to the details. But because of Tony, we know about what's going on a couple of weeks before the Krauts. In anybody's book, that's great work.”

Heywood turned nostalgic. “I have to tell you, I look forward to seeing him again. We've been through a lot.” He suppressed a whiskey-induced sniffle and pulled his jersey up, using the lower part to dab his eyes. “The ladies will be back soon. What do you say? Time for a dip? Let's splash around with your lovely babies for a while.” Lumbering to the dock, Heywood slung an arm over Etchley's shoulders. “I'm glad you came to visit, Bobby,” he said. “You know, you, Tony, some of the others, next to Hannah and the family, you're all I've got.”