Bo Bilinski, like a caged Rocky Mountain cougar, was pacing back and forth along the bank of windows in his office. Elma was having trouble placing a call. The delay had brought him close to boiling. This day, like the ones before, had started well enough. For a few weeks now Bilinski had been enjoying an inner peace he hadn’t known for years. The fact was, he had bought a ranch. Because of that he was now spending a good part of each day before the windows, studying the distant Gatineaus, thinking quietly of the future. Earlier this afternoon, he had slipped once more into a meditation. The Gatineaus didn’t exactly remind him of the Alberta foothills. They were not as big, not rugged, certainly not dangerous. They lacked a spectacular unbroken mountain wall as soaring backdrop. But all the same, if he looked at them long enough – and made an imaginative jump – he could picture them as being emptier and wilder than they were. Which made him think of home. Here in the east, Sharon, the children, the whole family had bobbed on the surface of things too long. The little skiff that was their life had been battered by the unclean Eastern sea. He was glad to be getting back to the West, back to purity and peace.
Bo had confided to Sharon that during the second half of his earthly existence he wanted to be surrounded by real things: open country, horses, cattle, the annual noise and dust of roundups. He went so far as to tell her that the years in government had made him feel polluted. It was because of Policy. Suppose, he asked her, that Policy’s intangibility were transformed into some form of matter – what would it be? Festering mucous? Pus itself? And the nightmares hadn’t helped. In them, he experienced a slimy substance oozing from his pores. “The crap of government,” he whispered to his wife during the hours of insomnia, “I tell you, Sharon, it’s like sitting in a vat of goddamn filth.” Bo Bilinski cracked his knuckles as he recalled the fateful confession. The next day Sharon left for Calgary to find a ranch.
The Service had been the final straw. With it the nightmares began. All along Bilinski had known that work in government could make you walk and talk and smell like Policy, if you weren’t careful. But he had always managed to outrun its peculiar fetor. Hadn’t he shot Tax Policy to pieces without being corrupted? And blown Competition Policy apart with his swagger undiminished? Even a thorough evisceration of Industrial Policy hadn’t threatened his survival as a human being. But running Foreign Policy forced him to the conclusion it was time to quit. Foreign Policy was inconstant, a moving target, weaving and ducking, all the time. Even if he happened to land a blow it seemed he had only punched a bog, because foul vapours were suddenly released. Bo Bilinski swore that Foreign Policy sucked at him, drew him in, and the harder he struggled, the faster he got pulled down.
Sharon’s resolve saved him. The end of all Policy was in sight. Thumbs stuck in his belt, meditating by the windows, motionless as a medicine man on an outcrop over the Great Plains, Bo thought of spiritual cleansing on his new Bo-Bil Ranch, and of the buffer – three hours hard riding – to the next-nearest sprinkling of civilization. His final weeks as high priest were characterized by one simple instruction to Elma. No goddamn calls.
But today, in the middle of the afternoon, during a reverie which had him doing an easy gallop through a gully, he suddenly got bushwhacked. He was instantly so fucking mad he wanted to quick-lynch the assailant. That son-of-a-bitch Manteaux was calling. Tell him to bugger off, Bilinski yelled at Elma through the intercom. Having to listen to Manteaux was worse than to coyotes howling. But Harry Manteaux was insistent, threatening to go higher.
“What do you want, Harry?” Bilinski finally snarled into the phone. “I’m pretty damn busy. I’m gonna put you on the speaker ’cause I’ve got urgent papers to sign. So, what’cha waiting for? Get on with it, goddammit.”
Bilinski heard Manteaux’s excruciating voice through the speaker. Manteaux, Bilinski suspected, was a pervert because he sounded like one. He had a high, nasal voice which revved up like a siren. But this time, although Manteaux was whining, he was ordering too. He gave a speech full of orders. It made Bilinski listen. He stopped looking at the Gatineaus. “I gave explicit instructions to someone to tell that asshole to behave,” Bilinski yelled back at last in the direction of his desk. But the argument had no impact. Manteaux kept coming, kept jabbing through the phone, and Bilinski began hurting. He finally went to his desk, grabbed the mouthpiece and hissed. “Keep your paws off. He’s my guy. I decide what happens. Not you. And not some dumb Kraut in Munich either. I’ll have this fixed in half an hour. Somebody’ll let you know. Bugger off, Harry.” Bilinski slammed the phone down. “Elma,” he ordered through the intercom, “get me that son-of-a-bitch Hanbury in Berlin.”
In Berlin, the phone rang and rang. Bilinski opened the door to the ante-chamber. “Well?” he barked. “No answer yet,” Elma sang brightly. But just as she was about to stop trying, the instrument in Berlin clicked. “Consul Hanbury?” Elma asked. “Yes? Thank goodness you’re there. Please stand by for Mr. Bilinski.” Bilinski closed his door and took the phone. “Hanbury?” he threatened. “Where the hell were you?” Bilinski listened to a few words from the other end. He tensed. “You wanna know who I am?” he said with disbelief. “Oh Holy Jesus! Look in the goddamn phone book. Page one. At the top. The very top. Now listen, you’ve destroyed some of my time today, so what I’m gonna say is short and sweet. One ground rule. You listen. No questions, no rebuttals. You do as I tell you and you’ll do it smartly. Understand? Tomorrow, Consul Hanbury, you’ll be on a plane. I don’t know which plane. I don’t know where it’ll take you. One thing is sure. It’s gonna take you far away. After it leaves you’re never gonna set foot in crappy Berlin again. Got that?” The high priest waited for an answer. “Got that?” he repeated. “Well good. In half an hour someone will call to tell you all you need to know. That’s it. I’ll share a personal comment. You screwed up a couple of months ago. Recall that? You’ve done it again. That’s not good. If I didn’t hate a certain pervert across town, you’d be out on your ass. If you wanna keep your job, watch yourself from now on. Okay? That’s free advice.” Bilinski put the phone down. He buzzed Elma. “Get me Irving Heywood.”
The Investitures priest was used to the urgent calls. Bilinski kept in touch throughout Bitrap and Heywood came to believe that although rock hard on the outside the high priest was a squishy noodle, a kind of dreamer, underneath. At key moments his eyes would turn glassy and he didn’t seem to hear. Heywood also concluded Bilinski hated being in the East, which, in his developing theory of causes and effects, might be the reason why Bilinski’s mouth was so foul. On his home turf he might be chatty, even witty, a man with rough but charming edges. Heywood liked to think this was true of himself too – tough as nails on the outside, but piloted by a caring soul. Realizing they had things in common gave Heywood a feeling of kinship with Bilinski.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” he said pleasantly when Elma put him through.
“Hi, Irv. How are you.”
“Very well, Sir. Thank you. How are Sharon and the children?”
“Good, Irv. Pretty damn fine.”
Bitrap from Heywood’s perspective had been a wild success. As with any mass public execution, the first chop caused squeamishness to ripple through the Service. The second wasn’t quite so bad, and the third easier still. From then on, the slaughter was routine. The old hands were soon gone. One reason why Bitrap’s virulence played out so fast was Robbie. How she silenced the snipers! Too bad, Heywood had thought in the middle of the massacre, that Hannah had never borne him a daughter. She would have been like Robbie, he was sure. The diplomatic list was through too. With Robbie’s help he had created a model of inter-generational correctness. Fresh-faced boys and girls were heading out into the world to play ambassador. The dip list through, Bitrap done: the Investitures priest believed there were good reasons for him and the high priest to be chummy.
“Irv, listen,” the high priest continued. “There’s a job for you. Remember that fairy in Berlin? What’s his name?” “Anthony Hanbury,” Heywood said crisply. “Right. Just talked to the son-of-a-bitch. Told him he’s out.” “Sir!” Heywood exclaimed. “Whatever for? If it has to do with that problem of reporting, I had a good chat with him back then. He’s been producing marvellous material.” “Irv, listen.” Bilinski lowered his voice, an invitation to participate in a secret. Heywood loved it when the high priest did that. “I’ve got nothing against your buddy in Berlin. I want you to know it’s that sodomite Manteaux again. Remember? He tried to bugger me that other time.” “I do,” said Heywood solemnly. “Are you sure he’s a sodomite?” “Sure. His type, you know, spooks, they fuck the world in the strangest places.” “Well, yes,” Heywood half agreed, though he would have put it differently.
“This is what you gotta do. The longer we talk, the less time you got. By my watch there’s twenty-five minutes left. You go through your bag of tricks and find your pal a new assignment. Not here. Somewhere out there. Phone him. Tell him where he’s going. Get him booked on an airplane leaving Berlin tomorrow…”
“Sir! Tomorrow. That’s impos…”
“Irv,” the high priest reprimanded, “don’t interrupt. I haven’t goddamn well finished.”
Bilinski continued his precise instructions. “Hanbury leaves Berlin tomorrow. Arrange it. Don’t be sneaky about it, Irv. Send him some place. Far from here. Okay? After you’ve done it, get your secretary to phone Manteaux’s lady. Don’t do it yourself. Got that? We’re not on speaking terms with buggerers. Not me. Not you. Not anybody who’s got rank. So, your secretary tells the other one that our man in Berlin has new instructions. She phones once more later to pass on information on tomorrow’s flights. That’s it Irv. A half-hour. Not difficult. When it’s done, relax. Forget it happened.” The high priest put the phone down.
A late afternoon mood was settling over the hills outside Bilinski’s windows. His mind was back to where it was before, except he saw himself coming out of the gully. He had roped the bushwhacker, tied him to a tree. A pretty mountain valley stretched before him with light hard as a diamond and air clean as glacial ice.
Heywood dropped his head. His great frame heaved in a tearless sobbing. But he regrouped. If he had one strength, he liked to think, it was bouncing back. With a push of his feet, he rolled his chair to the computer. He scrolled through the list of diplomatic missions where staff openings had existed, not expecting much of a harvest. The annual assignment changes had all fallen into place. He had one hope, a position where the new incumbent hadn’t yet left town. The Investitures priest checked dozens and found one. His first thought was that it was too good,too senior for Tony, but hang it, the situation wasn’t ordinary. Besides, the Berlin reports had raised Tony’s trading value. Resolved to do the high priest’s will, he phoned Robert Etchley in the Asian Temple who, Heywood knew, had a wife, two children and a large debt on a new house in the suburbs.
“Bob?” Heywood said in a no-nonsense voice, a mimic of Bilinski’s. “Irving Heywood. Bad news. Your assignment’s off.” A pause, then excitement and much hand wringing. “Sorry. That’s the way it is. Nothing’s ever certain. You know that.” A long, emotional confession, Etchley revealing he could not afford headquarters any longer. His debts were mounting. Also, the wife and children were set to go. The garage sale was over, the kids’ bikes sold, the house rented. “Too bad about all that,” said Heywood. Swearing came next. The Investitures priest listened patiently, but ignored the demand for an explanation. “Bob,” Irving said finally, “you’ll be at the top of the list next year. I promise. We’ll talk about it soon.” The Investitures priest hung up, leaving Etchley the task of breaking the news to his wife. Service experience showed, Heywood knew, that she was suddenly predestined to have an immediate and total breakdown.
Ten minutes were already gone. He next called South Africa. Luck was holding. Ambassador Lecurier was not yet in bed.
“Irving, how absolutely delightful to hear from you,” the ambassador exclaimed. “When are you coming this way? Make up a reason, then combine it with a holiday.”
“Hannah would love to get back to Africa, Jacques. Our second boy was born there. Did you know that?”
“It’s a wonderful continent for making children,” the ambassador agreed.
“Jacques, listen, I’m a little pressed. We’ll chat another time. I had to cancel Etchley. I’m sending you Anthony Hanbury instead. He’ll be arriving tomorrow or the day after. I guess that’s all right?”
“That’s a bombshell,” said the ambassador calmly. “I was looking forward to Bob. He has a delightful wife. Ever met her?”
No, thought the Investitures priest, but I expect soon to hear her primordial scream penetrating all this way from the suburbs. “Haven’t had the pleasure, Jacques.”
“Not being married myself, it helps if the number two has a presentable wife. Hanbury’s wife – what’s she like?”
“Hasn’t got one.”
“Oh my! Another bachelor. Well, someone to take prowling.” The ambassador seemed tickled by the thought.
“You’re both adults,” Heywood said gruffly. “You two can prowl to your hearts’ content. What do you say, Jacques? A green light?”
“I don’t know Hanbury,” the ambassador said cautiously. “Could he handle it here? The post-apartheid world is demanding.”
“He’s more than up to it, Jacques. He worked for me. Best deputy I ever had. Before that he did a bang-up job in Kuala Lumpur as number two, and this last year he ran the office in Berlin. He’s done wonderful work there. Superb reports, approaching the quality of yours when you were in your prime.”
“And when was that?”
“Peking, I’d say.”
“Thank you. That’s right. And why is he leaving Berlin? He’s been there one year, you say?” Lecurier looked for a hidden angle.
“Boredom.”
“Ah, a sapping disease. He’d be cured quickly here. Well, I suppose it’s fine. After the gentle pleasures of Asia and the rigours of the German way, experiencing Africa’s earthiness should round him out nicely.”
“I’m sure you’ll broaden his horizons,” Heywood said and hung up. Five more minutes gone. The clock was ticking. He instructed an underling to begin flight reservations. Next, the Investitures priest dialled Berlin.
Hanbury picked up the phone before the first ring finished.
“Yes?” he said urgently.
“Tony, hello. Irving Heywood here. Everything fine?”
“Irving! What the hell is going on?” Hanbury jumped at Heywood through the phone line like a wild man.
“Your boat’s sprung a little leak, Tony. Nothing I can’t fix,” soothed Heywood.
“Why did the high priest call me?”
“What did he say? Tell me.”
The reply to this was shouted back with such force that Heywood had to hold the phone away from his ear. But despite the volume there was no insight. Heywood wondered who was more upset, Hanbury or Etchley. Most upset of all, he imagined, would be Mrs. Etchley. “Settle down, Tony,” he counselled. “It’s not the end of the world. I’ve found you a new spot. Right up your alley. You’ll be working with the most wonderful ambassador we have. The pair of you will see eye to eye on everything. That’s my feeling.”
“I want to know what’s happening!”
“I was hoping you would tell me,” Heywood probed once more.
“Who’s put you up to this?”
“Bilinski wants it. Arnold’s booking your flight.”
“There has to be an explanation. It makes no sense. I’m just beginning to hit my stride here. You wanted reports; I did them. Krauthilda called and said they were fine. I plan to keep doing them. Why change things?”
“The reports were first class. Everyone agrees, the high priest included.” Heywood fished a last time. “The spooks are involved. Did you know that? Once your situation is rearranged, we’re to let them know it’s done. Any idea why? Any odd experiences lately?”
Heywood received a loud and foul reply. He sighed. “Look at your new assignment as an improvement, Tony. You’ll be front and centre again, like in the Priory.” More deep, profanely uttered despondency from Berlin came at the priest. He decided to make it short. “Pretoria. Number two. Lecurier is waiting for you with open arms.” The voice in Berlin now asked specific questions. “Arnold is making the arrangements. He’ll phone in minutes. You know, you and Lecurier, two bachelors, you’ll have quite a time. Makes us married folks wonder if we made the right decision.” When Hanbury remained silent, Heywood said, “Give me a call when you’re there, Tony. Let’s stay in touch.” Then he put the phone down. Three minutes were left.
The Investitures priest rose. “Call Mr. Manteaux’s office,” he ordered his secretary. “Confirm Berlin has been vacated.” He continued down the hall to check on Arnold’s progress. The voice in Berlin had been belligerent, even ungrateful. A side to Tony he hadn’t seen before. Heywood shook his head with sadness. Next time they talked he’d raise it.
Throughout the night the consul wandered in a daze, back and forth through his mansion. Arnold rang first. He was followed by another, an unknown caller who informed him he would be escorted to the airport in the morning. No indication exactly when or by whom. Somewhere in the night Hanbury packed a bag. As the hours passed, in a tangle of contradictory emotions, he fixed again and again on two cryptic remarks. You screwed up twice, according to the high priest;It’s the spooks came courtesy of Heywood. There had to be a misunderstanding, a big one, something truly grotesque, but what? His mind jumped crazily, from aimless reasoning to revisiting all that happened since arriving in Berlin. He had to contact Gundula – she had to know – but Gundula was not reachable. He visualized her on a railway platform in three days time, waiting for him, waiting until the train emptied, afterwards driving off, her worst fears confirmed. He ought to phone Sabine, but tell her what? I’ll be off in the morning. Good luck with the store. Impossible. Why the spooks? All night the same question. Why the spooks? And if this was a second time, when was the first? The time he stood with von Helmholtz on his balcony?
All night Hanbury stalked what he couldn’t see and pursued thoughts that led nowhere. Pacing without pause, considering one stillborn theory after another, his torment mounted. In the early morning, emptied out, incapable of thinking clearly about what was and about what might be, he went onto the terrace. The sun was just up; the lit edges of the trees seemed to be burning. He and Gundula had seen it often enough. The doorbell sounded. Gundula? He waited. But there was no second ring in quick succession, no rescuer’s grin waiting for him on the doorstep. The bell sounded again, longer, insistent. He pulled himself together. Whoever it was would see him leave with dignity. But his composure fell apart.
“Gerhard!”
“Ready to go?” the Chief of Protocol asked.
Hanbury looked past him. Two vehicles were in the driveway, von Helmholtz’s stretch Mercedes and a fast BMW. Three men, humourless barons wearing loose jackets, were planted between the cars. “Who are they?” he asked. “Representatives of agencies interested in your departure. You have some explaining to do. Are you packed?” The Chief of Protocol was impatient. “I have to explain?” the consul said with a bitter laugh. “Is that your luggage?” Von Helmholtz pointed at a suitcase.
The barons watched the consul pull the front door shut, descend the steps and heave the bag into the Mercedes trunk. “Zum Flughafen,” the Chief of Protocol ordered. The motorcade pulled out the driveway, the trio in the BMW riding guard. “I have no idea why this is happening.” Hanbury protested from deep in the back seat. “Somebody’s made a big mistake.”
Von Helmholtz didn’t reply. He saw Hanbury was agitated, even bewildered. Despite his own outward calm, von Helmholtz was not at ease either. He’d slept no more than the consul. Half the night was spent studying a file, the other half he was on the phone. At times it had been tense. Another witchhunt! he claimed angrily at the beginning. But supporting information began arriving by fax. Von Helmholtz stood at the machine. Page after page streamed in, a flood of supporting information. He studied the material, then called Graf Bornhof back. Preposterous! he barked, though he was less sure than he sounded. In the early hours he had to yield, in part because the proof was unassailable, in part because confirmation came that the consul’s own people wanted him out. Very well, he agreed, he would see to it that Consul Hanbury had an orderly departure. Graf Bornhof informed him the situation was more complex. Other agencies besides his now had the file. The protectors of the constitution as well as the law’s enforcers, both had decided they had a stake. They insisted on witnessing that the consul got on a plane. Von Helmholtz shook his head, but acquiesced. He was too tired for turf wars.
The night’s drama had lengthened because of negotiations with Ottawa. Pullach, Graf Bornhof confided, wanted him declared persona non grata and, initially, on the other side of the Atlantic they agreed. Then came a change of mind. Put everything on hold. Do nothing for half an hour. A counter-proposal was made. Make the departure look routine. Avoid adverse publicity. Present it as a diplomatic reassignment. Pullach was against it, until von Helmholtz weighed in. He ruled a quiet removal would be in everyone’s interest.
Now, as the Mercedes sped along the quiet Dahlem avenues, von Helmholtz glanced at the collapsed figure next to him. The posture was at odds with the evidence. “I was on the phone all night because of you.”
From somewhere behind a pathetic and defeated face came lingering defiance. “What for? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Know somebody called Schwartz?”
The consul almost taunted him. “Schwartz? Of course.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Nothing to tell. A professional acquaintance, pure and simple.”
“You never suspected he might be…questionable?”
Just another professional acquaintance, was the answer, like dozens, amongst whom was a Chief of Protocol as well. All above board. The voice trailed off in disgust.
“If what I’ve seen is true, you’ve betrayed the trust of many people. On my side they wanted you declared persona non grata for what you and Schwartz were up to, but someone on your side put a foot down. Persona non grata. It would have been quite an achievement.” An exclamation of more defiance was followed by an expression of utter disbelief. Von Helmholtz decided to administer shock. “You may be the most two-faced person I have ever met.” As the consul digested this, von Helmholtz continued. “Why did you take up with Schwartz? I’d like your version.”
Hanbury’s voice dropped. Some of the fight was coming out. There wasn’t much to say. He occasionally had a drink with Schwartz to talk about their work. He once located a rare book for him at Geissler’s. When headquarters demanded reports, Schwartz helped with analysis and background, a favour in return for finding him the book. But the information could have come from anyone, from the Chief of Protocol, for example.
“I read the reports,” von Helmholtz said. “Clever documents. Penetrating. But ideologically disturbing in spots.” The information faxed by Graf Bornhof had taken hours to absorb. “I don’t think you’re admitting everything you know,” von Helmholtz said. “You didn’t suspect anything? You never worried what Schwartz might be?”
The consul shook his head. Schwartz was the husband of a friend and that was all.
“There’s more to it than that.” In a dull tone, like someone reciting lottery numbers, von Helmholtz described Schwartz as a leading figure in a small organization with questionable political objectives. They wanted a halt to what they saw as a slide to political weakness, to an enfeeblement of the state. The members were well-placed and well-to-do. Schwartz was the thinker, the ideologue. His task was to draw up a political platform and action plan that would look reasonable and doable.
Hanbury, recognizing some of the language, stiffened.
The Chief of Protocol continued. “They have an extreme, conservative agenda, ultra-right, but it’s cunningly presented. Some people would see it as far-sighted. Such thinking touches tender nerves, Tony. It’s unclear how far Schwartz and his clique would be prepared to go. I’m informed that some time ago he began cultivating the neo-Nazi scene. So, once more, for my own peace of mind, tell me about your role? Are you a closet neo-fascist.”
“A closet neo-fascist! Gerhard! For God’s sake!”
The Mercedes had turned onto the autobahn and was accelerating to the airport. Von Helmholtz recalled the other time he and Graf Bornhof had discussed a file. That time, they agreed it drew absurd conclusions. This time, Graf Bornhof said the material was not conjectural; it was irrefutable. The consul had to go. But von Helmholtz had doubts, and Hanbury’s reaction sowed more doubt. He decided to test him further. “The irony is,” von Helmholtz said calmly, “that not long ago certain people tried to convince me you were a neo-communist. Remember our talk about Günther Rauch?”
The consul made silent gestures. His disbelief was so colossal that he was barely capable of finding words. “Idiotic,” he said at last. “I’m not a neo-fascist. I’m not a neo-communist. I’m not a neo-anything.”
“Certain people think there’s a connection of sorts between Günther Rauch and Schwartz.”
The material from Graf Bornhof setting out a conspiracy theory linked the early period of the consul’s activities in Berlin to what he did in the last months. For von Helmholtz this had been the least acceptable part of the new file. Facts twisted to support a pre-conceived idea, he had said. It destroys the credibility of the argument. Graf Bornhof quickly backed off. The new file stood on its own, he claimed. It didn’t need to be linked to anything. But von Helmholtz put the connection to the consul all the same, to see the reaction. “Certain people,” he said, as vaguely as before, “think you took up with Günther Rauch to lay a smokescreen. They believe you wanted to create an impression of being connected to the far left to hide your real intention – which is to advance the interests of the far right. Your reports have been interpreted as hiding a neo-fascist agenda. Did you really come to Berlin to help Schwartz lay his hands on politically destructive information?”
Hanbury could take no more. “It is utterly ridiculous,” he said meekly.
“That may be, but some people don’t think so.” Von Helmholtz was still unsure. Why didn’t the consul open up? As blandly as before, he turned the tourniquet still tighter. “Most of what I know is not ridiculous at all. You’ve been seen – photographed in fact – with Schwartz in some kind of neo-Nazi club. More damning is what you did for him in the Stasi files. What can you tell me about that?”
Hanbury’s head sank into his hands. An urgent, broken whispering began. The rear seat became a confessional. Yes, he worked the Stasi files. Schwartz was doing a monograph on Nazi war criminals. Cooperation between former Nazis and the Stasi would be one dimension. He asked for help. And why not? Revelations from the files were in the papers every day. Access to the Normannenstrasse complex was no problem. But the idea from the beginning was to look for former Nazis, not abet the far right. And, yes, there was an outing to Potsdam. An unguarded remark about skinheads had been taken by Schwartz as a challenge. “I was there for twenty minutes, Gerhard. I wasn’t comfortable. I never want to go near a place like that again.”
Stacked against all that emotion, von Helmholtz knew, were hard facts. He did not relent. “You spent a week doing Schwartz’s bidding in the Stasi files to flesh out a paragraph or two for a monograph?” he said incredulously. “A whole week?” Hanbury now let all he knew flow. He described the process, Schwartz providing names, he tracking them down, going ever deeper into the files.
“You found what Schwartz wanted?”
“Yes.”
“Schwartz was happy?”
Hanbury nodded.
“And you were convinced you were looking for Nazi war criminals.”
“At the end I suspected some of them were not.”
“Why?”
“I found a room. DDB. The files there referred to people too young to have been Nazis and they didn’t seem involved with Nazi things – the death camps, extermination of the Jews, all those things. But most of the information I took out made little sense to me.”
“It did to Schwartz?”
“It seemed to.”
Von Helmholtz had the full picture now. He felt tired. Throughout the night he pressed Graf Bornhof to provide all the information, not just carefully chosen pieces. After a further stream of faxes, a few pieces began to fit. The constitution’s protectors had tried to trace Hanbury’s paths criss-crossing through the files, but failed. He had handled too many indices; the routes were too random. So law enforcement got involved and broke into Schwartz’s university office, where they found neatly ordered bundles of cards covered front and back with notes in the consul’s handwriting.
“You were not looking for old Nazis, Tony,” von Helmholtz said wearily. “You were picking out Stasi collaborators in the west. DDB: Deutsch-Deutsche Beziehungen. Inner German Relations, that’s what you were looking at. Dozens of West Germans, well-known and in high places. You were handing Schwartz one political time bomb after another.”
Hanbury, spirit crushed and in a hoarse voice, said he didn’t know, he really didn’t.
“Politicians, senior government officials, journalists, scientists, businessmen, artists, entertainers. That’s what you found in DDB. Some were simply paid spies, but others traded in controlled technologies, handled stolen works of art, siphoned off private money transfers from West to East, or supported terrorists. Schwartz planned to leak the information little by little. He wanted to create an atmosphere of the established elites everywhere being morally bankrupt and corrupt. Schwartz’s group would then agitate – in the media, on the opinion pages, through publishing houses – for a clean-up of all the elements that cooperated with the East German regime over the years. Eventually, who knows, an investigation, maybe a parliamentary committee might have been struck. In a situation like that, a fresh political movement with a clear direction and no links to the Communists, embodying the old Prussian virtue of order might do well. As for the skinheads – I don’t know – perhaps he saw them as having potential to become the move-ment’s workers after some indoctrination. Would it have worked? Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
The Mercedes arrived at the airport. Hanbury sat transfixed. He asked who found out, who recognized him on the photo, but he met a wall of silence. At the terminal the barons spilled out of the BMW. Von Helmholtz went to talk to them and came back with one. “Horst here will take your luggage and check you in. We’ve got twenty minutes. Let’s walk a bit.”
“Who recognized me on the photo?” Hanbury repeated. “Who knew I was working on the files? Is Kurt Stobbe part of it?”
Von Helmholtz nudged Hanbury to start walking. “No,” he said. “Not Stobbe.”
“Did our spooks feed yours? Is that how you got my reports?”
“No.”
“So your side fed my side.”
“Not my side, Tony. Information has been coming to us.”
Hanbury did a mental check. “The Yanks,” he said.
“Not necessarily, Tony,” von Helmholtz said. “Not them.”
All the questions that plagued Hanbury throughout the night came gushing out. If not the Yanks, then who? Who checked his Stasi file? Who organized the Christmas phantoms? Who was listening in Friedensdorf? Who got hold of his reports? Who observed him in the Stasi complex? And why was a photographer handy in Potsdam? Hanbury beat his forehead with a palm. “I’ve had all night to think about it. It’s systematic, but I can’t see any links. Is Gundula part of it? Is she working for them?”
“Not Gundula.” Von Helmholtz’s eyes bored ahead, like someone wanting no distraction, someone wanting to forget. “You don’t want to know,” he advised curtly. “Take my word for it.”
“I may keep trying to figure it out all the same,” Hanbury said bitterly. He took a deep breath. “Well, I’m paying for my mistakes. What’s happening to Schwartz?”
Von Helmholtz was severe. “Your judgement, to say the least, was poor. You’re getting off mild. Keep that in mind. As for Schwartz, he’s been questioned. I’m told he was composed. Since he no longer had your material stashed away in some hiding place he lacked bargaining chips. I suppose he weighed the pros and cons. Did he want a leaked picture of him on the front page identifying him as a suspected right-wing extremist? Did he want the same leaked story to say that he might soon face investigative custody of indefinite length. I’m sure he thought about it and saw reasons to cooperate. I understand he did. In return…” A resignation came over von Helmholtz. “…he will continue a quiet academic life.”
“Hushed up,” The consul concluded. Von Helmholtz looked neither right nor left. “He hasn’t, strictly speaking, broken any laws.”
“And the Stasi collaborators in West Germany?”
Von Helmholtz didn’t reply.
“Hushed up too?”
“It’s too early to be sure. I understand you matched cover names with real names on the basis of intuition. So far there’s no direct evidence that the pack – the Scorpions and Midnight Angels – are the personalities you assumed they were. They may eventually be identified, after due process.”
“No one called to account…” Hanbury said.
“It’s not something we are traditionally good at.”
“…except me, and in half an hour it will be as if I’ve never been here either.”
“You’ll be better off in South Africa.”
They were half-way around the airport’s inner circuit. With the time left shrunk to minutes, Hanbury denied this. He seemed set vehemently to contradict it, but after a pause he became thoughtful instead. This was the one place in the world he might have stayed, he said, to have been somehow part of it.
“Gundula?” Von Helmholtz asked. He finally glanced sideways at the consul and saw him nod. “It would be a mistake to stay because of her. I would advise against it.” Fresh bafflement formulated on Hanbury’s face. “I mean,” von Helmholtz said, “Gundula’s staying would be a mistake. She has no future here. Your places – South Africa, Brazil, India – that’s where her future lies.”
“When she finds out why I left, it’s not too likely she’ll want to have much to do with me. Closet neo-fascists aren’t her cup of tea. Simpletons and dupes don’t rank high either.” The Chief of Protocol muttered regret, but had he understood right? She didn’t know he was leaving? He hadn’t called her? Hanbury said he didn’t know where she was, only that she was somewhere on the Baltic coast with her family. In three days she would be on a railway platform forming the conclusion he’d run out on her.
“You underestimate her.”
“I haven’t handed her too many reasons for having a high opinion of me.”
“Write her,” Von Helmholtz commanded. “Do it fast. Send it off quick. Invite her to South Africa. I’ll explain to her you were caught up in things not of your doing.”
Hanbury remained doubtful, but the Chief of Protocol was insistent. He belaboured his point until Hanbury acquiesced. They were back at the entrance to the terminal. “Does Schwartz’s wife know?” Hanbury then asked. This irritated von Helmholtz. “I doubt it. Is it important?”
“She inherited Geissler’s bookstore. She offered me a partnership.”
“In that case, it’s a very good thing you’re leaving.”
Hanbury thought about this. He stood for fifteen, perhaps twenty seconds, looking at the Chief of Protocol, realizing he would need longer to think that through. Horst was motioning. “Visit me, Gerhard.”
The Chief of Protocol looked stern, then broke into a thin smile. “I will, but not until Gundula is there.” The agency reps came up, tugged at the consul, and led him away.
Von Helmholtz got back into his limousine. Before he was outside the terminal his office had patched him through to the police chief in Schwerin and before they were at the first traffic light he had issued an order. “I need to know where somebody called Dieter Jahn is,” he instructed. “He’s on vacation somewhere on the Baltic coast.” Within the hour, von Helmholtz was dialling an obscure guest house on the northern tip of the island Rügen. “Haus Kap Arkona,” a crackly voice said. “Gundula Jahn, please,” the Chief of Protocol replied with sonorous importance. When Gundula heard what had happened, she told von Helmholtz he needn’t bother with arrangements for forwarding mail from Tony. “Think it over,” he cautioned. “Don’t make a rash decision.” “Too late.” Gundula said. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going back to Berlin now. I’ll wait there for his letter.”
The former consul couldn’t complain about Arnold’s arrangements. He had the last seat on the plane, first class, all the way to Jo’burg. The journey began with champagne. Calmer now – internal reparations ongoing – he gathered his thoughts, about the place he was leaving, and where he was heading. Sporadic questions crowded in. If not the Yanks, then who? Who intercepted his reports?You don’t want to know. But he did. Someone he knew?
A change of thought.
Your places – that’s where Gundula’s future lies. Von Helmholtz the optimist. The irony was that Gundula’s career as a journalist died with Gregor Reich, whereas his stay ended on account of Schwartz. Gregor searched for truth; Schwartz planned to abuse truth. Both of them, he and Gundula, had dabbled in truth, and it did them in. More champagne? an attendant asked. Yes please. Leave the bottle. Thank you.
The letter to Gundula, he ought to do it before he reached the bottom of the bottle. He needed to be careful. He didn’t want to be known as Goethe for the remainder of his days. Dear Gundula. Too trite. Dearest Gundula. She would break down with laughter. Something impertinent? Impertinence worked for Gundula, but with him it would sound contrived. He had no choice but to send her one line only: Gundula, please, please come.
He wrote a short note to Sabine too. The explanation – that he had been reassigned quite suddenly – came easily, but the ending was lame. How could he write her that her husband was the cause? So he wrote that in his career change was a fact of life. But this time, he promised, he would regularly write.
He came back to a pressing question. Who was behind it? Someone local? Someone he knew? A member of the staff? Frau Carstens? She had access to his reports. No, not Frau Carstens. The other ladies? Sturm? Rule them out too. Gifford? Hard working, pious, sweating, earnest Earl, always ready with bags of money to do anything for the consul? British Council Gifford. Was he the front man for an unseen universe? It had to be Gifford.
Knowing this made Hanbury feel strangely better. He extended the seat to its full length; the cabin attendant supplied a blanket; the world closed in. Comfortable now, he saw Gundula. She was at the wheel of a Jeep Grand Cherokee powered by a smooth engine with the kind of size that she deserved. The vehicle was in four wheel drive and a determined Gundula, handling the gearbox flawlessly – as if she had never driven anything else – was bouncing across the South African veldt. He was strapped into the seat beside her studying a map and reading a compass and trying to figure out where she was going. And in the back, holding on for dear life, was a vacationing Chief of Protocol, sun-burned, wind-ravaged, eager eyes under the broad brim of his safari hat, taking in every square inch of the magnificent landscape.
Somewhere over the sands of northern Africa, with this peaceful preview of the future, the former consul fell asleep.
That same morning the news hit the yacht. Earl and Frieda had just finished making love and lay on the circular bed studying the ceiling mirror. Frieda, satisfied by Earl, was stroking her belly. Earl was watching her every movement with a bird-like stare.
A loud knock was followed by sheets of paper shoved in under the stateroom door. The intrusion hit like a thunderclap. “Ach, nein,” Frieda complained. She wanted no disturbances. He grunted, swung his legs into a sitting position and hobbled over to the papers. “A fax from Frau Carstens,” he announced. He didn’t mind. Faxes with URGENT big and black at the top gave an impression that in his job he had to keep the world spinning. But, as Earl scanned the pages he swore and Frieda stopped playing with her body. “Liebster!” she said. Earl frantically wrapped a towel around his waist – it didn’t entirely make it, so he bridged two corners with a fist – and ran out the cabin. “Captain!” he yelled, stumbling up the steps to the back deck where the luncheon table was already set. “Capitaine!”
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.”