'Codes and Ciphers, downstairs?' It was a not a region into which Dicky ever ventured.
'He was on the Special Operations committee with Bret. He was always trying to organize holidays where you could look at tombs and no one ever put their name down. Wonderful snooker player. Don't you remember how we went to Big Henty's one night and he made some fantastic break?'
'I've never been to Big Henty's in my life.'
'Of course you have, Dicky. Lots of times. Jim Prettyman. A young fellow who got that job in Washington.'
'Sometimes I think you must know everyone in this building,' said Dicky.
'I thought you knew him,' I said lamely,
'A word to the wise, Bernard.' Dicky was holding a finger aloft as if testing for the direction of the wind. 'If I was in this room talking to you about this Prettyman fellow you'd change the subject to talk about Frank Harrington and the Bizet business. No offence intended, old chum, but it's true. Think about it.'
'I'm sure you're right, Dicky.'
'You must try and concentrate upon the subject in hand. Have you ever done any yoga?' He pushed aside the papers that I'd suggested he should read.
'No, Dicky,' I said.
'I did a lot of yoga at one time.' He ran a finger across the papers as if reading the contents list. 'It trains the mind: helps the power of concentration.'
'I'll look into that,' I promised, taking from him the signed papers that Dicky had decided not to read, and stuffing them into the cardboard folder.
When I stood up, Dicky, still looking at the carpet, said, 'My mother's cousin died and left me a big lion skin. I was wondering whether to have it in here.'
'It would look just right,' I said, indicating the antique furniture and the framed photos that covered the wall behind him.
'I had it in the drawing room at home but some of our friends made a bit of fuss about shooting rare animals and that sort of thing.'
'Don't worry about that, Dicky,' I said. 'That's just because they're jealous.'
'That's just what I told Daphne,' he said. 'After all, the damned thing's dead. I can't bring a lion back to life can I?'
5
Many civilians have a lifelong obsession about what it would be like to be in the army. Some like the idea of uniforms, horses, trumpets and flags; others just want clearly expressed orders, and a chance to carry them out in exchange for hot meals on the table every day. For some men the army represents a challenge they never faced; for others a cloistered cosy masculine retreat from reality.
Which of these aspects of the soldier's life Frank Harrington found attractive – or whether it was something entirely different – I never knew. But whenever Frank was not in his office, nor in the splendid Grunewald mansion that he'd arranged should be one of the 'perks' of being the Berlin Resident, I knew I'd find him in some squalid dug-out, sitting in the middle of a bunch of begrimed infantry officers, looking thoroughly happy as he told them how to fight their war.
This day, dressed in borrowed army togs with mud on his knees and elbows, he was delivered to the Grunewald house in a big army staff car.
'I'm awfully sorry, Frank,' I said.
'I was only playing soldiers,' he said in that disarming way he had. 'And Dicky said it was urgent.'
He looked as if he was going to conduct me straight into his study. 'It's not so urgent that you can't change and take a shower,' I said. I gave him the report from London.
He took it and shook it at his ear to listen for its rattle. He grinned. We both knew Dicky. 'Go into the drawing room and get yourself a drink, Bernard,' he said. 'Ring for Tarrant if you can't find what you want. You're going to eat with me I hope?'
'Yes. I'd like that, Frank.'
He was a wellspring of cheer after his day with the soldiers. Halfway up the stairs he turned to say, 'Welcome home, Bernard,' knowing how delighted I would be at such a greeting. For no matter where I went or what I did, Berlin would always be home for me. My father had been Resident long ago – before they were provided with a grand mansion in which to live and an entertainment allowance – and Berlin held all my happy childhood recollections.
When after thirty minutes or more Frank returned he was dressed in what for him were informal clothes: an old grey herringbone tweed jacket and flannels, but the starched shirt and striped tie wouldn't have disgraced any Mess. Just as I was able to make new clothes look shabby, so Frank was able to invest even his oldest garments with a spruce look. His cuffs emerged just the right amount and there was a moire kerchief in his top pocket and hand-sewn Oxfords that were polished to perfection. He went across to the drinks trolley and poured himself a large Plymouth gin with a dash of bitters. 'What have you got there?' he asked.
I'm all right, Frank,' I said.
'Wouldn't you rather have a real drink?'
'I'm trying to cut back on the hard stuff, Frank.'
'That bottle must have been on that trolley for years. Is it still all right?' He picked up the bottle I'd poured my drink from, and studied the label with interest, and then he looked at me. 'Vermouth? That's not like you, Bernard.'
'Delicious,' I said.
He came and sat opposite me. His face had the war-painted look that dedicated skiers wore at this time of the year. His skin was dark, with pale surrounds where his goggles had been. Frank knew a thing or two about the good life. I didn't ask after his wife. She spent most of the time at their house in England nowadays. She had never liked Berlin, and rumours said there had been a row when Frank accepted the invitation to stay on past his official retirement date.
He'd read the interim report in his bath, he told me. We knew that it had been roughly cobbled together in London and we both knew it was just a lengthy way of saying nothing at all. He flicked through it very quickly again and said, 'Does Dicky want me to deposit someone in there?'
'He's going to great pains not to say so,' I said.
'I'll do anything for the poor bastards who are in trouble,' he said. 'But this is Berlin. I can't think of anyone here who could go to Frankfurt an der bloody Oder and do anything to help them.' He touched his blunt military moustache. It was going very grey.
'They don't like to sit in London doing nothing,' I said.
'How do they think I like it?' said Frank. Just for a moment his face and his voice revealed the strain of the job. I suppose there were plenty of agents being picked up all the time but it was only when there was monitored Soviet radio traffic about them that London got interested and concerned. 'The army got wind of it,' said Frank. 'They're keen to try their hand.'
He must have seen my face go white, and my teeth clench, or whatever happened when I became so terrified that I wanted to scream. 'The army?' I said, holding tight to my drink and keeping my voice under control.
'The Brigadier was reminding me about the Military Mission staff we have with the Russian army headquarters. They are able to move about a little more freely nowadays.'
'What else did your Brigadier say?'
'He was quoting the behaviour of these GRU bastards our chaps have to put up with at Bunde. Counting those with the French army at Baden-Baden, and those with the Yanks, there are about fifty Soviet Military Mission staffers. GRU agents every one, and many of them with scientific training. They wear leather jackets over their uniforms and deliberately muddy their car registration plates so they're not recognized while they go pushing their way into, and photographing, everything that interests them.' He grinned.' "What about tit for tat?" that's what the Brigadier says.'
'You didn't tell your army pal about Bizet?'
'I'm not senile, Bernard.'
'The idea of some keen young subaltern sniffing around in Frankfurt an der Oder is enough to give me a nightmare.'