Spy Line

11

Once back in London it was easy to believe my trip to Central Europe had all been a dream. In fact I suppressed all thought of my meeting with Fiona from my mind. Or I really tried to do so. When Gloria met me at the airport, she gave a whoop of joy that could be heard across the concourse. She grabbed me and kissed me and held me tight. It was only then that I began to see the full extent of the terrible emotional dilemma I had created: or should I say dilemma that Fiona had created for me.

Gloria had left her new car – an orange-coloured Metro – double banked outside Terminal Two, a place where the parking warden charm school invigilates its ferocity finals. But she got away unscathed: I suppose it was tea time.

The car was brand new and she was keen to demonstrate its wonders. I sat back and watched her with delight. The awful truth was that I felt relaxed, and truly at home, here in London with Gloria in my arms. She was young and vital, and she excited me. My feelings for Fiona were different – and more complex. As well as being my wife, my colleague and my rival, she was the mother of my children.

Werner Volkmann's caustic wife Zena once told me that I'd married Fiona because she was everything that I wasn't. By that I suppose she meant educated, sophisticated and moving in the right circles. But I would have claimed otherwise. My education, sophistication, and the circles I moved in too, were radically different to anything Fiona had known, but not inferior. I'd married her because I loved her desperately but perhaps it was a love too coloured by respect. Perhaps we'd both married believing that it was the combination of our talents and experience that really mattered; that we would prove to be an invincible combination and our children would excel in every way. But such reasoning is false; marriages cannot be held together solely by mutual respect. Especially when that respect depends upon inexperience, as respect so often does. Now we knew each other better, and I had discovered that Fiona's love for me was sober and cerebral, like her love of learning and her love of her country. Gloria was not much more than half Fiona's age: Lord, what an oppressing thought that was! But Gloria had an irrepressible energy and excitement and curiosity and contrariness. I loved Gloria as I loved the exhilaration she'd brought to my life and the boundless love she gave both me and the children. But I loved Fiona too.

'Good trip?' She tried to demonstrate the self-seeking radio and the auto-reverse tape player while overtaking a bus on the inside. She was an unrestrained driver as she was an unrestrained lover and an unrestrained everything else.

'The usual routine. Salzburg and Vienna. You know.' I felt no pang of conscience at saying that the trip had been routine. This was not the right time to sit down with Gloria and hear what she thought about Fiona. I hadn't yet worked out what I thought myself.

'I don't know! How would I know? Tell me about it.'

' Salzburg: von Karajan held up rehearsals while we had a cup of that awful coffee he brews up under the rostrum. Then on to Vienna: a private view of the Bruegels and a boring little cocktail party reception for me. Then a private dinner with the ambassador and that uncomfortable box the Embassy subscribes to at the Opera. The usual stuff.' She bared her teeth at me. I said, 'Oh yes, and I was attacked by a fierce dog.'

'We're invited to the Cruyers',' Gloria told me as she got to the traffic lights near Hogarth's house. 'Daphne phoned me at home. She was terribly friendly. I was surprised. She's always been rather distant with me. Long dresses would you believe? And black tie.'

'You're joking.'

'No I'm not.'

'Black tie? Long dresses? At the Cruyers'?'

'On Saturday evening. Your sister-in-law Tessa and her husband are going. I don't know who else.'

'And you said "yes"?'

'Dicky knew you were expected back today.'

'Good God.'

'I sent your dinner suit to the cleaners. It will be ready Saturday morning.'

'Do you know these trousers don't match this jacket?' I asked her.

'Of course. I'm always telling you. I thought you did it to annoy Dicky.'

'Why would having mismatched trousers and jacket annoy Dicky?'

'It's no good trying to put the blame on me. You should keep your suits on proper hangers and not leave everything draped around. Of course your trousers get mixed up. Did someone remark on it then?'

'I just noticed.'

'I'll bet someone remarked on it, and made you feel a fool.' She laughed. 'What did they say – "Have you got another suit like that at home?" Is that what they said?' She giggled again. Gloria loved her own jokes: they were the only ones she saw the point of. But her laughter was infectious and despite myself I laughed too.

'No one noticed except me,' I insisted.

It's about time you had a new suit. Or what about grey flannels and a dark blue blazer? You could wear that outfit to the office.'

'I don't want a new suit or blazer and flannels, and if I did buy new clothes I wouldn't buy them for the office.'

'You'd look good in a blazer.'

I never knew when she was serious and when she was goading me. 'Wouldn't I need a badge on the pocket?'

'Alcoholics Anonymous?' she said.

'Very droll.'

'I've bought a lovely dress,' she confessed. 'Lilac with big puff sleeves.' So that was really it. That little preamble about me having a new suit was just to assuage her guilt about spending money on a dress.

'Good,' I said.

That wasn't enough to put her at her ease. 'I didn't have a long dress, and I didn't want to rent one.'

'Good. Good. I said good.'

'You are a pig, darling.'

I kissed her ear and grunted.

'Don't do that when I'm driving.'

The Cruyers' dinner party must have been planned for weeks. At previous dinners his wife Daphne – an unenthusiastic cook – could be seen dashing in and out of the kitchen, sipping champagne between stirring the saucepans, referring to cookery books and hissing instructions to Dicky. But this time they had some gravelly-voiced old fellow to open the door and breathe alcohol fumes upon all arriving guests; and an elderly lady, attired in full chefs outfit, complete with toque, to do whatever was happening in the kitchen. There was a smell of boiled fish as she peered out of the kitchen to see us in the hallway. Whether she was counting the dinner guests or checking on the old man's sobriety was unresolved by the time the doorbell sounded behind us.

There was soft guitar music trickling out of the hi-fi. 'We tried to get Paul Bocuse,' Dicky was saying as we moved into the crowded drawing room, 'but he sent his sous-chef instead.' Dicky turned to greet us and said, 'Gloria, cherie! How spiffing you look!' in the fruity voice he used to tell jokes. He gave her a deferent, stand-off kiss on both cheeks to avoid spoiling her make-up.

'And Bernard, old sport!' he said, his tone suggesting that it was an interesting coincidence that Gloria and I should arrive together. 'No need to introduce you to anyone here. Circulate! It's chums only tonight.'

Most of the people must have already consumed a glass or two of wine, for there was that shrill excitement that comes from drinking on an empty head. Daphne Cruyer came across to greet us. I'd always liked Daphne. In a way I shared with her the problem of putting up with Dicky every day. She never said as much, of course, but I sometimes thought I detected that same fellow-feeling for me.

Daphne had been an art student when she first met Dicky. She had never entirely recovered from either experience. Tonight the drawing room was elaborately decorated with Japanese lanterns and paper fish. I guessed it was Daphne's purchase of her amazing rainbow-patterned silk kimono that had prompted this formal gathering. I would hardly think it was prompted by Dicky's new white slubbed-silk dinner jacket. But you could never be sure.

Daphne asked me how I was, with that unusual tone of voice that suggested she really wanted to know. In an effort to reciprocate this kindness I didn't tell her. Instead I admired her kimono and her Madame Butterfly hairdo. She'd bought the kimono on holiday in Tokyo. They'd gone on a ten-day trip to Japan together with their well-travelled neighbours. I would never have guessed how much you pay for a cup of coffee on the Ginza but Daphne had adored every moment of it, even the raw fish. She said Gloria was looking well. I agreed and reflected upon the fact that it had taken over three years for the Cruyers to decide that Gloria and I were socially acceptable as a couple, and that this momentous decision had coincided with the moment I learned that my wife was about to return.

'Dicky said everything in the office got into a terrible muddle when you went away,' said Daphne.

'I think it did,' I agreed.

'Dicky became awfully moody. Awfully withdrawn. I felt sorry for him.'

'I came back,' I said.

'And I'm glad,' said Daphne. She smiled. I wondered how much Dicky had told her about my time on the run in Berlin. Nothing I hoped: but it wouldn't be the first time that Daphne had wormed information out of him. She was awfully clever at handling Dicky. I should get her to give me a few lessons.

'We built on to the attic,' said Daphne. 'I have a little studio upstairs now. You must see it next time you're here.'

'For painting?'

'Still-life pictures: fruit and flowers and so on. Dicky wants me to go back to doing abstracts. But he was always adding blobs of colour to them. I got so angry with him that I finally went back to fruit and flowers. Dicky is such a meddler. I suppose you know that.'

'Yes, I do.'

When Daphne had moved on I said my hellos to everyone including Sir Giles Streeply-Cox – a retired Foreign Office man – and his wife. 'Creepy-Pox' with his sanguine complexion and bushy white sideburns might have been mistaken for a prosperous farmer until one heard that baroque Whitehall accent. Nowadays he grew roses between visits to London where he chaired a Civil Service interview board and prowled around the more languorous latitudes of Whitehall spreading alarm and despondency. Like all such senior officials and politicians he had a prodigious memory. He remembered me from another dinner party not so long before. 'Young Samson isn't it? Saw you at that gathering at that girl Matthews' little place. Nouvelle cuisine wasn't it? Ummm I thought it was. Don't get enough to eat, what?' The Streeply-Coxes certainly got around.

He leaned close to me and said, 'Tell me something, Samson. Do you know the name of this damned tune?'

'It's called " Cordoba ",' I said. 'Albeniz; played by Julian Bream.' I answered authoritatively because after purchasing his hi-fi Dicky had played it over and over to demonstrate the track selector.

'Catchy little piece,' said Streeply-Cox. He looked at his wife and nodded before adding, 'My wife said you were a know-all.'

'I try, Sir Giles,' I said and moved away murmuring about getting another glass of wine.

Once clear of the dreaded Streeply-Cox I decided that finding another glass of champagne wouldn't be a bad idea. I waylaid the old man with the drinks and then took a moment or two to look around. The same rather battered painting of Adam and Eve dominated the fireplace. Dicky always called it naïf in an attempt to give it class but to my eyes it was just badly drawn. The framed colour photo of Dicky's boat had gone. That rather confirmed the rumours I'd heard about him putting it up for sale. Daphne had never been happy about that boat. She was rather prone to sea-sickness and yet if she didn't join Dicky on his nautical weekends she knew there was a risk that some other female would share the captain's cabin.

The antique cabinet that had once held a collection of matchbox covers now held a Japanese dagger, some netsuke and an assortment of other small oriental artefacts. On the wall behind it there were six framed woodblock prints, including the inevitable 'Breaking Wave'. They'd fitted a fine mesh screen across the artificial coal fire. I suppose too many people threw litter into it. Dicky was always on his knees, clawing cigarette butts and screwed up scraps of paper from the plastic coal.

I reflected that every decoration in the room was new except the Adam and Eve that Daphne had found in a flea market in Amsterdam. It was a sign of the Cruyers' widening horizons and deepening pockets. I wondered how long Adam and Eve would last and what they'd be replaced with. Adam was already looking a bit apprehensive.

It was while trying to decide about the expression upon the face of Eve that I spotted my errant sister-in-law Tessa, and her husband George Kosinski. They were both dressed up to the nines, but even Tessa in her Paris model-gown didn't excel the stupendous Gloria, who looked more enchanting than ever.

Tessa came over. She must have been getting on for forty but she was still vibrantly attractive, with her long fair hair and bright blue eyes, and she still had that breathless way of speaking that made one think that she'd been waiting anxiously to see you again. 'I thought maybe you'd been sent to the bloody moon, poppet,' she said, giving me an uncharacteristically coy kiss. 'I've missed you, darling.'

I confess to a frisson as she kissed me: I'd never noticed before how much like Fiona she could look. Tonight especially so. Perhaps it was just an accident of her dress or make-up. Perhaps it was something to do with Tessa getting older; or Fiona getting older; or me getting older. Whatever it was, for a moment it made me stare at her, deprived of words until she said, 'Fuck! Is my lipstick smudged or something?'

'No, Tessa. You're looking more lovely than ever. Just stunning.'

'Well that's really something coming from you, Bernard. All we girls know that being noticed by Bernard Samson is the ultimate accolade.'

The old fellow – whom I heard Daphne address as 'Jenkins' – came round with a big silver tray of champagne. Tessa selected one unhurriedly and held her glass up to the light as if silently offering a toast but I knew she was trying to identify the champagne from its colour and the bubbles. It was one of her party tricks. Her mastering it must have cost George a fortune.

Having approved of what she saw, but without naming it, she drank some. 'Did you ever see such a darling butler?' said Tessa as Jenkins moved away. 'How sweet of Daphne to find an evening's work for some poor old pensioner.'

I wondered how I was going to persuade Tessa to return Fiona's fur coat. What was I going to use as an excuse? And where was I going to put the damn thing without having to go into a lot of discussion about it with Gloria?

'I was thinking about Fiona's fur coat,' I began.

'Oh, yes, darling. Do tell.'

'I thought perhaps I should put it with all the other things.'

'All what other things?' She swung her hair back from her face.

'Some bits and pieces that Fiona liked especially.'

'It's a beautiful bit of fur, you know. Daddy paid the absolute earth for it.'

'Yes, it's something of a responsibility for you.'

'I'm not wearing it, poppet, if that's what you're on about.'

'No, I'm sure you're not, Tessa, and it's kind of you to look after the damned thing all this time. I just thought that…'

'No trouble at all, darling. It's with my own furs and when summer comes… if it ever comes, they'll all go into refrigerated storage together.'

'Well, you see, Tessa…' I started. She tilted her head as if very interested in what I was going to say but let her fair hair fall forward, so that she could hide behind it. At that moment we were interrupted by an old acquaintance of mine: Posh Harry, a CIA troubleshooter from Washington. A short thickset man of vaguely oriental appearance, he was of that mixed Hawaiian and Caucasian ancestry that in his birthplace is called hapa haoli. He was in his middle thirties, always carefully groomed and of pleasing appearance. It would be easy to imagine him, suitably costumed, singing baritone in Madame Butterfly, or more credibly perhaps South Pacific.

'And who is this glorious young lady you're talking to, Bernard?' said Harry.

Tessa put an arm through his and said, 'Have you forgotten so soon, Harry? I'm mortified.' Posh Harry smiled, and before he could start an explanation the sonorous voice of Jenkins announced, 'Ladies and gentlemen. Dinner is served.' I caught Tessa's eye and she smiled sardonically.

Tessa's husband was talking to Gloria. He was fortyish. Born in London 's East End of impoverished Polish parents, he had become rich selling cars and, later, property. I had the impression that George put himself in the hands of the most expensive tailors, shirtmakers, outfitters and hairdressers he could find. So he was to be seen in a succession of dinner suits cut to ever changing fashions.

This evening George seemed to notice Gloria for the first time, for he fell deep in conversation with her soon after we arrived. I was somewhat surprised by this, for George had always seemed ill at ease with women, except the ones he knew well. Sometimes I wondered how he ever came to get married to Tessa; and why. Fiona used to say that it was Tessa's inexhaustible infidelities that had driven George to making so much money, but George was on the way to riches long before Tessa married him.

George was a man of irreproachable integrity, something I wouldn't have thought of as a prime asset in the second-hand car business. Once I'd said this to him. Characteristically George had given me a short lecture upon the probity and good will of his profession.

George and Gloria were talking when dinner was announced. Because George was very short, she had perched herself on one arm of a sofa so he didn't have to look up to her. George liked her, I could see that in his face, and when others came to join them in conversation he was determined to keep her attention. Jenkins now repeated his announcement in a louder voice. They all looked up.

After a couple of false starts, Jenkins heaved open the doors of the dark, candlelit dining room to reveal the long polished table set with flowers and gleaming tableware. The assembled company paused for a moment to gaze at this spectacle. This I felt was the beginning of a new age of Cruyerdom, a bid for the better life, a home background that would suit a man destined to rub shoulders with the mighty, brilliantly administer the secret dimension of political affairs, and retire with that coveted K. The only question that remained was why had I been invited.

'Daphne! How picturesque!' called Tessa as we moved in. 'Un véritable coup de théâtre, darling!'

'Shush!' I heard George say to her as we circled around to find our name cards. He said it in a quiet impersonal way, as a member of a theatre audience might react to a latecomer without interrupting the action on the stage. As we sat down, George, with his enviable memory, recalled a meeting with Posh Harry a few years previously when Harry visited George's used motorcar emporium in one of the less salubrious parts of Southwark, south London.

Posh Harry smiled without either confirming or denying it. That was his way. Harry could be inscrutable. He was dressed in a remarkable shiny black dinner suit with a lace-trimmed shirt that Beau Brummel might have worn except that it was a bit too frilly. Harry was always a fancy dresser, and it had to be admitted that he could carry it off. With him, and wearing a strapless satin gown cut very very low, was the same American woman I'd seen him with in Southwark. She was in her middle thirties and would have been pretty except for the rather plump features which gave her a look of unremitting petulance. This impression was heightened by the strident candied-yams and black-eyed peas accent she affected. At dinner she was sitting next to me. Her name turned out to be Jo-Jo.

I was interested to watch the inter-action between Posh Harry and our host. I wondered when it was that they first met, and I wondered if Harry's presence in London signalled some CIA development that I should find out about. I knew that there was a new Station Chief in London: maybe Harry was his trouble-shooter.

'What's your new boss like?' Dicky casually asked Posh Harry once we were all seated and the wine was being poured.

Harry, who sat across the table from me, replied, 'Say Dicky, what does die neue Sachlkhkeit really mean?'

Dicky said, 'The new realism. It means realistic painting. Isn't that right, Bernard?'

Constitutionally incapable of answering such a question in any way but fully, I said, 'And poetry. It's nineteen twenties jargon… a reaction against Impressionism. Also against beauty in favour of functionalism.'

Dicky said, 'You see, Bernard isn't just a pretty face.' He laughed and so did Jo-Jo. I could have banged their heads together.

Posh Harry smiled and said, 'My new boss keeps talking about die neue Sachlkhkeit like he's going to be a new broom and give everyone hell.'

Dicky smiled. I suppose it was Harry's prepared answer to an expected question. Posh Harry spoke damned good German. I'd be surprised if he really didn't know what it meant.

Posh Harry added, 'Never mind Bernard's "pretty face". I want to know where he's been hiding this gorgeous little girl all this time.' He was sitting next to Gloria, who sipped her wine to conceal her self-satisfied smile.

The first course was a crab soup with garlic bread. While Jenkins ladled it out with studied care there was the usual small-talk. Daphne Cruyer, relieved of her kitchen duties and with Jenkins to serve the food, was for the first time a guest at one of her own dinner parties. She seemed to thrive on it. Dicky too seemed delighted with this chance to play host. He was beaming the whole evening except when Jenkins – offering a second helping of crab soup from a heavy Japanese bowl – poured some of it over him. Even then Dicky only said, 'Steady on, Jenkins man!', albeit rather loudly.

It was at this stage of the proceedings that I overheard Daphne's loud whisper that told the evidently unsteady Jenkins not to try to dish up the salmon. Instead he was to put the whole fish in front of Dicky. It must be said that Jenkins didn't do this with good grace. He slammed the platter down with enough force to make the cutlery jingle.

'I'm totally with Jefferson 's interpretation of the Tenth Amendment,' Dicky was saying as the fish arrived so dramatically before him. He'd been treating his end of the table – which is to say me and Harry, for the ladies each side of him were trying to hear Daphne at the other end – to his views on federal government.

Dicky stared at the newly arrived salmon as if bewildered. His confusion might have been partly due to the huge pale green scales the fish wore, although on closer inspection these proved to be wafer-thin slices of cucumber, laboriously arranged in overlapping rows. Dicky looked up and saw Daphne – at the other end of the table – staring at him and making energetic sawing motions with her hand. He looked at Posh Harry, who gave an inscrutable smile and murmured something about his position as a government employee making it inappropriate for him to voice any opinion on states' rights.

Dicky had to be satisfied with this because he was, by that time, struggling to divide up the poached salmon. I don't know what persuaded Dicky to try slicing through it rather than fillet it from the bone; perhaps he took Daphne's mime too literally. But he soon discovered that even an overcooked salmon's spine is not easily severed with a silver serving spoon. Yielding to considerable force, for Dicky was nothing if not strong, the head seemed to slide off the platter, hide under the flowers, and look at Dicky reproachfully.

Daphne, while watching Dicky, got everyone's attention by suddenly beginning to describe a place in north London where she was going for skiing lessons on plastic snow. Everyone turned to face her. There was a certain shrill note in her voice, perhaps because the skiing season was over. As if suddenly remembering this she said she was going to lessons there all through summer and winter so that next year she'd be really good. Only Tessa – sitting on my right – turned to see what had happened when the head came off. She said, 'What a gorgeous fish. Did you land him yourself, Dicky?'

Dicky smiled grimly, and so did the indomitable Jenkins, who I now noticed was leaning slouched against the sideboard and watching Dicky's efforts appreciatively.

'It's not farmed salmon_s' said Daphne. 'It's wild.'

'So would I be, darling,' said Tessa turning back to her.

Daphne gave her a frosty smile. Tessa was suspected of a torrid affair with Dicky some years previously and Daphne had not forgotten it.

'Jenkins,' said Daphne in a trilling nursery school voice. 'Would you pour the wine please.' And because Daphne had spent so many years monitoring Dicky, she was able to add in time, 'Not the Chambertin, Jenkins; the white Hermitage.' And this time her voice was less composed.

As Dicky said afterwards, the wonderful beurre blanc sauce completely concealed the broken pieces offish. But Tessa's stated view was that it was like eating darning needles wrapped in cotton wool. Tessa was one of those ladies who didn't like finding fish bones in their fish. Anyway, there were plenty of second-helpings.

Moreover there was hare cooked in red wine to follow. It came ready-sliced on plates. The little old lady in the kitchen was working miracles. And rhubarb pie followed by a huge Stilton cheese with vintage port.

Fully recovered from his contest with the salmon, Dicky was in top form, which meant attentive and charming. There was never a time when I more easily understood Dicky's success in everything he did. He told jokes – good jokes – and laughed at his guests' stories. He made sure everyone had what he or she wanted, from aperitifs to cigars, and was even cordial with Daphne.

George and Sir Giles were sitting each side of Daphne but I noticed that Tessa had been distanced from Dicky. I wondered if Daphne had chosen the place settings. The cards were in her handwriting. And it was Tessa whom Daphne looked at when she stood up and called upon the ladies to retire. I thought Tessa would make a fuss and say no – as I'd seen her do before when she was feeling bolshie – but she got to her feet meekly and left the room with the rest of them.

As if on cue, Sir Giles then told three rambling anecdotes about his time in Whitehall. Coining near enough to indiscretion to keep our attention, he made sure no beans were spilled.

It was towards the end of this port and cigar session that Dicky got Sir Giles and George into a discussion about interest rates – no fashionable London dinner party being complete without an examination of the Treasury's fiscal policy – and turning aside from it Posh Harry said to me, 'Did you hear about your old buddy Kleindorf?'

'No, what?'

'Dead!' He stopped. He must have seen how much the news affected me.

'What happened?'

'He overdosed. You saw him recently somebody told me.'

'By mistake?'

'Mistake? And followed it with a whole bottle of brandy just to make sure?'

'Brandy?'

'French vintage brandy, the best from his cellar. I suppose he figured he couldn't take it with him.'

'Poor old Rudi.'

'He was old enough to have loyal friends both sides of the Wall. Not many people like that left. "Der Grosse Kleiner" was the last of the Berlin old-timers,' said Posh Harry.

'Damn nearly,' I said.

'Who else is there? Lange you mean? He's American. That old swine Rudi Kleindorf knew where the bodies are buried. And he's taken his secrets to the grave, Bernard.' He chewed a piece of water biscuit: Harry didn't like cheese very much. 'He never got over losing his son. And he went the same way: O.D. Holy cow! Where will all those deadbeats go, now that the Babylon is no more?'

'Poor Rudi,' I said again. 'Why would he do that?'

'I heard he was in trouble with the authorities.'

'He was always in trouble with the authorities,' I said.

'His father was some kind of war hero. Name of Rudolf Freiherr von Kleindorf. Career officer. Made his name in the winter fighting on the Eastern Front. The first Panzer Army was chopping its way out of Tarnopol. One after another he carried three of his wounded joes to safety. Under fire the whole time: the Russkies should have dropped him but a blizzard made visibility tough for them. Recommended for the Knight's Cross with diamonds or some damn trinket but he didn't get one. Maybe that's why the story went around and made him into a legend amongst the other ranks. An aristocratic Prussian officer who risks his life saving enlisted men has got everything going for him.' He grinned. 'Get saddled with a reputation like that and you've got to keep it up, right? I guess he was one of those brass-gutted guys who figure they'll never get killed. We've known a few like that, eh Bernard?'

'And?'

'He was right. They often are, aren't they? Kleindorf senior survived the war, and went to bat for his corps commander who was accused of war crimes. And darn it, he noticed that some desk-bound zombie in the war crimes commission had written "Australian Division" in the indictment instead of "Airborne Division" and Kleindorf senior got the charges thrown out of court on that technicality. A sharp cookie! They say that when Kleindorf attended any of those post-war veterans' gatherings he was cheered to the echo for fifteen minutes. Rudi grew up in his father's shadow: I guess the old man was a tough act to follow. That's why he never mentioned anything about him.'

'You know the devil of a lot about the Kleindorfs,' I said.

'I had to run a check on him a few years back. I went through all the files, including his dad's. It was kind of fascinating.'

'I see why Rudi wanted his son to go into the army.'

'To keep up the family tradition, you mean? Yeah, I guess we are all a little inclined to have other people make up for the things we didn't do for our folks, don't you think?'

'I don't know,' I said.

He didn't press me, but when he next spoke he leaned forward slightly as if to emphasize the importance of what he said. 'These krauts stick together, Bernard. You can't be in Europe ten minutes without noticing that. We could learn from them. Right?'

I didn't know what the hell he was getting at but I said, 'You're right, Harry.' My brother-in-law George was watching Posh Harry with great interest. George was the only complete outsider there, but he knew that Harry had some sort of connection with the CIA. Harry had virtually told him so the first time they met. That was a time when Harry was very pushy; now he'd quietened a lot.

It was then that Dicky took his cigar from his mouth, blew a little smoke, looked at me and said, 'Harry would like you to go for lunch with his people next week, Bernard.'

'Is that so?' I said and wondered why Posh Harry hadn't proposed this culinary rendezvous himself. I looked at Harry. He was looking at Dicky.

Dicky said, 'I said okay.'

'Does that mean you're going to lunch?' I said.

Dicky smiled, 'No, Bernard. They don't want a rubber-stamp wallah like me: they want an ex-field man to sort out their worries.' He ran the tip of a finger along his lips, wondering, I suppose, if I was going to respond in kind.

Perhaps I would have done except that Posh Harry hurriedly said, 'We'd appreciate it, Bernie, we really would.'

Streeply-Cox looked at me and sanctimoniously boomed, 'We've got to cooperate as much as possible. It's the only way; the only way.' He brushed crumbs from his flowing white sideburns.

'You took the words right out of my mouth, Sir Giles,' I said.

'Splendid, splendid,' he replied.

Dicky jumped to his feet and said, 'Methinks 'tis time we joined the ladies.'

When I entered the drawing room Daphne seemed to be demonstrating some dance step, but she stopped awkwardly as Dicky ushered the men in. Gloria was sitting next to Tessa and she looked up and winked as she met my eye. I went across to her as I knew I was expected to do. 'Oh, Bernard,' Gloria whispered. Tessa wants us to go on with them to a lovely party. Can we go? Do say we can.'

'When?'

'Now. After this.'

I looked at my watch. 'It will make a very late night by the time we get home.'

'But we're all dressed up aren't we? Do let's go.'

'If you'd like to,' I said.

'They're wonderful,' said Gloria. 'I love George and Tessa is so funny.'

'That depends upon where you're sitting,' I said. 'Do you know where this party is?'

'George says we should go in his Rolls. There's plenty of room.'

'And leave the car here?'

'I'll come back and get it.'

'And how would I get home? Walk?'

'Don't be so mean, Bernard. We can both come back and get it. Or we could get a cab home and come and get it in the morning.'

'The meters start at eight-thirty.'

'Can we go, Bernard, or can't we?'

I looked at her. 'I'd sooner go home right now with the most beautiful woman in the room.'

'Do let's go,' said Gloria, who obviously was not in the mood to be flattered into doing what I wanted.

'It sounds wonderful.'

'I do love you, Bernard.'

'You're a horrible wheedling female,' I said.

'A Bavarian prince and princess!'

Oh my God, I thought, what have I let myself in for? But on the other hand it would provide another chance to talk to Tessa about that damned fur coat.