The Berlin Assignment (64 page)

“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?”