Spy Story

‘Colonel, I think they are sitting outside Norfolk. For all I know they are up the Thames as far as Stratford, and sending liberty crews ashore to see Ann Hathaway’s cottage. But so far, both sides have kept stumm about these operations. You base NATO exercises on a real Russian Fleet alert, and Russian Northern Fleet are going to get roasted. And the price they’ll have to pay for returning life to normal will be nailing one of our pig-boats.’

‘And you like it cosy?’

‘We’re getting the material, Colonel. We don’t have to rub their noses in it.’

‘No point in getting into a hassle about something like this, son. The decision will be made far above this level of command.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You think I’ve come into the Centre to build an empire? …’ He waved a hand. ‘Oh, sure. Don’t deny it, I can read you like a book. That’s what riles Foxwell too. But you couldn’t be more wrong. This wasn’t an assignment I wanted, feller.’ The athletic Marine Colonel sagged enough to show me the tired old puppeteer who was working the strings and the smiles. ‘But now I’m here I’m going to hack it, and you’d just better believe.’

‘Well, at least we both hate lords.’

He leaned forward and slapped my arm. ‘There you go, kid!’ He smiled. It was the hard, strained sort of grimace that a man might assume when squinting into the glare of an icy landscape. Liking him might prove difficult, but at least he was no charmer.

He swivelled in his chair and clattered the ice cubes in the jug, using a plastic swizzle stick with a bunny design on the end. ‘How did you get into the Studies, anyway?’ he asked me, while giving all his attention to pouring drinks.

‘I knew Foxwell,’ I said. ‘I saw him in a pub at a time when I was looking for a job.’

‘Now straighten up, son,’ said Schlegel. ‘No one looks for a job any more. You were taking a year off to do a thesis and considering a lot of rather good offers.’

‘Those offers would have to have been damn near the bread line to make Studies Centre the best of them.’

‘But you’ve got your Master’s and all those other qualifications: maths and economics; potent mixture!’

‘Not potent enough at the time.’

‘But Foxwell fixed it?’

‘He knows a lot of people.’

‘That’s what I hear.’ He gave me another fixed stare. Foxwell and Schlegel! That was going to be an inevitable clash of wills. No prizes for who was going to buckle at the knees. And what with all this lord-hating stuff … Ferdy wasn’t a lord, but he’d no doubt do for Schlegel’s all-time hate parade until a real lord came by in a golden coach. ‘And Ferdy fixed it?’

‘He told Planning that I’d had enough computer experience to keep my hand from getting jammed in the input. And then he told me enough to make it sound good.’

‘A regular Mr Fixit.’ There was no admiration in his voice.

‘I’ve earned my keep,’ I said.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Schlegel. He gave me the big Grade A – approved by the Department of Health – smile. It wasn’t reassuring.

From the next room there came the shouts of children above the noise of the TV. There was a patter of tiny feet as someone screamed through the house, slammed the kitchen door twice and then started throwing the dustbin lids at the compost heap. Schlegel rubbed his face. ‘When you and Ferdy do those historical studies, who operates the computer?’

‘We don’t have the historical studies out on the War Table, with a dozen plotters, and talk-on, and all the visual display units lit up.’

‘No?’

‘A lot of it is simple sums that we can do more quickly on the machine than by hand.’

‘You use the computer as an adding machine?’

‘No, that’s overstating it. I write a low-level symbolic programme carefully. Then we run it with variations of data, and analyse the output in Ferdy’s office. There’s not much computer time.’

‘You write the programme?’

I nodded, and sank some of my drink.

Schlegel said, ‘How many people in the Studies Group can write a programme and all the rest?’

‘By all the rest, you mean, get what you want out of storage into the arithmetic, process it and bring it out of the output?’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘Not many. The policy has always been …’

‘Oh, I know what the policy has been, and my being here is the result of it.’ He stood up. ‘Would it surprise you to hear that I can’t work the damn thing?’

‘It would surprise me to hear that you can. Directors are not usually chosen because they can work the computer.’

‘That’s what I mean. OK, well I need someone who knows what goes on in the Group and who can operate the hardware. What would you say if I asked you to be a PA for me?’

‘Less work, more money?’

‘Don’t give me that stuff. Not when you go in to do Ferdy’s historical stuff for free nearly every Saturday. More money maybe, but not much.’

Mrs Schlegel tapped on the door and was admitted. She’d changed into a shirt-waist dress and English shoes and a necklace. Her dark hair was tied back in a tail. Schlegel gave a soft low whistle. ‘Now there’s a tribute, feller. And don’t bet a million dollars that my daughters are not also in skirts and fancy clothes.’

‘They are,’ said Helen Schlegel. She smiled. She was carrying a tray loaded with bacon, lettuce and tomato toasted sandwiches, and coffee in a large silver vacuum jug. ‘I’m sorry it’s only sandwiches,’ she said again.

‘Don’t believe her,’ said Schlegel. ‘Without you here we would have got only peanut butter and stale crackers.’

‘Chas!’ She turned to me. ‘Those have a lot of English mustard. Chas likes them like that.’

I nodded. It came as no surprise.

‘He’s going to be my new PA,’ said Schlegel.

‘He must be out of his mind,’ said Mrs Schlegel. ‘Cream?’

‘There’s a lot more money in it,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Yes, please. Yes, two sugars.’

‘I’d want the keys to the mint,’ said Mrs Schlegel.

‘And she thinks I’ve got them,’ explained Schlegel. He bit into a sandwich. ‘Hey, that’s good, Helen. Is this bacon from the guy in the village?’

‘I’m too embarrassed to go there any more.’ She left. It was clearly not a subject she wanted to pursue.

‘He needed telling,’ said Schlegel. He turned to me. ‘Yes, clear up what you are doing in the Blue Suite Staff Room …’ He picked a piece of bacon out of his teeth and threw it into an ashtray. ‘I’ll bet she did get it from that bastard in the village,’ he said. ‘And meanwhile we’ll put a coat of paint on that office where the tapes used to be stored. Choose some furniture. Your secretary can stay where she is for the time being. OK?’