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that s what the papers say, still you can t believe everything you read in the
papers can you?
 Who takes the box? I asked.
 Anyone cleared to carry  Top Secret , said Peg.
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 I see, I said.
 And his dog, said Peggy.  The driver takes the box and the dog. The dog
walks in Green Park.
The Cavalry Club is not one of those  gentleman s Clubs which have been
infiltrated by advertising men and actors. The only time outsiders gained
access to these sacred portals was in January 1976 when members of the newly
closed Guards Club were allowed in. The quiet dignity of this old house at
the Hyde Park corner end of Piccadilly fits well with its elite and clannish
membership. Reminded of their reputation for consuming more French champagne
than any comparable establishment, these clubbable cavalrymen are likely to
account for it by the popularity their premises enjoy as a venue for
regimental events and the private cocktail parties that are so often to be
heard even in the quiet of the library.
Sir Henry Clevernore was in the otherwise unoccupied writing room when I took
his document box to him. He always chose this room, which was on the ground
floor. It is different to all the other rooms in the Club, for it can be
entered from the street without passing through the main entrance and
answering questions from the men behind the desk. Here were stored cocktail
party chairs and a billiard table that the committee didn t want to throw
away. The room smelled of ancient leather and scented polish and Sir Henry was
alone there. There were no cocktail parties to be heard, only the sound of
buses crawling along the rain swept street outside. Sir Henry was sitting
before a writing desk at the window, with a frantic wide-nostrilled charger of
the Light Brigade thundering through the oil paint above him. Beneath the
vivid painting - framed and reverently positioned - there were pressed flowers
collected from the  Valley of Death and a lock of hair from Wellington s
favourite charger.
 Oh, it s you, said Sir Henry vaguely, his arms extended to take the
document box.
 Yes, Sir Henry, I said as I handed it to him.  I was hoping that you d
grant me a few minutes of your time. He frowned as I put the box on the table
in front of him. It was not done of course. Decent chaps didn t bamboozle
their way into a fellow s club and then corner them for a chat. But he managed
a brief and mandatory smile before reaching into his pocket and bringing out a
key on a long silver chain.  Of course, of course. Splendid! My pleasure
entirely. He was still hoping that he d misheard, that I would say goodbye,
and go away and leave him to his paper-work.  Samson, sir. German Desk.
He raised his eyes to me and rubbed his face like a man coming out of a deep
sleep. Eventually he said,  Ummmm. Brian Samson. Of course. He was a strange
old fellow, a gangling, uncoordinated emaciated teddy bear, the bruin-like
effect heightened by the ginger-coloured rough tweed jacket he was wearing,
and his long hair. His face was more wrinkled than I remembered and his
complexion had darkened with that mauvish colour that sickness sometimes
brings.
 Brian Samson was my father, sir. My name is Bernard Samson. The D-G put on
his spectacles and for a moment he stared at me quizzically. This action
disarranged his hair so that demoniacal tufts appeared above each ear. The
lenses glinted in the light from the window. The frames were incongruously
small for his long droopy face and did not fit properly upon his nose.
 Bernard Samson. Yes, yes. Of course it is. He unlocked the box and opened
it to get a glimpse of the papers. He was excited now, like a child with a box
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of new toys. Without looking up and without much conviction - he said,  If we
can find that waiter we ll get you a cup of coffee ... or a drink.  Nothing
for me, thank you, Sir Henry. I must get back to the office. I m going to
Berlin this afternoon. I reached out for the lid of the box and firmly and
gently closed it. He looked up at me in amazement. Such insubordination was
like a physical assault, but I enjoyed the shining armour of the
self-righteous innocent. He did not voice his anger. He was a luminary of the
expensive end of the British education system which specializes in genial,
courteous philistines. So, concealing his impatience, he invited me to sit
down and take as long as I wished to tell him whatever I had to say.
There were plenty of stories that said the old man was non compos mentis, but
any concern I had about explaining my worries to a potty boss were soon gone.
I decided to leave out my visit to Dodo in Hampton Wick and my strange
encounter with Jim Prettyman. If the Department said Jim was dead, then dead
he would remain. As soon as I began Sir Henry was bright-eyed and alert. As I
told him what I had discovered about the funds passed over to Bret
Rensselaer s company, and what I could guess about the way in which the money
had been moved from place to place before going to the Berlin bank, he
interrupted me with pertinent comments.
At times he was well ahead of me, and more than once I was unable to
understand fully the import of his questions. But he s old-timer and too much
of a pro to reveal the extent of his knowledge or the degree of his fears.
This didn t surprise me. On the contrary I fully expected any Director-General
stolidly to deny suggestions of treason or malfeasance, or even a possibility [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]