He had been the Storyteller, of course; it was a nickname given to him in 1946. When he followed the invading armies as they crossed first France, then the Rhine and into Germany, his job had not been to fight, but to interrogate captured Germans left behind as their armies retreated without them. Then he spent a year and a half living in the ruins of Berlin, surrounded by a depressed and frightened population. He was nominally a liaison officer, a messenger boy talking to the French in French, the Germans in German. He knew many of his opposite numbers well, and there he became known as the Storyteller. It might have been because, one night, at an impromptu dinner in one of the few buildings not ruined, the group of half a dozen had begun to tell each other stories. It had been his idea; he had mentioned the Canterbury Tales, how Chaucer’s pilgrims entertained each other on their long road with anecdotes, and how Boccaccio’s characters whiled away the time when hiding from the plague. They should do the same, he suggested. Tell us your stories. Truth or fiction; each man could choose.
He was the impresario of these strange evenings, the comradeship of people who knew that they would soon be enemies. After the Russian had talked of how he had learned German, and the Frenchman of life in a prison camp, and the American of his parents’ route to the US from Europe, and his travels all the way back again, then Lytten told his tale, about kings and battles, the fantastical tales of Britain and the myths of the Mediterranean, putting in enough of each so that at various times each man nodded into his drink in melancholy recognition, for they were all quite drunk by the time he started, and even drunker by the time he finished.
If that was not the reason someone might remember him as the Storyteller, then other reasons, less admirable, might be responsible. For the silent war of East and West was already beginning and Lytten was there to sow uncertainty and distrust. He had done a good job, until he gave up in disgust at his task and at himself.
Now he was being summoned back to that world. He would meet this man in Paradise. Besides, he had little enough to do at the moment and he was curious as to how it would turn out. Then he could wash his hands of it all.
He would ask Rosie to look in to see if Professor Jenkins had returned — if he ever did the animal was bound to be ill-humoured, demanding and hungry. Then he would take the morning train to London, consult with the powers that be, and get this tiresome business under way.
Whenever Lytten went to London he avoided the nine-thirty train, as it was generally full of people he knew and he could sometimes not avoid being dragged into a conversation with someone whose name he could not remember. Most observed the unwritten rules; you would nod, smile, exchange a few words, then ignore each other totally for the rest of the journey. Occasionally, though, there would be someone who did not understand that morning train journeys were for the purposes of contemplation, not idle chatter. Just in case, Lytten always took the ten o’clock. Now he had to go twice in two days, and he was annoyed at the waste of time.
The first day he went to see Portmore, an occasion which always made him feel slightly like an eager schoolboy hoping for praise. The old man wanted to know every last detail, and Lytten thought it best to clear the little operation with him. So he discreetly went and listened carefully as Portmore, ever more garrulous as he aged, ranged over missions great and small, recent and ancient, and in the end told him to go ahead.
‘Then I will leave for Paris tomorrow,’ Lytten said.
‘What is the meaning of this mysterious message?’
‘I believe it is from a man I once knew.’
‘What does he want, do you think?’
‘I’ve no idea. A chat about old times? A job offer?’
Portmore smiled thinly. ‘Why would the Soviets want any more employees here? They’ve got enough already. How are your enquiries?’
‘I have been through the records of seven of the eight people you think are most likely to be traitors. All can be cleared.’
‘That leaves Sam, does it? You left him to last?’
Lytten hesitated, then nodded. ‘If there really is a traitor, as you seem to think. Are you sure you are correct?’
‘Every time we get a defector, he is arrested and shot first. Every time we run an operation, our people are picked up or watched. Our contacts in Hungary are in prison. The Americans won’t tell us anything any more. I am sure, as you must be.’
Portmore leaned back in his chair and stretched. ‘I am constantly being told it is time to retire, hand over to someone else. They are right. But I do not wish to leave the Service in this state. I’ve spent my entire life working for it, and I will not risk handing it over to a traitor. There is one, Henry, and I need you to keep looking until he is found. If we are not trusted, then we cannot work.’
‘What if I do not succeed?’
‘Then I will have to bypass all the most obvious candidates, just in case. Go for someone else. I have someone in mind who would suit. He’s not ideal, but I cannot take the risk.’
Lytten nodded. It was a distasteful business, and he hated every moment of it. But who else could do it? Only he knew enough, and only he was above suspicion because he had left so many years back.
‘Very well.’
‘Keep me informed, if you will. I shall sit here and wait. You go off to Paris and have a good time. I hardly need to remind you how important this might be.’
Lytten thought about that meeting a great deal, as he lumbered back on the train, ate breakfast the next morning, and locked the house to go off yet again. So much so he didn’t even notice the man standing on the pavement watching him as he heaved his bike round and began to push it towards the street.
Lytten stopped, uncertainly, as he saw the curious fellow standing there, staring at him, in the middle of the driveway. He looked frightened to death.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
No reply. Just a slightly crazy stare, which faded suddenly as the eyes focused on him.
‘No!’ he almost shouted. ‘Of course not! Why should you?’
‘Well then... would you mind getting out of my way?’
‘Oh, sorry! So sorry.’ He jumped sideways, looking red in the face and flustered. Then he opened and shut his mouth several times and eventually blurted out: ‘Are you Henry Lytten?’
‘Yes,’ Lytten said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ha!’ he exclaimed, turned on his heel and ran up the road, as fast as his legs could carry him.
Lytten dismissed the incident from his mind. Oxford was, after all, full of strange folk whose grasp of the social niceties was often tenuous. The man had been no more awkward, rude or deranged than many of his colleagues who would twitch in embarrassment when meeting someone. Persimmon, for example.
On the boat train to Paris, because he knew it would put him to sleep, Lytten read the man’s latest instalment. What better way of casting off dull care? Just about anything, in fact, but he had promised. Chapter 12 of Persimmon’s lengthy diatribe extolling the virtues of Modern Scientific Management. Or rather, his work of science fiction, which seemed, in fact, to have little science and no fiction in it. Rather Persimmon, whose enthusiasm for Central Planning made him such a danger at the dinner table, and whose swivel-eyed intensity made him such an uncomfortable part of the Saturday conversations in the pub, was writing a story of such indescribable tedium that anyone who read it would feel like killing themselves. If he was correct that the future of humanity lay in carefully organised scientific efficiency, then killing yourself now would probably be a good idea.