The Special Services was the only club in the world to which both Sir Denis Lambsmith and Emil Grossbarger were likely to belong. The club’s NATO referent meant that both sides of World War II were unusually well represented among the members present at any one time in the small but neat orange-brick building on Herbert Crescent. The conversations that took place over sole and hock in this dining room, between former enemies, would have raised eyebrows among those who still believe the history of the world is the struggle between good and evil.
Grossbarger had brought a guest with him, a shrunken old man with whom he had been speaking in German before Sir Denis arrived, apologizing for being late. The walk had taken a bit longer than he’d expected.
“Sink nossing of it,” Grossbarger ordered him. “All my valks take longer zan expected. Ziss is Reinhard Neudorf, Sir Denis Lambsmitt.”
Shaking hands, seating himself at the table, unconsciously patting the snowy linen, Sir Denis said, “Neudorf? The name seems familiar.”
“I was naughty during the war,” the old man said, with an unrepentant sly smile. His English was much better than Grossbarger’s, and he used it in an insinuating way, as though he could be much more unholy in this tongue than in his native German.
“Nuremberg,” Sir Denis suggested, the memory very hazy.
“They sentenced me to eight years in prison.”
“He served sree,” Grossbarger said, his mobile mouth laughing. “Zey needed him, so zey released him.”
“I am an engineer,” Neudorf said. “I build very good dams, with or without bodies.”
“An excellent engineer,” Grossbarger insisted, and leaned forward in mock confidentiality to add, “Ve vere just discussing ze Fourth Reich.”
“Very soon,” Neudorf explained, deadpan, “National Socialism will accomplish its long-awaited return.”
“Heil whoever,” agreed Grossbarger, “und march. Ze swastika on ze rise!”
“However,” Neudorf said with a faint shrug, “the time never seems quite perfect.”
“Ve have very many brilliant soldiers, all around ze world, merely awaiting ze call.” Grossbarger’s eyes flashed; his mouth gobbled at the comedy.
“Unfortunately, at any given moment,” Neudorf said, “most of them are in hospital.”
“And ze rest,” Grossbarger added in satisfaction, fondly patting the walker that stood beside his chair like a misplaced bit of tubular balcony railing, “are like me.”
“But we haven’t abandoned hope,” Neudorf explained. “For what could be more terrifying and undefeatable than a dedicated band of crippled old men with a dream?”
Grossbarger laughed so loudly and enthusiastically he nearly toppled off his chair, and had to clutch at the walker for support. Neudorf watched him, smiling faintly, then shook his head and said to Sir Denis, “Please excuse me for one moment.”
“Certainly.”
Sir Denis watched Neudorf move away from the table. Apparently he had recently lost a great deal of weight. His clothing hung tentlike on him, and the two main tendons in the back of his neck stood out like iron rods holding up his head.
Grossbarger had finished laughing, and now he leaned forward again, much more seriously, to say, “I hope you vere not offended.”
“Not at all,” Sir Denis said, though he wasn’t sure whether the joke had been offensive or not.
“He is dying,” Grossbarger explained, waving a big gnarled hand after Neudorf. “He likes zese jokes, so I indulge him. And I let it continue in front of you because you are a man of ze world.”
An intended compliment, then. Responding to it indirectly, Sir Denis said, “Years ago, in the United States, I was told a bit of American slang. ‘The elevens are up.’ In fact, the American Navy officer who told it to me was referring to President Roosevelt at the time.”
“Ze eleffens are up?”
“The tendons at the back of the neck,” Sir Denis explained. “When they stand out like that, the man is dying.”
Grossbarger looked thoughtful, his mouth chewing the information. “A more cold-blooded phrase zan I would have antizipated from zat nation,” he decided, then shrugged it away. “However, ze characteristic of Reinhard’s illness is such zat he vill frequently be leaving us to enter ze toilet. Ve can discuss business matters during zose intervals.” Turning to the hovering waiter, he said, “I hope you vill not be offended if I do not choose one of your no doubt excellent English vines. But I vould prefer a Moselle, ze Bernkasteler Doktor. You know ze one I mean.”
The waiter acknowledged that he did. He distributed the Xeroxed sheets of today’s menu and left. Grossbarger shook his head at Sir Denis, saying, “One of ze few dry Moselles left. Zey add too much sugar now. For ze American taste, I am afraid. Ze export market.” Fatalistically, he shrugged.
“I find myself more and more moving to the Italians,” Sir Denis agreed. “Though we have some surprisingly good wines in South America, mostly from Argentina.”
With another burst of laughter, Grossbarger slapped the table and cried, “Grown by our co-conspirators, of course! I must tell Neudorf!”
“He’s returning.”
Grossbarger tapped the side of his nose. “Business later.”
The next time Neudorf left was between the quiche and the sole. Sir Denis immediately described his experiences in Kampala, and Grossbarger listened intently, asking one or two quick questions. He seemed untroubled by the increased down payment. At the finish he said, “Ze nub of ze ting is Amin himself, of course. I vould like to understand him better.”
Sir Denis astonished himself by answering, “He said the most extraordinary thing to me.” Until this moment, he had believed he would never tell that to anyone, but somehow the anecdote belonged to Emil Grossbarger and Sir Denis found himself obediently delivering it, like a dog bringing his master the morning paper.
Grossbarger at once understood that this was the gravy. Eyes quickening, mouth moving, he said, “Oh, yes. Vat did he say?”
“I had allowed my irritation to show. Because of the sudden change in the terms. And he said, through his translator, ‘My cock is bigger than yours.’”
Grossbarger roared with laughter, punching his chair arms with his big fists, ignoring the diners who glanced reprovingly from other tables. “Oh, my goodness!” he cried. “Oh, how awful zat must have been for you!”
“It was, rather.”
“I sink I love ziss fellow,” Grossbarger said, nodding, his mind working inside the joke.
“Whom do you love?” Neudorf asked, returning, lowering himself with obvious pain into his chair.
“Idi Amin,” Grossbarger told him.
“Ah, yes, the madman of Kampala.” Neudorf turned his sly gaze to Sir Denis, saying, “We’re thinking of declaring him an Aryan. There are one or two problems, of course.”
The sole arrived then, and Sir Denis was amused at how naturally the waiter rested his tray on Grossbarger’s walker. Discussion slowed while the food was eaten, but midway through, Neudorf had to leave again and Grossbarger said, “You met a man named Baron Chase?”