The Colonel glared, fuming.
Or at least it shouldn't be. Damn that Whatley and his kind. Damn him to hell with his parchment maps and his toys and costumes and his incense and organ music, his monks-in-waiting tiptoeing in and out with candles. Yes Your Grace, No Your Grace, Up-my-arse-with-pleasure Your Grace. The truth is that man always wanted to live in the fourth century or whatever it is, and that's exactly what he's doing.
Reveling in the obedience and piety and obscurantism of the Dark Ages, righteous as he can be as he piously fasts in some filthy hole beneath the Monastery which he pretends was once St Anthony's cell, joyously having himself flagellated before he issues another righteous order of excommunication, murder in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.
Piety and power, muttered the Colonel. Self-righteous murder and that repulsive flagellation that goes with it. All power to the nursery, in our age. All power to the gruesome little boy who dizzily sniffs his forefinger and giggles over his playthings.
The Colonel's face grew even darker.
And the other side's unspeakably worse. At least we don't honor these practices officially and make them into institutions by handing out habits as regular issue, the way the Nazis hand out black uniforms and black jackboots and death's-head insignias. Even Whatley can't begin to compare to that Nazi crowd with their insatiable need for blackness. They just keep lusting backward into the past until they've become so many packs of animals loping around in the primeval gloom. Smell blood and you snap at it.
Massacre enough and the beast inside may be able to know peace for a moment or two, with the help of some Bach or Mozart of course. Slaughter enough and you have the illusion of immortality because everybody around you is dying.
A civilized people, the Germans. Some of the finest music in the history of the species served up to soothe the beast in Western culture, a beast the Germans just happen to know a great deal about.
Damn Germans, damn Whatley, damn. Nothing's as simple as it used to be, or maybe it's just the opposite. Maybe everything's as simple as it used to be, sadly for us. . . . But the damn problem is, Whatley's a good staff officer when he's not playing his games, which is why Bletchley probably couldn't get rid of him even if he wanted to. Whatley's very diligent and thorough and hardworking, not unlike the Germans. . . .
The Colonel paused.
I wonder why those traits always have to bring the Germans to mind today? Thorough . . . diligent . . .
those traits seem to have become dangerous somehow in our century. As if there's no room anymore for the wobbly human factor. Automatons seem to be what society wants today. By the numbers, one two three. . . . Whatley will even tell you he's not a very aggressive man by nature. Just competitive. . . .
The Colonel paused again
It's true he used to be a good sportsman before he lost his right arm. . . .
A sudden change came over the Colonel. His chest sank and he groaned, looking more naked than ever in his mended undershirt and his faded yachting cap. He reached down to move his false leg and a look of resignation settled over his face.
Damn, he muttered, that's it for me. I've had my early morning fling at being defiant and ready for anything. From now on I take what comes and deal with it in whatever plodding way I can. Breakfast is over.
The Colonel looked at his watch.
Time to get cleaned up. I'll call Bletchley as soon as I get to the office. I can't imagine there'd be any difficulty about a meeting with Joe. Bletchley was a great fan of Colly's after all, and it must have been Bletchley who came across Joe's name in Stern's file in the first place and decided to get him over here from America. Nor can it be a coincidence that he assigned Colly's old cover to Joe, resurrecting this notion of a Purple Seven Armenian. Bletchley had to know what he was doing, and I can't imagine he'd want to give Joe serious trouble now. Maybe he has to straighten some things out with him, but surely it can't have anything to do with the way Whatley's been going about matters.
The Colonel rummaged around cleaning out his pipe.
Oh by the way, Harry. I assume you had your bad ear turned this way when I was going on about Whatley a moment ago. Fellow officer and so forth.
Didn't hear a word, Colonel.
Yes. Well then....
The Major was ready to leave but he hesitated. He had the impression the Colonel wasn't quite finished.
Was there anything else, sir?
The Colonel fumbled with his pipe.
No not really. I was just . . .
The Colonel glanced at the pipe in his hands and put it down on the table, an emphatic motion. There was an odd mixture of regret and wistfulness in his face, something the Major wasn't used to. In his shapeless underwear and his old yachting cap, the Colonel suddenly looked forlorn.
Silence, the Colonel muttered. . . . Why does there have to be so much silence in our lives?
He looked up at the Major.
Did I ever tell you I just missed being given command of the Monastery? It was the plum of course, but .
. .
The Major shook his head and waited. Something about the Stern case, he realized, had released a profound surge of emotion in the Colonel.
But I didn't get it, muttered the Colonel. It happened a few years ago. I had the background for it, that wasn't in doubt, and I even had this new false leg as an added qualification. . . .
The Colonel attempted a smile, a sad expression.
But I didn't get it in the end. I wasn't considered determined enough, whatever that's supposed to mean.
A polite way of saying ruthless, I suppose. So they decided to go with Bletchley even though this wasn't the area he knew, and they gave him Whatley as a deputy because Whatley's so thorough, and I was given the Waterboys instead. More your line, they said. Pretty much the traditional kind of operations and a much larger staff and all the ancillary services, which you can handle. . . . Not that Bletchley didn't deserve the job, he did. He's good and no one would deny he's conscientious, and they might have been right about me when it comes to the sort of work the Monastery does. But still. . . .
The Colonel's voice trailed off. He gazed down at the table and shook his head.
Anyway, Bletchley got the Monastery and he saw a lot more of Stern after that than I did. And he also saw a good deal more of Colly, whom he seemed to take a particular liking to, and so . . .
The Colonel's hand slowly went out to the chunk of cheese on the table. He picked up a small piece, toying with it, the crumbs spilling through his fingers.
Enigma, he thought all at once, the idea coming to him from nowhere. That's what's behind all of this.
Somehow Stern found out about Enigma. . . . Of course, that was his Polish story. And Bletchley found out Stern knew and he dug Joe's name out of Stern's files, Colly's brother, of course, and he got Joe over here and gave him Colly's old identity and . . . But how did Bletchley find out about Stern? There's no one here who . . .
Unless Stern had told someone, thought the Colonel . . . and that someone had spoken to Bletchley.
The Colonel stared at the table. If that was what had happened and Joe knew the truth, there was simply no way Bletchley could let him go now. Joe could never leave Cairo, it was out of the question. Bletchley had no choice in the matter. He would agree to a meeting and then he would have to . . . Well maybe they were right to have given him the job, thought the Colonel. Maybe he is better fitted for it than I am, more determined or whatever. After all, Colly's brother. . . .