"Have no fear." George was going to offer Tired Tim as few decisions as possible.
"And perhaps," Jeremy put on his glasses again, "those ofus too old to relish change might direct our prayers northwards."
"You mean that if the Headmaster goes I'd be hove out on me ear before his taxi had turned the corner?" It was a thought that hadn't really occurred to George before. His father owned a large piece of Gloucestershire, and the Whitehall whisper was that once Harbinger senior was six foot under and somebody had been contracted to haul away the empty brandy bottles, George's wife Annette would have him out of London and into a country squire's gumboots before he could catch his breath. It could be any day now, the whisper added, and there was enough truth in it for George not to have thought of leaving Number 10except of his own choice (or Annette's, of course).
Jeremy bent to his paperwork, murmuring: "As ever, George, you go straight to the heart of things."
"I'm not sure I'd want to stay." George wandered away through the almost-always-open door to the room he shared with three other private secretaries and the duty clerk. It was tall and elegant, with big windows looking out over the garden, and their desks seemed something of a crude anachronism; George looked at it all with sudden appreciation- and regret, because it could end so soon.
Only the clerk and the young man who kept the PM's engagements book were in, the latter busily telephoning round to cancel or reschedule the appointments; he gave George a despairing grin, and the clerk brought across a bunch of messages, including one from Major Maxim.
"The Major called down before you came in. He said it wasonly fatrly urgent."
"And merely slightly sensitive," George read. "A very proper sense of values, has our Harry. Well, I'll go up slightly soon and fairly quickly. What else is new?" Suddenly in top gear, he charged into the paperwork, returning the more important phone calls at the same time as he scribbled comments on letters and redirected files to other desks in the house. After an hour, the high tide of Monday morning trouble had been pushed back to the normal waterlme and he called Maxim to say he was on his way up.
By the time he had climbed the two flights of stairs to Maxim's room, George was breathing hard but only through his nose, which didn't count. In his middle forties – oldish for a PM's private secretary – he looked somewhat like a prince who had only just begun to turn into a frog when the wicked witch lost the recipe. He had a squat face with prominent eyes and a wide mouth, not much hair, a chubby body and thin limbs. But the clothes were still princely, if princes still spent their days at small yet exclusive country race-meetings: a beautifully cut lightweight grey check suit, hand-made brown brogues, a Cavalry Club tie. George usually dressed like that, not particularly because he wanted to, but because that was how his wife told his tailor to dress him. George's only stipulations were that he shouldn't look like a banker (his brother-in-law banked) or a civil servant (which he was). It didn't really belong in Number 10, but many people thought that George didn't either, which was one of his strengths.
He pushed open the door to what had once been a small boxroom, said: "And the top of the morning, or at least this bloody house, to you, " and slumped into a chair. He made the room look crowded.
Maxim swung carefully round on a creaking desk chair. He was already in shirt-sleeves, although the single window faced north. "Morning, George. You look quite fit, for a Monday."
"I swear to you my father-in-law waters his whisky. Next time I'm going to take a hydrometer and expose the old-Good God, have we got you cutting out paper dolls already?"
Maxim had been clipping stories on defence from newspapers and magazines. He flashed his quick, protective smile and pushed the papers aside. "Can I do you a cup of tea? Instant soup? Nothing? How is the Prime Minister?"
"Everybody I meet today is going to ask me that. And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow… We just don'tknow yet. We hope -" he looked quickly at Maxim and then remembered that this was one man at Number 10who didn't gossip; who didn't, as far as*he knew, have anybody to gossip to " – we just hope it's nothing worse than bronchitis, though when you're well past sixty… Anyway, what's this'fairly urgent and slightly sensitive' weekend you've been spending?"
"A sergeant I had in the SAS," Maxim began carefully. "He got a disability discharge. He gave me a call. He's got a chap, a corporal, who's gone AWOL from Rhine Army. I met thischap -"
"A deserter?" George wriggled himself upright. "You met a deserter and didn't report him?"
"I'm reporting him to you. "
"Go on, Harry," George said thinly. "And try and make it good." He slid down in his chair again and started listening seriously.
He was a good listener. When Maxim had finished, George just murmured: "Harry, whathave you got yourself into?" but without anger or even expecting an answer. Then he just sat, shuffling the story in his mind like an incomplete pack of cards.
The internal phone rang; Maxim answered and handed it to George, who listened for a moment and said: "Can't you try Jeremy or Michael? I'll be down in a minute." He gave the phone back. "You'll never know, I trust, what it is to be both beautiful and indispensable. What have you done about this so far?"
"Nothing."
"That's always a good start. "
"I thought you might approve. Anything I could think of would just show I knew something that I shouldn't: call his battalion in Soltau, ask about a murder at Bad Schwarzendorn, snoop around his regimental depot, check with the Military Police that they're really looking for him… Even look up his records."
George nodded. "The amount youhaven't done in a mere thirty-six hours must stir green depths of envy even in Whitehall. Nonetheless, I'm not sure you mightn't have managed a little less. When you agreed to meet comrade Blagg you didn't know anything about the business in Bad Schwarzendorn or the involvement of Six – if that's true. You only knew he was AWOL but must be a good chap really because he'donce been with your Hereford Hell's Angels. You could have asked me first."
"You'd have said No."
George made a throaty rumbling noise. "Well, spilt milk… For the moment we'll assume it's all true; the worst usually is -"
"I can check with the German papers…"
"You've got the time?"
Maxim smiled sardonically and gestured at the meaningless clutter on his desk. For the past three weeks he had been doing little but attend lectures and short conferences – dogsbody jobs, he suspected, invented by George to keep him looking busy.
"Yes, " George said, "our lords and mastersdo seem to have been behaving themselves of late; there must besome scandal lurking just around the corner… Right, you read German, don't you? Their embassy keeps Die Welt and Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitungand the Suddeutsche-no, they wouldn't bother with it."
The extraordinary details George kept in his head. One phone call Maxim had allowed himself that morning had been to establish which, if any, newspapers the Germany embassy did file.
"Of course, " George went on, "if they've had ten days and not found any link with a British soldier – and we'd certainly know if they had – then it may never happen. Just blow over."
"Blagg would still be a deserter," Maxim pointed out.
"He'd given himself a rather limited choice of futures. I imagine he wouldn't rather be a murderer."
"I got the idea," Maxim persisted gently, "that he feels much worse about the desertion than the shooting. "