She patted Julian Christopher’s left arm.
He winced, instinctively drew away.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I got a bit knocked about when a castle fell on me last week. Perhaps, when things have settled down a little I might tell you all about it over dinner?”
Margo Seiffert pursed her lips.
“I know you don’t place much faith in these things but I shall pray for Peter and his crewmates.”
“Yes, if would please. That would be good.”
Chapter 5
Captain Walter Brenckmann, USN (Retired), didn’t object to being ostracised by practically every member of staff of the now defunct United States Embassy to the Court of Balmoral. He hadn’t made many friends in his time in England. Leastways, not with his countrymen and women at the Embassy, or with any of the people attached to the various trade and cultural legations, the very existence of which in their hosts’ eyes added insult to injury. There was no public lounge at Brize Norton, just a couple of big hangars where departures and arrivals were processed. It wasn’t cold but it was damp and the amenities were basic. Career diplomats didn’t like having to queue for the wash rooms or for the vile stew the Brits called ‘coffee’ dispensed along with curling sandwiches and soggy digestive biscuits by the female auxiliaries of the RAF Catering Corps. There were bags and sacks strewn randomly on the concrete floor of the hangar, personal possession hurriedly and hopelessly mixed up with heaps of confidential papers that there had been no time to burn, all haphazardly bagged by the armful. The Brits had confiscated all the firearms at the Embassy and respectfully, but very insistently requested that everybody surrendered their ‘personal firearms’ before being processed into the departures hangar.
Nobody knew when the first flight would be leaving.
‘That’s for your people in Washington to arrange,’ the Ambassador, or rather, the former Ambassador, Loudon Baines Westheimer II had been politely informed when he’d tried to make a scene.
The British had provided an RAF Group Captain with a magnificent handlebar moustache to act as the Embassy Party’s Departure Liaison Officer. Group Captain Harold — ‘Oh, by all means call me Harry’ — Verity, a marvellously amiable and friendly man of advanced middle years with a chest full of weathered and somewhat faded medal ribbons below an equally aged pilot’s wings on his left breast. He’d been so unflappably cordial and sympathetic, and so apologetically unmovable in his dealings with Loudon Baines Westheimer II, that the Texan oil man who’d been posted to England to pay off a political debt, had very nearly reacted in the way that most very rich Texan oil men tend to react when they can’t get their own way. At one point Walter Brenckmann had thought he was going to hit the British officer. However, he hadn’t, so that at least was one diplomatic faux pas — possible the only one — former Ambassador Westheimer hadn’t committed in his short time in England. Walter Brenckmann would have despaired of his countryman but for the fact none of them would have noticed.
Perhaps, alone among his former colleagues he wasn’t remotely surprised that, after the events of the last thirteen months, he and his fellow Americans found themselves cooling their heels in a dank hangar in the English countryside. The only thing that really surprised him was that the Brits hadn’t actually shot anybody at the Embassy; he’d almost certainly have started shooting by now if he’d been in their shoes.
‘The bastards are supposed to give reasonable notice of the withdrawal of diplomatic accreditation!’ The Ambassador had complained to anybody who was prepared to listen. Unfortunately, nobody outside his immediate staff was prepared to listen.
“Sorry about the coffee, old man,” Group Captain Harry Verity sniffed, dumping his large frame into a chair beside the ex-US Naval Attaché. Walter Brenckmann had wired his resignation to the Navy Department along with a frank appreciation of the diplomatic and military situation from the British point of view. He’d included a warning that ‘if urgent steps are not taken the United States of America will find itself at war with the United Kingdom and (probably) with several of its Commonwealth allies. Even if the United Kingdom ‘goes it alone’ American influence, business and cultural interests and the freedom of US-registered merchant ships to navigate large parts of the world’s oceans will inevitably be curtailed. In the event of war the armed forces of the United States will eventually prevail but only at a terrible cost. The United Kingdom’s military is ready for war; our front line forces are not.’ He’d probably have faced a court martial if he hadn’t already resigned his commission.
Walter Brenckmann broke out of his thoughts and glanced at the Englishman.
“This is a bad business,” Group Captain Harry Verity declared.
“Your version of coffee? Or the latter-day bankruptcy of American foreign policy, sir?”
The RAF officer guffawed.
“I was at the Embassy in Washington at the time of the Suez debacle. Never felt more ashamed in my life,” Harry Verity confessed. “But Suez was just a blip on the old national escutcheon. The things that have happened since hardly bear thinking about. This is a bad business, a very bad business…”
Loudon Baines Westheimer II, presumably having seen Walter Brenckmann fraternising with the enemy was stomping across the hangar with a party of pale faced, disorientated acolytes in tow.
The Departure Liaison Officer and the former US Naval Attaché rose to their feet with a mutual groan.
“I demand to be furnished with a direct line to the State Department in DC!”
Walter Brenckmann thought that was a bit like asking your congressman for Santa Claus’s zip code; or asking Edgar Hoover to produce a rabbit from a Homburg in the middle of a Senate hearing.
“I’ll pass your ‘demand’ on to the appropriate authority, sir,” Harry Verity assured the former Ambassador.
Loudon Baines Westheimer II was a large — obese really — man who was accustomed to cowing subordinates into acquiescence by dint of his sheer physical presence.
“When?” He growled like a bear with a hangover.
“When what, sir?” The Englishman parried with a baffled smile. “When will I communicate your ‘demand’ to the appropriate authorities? When will those appropriate authorities investigate the practicalities of the matter? When will the appropriate authorities communicate their conclusions to me?”
“When can I fucking talk to the State Department in DC?”
“Oh, I see.” Harry Verity ruminated for some moments, turning the possibilities over with meticulous care. “Frankly, I haven’t a clue, sir,” he admitted eventually. “But as I say, I shall certainly pass your ‘demand’ on to the appropriate authorities. In due course. I’m led to believe that your State Department has been informed of your present situation, whereabouts and immigration status. In the circumstances I’m sure they’ll want to get you all back home as soon as possible.”
Loudon Baines Westheimer II had gone very red in the face; a vein throbbed at his left temple as he leaned threateningly towards the RAF officer. Observing the scene from only two paces away Walter Brenckmann wondered, briefly, if Harry Verity was deliberately goading the other man.
Ex-American Ambassador assaults senior RAF officer!