Free The Berlin Assignment by Adrian de Hoog Page B

office, applied for a slot with the consulate when his term was up, disclosing in his letter of solicitation he wished to stay in Berlin because he planned to marry. The woman, Hanbury had read, was from Kreuzberg. He even recalled her first name. Frieda. Might Kreuzberg Frieda, the consul speculated, match the dimensions of her British Earl?
    â€œA family sit-down’s planned,” Gifford said. “Introduce you to the ladies then. Inspect your office first?” Hanbury nodded. “Splendid,” Gifford went on. “I had hoped we might have a chat first, you know,
entre nous
.”
    â€œBy all means.” Hanbury followed the administrator through more doors hung with security hardware. “Once in, no one gets out,” he joked.
    â€œFive combinations is all you need,” Gifford reassured him. “I’ve given them easy sequences. Your safe begins with your birth year, 43. The second number is 23, the last 33. Get it? Don’t overload grey matter unnecessarily. My motto.”
    Photos of Canadian landscapes decorated the consul’s office: a Georgian Bay shore in stirring autumn colours; a forlorn prairie elevator in an ocean of yellow wheat; Vancouver from the sky, the mountain backdrop lit up orange by a sun setting over the Pacific; a giant iceberg in Davis Strait with a lazy polar bear staring menacingly in the foreground. “My choice,” Gifford grinned, watching the consul studying the pictures. “Windows on home for you, I hope. Like them?”
    â€œLovely. Very nice. Thank you.” The office set-up – a small table andtwo chairs in a corner, a desk opposite – did remind Hanbury of home. He once obtained a student loan in Saskatoon and visited the manager of a campus bank. The furniture in that office had been the same.
    Gifford sat down at the round table, hands on top and clasped like someone praying. Hanbury saw he was a prolific sweater. His forehead was covered with countless droplets. “We got a fax from headquarters,” Gifford said, “which indicated you speak German. We were pleased to read that.” The consul replied his skills had become rusty, but he looked forward to polishing them. “Yes! Do!” said Gifford with enthusiasm. “Make them shine! Many things could use a polish here. We do hope you will enjoy yourself with us. It’s a fine consulate, small but fine.” He broke into German, repeating the phrase,
klein aber fein
, and laughed.
    Before Hanbury could give a suitable reply, the administrator began that most universal of excuses why things were not what they should be. The failings of the predecessor. He lamented that the previous consul hadn’t spoken the local language. That meant he had no profile and that made him languish. Gifford explained that the predecessor, being out of touch, had disappeared into a hole, like a burrowing mouse – from where he tried to run the office. He hadn’t made best use of his administrator, who should have been left alone to run the office. A consul’s time is used optimally when he’s out meeting people. A consul should be attending the glittering openings of cinematic world premières; he should be seen chatting to music critics at operatic intermissions; he should assume the place of honour next to the Governing Mayor at formal dinners. “It’s a high calling, that of consul,” Gifford said, hands still clasped, streams of sweat tracing lines down his face. “My role is to free you to engage in it full-time. May I call you Tony? Call me Earl. It’s an advantage we Anglos have. We are quicker at relaxing than the Germans.”
    Visions of dallying with art critics in marble foyers and conversingelegantly with the producers and directors of the performing arts wasn’t something Krauthilda had prepared Hanbury for. “Is there a lot of that?” he asked casually, masking doubt.
    â€œOf