and can go across nine times a year to see friends and relatives,' said Frank, suddenly impelled for the sake of good manners to include Bret in the conversation. 'One of them came through yesterday evening – they are not permitted to stay overnight – and told us that everything looked normal. The work on the Wall and so on…'
Bret nodded. The hum of the air-conditioning seemed loud in the silence.
'It was a good spot to choose,' Frank added.
'There are no good spots,' interposed the BGS officer loudly. He looked like a ruffian, thought Frank, with his scarred face and beer belly. Perhaps riot policemen had to be like that. Meeting no response from either of the strange foreigners, the German officer drank what remained of his whisky, wiped his mouth, belched, nodded his leave-taking and went out.
The phone in the next room rang and they listened while the operator grunted, hung up and then called loudly, 'Dogs barking and some sort of movement over there now.'
Bret looked at Frank. Frank winked but otherwise didn't move.
The English guide swallowed the last of his whisky hurriedly and slid off the desk. 'I'd better be off too,' he said. 'I might be needed. I understand two of your freebooters might be going in to try to help.'
'Perhaps,' said Frank.
'It won't work,' said the Englishman. 'In effect it's an invasion of their soil.'
Frank stared at him and didn't reply. He didn't like people to refer to his men as freebooters, especially not strangers. The guide, forgetting his glass was empty, tried to drink more from it. Then he set it down on the desk where he'd been sitting and departed.
Left to themselves, Bret said, 'If young Samson pulls this one off I'm going to recommend him for the German Desk.' He was sitting well back in the chair, elbows on its rests, hands together like a tutor delivering a homily to an erring student.
'Yes, so you said.'
'Can he do it, Frank?' Although framed as a query, he said it as if he was testing Frank with an exam question, rather than asking help with a difficult decision.
'He's not stupid.'
'Just headstrong,' supplied Bret. 'Is that what you mean?'
'Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?' asked Frank, holding up the bottle of scotch which was on the floor near his chair. Bret had bought it in the duty-free shop at London airport but he hadn't touched a drop.
Bret shook his head. 'And the wife?' said Bret, adding in a voice that was half joking, half serious, 'Is Mrs Samson going to be the first female Director-General?'
'Too fixed in her viewpoint. All women are. She's not flexible enough to do what the old man does, is she?'
'A lead pipe is flexible,' said Bret.
'Resilient I mean.'
'Elastic,' said Bret, 'is the only word I can think of for the capacity to return to former shape and state.'
'Is that the primary requirement for a D-G?' asked Frank coldly. He'd trained with Sir Henry Clevemore back in wartime and been a personal friend ever since. He wasn't keen on discussing his possible successors with Bret.
'Primary requirement for a lot of things,' said Bret dismissively. He didn't want to talk but he added, 'Too many people in this business get permanently crippled.'
'Only field agents surely?'
'It's sometimes worse for the ones who send them out.'
'Is that what you're worried about in the case of Bernard Samson? That too much rough stuff might leave a permanent mark? Is that why you asked me?'
'No. Not at all.'
'Bernard would do a good job in London. Give him a chance at it, Bret. I'll support it.'
'I might take you up on that, Frank.'
'Freebooters!' said Frank. 'Confounded nerve of the man. He was talking about my reception team.'
From the next room the operator called, They've put the searchlights on!'
Frank said, 'Tell them to put the big radar jammer on. I don't want any arguments: the Piranha!' The army hated using the Piranhas because they jammed the radars on both sides of the line. 'Now!' said Frank.
The first searchlight came on,
Bret nodded. The hum of the air-conditioning seemed loud in the silence.
'It was a good spot to choose,' Frank added.
'There are no good spots,' interposed the BGS officer loudly. He looked like a ruffian, thought Frank, with his scarred face and beer belly. Perhaps riot policemen had to be like that. Meeting no response from either of the strange foreigners, the German officer drank what remained of his whisky, wiped his mouth, belched, nodded his leave-taking and went out.
The phone in the next room rang and they listened while the operator grunted, hung up and then called loudly, 'Dogs barking and some sort of movement over there now.'
Bret looked at Frank. Frank winked but otherwise didn't move.
The English guide swallowed the last of his whisky hurriedly and slid off the desk. 'I'd better be off too,' he said. 'I might be needed. I understand two of your freebooters might be going in to try to help.'
'Perhaps,' said Frank.
'It won't work,' said the Englishman. 'In effect it's an invasion of their soil.'
Frank stared at him and didn't reply. He didn't like people to refer to his men as freebooters, especially not strangers. The guide, forgetting his glass was empty, tried to drink more from it. Then he set it down on the desk where he'd been sitting and departed.
Left to themselves, Bret said, 'If young Samson pulls this one off I'm going to recommend him for the German Desk.' He was sitting well back in the chair, elbows on its rests, hands together like a tutor delivering a homily to an erring student.
'Yes, so you said.'
'Can he do it, Frank?' Although framed as a query, he said it as if he was testing Frank with an exam question, rather than asking help with a difficult decision.
'He's not stupid.'
'Just headstrong,' supplied Bret. 'Is that what you mean?'
'Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?' asked Frank, holding up the bottle of scotch which was on the floor near his chair. Bret had bought it in the duty-free shop at London airport but he hadn't touched a drop.
Bret shook his head. 'And the wife?' said Bret, adding in a voice that was half joking, half serious, 'Is Mrs Samson going to be the first female Director-General?'
'Too fixed in her viewpoint. All women are. She's not flexible enough to do what the old man does, is she?'
'A lead pipe is flexible,' said Bret.
'Resilient I mean.'
'Elastic,' said Bret, 'is the only word I can think of for the capacity to return to former shape and state.'
'Is that the primary requirement for a D-G?' asked Frank coldly. He'd trained with Sir Henry Clevemore back in wartime and been a personal friend ever since. He wasn't keen on discussing his possible successors with Bret.
'Primary requirement for a lot of things,' said Bret dismissively. He didn't want to talk but he added, 'Too many people in this business get permanently crippled.'
'Only field agents surely?'
'It's sometimes worse for the ones who send them out.'
'Is that what you're worried about in the case of Bernard Samson? That too much rough stuff might leave a permanent mark? Is that why you asked me?'
'No. Not at all.'
'Bernard would do a good job in London. Give him a chance at it, Bret. I'll support it.'
'I might take you up on that, Frank.'
'Freebooters!' said Frank. 'Confounded nerve of the man. He was talking about my reception team.'
From the next room the operator called, They've put the searchlights on!'
Frank said, 'Tell them to put the big radar jammer on. I don't want any arguments: the Piranha!' The army hated using the Piranhas because they jammed the radars on both sides of the line. 'Now!' said Frank.
The first searchlight came on,
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