The troika stared down at him, foreboding as ever, yet Harry felt neither intimidation nor nervousness, just a quiet confidence about the way forward and a sublime certainty of purpose.
“Now look here, Male,” blustered Webb, “I think we’ve all learned a lot from this caper.” Caper? “Time to let sleeping dogs lie, hoist the mainsail and set course for new horizons, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good operative, Male,” he blundered on. “Even if you have made your fair share of mistakes, you’re not entirely to blame.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I told the powers that be I wasn’t prepared to lose you. I can tell you they were after a scalp. To show an example to the rest, you understand.”
“Commander Laughton, sir?” Harry ventured.
“Yes, well, him too, poor chap. Mind you, he was only two years off retirement so he gets his pension early and it won’t get in the way of his gong. Landed on his feet, lucky devil.” The Churchillian bulldog expression said it all: envy. “No,” he boomed, suddenly brightening. “I said the department could ill afford to lose someone like you, so I went in to bat and hit them for six.” He sat back, satisfied with himself and his analogy.
“Thank you, sir. Any news on finding Kessler?”
“Police matter” – he waved a hand dismissively – “best left to them I think.”
“And the informer?”
“Drawn a blank, but he’s out there somewhere and he’ll slip up one day. Between you and me, Male” – he leaned forward conspiratorially – “I’d hazard a guess the suits are looking in the wrong place.”
“Really? I hadn’t thought of that, sir.”
“You mark my words. There’s a chance this goes all the way to the top.” All he needs is the cigar. “Never mind. Let’s get on with the job. Is there anything you’d like to say?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry pulled a brown envelope out of his pocket and slid it across the desk. Webb frowned.
“What’s this?”
“My resignation, sir.”
“Your what?” Webb fumbled with the envelope and ripped out the paper, scanning it quickly. “What’s the meaning of this?” he barked, the colour spreading rapidly from his neck to his face.
“I think you’ll find it’s self-explanatory, sir.”
***
There were no goodbyes, no well-wishers, no leaving party and no speeches, just a surrender of his ID and an escort off the premises. He could stay in the apartment for the duration of his notice period and within the week he should expect a visitation from the suits bearing documents he’d be required to sign under pain of immediate internment. He’d be assigned a liaison officer through whom all communications between him and the department in the next four weeks would be channelled and to whom he would hand over the keys to the apartment on the appointed day. Thereafter and until the end of his natural life, he remained bound by the provisions of the Official Secrets Act, any transgressions of which would be dealt with in the harshest possible way. HMG thanks you for your service to your country and wishes you well in your chosen career, if you’re able to find one. We’ll be watching you.
***
Harry had no difficulty spotting the suit. He was sitting at the opposite end of the island bar with a half-glass of orange juice, the grey jacket, shirt and tie together with the omnipresent fedora, standard attire.
The Ostenkeller was busy and vibrant, packed with off-duty workers celebrating the start of the weekend, waited on by dirndl-clad maidens swooping from table to table balancing overloaded trays of glasses above their heads. He moved his head to catch a glimpse of the suit partially concealed behind two voluble customers and watched with amusement as, to his evident surprise, a waitress deposited a stein of beer in front of him. He made to protest but she pointed across the bar to Harry and Harry raised his glass. Prost!
They hadn’t warned him he’d be followed because they didn’t need to; it was a given. He found it tedious although probably not as tedious as the suit doing the following. It had been going on since he left the department three weeks ago, during which time he’d been busy organising his affairs, finalising his plans and preparing for departure. He had precious few belongings and owned none of the furniture in the apartment so there was not much to do other than thin out his already sparse wardrobe and go shopping for new – a novel experience he found curiously enjoyable. The suit had kept a discreet distance although not discreet enough to avoid detection, which was probably his intention.
They’d made him surrender his service revolver. The Enfield was an antique, unreliable, had little value and was impossible to take with him, so he hadn’t protested. He’d been to the bank and arranged to close his account, withdrawing most of it in traveller’s cheques together with a substantial wad of foreign currency.
He’d called Arthur to explain his change of circumstances and that he’d be at his new address for only a short time as he was leaving Berlin.
“Holiday?” Rowland had asked.
“Not quite,” he’d said. “I’m going to revisit an old haunt.”
“Well, call me when you get a chance, so I know where to contact you.” They agreed the proceeds from the liquidation of his father’s estate would be held in Harry’s client account at Rowland, Jarvis & Stroud pending further instruction.
He planned to leave Berlin the day after his notice expired and although he knew exactly where he was going, he had no idea how long he’d be there and no expectations of returning; that part of his life was over and the last ties he had with it would be cut next week.
The beer slipped down effortlessly and with barely a nod and a wink it was instantly replaced. He was reminded of the old days in a crowded pub at home, desperately waving a ten-bob note in the air, trying to attract someone’s attention before he died of thirst, and he marvelled at German efficiency. How the hell did we win the war? He’d miss that.
The aroma of tobacco filled the room. It pricked and taunted his senses, but he hadn’t had a cigarette since he’d got back to Berlin and he was resolute. Furthermore, his taste buds had enjoyed a renaissance and he revelled in a sudden appetite for food he didn’t know he’d lost.
The wiener schnitzel arrived and he tucked in, waving his fork at the suit, who remained impressively inscrutable despite the provocation. Guten Appetit!