Dr Berlin by Francis Bennett Page B

because, he said, it was all he had inherited from his much-loved great-aunt Bella. Pountney sat in a chrome and canvas contraption, a design that was as out of date as it was uncomfortable. He had to press his outstretched feet against the table leg to prevent himself pitching onto the floor. He wondered if designers ever sat in the chairs they created.
    ‘OK. Let’s look at that interview again.’ Bomberg wasn’t going to give up without a fight. He set the machine and sat back to watch.
    The short extract began with a shot of a uniformed colonel in the British Occupation Force replying to Pountney’s question about the future of the Allied presence in West Germany.
    ‘The Soviets are threatening to change the status of West Berlin by merging it with the German Democratic Republic. That would mean the Allies would be able to enter Berlin only with East German permission. Such a situation is wholly unacceptable. Not surprisingly, we would interpret such a move as an aggressive act. If we don’t oppose the Soviets on issues as fundamental as this, we will be pushed out of Berlin and possibly out of Germany. If we are to stop the Soviets having their way, we must convince them that on this issue we mean business.’
    ‘You mean stop them by force,’ Pountney asked from behind the camera.
    ‘If we have to, yes.’
    The camera held the officer’s face for a moment. Was he smiling? Certainly not, Pountney concluded. He was showing the proper distaste for the possibility of conflict. Then he was gone, and Pountney once more filled the screen. He looked troubled, perplexed even. He held the microphone in front of him like a torch.
    ‘In a few weeks or less, the Soviets say, they will bring theirsector of Berlin under GDR rule. The West cannot accept such a move without destroying its own position. In America and the Soviet Union, military budgets are suddenly being substantially increased, the first moves in the inevitable game of political brinkmanship that may bring the world ever closer to an East–West confrontation. Suddenly we are hearing talk of war. The question is, now we’ve got on this treadmill, how do we get off again?’
    The clip ended. Pountney turned off the monitor.
    ‘That was a smile, no question,’ Bomberg said excitedly. ‘The man was enjoying himself. That’s what I object to. The British Army threatening war on the Soviet Union off its own bat is news so good that we’ve got to keep it in. You can’t possibly cut it out, Gerry. We’re going to be headline news tomorrow. God, what a bloody shambles.’
    Behind the indignation, Pountney sensed Bomberg’s excitement.
4
    Marion was in the bathroom when she heard the key turn in the front door. She ran quickly into the bedroom and got into bed, pulling the sheets up to her neck. It was absurd, but she still felt embarrassed if he saw her naked when he was dressed.
    ‘Bill?’
    She knew who it was – who else had a key to her flat? – but that didn’t stop her calling out.
    ‘I’m late, I’m sorry. I got held up.’ He came in, carrying his jacket and eating a sandwich. ‘The bursar collared me after my supervision. Some nonsense about wanting me to join the wine committee. Of course I refused. He must know by now I’ve never joined anything in my life.’ Gant, sitting on the end of the bed, put his bicycle clips on her dressing table, a habit which always irritated her, and began half-heartedly to untie his shoes. ‘How was your morning?’
    She’d had a sleepless night, debating whether to ask him why he had suddenly turned against her at the Blake-Thomas meeting. She had watched the dawn light spread across the rooftops of Cambridge and had sworn she would say nothing, but now he was here in her bedroom her irritation at his lack of any greeting – not even a perfunctory kiss – coupled with those bloody bicycle clips, pushed out of her mind the promise she had made to herself.
    ‘Why didn’t you support me yesterday,