operations side of his bailiwick than all the rest of us put together.” That was all true of course, but it wasn’t often the line Dicky took. “We’re talking about Bizet, I take it?”
“Right. Frank may want to put someone in. After all, Frankfurt an der Oder is only a stone’s throw from where he is.” “It’s not the distance, Dicky. It’s . . .”
He immediately held up his hand in defence. “Sure. I know I know I know.”
“Are you hoping he’ll have done something already?”
“I just want his advice,” said Dicky.
“Well, we both know what Frank’s advice will be,’ I said. “Do nothing just the same advice that he gives us about everything
“Frank’s been there a long time,” said Dicky, who had survived many a crisis and reshuffle on “do nothing” policies.
I made sure Dicky had signed everything in the right place. Then I drank the coffee and left it at that for a bit. But this seemed a good opportunity to quiz him about the Prettyman business. “Remember Prettyman?” I said as casually as I could manage.
“Should V
“Jim Prettyman: ended up in “black boxes”. Left and went to America.”
“Codes and Ciphers, downstairs)” It was a not a region into which Dicky ever ventured.
“He was on the Special Operations committee with Bret. He was always trying to organize holidays where you could look at tombs and no one ever put their name down. Wonderful snooker player. Don’t you remember how we went to Big Henty’s one night and he made some fantastic break?” “I’ve never been to Big Henty’s in my life.” “Of course you have, Dicky. Lots of times. Jim Prettyman. A young fellow who got that job in Washington.” “Sometimes I think you must know everyone in this building ,” said Dicky.
“I thought you knew him,” I said lamely.
“A word to the wise, Bernard.” Dicky was holding a finger aloft as if testing for the direction of the wind. “If I was in this room talking to you about this Prettyman fellow you’d change the subject to talk about Frank Harrington and the Bizet business. No offence intended, old chum, but it’s true. Think about it.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Dicky.”
“You must try and concentrate upon the subject in hand. Have you ever done any yoga?” He pushed aside the papers that I’d suggested he should read.
“No, Dicky,” I said.
“I did a lot of yoga at one time.” He ran a finger across the papers as if reading the contents list. “It trains the mind: helps the power of concentration.”
“I’ll look into that,” I promised, taking from him the signed papers that Dicky had decided not to read, and stuffing them into the cardboard folder.
When I stood up, Dicky, still looking at the carpet, said, “My mother’s cousin died and left me a big lion skin. I was wondering whether to have it in here.”
It would look just right,” I said, indicating the antique furniture and the framed photos that covered the wall behind him.
“I had it in the drawing room at home but some of our friends made a bit of fuss about shooting rare animals and that sort of thing.”
“Don’t worry about that, Dicky,” I said. “That’s just because they’re jealous.”
That’s just what I told Daphne,” he said. “After all, the damned thing’s dead. I can’t bring a lion back to life can V
Many civilians have a lifelong obsession about what it would be like to be in the army. Some like the idea of uniforms, horses, trumpets and flags; others just want clearly expressed orders, and a chance to carry them out in exchange for hot meals on the table every day. For some men the army represents a challenge they never faced; for others a cloistered cosy masculine retreat from reality.
Which of these aspects of the soldier’s life Frank Harrington found attractive - or whether it was something entirely different - I never knew. But whenever Frank was not in his office, nor in the splendid Grunewald mansion that he’d
“Right. Frank may want to put someone in. After all, Frankfurt an der Oder is only a stone’s throw from where he is.” “It’s not the distance, Dicky. It’s . . .”
He immediately held up his hand in defence. “Sure. I know I know I know.”
“Are you hoping he’ll have done something already?”
“I just want his advice,” said Dicky.
“Well, we both know what Frank’s advice will be,’ I said. “Do nothing just the same advice that he gives us about everything
“Frank’s been there a long time,” said Dicky, who had survived many a crisis and reshuffle on “do nothing” policies.
I made sure Dicky had signed everything in the right place. Then I drank the coffee and left it at that for a bit. But this seemed a good opportunity to quiz him about the Prettyman business. “Remember Prettyman?” I said as casually as I could manage.
“Should V
“Jim Prettyman: ended up in “black boxes”. Left and went to America.”
“Codes and Ciphers, downstairs)” It was a not a region into which Dicky ever ventured.
“He was on the Special Operations committee with Bret. He was always trying to organize holidays where you could look at tombs and no one ever put their name down. Wonderful snooker player. Don’t you remember how we went to Big Henty’s one night and he made some fantastic break?” “I’ve never been to Big Henty’s in my life.” “Of course you have, Dicky. Lots of times. Jim Prettyman. A young fellow who got that job in Washington.” “Sometimes I think you must know everyone in this building ,” said Dicky.
“I thought you knew him,” I said lamely.
“A word to the wise, Bernard.” Dicky was holding a finger aloft as if testing for the direction of the wind. “If I was in this room talking to you about this Prettyman fellow you’d change the subject to talk about Frank Harrington and the Bizet business. No offence intended, old chum, but it’s true. Think about it.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Dicky.”
“You must try and concentrate upon the subject in hand. Have you ever done any yoga?” He pushed aside the papers that I’d suggested he should read.
“No, Dicky,” I said.
“I did a lot of yoga at one time.” He ran a finger across the papers as if reading the contents list. “It trains the mind: helps the power of concentration.”
“I’ll look into that,” I promised, taking from him the signed papers that Dicky had decided not to read, and stuffing them into the cardboard folder.
When I stood up, Dicky, still looking at the carpet, said, “My mother’s cousin died and left me a big lion skin. I was wondering whether to have it in here.”
It would look just right,” I said, indicating the antique furniture and the framed photos that covered the wall behind him.
“I had it in the drawing room at home but some of our friends made a bit of fuss about shooting rare animals and that sort of thing.”
“Don’t worry about that, Dicky,” I said. “That’s just because they’re jealous.”
That’s just what I told Daphne,” he said. “After all, the damned thing’s dead. I can’t bring a lion back to life can V
Many civilians have a lifelong obsession about what it would be like to be in the army. Some like the idea of uniforms, horses, trumpets and flags; others just want clearly expressed orders, and a chance to carry them out in exchange for hot meals on the table every day. For some men the army represents a challenge they never faced; for others a cloistered cosy masculine retreat from reality.
Which of these aspects of the soldier’s life Frank Harrington found attractive - or whether it was something entirely different - I never knew. But whenever Frank was not in his office, nor in the splendid Grunewald mansion that he’d
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