Sam Bourne - Pantheon

Some of his colleagues didn’t even bother to read the paperwork in front of them. Of course they read each word before rendering it. But they were not really reading it, not taking in its meaning. Taylor Hastings, however, found he could do both, effortlessly. And as he did so, he grew aware that he was becoming supremely well-informed about both the progress of the war — as reported by British officials to the US Embassy, and then passed on by US diplomats to the State Department in Washington — and the shifting moods and sympathies in the American capital.

Of course he knew he was getting only half the picture, and even that half was jaundiced. Most of the Brits were putting the best possible gloss on their efforts for the benefit of their American contacts: telling them that they had detected chinks in the German armour, that it would not take much to bring down the Nazi ogre, that victory was possible. But that message was tempered by the advice given by Ambassador Kennedy, whose thrust, however subtly disguised, usually amounted to the same thing: Britain was doomed and there was no point America coming to its aid, not economically and certainly not militarily. The replies Kennedy received, and which passed through Taylor’s hands each morning, told him which way Washington was leaning that day — towards isolation or intervention — and where the various competing US officials, in State or in the White House, were positioning themselves.

Reading this material first hand, reading it indeed before the principals themselves had laid eyes on it, fed Taylor Hastings’s feeling that he had somehow landed close to the summit of world affairs. Had destiny placed him there? Was this the work of the God his mother worshipped so faithfully? He wasn’t sure. But the sense that he had been granted an opportunity he should not waste, that he was being called to act, was growing within him.

A fresh pile of papers awaited: incoming traffic from Washington that had arrived during the night. His job, here in the cipher room of the London embassy, was to decode the messages, turning each cable of gibberish back into English, to be read by those far above him in the hierarchy, those who would never meet him or know his name. They would read these documents soon enough — but only after Taylor Hastings had read them first.

‘Barbara, would you get Dr Zennor a cup of coffee?’ The Dean turned to him, attempting a smile. ‘I’m afraid we don’t run to tea here.’

‘I don’t want a cup of bloody tea or coffee. I want some answers.’

‘Why don’t you sit down, Dr Zennor?’

‘I will sit down when someone tells me what the hell is going on here.’

‘Barbara,’ the Dean said, his voice still even, his smile still in place, ‘why don’t I take Dr Zennor into my office where he and I can talk in private. And perhaps you could bring us that coffee.’ He gave his secretary a look which suggested he did not want her wandering too far away, just in case.

James allowed himself to be ushered through the inner door. Wisely, Preston McAndrew did not try to put a hand on his shoulder as he guided him, otherwise the Dean would have been on the receiving end of an English fist.

‘I must tell you, something very strange is afoot in your university, Dr McAndrew. Something very strange indeed.’

‘Please, sit down.’ The Dean pulled his chair out from behind his desk so that he might sit closer to James, as if they were two men in a club drawing room rather than an office. He gestured towards the seat for James, but his gesture was ignored.

‘I have twice been barred from enquiring after my wife and child by staff at this office. On my second visit, the Assistant Dean promises he can help me — only to end up dead that same evening. And now I see that my wife and child’s records are missing from your files. What on earth is going on here?’

‘I can see you’re very exercised-’

‘Don’t talk to me as if I’m some kind of lunatic! I’m quite-’

‘I am not accusing you of being a lunatic, Dr Zennor. But you must appreciate this situation is highly irregular. I find an intruder rifling through my files and he starts putting me in the dock. I think most men in my position would have called the police by now. And from what I hear, I suspect they would be most interested to learn what you’ve been up to.’

That pulled James up short. He suddenly became aware of himself, standing here, shouting in the office of a man he had never met. He thought of what Bernard Grey had said about him: not suitable for sensitive work. Slowly he sat down.

‘Good man,’ said the Dean, who let out a barely audible exhalation of relief. When the secretary knocked on the door with two cups of coffee, he leapt up, apparently grateful for a break in the tension.

Only now did James take a good look at him. He was not at all what he had expected. The title of Dean had planted a picture in his mind of an American version of Grey, white-haired and ancient. But this man looked to be in his mid-forties, no more. He was as tall as James and handsome too, with a full head of dark hair lightly flecked with grey, the touches of silver suggesting distinction rather than old age.

‘Look, the truth is, I blame myself for this situation, I really do,’ he was saying, as he stirred cream into his coffee, a habit that would, James reflected, have seemed like reckless indulgence back home in the land of the ration book. ‘Oxford notified me that you were coming on a fellowship and I really should have made arrangements to meet you. Forgive me for that mistake.’

James said nothing, wondering if this was a deliberate attempt to wrong-foot him. The Dean had not summoned the police; he had not even raised his voice. Disarming an opponent with courtesy was just the sort of trick Grey would pull.

‘Barbara has already filled me in on the history here, as we medics say.’ The hint of a smile was realized, revealing a set of straight, white teeth. ‘And I need to apologize for that too. As you say, you came here to make a perfectly reasonable request for information on your wife and child. Florence and Harry, is that right?’

‘That’s right. The point, Dr McAndrew is-’

‘Preston, please.’ The Dean looked directly into James’s eyes. ‘I’m afraid Barbara and Joan are very good at what they do, but they’re used to guarding the information they have here as if it were the Ark of the Covenant! So, let’s see what we can do.’

‘I hope you agree it is odd. That file contains a complete list of locations for every Oxford mother or child, but there is no record for my family.’

McAndrew held up his hand. ‘I completely agree with you. Something doesn’t add up.’ He rose to retrieve a piece of paper from his desk.

Perhaps, James thought, he had rushed to judgment on this man. McAndrew exuded competence and a degree of sympathy too. And there was surely no one more capable of reuniting him with Florence and Harry. He needed an ally, especially one so well placed.

‘I ought to apologize for resorting to…’ James hesitated. ‘Unorthodox means.’ As he said the words, he thought of his accomplice. He guessed that by now Dorothy had hobbled out of the ladies’ lavatory, leaning on the secretary, only to see the Dean returning to his office — and had then tiptoed away, lest anyone suspect a link between her and James. That would have been the canny thing to do and that girl was nothing if not canny.

‘No need to apologize at all,’ the Dean said, distractedly. He was reading the sheet in front of him, briefly looking up to add, ‘I don’t have kids myself, but if I did I’m sure I’d have done exactly the same thing.’ He suddenly stood up. ‘So let’s go and look at these files, shall we?’