The Berlin Assignment Read Online Free PDF Page A

Sarah and the rest of the Priory was lined up, monastically, on the two sides. The conversation at first had the texture of a thick pea soup cooking slowly – a periodic breaking of the surface followed by a re-establishment of tension. Luckily Zella, the chief secretary, sitting near Hanbury, was the type who liked parties to be lively.
    Zella came from Yellowknife, starting out there as a waitress in a bar, though she knew she had it in her to aim higher. She saved up for an Edmonton secretarial college and from there found her way into the Service. This background gave Zella mental toughness. She combined it with boundless optimism and an ability to see good everywhere.
    Deciding it was time to get Hanbury’s good-bye party going, Zella made some spirited remarks about the wonderful decor of the Taj Mahal, the incense, the beauty of the carved chairs. It reminded her of a holiday she once had in Thailand. Then she turned to Tony. “I’ve never been to Berlin,” she said, “but I’ve always wanted to go. You know that feeling?” Zella had a singing voice with a hint of western nasaltwang. Her smile was quick and wide and cast in solid gold.
    â€œI do,” Hanbury replied earnestly. From the day Zella joined the Priory, he admired her northern directness, her way of saying things simply and making people feel warm. In a burst of generosity he added, “Why don’t you stop by in Berlin on the way to
your
next assignment, Zella? Berlin is fabulous. We’ll paint the town red.”
    â€œNot a good expression to use for Berlin, Tony,” interjected Jerry Adamanski sombrely. He was sitting opposite. “Red is a political colour in Europe. They’re trying to get away from it. Using words like that you’re likely to be misinterpreted and cause yourself a bit of trouble.” Jerry Adamanski liked to challenge. Presented with an opening, he loved nothing better than to nail a colleague to the wall. His role in the Priory was to promote cooperation on ridding the world of the material remnants of wars, such as unexploded land mines. Before that he had a stint in The Crypt, a secret place with controlled access. He wrote a paper there on the political use of colour in recent European upheavals – East Berlin in ’53, Budapest ’56, Prague’s Spring ’68, the shipyard affair in Gdansk. He considered himself an authority. If pressed Jerry could go back further, claiming some familiarity with the role in history of Rosa Luxemburg, though he hesitated to go beyond saying that she had been
a Red
.
    Even though for years they had offices next door to each other, Adamanski and Hanbury seldom spoke, like monks in a real priory observing vows of silence. Hanbury couldn’t help but look inquiringly across the table, wondering why suddenly he was receiving so much unsolicited advice. “I think Berliners are up to their town being painted red,” he said peaceably. “What they don’t like is someone telling them what their taste is, especially if he’s never been there.”
    Adamanski stiffened. “And you have?” he said aggressively. “You think you know Berlin? You think you’re an instant expert after onesession with the Zealots?” He had a big head with a hooked nose, straight hair falling down and a pock-marked face. Sometimes he looked like a snarling dog. After years of scarcely acknowledging one another’s presence, Hanbury and Adamanski were finally exchanging a few words, yet immediately it was threatening to get out of hand. Zella drew on her Yellowknife experience in the bars where she often prevented brawling miners from pulling knives on each other. She reacted quickly. “Back off, Jerry,” she ordered. “This is a family lunch. Keep your poison for the enemy.” The rebuke worked. Jerry turned to Madeleine MacQuaryEllington, an expert on controlling military exports who sat next to him.