Redfalcon

2

A SURPRISING INVITATION

'But Henry was in on the trick all along,' I surmised.

Blenkiron indulged in a low chortle. 'Sure, but that stony face of his never gives anything away. Take my advice and never play poker with that gent.'

I tapped the side of my cup. 'You said this was in the nature of a farewell toast.'

He took a swallow and smacked his lips. 'You know better than anyone, Dick, that over the years I've done our enemies more than a few bad turns. Now that the gloves are off they've been itching to pay me back in spades, so it seemed like a smart move to make them think I've shuffled off this mortal coil.'

'And where exactly are you shuffling off to?'

'Well, not to Buffalo,' he joked. 'I'll be on a flight to Washington tonight. Mr Roosevelt wants to pick my brains about how things stand here in Europe. He's also mighty interested in any notions I have about stiffening up the security of our own country.'

'You're going to be a very busy man,' I predicted.

'Just like you, Dick. I hear they've loaded you with a job as a heavy thinker too.'

'That just goes to show how fallible the military mind can be.' I laughed.

Blenkiron scrutinised me through narrowed eyes. 'It suits a fellow of my bulk well enough to just settle into an easy chair and put his brain through its paces, but I know it doesn't sit well with a man like you.'

I gave a grunt of resignation. 'You know what those sheafs of reports are like. It takes the patience of a saint and the eye of an eagle to pick out whatever's worthwhile in them.'

'Well, if you're getting restless, I may have something for you.' He slid an envelope across the table to me. On it was typed my name: Major-General Sir Richard Hannay.

As I laid a finger upon it, I felt a tingle of excitement, as though whatever was inside carried a perceptible electrical charge.

'Is this another job?' I enquired.

'It's an invitation,' Blenkiron replied. 'What you choose to do with it is up to you. I'm sorry I won't be here myself to see it through, but I do have a parting gift.'

He picked up his deck of cards and laid it down in front of me beside the mysterious envelope. The pack was frayed and worn and held together with a rubber band, and yet I was touched by the gesture.

'Are you sure you can get by without them?'

'It's time I picked up a fresh pack. After all, I need to look my best when I meet the President.'

I scooped up the cards and turned them over in my hand, recalling how calmly my friend had played out a hand of solitaire as he explained to the German spymaster von Schwabing how he had exposed and overturned his whole network.

'I appreciate this, John, I really do. I'm sure they'll bring me luck.'

'There is that,' said Blenkiron. 'But even more important is this: whenever I find myself stymied, I play out a few hands. It relaxes the mind, so that any inspiration lurking about down there will rise to the surface. It's a trick that's served me well.'

'I'll remember that,' I assured him. If Blenkiron was sending me off on another mad jaunt, I was quite sure I would need all the inspiration I could muster after being out of action for so long.

He swallowed the last of his coffee and dabbed his lips with a folded kerchief. 'Maybe now and then you'll play out a hand or two just to remember your old friend John S by.'

'I'm sure I shall. And I fully expect us to meet again. In this world,' I added emphatically.

Blenkiron rose to his feet with a sigh. 'I'd better get moving. I've got a few last pieces of business to put to bed before my flight.'

He leaned over and we shook hands, wishing each other the best of luck.

'It'll be safer if we leave separately,' he advised. 'Henry will be on watch outside to make sure neither of us is followed.'

As he walked out of the door, I was conscious of the sincere hope that this would not be my last meeting with my wise and cunning friend. After a long pause I picked up the envelope and slit it open with my pocket knife. Inside was an embossed card which read as follows:

You are cordially invited to tonight's meeting of the National Antiquities Council. 9.00 p.m. British Museum.

It was signed by hand C. Stannix.

It was a very unusual invitation, to be sure, and on the face of it suggested little to do with the sort of intrigue I associated with Blenkiron. However, I had heard of the National Antiquities Council some time back under interesting circumstances. I knew it provided cover for a number of activities that had little to do with historical artefacts. Moreover, though I had met Christopher Stannix only once, that name was enough to persuade me that this meeting would have little to do with the museum's usual line of business.

I had been wondering for some time if I had one last adventure in me. It looked as though I was going to find out.

My old friend Charles Lamancha had pointed Stannix out to me during the drinks that followed Sandy's funeral two years ago. Lamancha himself was a member of the War Cabinet, with special responsibility for the supply of munitions to our forces.

'That chap Christopher Stannix is an intriguing fellow,' he had told me, indicating a modestly dressed figure who was currently declining a refill of his whisky glass. 'Whatever official post he holds is hidden behind a thick hedge of code words and cover names, but he pops up from time to time to coordinate operations between the intelligence services and the military.'

'He looks ordinary enough,' I observed.

'Even so, a lot of important people reckon he's got one of the sharpest minds in the country,' Lamancha assured me.

Whether or not Stannix had been aware that he was the object of our hushed conversation, we had somehow caught his eye and he had made his way directly towards us. He was a tall man whose broad brow suggested a large brain behind it. The dark grizzled hair, worn longer than was fashionable in these circles, further enhanced his sage-like appearance.

'Lamancha,' he greeted my friend. 'I hear you have your hands full keeping the steel supply moving.'

'There's never as much as we need, Stannix,' Lamancha responded. 'I don't think you've met Richard Hannay.'

'No,' said Stannix, offering me his hand. 'But I believe all of us owe him rather a lot.'

I gave him my left hand, as my right arm was in a sling from the bullet I had taken in France. When we shook, his grip was firm and friendly, but part of him seemed to remain withdrawn, as though being kept in reserve for another day. After a few minutes of inconsequential talk, he had made his apologies, saying he was being called away to an urgent meeting.

'I am very pleased to have met you, Hannay,' he said on departing. 'One day I may have need of your services.'

I reflected on that brief conversation as I arrived at the site of our appointment. The British Museum was certainly one of the last places I would have expected to meet Christopher Stannix again. I climbed the stone steps and crossed the shadowy portico to the front entrance. The building had the imposing, almost sacrosanct appearance of an ancient Greek temple, an effect I was sure was quite deliberate.

I rang the doorbell and after a few moments was admitted by an elderly, grey-whiskered attendant with the stiff bearing of a former army sergeant. He examined my invitation then touched it to the peak of his cap by way of a salute. 'You'll be Mr Hannay then. If you'll follow me this way, sir.'

The great halls he led me through were always impressive, but now, with no visiting crowd and only the barest selection of items on display, it felt as though we were walking through a series of echoing subterranean caverns. The scaffolding erected to repair bomb damage added to the rather derelict look of the place. The few stone carvings and modest display of flints and coins were set against framed reproductions of more impressive exhibits and photographs of major archaeological excavations, like the recent find at Sutton Hoo.

'I'm surprised there's anything left behind here at all,' I commented. 'I thought everything had been shipped out to safer locations.'

'It's true that all the really valuable stuff is packed away in underground quarries in the middle of God knows where,' my guide affirmed, 'but when they tried to close the place down in thirty-nine there was such an uproar they decided it would be better for public morale to keep her open - as a reminder of our heritage, so to speak. I suppose it's part of what we're fighting for really.'

'When your back's to the wall, it's a good thing to remember the history you have behind you,' I agreed.

'Not that there's much to be inspired by among this lot,' said the attendant, casting a disdainful eye about the vast room we were passing through. 'Mostly it's duplicates of better...