Harry's Game by Gerald Seymour Read Free Book Online Page B

had a good flight. We've got a bit of a drive now. Perhaps you'd like to sleep a bit.'

    Harry had nodded, accepted the situation with what grace his position allowed, and dozed off.

    The car had gone fast out of London, the driver taking them on to the A3, then turning off down to Leatherhead, south to Dorking and then into the narrow winding sideroads under Leith Hill. Davidson was beside the driver and Harry had the back seat to himself, and it was only when the night sky was blotted out by the arch of trees over the sunken road that he woke. The car had driven on some miles, with evident care, before it swept through the wrought‐iron gates of one of those great houses buried deep amongst their own woods that lie hidden in the slopes. The drive was rough and in need of repair. Abruptly the rhododendrons gave way to lawns and the car pulled up at a huge porticoed front door.

    'Bit formidable, isn't it? The Ministry maintain's it's all they could get. Delusions of grandeur. A convent school went broke. Kids all died of exposure, more likely. Come on in.'

    Davidson, who had opened the door for him, was speaking. Harry was aware of several other men hovering in the background. The bag was collected, and Davidson went in, followed by Harry.

    'We've a long day tomorrow. Lot of talking to do. Let's call it quits, have a good night, and breakfast at seven. Okay?'

    Sandwiches and a vacuum flask of coffee were waiting in Harry's room.

    27

    The plate and dirtied cup were on the rug by his bed. He put his feet down gingerly and moved to his case. His shaving bag was on top of his neatly folded clothes. He wondered what on earth Mary was making of all this. If they'd sent that dreadful adjutant down to tell her he was called away on urgent business it would be enough to get him a divorce‐‐better be someone with a little experience in the world of untruths.

    No one he'd seen last night had been in uniform. After shaving he put on a checked shirt, Transport Corps tie and his grey suit. He folded away his uniform in the wardrobe and dispersed his other clothes to the various drawers and cupboards. He sat by the window waiting for someone to come to tell him breakfast was served. From his room on the second floor he could see he was at the back of the house. Overgrown tennis courts. A vegetable garden. A great line of trees before the ridge of Surrey hills.

    Harry was not naive and had realized he was to be briefed for an intelligence mission. That didn't bother him, he'd decided. It was a little flattering, and was welcome after brigade transport. Perhaps the remarks about nervous collapse had been rather over‐stressed on his post‐Aden reports. Anyway, little had come his way that had stretched him to the degree he thought he was capable of. If they'd brought him from Germany then the hard assumption would be that they were going to use him for something in Berlin. This pleased him, as he prided himself that he had taken the trouble to learn passable German, have a near taxi‐driver knowledge of the city and keep himself discreetly abreast of the trade techniques. His thoughts were full of the Reichstag, watchtowers, walls and clumps of flowers by the little crosses when the sharp knock came and the door opened.

    It began in earnest in what must once have been the drawing‐room, now furnished in the fashion of the Defence Ministry. Heavy tables, sofas with big pink flowers all over them and deep army chairs with cloth squares at the back to prevent greased hair marking the covers.

    Davidson was there, and three others.

    Harry was given the armchair to the right of the fireplace, dominated by the oil painting of the Retreat from Kabul in the snows of the Afghanistan passes. One man sat behind him by the window; another, not ostentatiously, close to the door. The third sat at a central table, his files spread out on the drapes that covered the polished oak surface. One was of stiff blue cardboard, its top crossed with