The Hansa Protocol by Norman Russell Read Free Book Online

your Specimens of Anglo-Saxon Verse is still consulted and honoured.’
    The young man spoke with an eager forcefulness tinged with what seemed to be nervousness. It was an odd combination. Seligmann was attracted by the man’s pronounced but educated Scots accent. He himself spoke perfect English, but still retained traces of his Prussian intonation.
    ‘You flatter me, Mr McColl, and make me forget that I have spent the greater part of my life embroiled in politics – politics! That was not through choice, but in response to the call of duty – duty to Germany, my native land, but duty also to all the peoples of Europe. But come, Mr McColl, you don’t want to hear all this! Bring your briefcase with you out to the Belvedere, where I keep my academic library.’
    Seligmann took the young man’s arm, guided him through a stone-flagged passage, and threw open the rear door of the house. The bitter cold of the January night immediately enveloped them both. They emerged into a wild, narrow garden, surrounded by high walls, where some ruinous brick sheds shared the cramped space with a few blighted oaks. The sky was clear, with one or two brilliant stars shining, though heavy black cloud was spreading rapidly from the north.
    ‘If only it would snow! This cold is unendurable!’
    They were words uttered in a way that did not invite any kind of response. McColl silently agreed with them. It was wretchedly cold, even for January.
    In one corner of the garden, a great stone hemispherical building loomed up in the pallid light shed from the various windows of the old Tudor house. The two buildings seemed to be jockeying for position in the narrow confines of the garden. The stone structure was a kind of two-storeyed classical temple, crowned with a leaden dome. Its grey walls were mellowed and blotched with lichen.
    ‘The Belvedere, Mr McColl – that’s what they call it. It’s my special retreat, where I can busy myself with my books and papers without too much fear of interruption! At one time, I suppose, the Belvedere stood in some secluded grove of a nobleman’s park, but that must have been in the Chelsea of long ago! Come inside, out of this infernal cold.’
     
    Dr Seligmann observed his visitor’s reaction to the interior of his retreat with kindly amusement. He had warmed to the young man as soon as he had seen him standing in the old panelled hall of the main house. A fine, strong young fellow, with the litheness of an athlete. He couldsense the physical force of Colin McColl, an innate power that he seemed to hold in deliberate restraint beneath a smart and rather prim exterior.
    Like all visitors, McColl had expressed surprise at the luxurious comfort of the Belvedere. He had glanced appreciatively at the cheerful fire blazing in the stone fireplace built into part of the curved wall. He had placed the fingers of one gloved hand lightly for a moment on the heavy iron door.
    ‘This old house of mine, Mr McColl,’ said Seligmann, ‘dates back to the time of Sir Thomas More, who is reputed to have written part of his Utopia here. I read it, once: it seemed only right to do so, as I was living in that great humanist’s house!’
    Seligmann watched his visitor’s keen blue eyes ranging around the interior of the building, where tier upon tier of shelves, all seemingly filled with leather-bound books, rose up as far as the ornamental plaster ceiling. The young man appeared fascinated by the books, and was only half-listening to what he was saying about More. Was this eager young man more interested in the books than in their elderly owner?
    Dr Seligmann sat down at a massive desk placed centrally to the chamber beneath a many-branched gas chandelier, which lit up the book-lined chamber as though it were day. Colin McColl unfastened the straps of his heavy briefcase and carefully removed an envelope, which he handed to Seligmann.
    ‘As you’ll see, sir, these ancient pages seem to be part of a meditation on