‘Forty-six,’ the boy echoed. ‘One short.’
‘When were they last counted?’
‘ ‘Tisn’t hardly possible to say,’ Gaunt muttered. ‘They’ve been going in and out for weeks.’
Turner pointed to the shining new grille that cut off the basement stairway.
‘How do I get down there?’
‘I told you. Bradfield has the key. It’s a riot gate, see. Guards don’t have the authority.’
‘How do the cleaners get down there then? What about the boilermen?’
‘The boiler-room’s separate access, now, ever since Bremen, see. They’ve put grilles down there as well. They can use the outside stairs but they can’t go no further than the boiler on account of being prevented.’ Gaunt was very scared.
‘There’s a fire escape… a service lift.’
‘Only the back staircase, but that’s locked too, see. Locked.’
‘And the keys?’
‘With Bradfield. Same as for the lift.’
‘Where does it lead from?’
‘Top floor.’
‘Up by your place?’
‘What of it then?’
‘Up by your place or not?’
‘Near.’
‘Show me!’
Gaunt looked down, looked at the boy, looked at Turner and then back at the boy again. Reluctantly he dropped the keys into the boy’s hand and without a word to the messengers led Turner quickly upstairs.
It might have been daytime. All the lights were on, doors open. Secretaries, clerks and diplomats, hastening down corridors, ignored them as they passed. The talk was of Brussels. The city’s name was whispered like a password. It lay on every tongue and was stammered out by every typewriter; it was cut into the white wax of the stencils and rung on every telephone. They climbed another flight to a short corridor that smelt of a swimming-pool. A draught of fresh air struck them from their left. The door ahead of them said ‘Chancery Guard Private’ and the label underneath, ‘Mr and Mrs J. Gaunt, British Embassy, Bonn.’
‘We don’t have to go in, do we?’
‘This is where he came and saw you? Friday evenings after choir? He came up here?’
Gaunt nodded.
‘What happened when he left? Did you see him out?’
‘He wouldn’t let me. “You stay there, my boy, and watch your telly, I’ll see myself off the premises.” ‘
‘And that’s the door: the back staircase.’
He was pointing to his left where the draught came from. ‘It’s locked though, see. Hasn’t been opened for years.’
‘That’s the only way in?’
‘Straight down to the basement it goes. They were going to have a rubbish chute till the money ran out so they put stairs instead.’
The door was solid and unrelieved, with two stout locks that had not been disturbed for a long time. Shining a pencil torch on to the lintels, Turner gently fingered the wooden beading that ran down the two sides, then took a firm grip on the handle.
‘Come here. You’re his size. You try. Take the handle. Don’t turn it. Push. Push hard.’
The door yielded without a sound.
The air was suddenly very cold and stale; American air when the conditioners fail. They stood on a half landing. The stairs under them were very steep. A small window gave on to the Red Cross field. Directly below, the cowl of the canteen chimney puffed floodlit smoke into the darkness. The plaster was peeling in large blisters. They heard the drip ofwater. On the reverse side of the door post, the wood had been neatly sawn away. By the thin light of the torch they began their descent. The steps were of stone; a narrow strip of coconut matting ran down the centre. ‘Embassy Club this way,’ a very old poster ran. ‘All welcome.’ They caught the sound of a kettle bobbing on a ring and heard a girl’s voice reading back a passage of dictation: ‘While the official statement of the Federal Government describes the reason for the withdrawal as merely technical, even the most sober commentators…’ and instinctively they both stopped, heart in mouth, listening to the clear words precisely spoken into the stairwell.
‘It’s the ventilation,’ Gaunt whispered. ‘It’s coming through the shaft, see.’
‘Shut up.’
They heard de Lisle’s voice languidly correcting her. ‘Moderate,’ he said. ‘Moderate would be much better. Change sober to moderate, will you, my dear? We don’t want them to think we’re drowning our sorrows in drink.’