'And?'

'He was right. They often are, aren't they? Kleindorf senior survived the war, and went to bat for his corps commander who was accused of war crimes. And darn it, he noticed that some desk-bound zombie in the war crimes commission had written "Australian Division" in the indictment instead of "Airborne Division" and Kleindorf senior got the charges thrown out of court on that technicality. A sharp cookie! They say that when Kleindorf attended any of those post-war veterans' gatherings he was cheered to the echo for fifteen minutes. Rudi grew up in his father's shadow: I guess the old man was a tough act to follow. That's why he never mentioned anything about him.'

'You know the devil of a lot about the Kleindorfs,' I said.

'I had to run a check on him a few years back. I went through all the files, including his dad's. It was kind of fascinating.'

'I see why Rudi wanted his son to go into the army.'

'To keep up the family tradition, you mean? Yeah, I guess we are all a little inclined to have other people make up for the things we didn't do for our folks, don't you think?'

'I don't know,' I said.

He didn't press me, but when he next spoke he leaned forward slightly as if to emphasize the importance of what he said. 'These krauts stick together, Bernard. You can't be in Europe ten minutes without noticing that. We could learn from them. Right?'

I didn't know what the hell he was getting at but I said, 'You're right, Harry.' My brother-in-law George was watching Posh Harry with great interest. George was the only complete outsider there, but he knew that Harry had some sort of connection with the CIA. Harry had virtually told him so the first time they met. That was a time when Harry was very pushy; now he'd quietened a lot.

It was then that Dicky took his cigar from his mouth, blew a little smoke, looked at me and said, 'Harry would like you to go for lunch with his people next week, Bernard.'

'Is that so?' I said and wondered why Posh Harry hadn't proposed this culinary rendezvous himself. I looked at Harry. He was looking at Dicky.

Dicky said, 'I said okay.'

'Does that mean you're going to lunch?' I said.

Dicky smiled, 'No, Bernard. They don't want a rubber-stamp wallah like me: they want an ex-field man to sort out their worries.' He ran the tip of a finger along his lips, wondering, I suppose, if I was going to respond in kind.

Perhaps I would have done except that Posh Harry hurriedly said, 'We'd appreciate it, Bernie, we really would.'

Streeply-Cox looked at me and sanctimoniously boomed, 'We've got to cooperate as much as possible. It's the only way; the only way.' He brushed crumbs from his flowing white sideburns.

'You took the words right out of my mouth, Sir Giles,' I said.

'Splendid, splendid,' he replied.

Dicky jumped to his feet and said, 'Methinks 'tis time we joined the ladies.'

When I entered the drawing room Daphne seemed to be demonstrating some dance step, but she stopped awkwardly as Dicky ushered the men in. Gloria was sitting next to Tessa and she looked up and winked as she met my eye. I went across to her as I knew I was expected to do. 'Oh, Bernard,' Gloria whispered. Tessa wants us to go on with them to a lovely party. Can we go? Do say we can.'

'When?'

'Now. After this.'

I looked at my watch. 'It will make a very late night by the time we get home.'

'But we're all dressed up aren't we? Do let's go.'

'If you'd like to,' I said.

'They're wonderful,' said Gloria. 'I love George and Tessa is so funny.'

'That depends upon where you're sitting,' I said. 'Do you know where this party is?'

'George says we should go in his Rolls. There's plenty of room.'

'And leave the car here?'

'I'll come back and get it.'

'And how would I get home? Walk?'

'Don't be so mean, Bernard. We can both come back and get it. Or we could get a cab home and come and get it in the morning.'

'The meters start at eight-thirty.'

'Can we go, Bernard, or can't we?'

I looked at her. 'I'd sooner go home right now with the most beautiful woman in the room.'

'Do let's go,' said Gloria, who obviously was not in the mood to be flattered into doing what I wanted.

'It sounds wonderful.'

'I do love you, Bernard.'

'You're a horrible wheedling female,' I said.

'A Bavarian prince and princess!'

Oh my God, I thought, what have I let myself in for? But on the other hand it would provide another chance to talk to Tessa about that damned fur coat.

12

The prince and princess had their house in Pimlico, a corner of central London around which the Thames bends before getting to Westminster. When, long ago, Thomas Cubitt had finished selling large stucco-fronted houses with balconies to the rich of Belgravia, he built the same designs on the cheaper land of neighbouring Pimlico. Pimlico was said to be coming up: it still is. For it never became another Belgravia despite the similarity of its gardens, squares and grand-looking houses. It was, and to this day remains, an area of mixed fortunes: a plight not assisted by the local government's seemingly random arrangement of one-way streets and barriers which make the district a notorious maze for motorists.

Cubitt's large houses are now divided into cramped apartments, or as the adverts put it 'studio flats' and 'roof terraces'. Seedy hotels and boarding houses with crudely lettered signs offer accommodation in convenient proximity to London 's only cross-country bus station and the busy Victoria railway terminal.

It was in one of the quieter streets of this region that our host had purchased a large house and refurbished it at considerable expense. It was, George explained to me while driving there, a shrewd investment. The sort of investment that he admired so many other German businessmen for making now that the Deutschmark was so highly valued. The prince would use the place for his visits to London, entertain his business associates there and save money on what it would cost him to do those same things in hotels and restaurants. Property prices in that area were certain to keep rising and the chances were that in twenty years he would end up with an excellent profit on his investment. This made me ask George why he himself had bought an apartment in Mayfair – London 's most expensive residential area – rather than do the same sort of thing.

'Ah,' replied George, 'because I am the son of poor parents, I want to enjoy the pleasures that money can bring. I want to go home each night and sleep amongst the richest men in England. I need that reassurance.' He chuckled.

'It's not true,' said Tessa. 'It's my fault. We live in Mayfair because I wouldn't go and live in Pimlico.' We laughed. There was an obvious element of fact in what both of them said. But the truth behind the rationale was that childless Tessa and George had no one to make a good investment for. In the silence that followed, I wished I hadn't asked him about house values.

All the nearby parking places were full, but we stayed with George while he parked his Rolls a block or so away. It was a cold night and the street lights tinted the empty streets with a grim blue that made it seem even colder. Entering the house brought a sudden change. The heated exertions of the guests, the bright lights, the crowded rooms, the warmth of the bodies and the noise and excitement were electrifying. And so was the idea of a drink.

It was a big party: perhaps a hundred people were drifting through the house laughing, chatting in loud confident voices and tipping back their drinks. In the largest room there were a dozen or so people dancing to the music of a small band and there was a buffet table with shellfish, smoked salmon and sliced beef being constantly replenished by waiters in white jackets. 'This is how the other half live,' said Gloria as we made our way to where our young and glamorous hostess was standing by the fireplace talking to a well-dressed bearded man who proved to be the caterer.