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  He decided that if he drove to Dresden the following morning he might be able to complete his assignment early, and then perhaps he could spend a couple of days in Deauville replenishing his dwindling finances. He began to whistle as he jumped on a tram that would drop him outside the garage.

  The MG was waiting on the forecourt, and he had to admit that it looked quite magnificent. Someone had even cleaned it, so its red bonnet gleamed in the evening light.

  The mechanic passed him the key. Keith jumped behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It started immediately. “Great,” he said.

  The mechanic nodded his agreement. When Keith stepped out of the car, another garage worker leaned over and removed the key from the ignition.

  “So, how much will that be?” asked Keith, opening his wallet.

  “Twenty pounds,” said the mechanic.

  Keith swung round and stared at him. “Twenty pounds?” he spluttered. “But I don’t have twenty pounds. You’ve already pocketed thirty bob, and the damn car only cost me thirty pounds in the first place.”

  This piece of information didn’t seem to impress the mechanic. “We had to replace the crankshaft and rebuild the carburetor,” he explained. “And the spare parts weren’t easy to get hold of. Not to mention the bodywork. There’s not much call for such luxuries in Berlin. Twenty pounds,” he repeated.

  Keith opened his wallet and began to count his notes. “What’s that in Deutschemarks?”

  “We don’t take Deutschemarks,” said the mechanic.

  “Why not?”

  “The British have warned us to beware of forgeries.”

  Keith decided that the time had come to try some different tactics. “This is nothing less than extortion!” he bellowed. “I’ll damn well have you closed down!”

  The German was unmoved. “You may have won the war, sir,” he said drily, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay your bills.”

  “Do you think you can get away with this?” shouted Keith. “I’m going to report you to my friend Captain Armstrong of the PRISC. Then you’ll find who’s in charge.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if we called in the police, and we can let them decide who’s in charge.”

  This silenced Keith, who paced up and down the forecourt for some time before admitting, “I don’t have twenty pounds.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll have to sell the car.”

  “Never,” said Keith.

  “In which case we’ll just have to garage it for you—at the usual daily rate—until you’re able to pay the bill.”

  Keith turned redder and redder while the two men stood hovering over his MG. They looked remarkably unperturbed. “How much would you offer me for it?” he asked eventually.

  “Well, there’s not much call for secondhand right-hand drive sports cars in Berlin,” he said. “But I suppose I could manage 100,000 Deutschemarks.”

  “But you told me earlier that you didn’t deal in Deutschemarks.”

  “That’s only when we’re selling. It’s different when we’re buying.”

  “Is that 100,000 over and above my bill?”

  “No,” said the mechanic. He paused, smiled and added, “but we’ll see that you get a good exchange rate.”

  “Bloody Nazis,” muttered Keith.

  * * *

  When Keith began his second year at Oxford, he was pressed by his friends in the Labor Club to stand for the committee. He had quickly worked out that although the club had over six hundred members, it was the committee who met Cabinet ministers whenever they visited the university, and who held the power to pass resolutions. They even selected those who attended the party conference and so had a chance to influence party policy.

  When the result of the ballot for the committee was announced, Keith was surprised by how large a margin he had been elected. The following Monday he attended his first committee meeting at the Bricklayers’ Arms. He sat at the back in silence, scarcely believing what was taking place in front of his eyes. All the things he despised most about Britain were being re-enacted by that committee. They were reactionary, prejudiced and, whenever it came to making any real decisions, ultra-conservative. If anyone came up with an original idea, it was discussed at great length and then quickly forgotten once the meeting had adjourned to the bar downstairs. Keith concluded that becoming a committee member wasn’t going to be enough if he wanted to see some of his more radical ideas become reality. In his final year he would have to become chairman of the Labor Club. When he mentioned this ambition in a letter to his father, Sir Graham wrote back that he was more interested in Keith’s prospects of getting a degree, as becoming chairman of the Labor Club was not of paramount importance for someone who hoped to succeed him as proprietor of a newspaper group.

  Keith’s only rival for the post appeared to be the vice chairman, Gareth Williams, who as a miner’s son with a scholarship from Neath Grammar School certainly had all the right qualifications.

  The election of officers was scheduled for the second week of Michaelmas term. Keith realized that every hour of the first week would be crucial if he hoped to become chairman. As Gareth Williams was more popular with the committee than with the rank and file members, Keith knew exactly where he had to concentrate his energies. During the first ten days of term he invited several paid-up members of the club, including freshmen, back to his room for a drink. Night after night they consumed crates of college beer and tart, non-vintage wine, all at Keith’s expense.

  With twenty-four hours to go, Keith thought he had it sewn up. He checked over the list of club members, putting a tick next to those he had already approached, and who he was confident would vote for him, and a cross by those he knew were supporters of Williams.

  The weekly committee meeting held on the night before the vote dragged on, but Keith derived considerable pleasure from the thought that this would be the last time he had to sit through resolution after pointless resolution that would only end up in the nearest wastepaper basket. He sat at the back of the room, making no contribution to the countless amendments to subclauses so beloved of Gareth Williams and his cronies. The committee discussed for nearly an hour the disgrace of the latest unemployment figures, which had just topped 300,000. Keith would have liked to have pointed out to the brothers that there were at least 300,000 people in Britain who were, in his opinion, simply unemployable, but he reflected that that might be unwise the day before he was seeking their support at the ballot box.

  He had leaned back in his chair and was nodding off when the bombshell fell. It was during “Any Other Business” that Hugh Jenkins (St. Peter’s), someone Keith rarely spoke to—not simply because he made Lenin look like a Liberal, but also because he was Gareth Williams’s closest ally—rose ponderously from his seat in the front row. “Brother Chairman,” he began, “it has been brought to my attention that there has been a violation of Standing Order Number Nine, Subsection c, concerning the election of officers to this committee.”

  “Get on with it,” said Keith, who already had plans for Brother Jenkins once he was elected that were not to be found under Subsection c in any rule book.

  “I intend to, Brother Townsend,” Jenkins said, turning round to face him, “especially as the matter directly concerns you.”

  Keith rocked forward and began to pay close attention for the first time that evening. “It appears, Brother Chairman, that Brother Townsend has, during the past ten days, been canvassing support for the post of chairman of this club.”

  “Of course I have,” said Keith. “How else could I expect to get elected?”

  “Well, I am delighted that Brother Townsend is so open about it, Brother Chairman, because that will make it unnecessary for you to set up an internal inquiry.”

  Keith looked puzzled until Jenkins explained.

  “It is,” he continued, “abundantly clear that Brother Townsend has not bothered to consult the party rule book, which states quite unambiguously that any form of canvassi