do their bidding out of admiration. I'm not one of those scruffs who shout all the time about privileged classes, I'm not. My mum always said, "If the good Lord wanted you to live in a castle, you'd have been born in one." And my mum's a wise old bird, she is. She also says 'that we should take Christian pride in serving our betters, 'cause somewhere in the Bible it says it's better to give than to get, or sompin' like that.
"Course my pa works on the docks and doesn't have mum's refinements-"
"It really isn't necessary that you talk dear child," Mosedale interrupted, his brows arched in controlled frustration.
"As a matter of fact, it's time for the BBC news, isn't it?" He glanced at his watch.
"Indeed, it is! I think that's enough of a massage, my sweet. Why not turn on the telly, then go up and bathe. I'll join you in a while, so wait for me, my angel."
"Sure, Ollie. And I'll wear that nightie you like so much. God knows it's easy to put on, what there is of it." The housekeeper-cum-concubine went to the television set, snapped it on, and waited for the proper channel to be in focus. She blew Mosedale a kiss and walked provocatively through the arch to the staircase.
The BBC news reader his voice and expression neutral, began with the recent events in the Balkans, shifted to the news out of South Africa, briefly touched on the accomplishments of the Royal Academy of Science, then paused and continued with words that caused Oliver Mosedale to sit up and stare at the figure on the screen.
"Reports out of Whitehall have a number of members of Parliament and other government officials in high dudgeon due to what appear to be ongoing inquiries by British intelligence into their private lives. Jeffrey Billows, MP from Manchester, rose on the floor to denounce what be called 'police state' tactics, claiming that his neighbors had been questioned about him, including his vicar.
Another MP, Angus Ferguson, shouted that not only had his neighbors -been interrogated, but that his garbage had been rummaged, and the bookstore be frequents asked what books be purchases.
Apparently, even the Foreign Office is not immune, as several high officials have declared they will resign before -being subjected to such 'utter nonsense," as one put it. Their names are being withheld at the request of the Foreign Secretary.
These events would seem to mirror the news from the United States, where prominent figures in and out of government are experiencing similar invasions of privacy. A story in the Chicago Tribune headlined the question, "Is the Hunt for Unreconstructed Communists or for Reconstructed Fascists?" We here at BBC will keep you informed as the story develops.
Now to the painful, all-too-familiar antics of the Royal family.. .. "
Mosedale shot out of his chair, turned off the television, and lurched for the telephone on a Queen Anne table against the wall.
Frantically, he dialed.
"What the hell is going on?" screamed the adviser to the Foreign Secretary.
"You have time, Rute," said the female voice on the line.
"We were going to call you early in the morning, suggesting you not go to Whitehall. They haven't reached your section yet, but they're close. You have a reservation on British Air for Munich tomorrow at noon, the ticket's in your name. Everything's been cleared."
"That's not good enough. I want out tonight!"
"Plea'se hold, I'll check the computers." The interim silence was torture for Mosedale. Finally the voice came back.
"There's a Lufthansa flight to Berlin at eleven twenty Can you make it?"
"You're damned right I can." Oliver Mosedale hung up the phone, walked into the foyer, and shouted at the base of the staircase.
"Angel, start packing a bag for me! just a simple change of clothes like you've done before. Quickly!"
A naked "Angel" appeared at the railing above.
"Where are you going, luv? I'm about to put on the nightie you like to take off. And then it's heaven, isn't it, Ollie?"
"Sbut up and do as you're told! I've one more call to make, and when I'm finished I expect my suitcase to be down here!" Mosedale ran back to the Queen Anne table, picked up the phone, and again dialed furiously.
"I'm leaving," he said to the voice which had only grunted.
"My phone indicator tells me that this is Rute's number. Is that you, code Switch?"
"You know goddamned well it is. Take care of my affairs here in London."
"I've already done so, Switch. The house is on the