Petrie judged; someone whose career comprised a predictable, steady progression up the promotion ladder.
The Provost motioned Petrie to an easy chair and looked at him curiously over metal-rimmed spectacles. ‘Dr Petrie, thank you for popping over. I dare say you’re wondering what this is all about.’
‘The PRTLI?’
‘What?’ The Provost looked surprised. ‘No, no, this isn’t a university matter at all.’
Petrie waited, mystified and nervous. The Provost’s companion, he noted, was going unintroduced. Behind the man’s brief smile, Petrie felt that he was being, somehow, assessed.
The man said, ‘I can’t tell you what this is about, Dr Petrie, because I don’t know myself.’
‘Right.’ So do we just sit here?
‘I’m just a message boy, you see.’
Petrie nodded. A message boy with a white silk shirt and Gucci cufflinks. The man continued: ‘It’s a request, really. Can you spare a few days to give some advice to Her Majesty’s Government?’
‘What about?’
‘I don’t know.’
In spite of the intimidating surroundings, Petrie laughed. ‘Okay. Where do we go from here?’
The Balliol man said, ‘It involves some foreign travel. To Vienna, I do know that.’
Vienna!
The Provost was leaning back in his chair, looking at Petrie thoughtfully. ‘Is there a problem, Dr Petrie?’
‘No, sir, I’m just thinking. My field is a bit off the beaten track.’
The Provost opened a buff folder in front of him. ‘Yes, it does seem rather abstruse.’ He peered at a sheet of paper. ‘What does it say here? Non-periodic tiling algorithms and unbreakable codes.’ The tone wasn’t altogether approving and Petrie wondered what Kavanagh had written in the annual confidential report.
Petrie looked across at the Provost’s mysterious companion. ‘Does Her Majesty’s Government want some decryption done? And if so, why don’t they just get GCHQ on the job?’
The question caught the Balliol College man by surprise. ‘It does seem odd.’
Sir John was strumming his fingers on Petrie’s file. ‘The request is that you be released from your university duties for the next two weeks. I have agreed to this.’
‘But Professor Kavanagh needs the research assessment report by this afternoon.’
The Provost frowned. ‘What? You’re writing it?’
‘Yes.’
The Provost scribbled on a memo. ‘I’ll drop Professor Kavanagh a note. He should perhaps be doing that himself.’
‘In that case, I guess I’m out of excuses.’
Mr Balliol handed over a sealed envelope. ‘Present yourself at the BA desk in two hours’ time and give them this reference number. Have your passport and travel things with you. Give your name as Mr Craig. Treat the matter in the strictest confidence. My telephone numbers, office and home, are therein but they mustn’t get into any other hands but yours.’
Petrie tore the envelope open, glanced at the numbers and returned the paper. ‘Why should I want to contact you?’
The man raised his hands and adopted a mystified look.
Nervously: ‘Are you asking me to get involved in espionage?’
‘Espionage? Oh my goodness no, how absurd!’ The civil servant quickly improvised a smile to emphasise this absurdity. ‘You’ll probably be back by the weekend, at which time I’ll contact you. However, you should keep yourself to yourself. If anyone speaks to you en route, be noncommittal. Beware of inappropriate behaviour abroad. Always act as if there is a hidden camera. Be especially wary of any, aah…’ – he squirmed slightly in the chair – ‘approaches from strange women.’
Petrie’s eyes widened.
The Provost cleared his throat. ‘Of course this is only a request, Petrie. You’re free to turn it down.’
‘I can’t wait.’ Petrie stood up. He turned at the door, hand on the handle and a worried expression on his face. ‘Forgive me, but this is pretty bizarre. Sir John, could this be some sort of elaborate hoax?’
A pink blush began to spread