He was aware that he had aroused the fury of a large and nationally important shipping line. And his passport was out-of-date. ‘If you would be so good as to accompany me to my office, sir …’ the Port Security Officer invited. Mr Bernard Vasey came willingly enough, accepting a chair and a cigarette in the manner of a man who had a clean conscience and was superbly indifferent to his appearance. He managed it by forcing himself to remember that he was more accustomed to give orders to minor officials than to receive them. ‘My passport is sufficient proof of British nationality,’ he said. ‘I am under no obligation to have it stamped merely to land in the United Kingdom.’ The Port Security Officer made no comment except to ask why he had not had his passport renewed by the nearest British Consul to his place of residence. ‘He was seven hundred miles away.’ ‘Why did you not attend to it at Pernambuco before you embarked?’ ‘Because the Patagonia was due to sail.’ ‘Would you care to account for the fact that when the Patagonia called at Vigo you endeavoured to remain in Spain illegally?’ ‘Any complaint from General Franco?’ ‘After you had paid your fare at Pernambuco you had little or no money left.
