Foyle's War

Rembrandt died on the 4th of October 1669.

And in his last self-portraits,

I think you see a sense of calm and of resignation.

He had known so much turmoil

and personal unhappiness,

but at the end, he found an acceptance.

It was, perhaps, a triumph of art over life.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

We will be visiting Kenwood House on Tuesday.

There are still places left.

So, please, let me know if you wish to come.

Professor Van Haaren.

My dissertation... I was wondering if...

The portrait of Jan Six?

Yes.

I'm halfway. Some interesting insights.

We will talk next week.

Thank you.

No. No.

No. No. No.

Uh!

- You alright? - Oh.

Come on.

How are you?

I'm... I'm fine.

No bones broken.

Are you sure, really?

Thank you.

Alright. Take it easy.

Thank you. Sorry.

Come in, Foyle.

I'm in a quandary.

I don't much like it,

and I doubt you will either, but I inherited it,

and there's not much I can do about it.

It needs tact.

Pieter Van Haaren.

Dutch, educated at the University of Leiden.

Expert in Dutch art,

particularly Rubens and Rembrandt,

now a lecturer in London.

That's the cover.

And the reality?

Karl Strasser. Nazi.

SS Brigadefuhrer Karl Strasser

was a desk soldier in SS Foreign Intelligence.

Arrested in Denmark at the end of the war.

Since then, he's been

an extremely valuable intelligence asset

with an almost unrivaled knowledge

of Soviet spy networks.

It's in the file.

Mm-hmm.

He believes that he's in danger.

Says someone is planning to kill him.

Well, as a Nazi officer in Postwar Britain,

is he surprised?

No, up to now, his cover's held.

He lives in a boarding house,

privately owned but controlled by us.

In fact, his entire life is carefully regulated.

But he keeps his head down. And as far as we can tell,

no one even suspects that he's German.

So?

Read the file. Meet him.

Assess the situation, let me know what you think.

It would be annoying

to have to move him and change his name,

but if there really is any danger,

we can't afford to lose him.

I see.

And don't let your personal feelings

get in the way.

He was, after all, a senior German officer...

you may not like him.

- You may be right. - Indeed.

Unfortunately, we need him.

They're smoking fags.

They're rude.

Half of them don't even go to school,

and nobody's doing anything about it.

Well, that's... that's not quite true, Mrs. Jones.

We've looked into this,

and the report by Dame Myra Curtis

will be published very soon.

It's all very well you having reports.

But I don't feel safe going out of the house.

Well, I'll talk to the police

and we'll see if we can get some more officers on the beat.

Oh, uh...

The trouble is, nobody has any respect anymore.

Well, I'll... I'll see what I can do.

This way, Mrs. Jones.

Ah, thank you, dear.

Can we talk to the superintendent?

I'll make a note of it, sir, but she was complaining

about the police last week, so, uh...

- Is there anyone else? - One more.

He's not a constituent, though, so you don't have to see him.

Geoffrey Helliwell. He's come up from Devizes.

Wiltshire?

I know. Bit of a hike.

Well, show him in.

Mr. Helliwell,

has somebody offered you some tea?

I don't want tea, thank you all the same.

Then, uh, how can I help you?

I want back what is mine.

There was a compulsory purchase order in 1938.

The farmhouse, the land, the whole works.

The RAF needed it... 1,000 acres for bombing practice.

Well, it was the war.

I didn't argue.

I was glad to do my bit.

But I made it very clear,

it was only for the duration, then I'd buy it back.

That's what we agreed.

I wrote to you, Mr. Helliwell.

As I understand it, the land had risen in value.

Doubled in value! In eight years?!

That's not possible!

There must have been an independent valuation.

Well, just how independent was it?!

That's what I want to know!

Your minister, Mr. Roper, won't tell me!

Why is he hiding behind you?!

You need to understand, this is a local surgery

for issues relating to West Peckham.

That's what they all say! "Not my business"!

Mr. Helliwell, where are you staying?

Kensington.

Maythorpe Hotel.

I'll talk to Mr. Roper.

I'm sure it's more straightforward than you think.

You lot think you can get away with this,

but let me tell you,

I know there's something dirty going on.

I can smell it!

Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Wainwright,

and I'll see you next Wednesday.

We'll have the results of your tests by then.

And in the meantime, you look after yourself.

Thank you, Doctor.

- Miss Browne? - Hello, Doctor.

Hello. How was it?

I'm sorry?

The dentist.

Yes. Absolutely fine, sir.

All in order.

Good. How's Adam?

Busy.

Enjoying it?

Well, he is.

Truth is, I hardly see any of him,

now he's become a private secretary.

I always used to tell him about my work.

These days, I feel, if I open my mouth,

I'll get carted off and arrested.

Well, he'd understand that, wouldn't he?

He doesn't even notice.

He's got the minister, his party manager, his constituents.

He hardly has any time left for me.

So, what is this place? A nest of spies?

Yep. But they're our spies.

Oh. Well, that's alright, then.

Yes?

Good morning.

I'm looking for a Professor Van Haaren.

He's not here.

If you want to see the professor,

you should come back when the library's closed.

I see.

Yes. He likes his books, the professor.

Old paintings and painters.

Can't see the fascination, myself.

Who shall I say called?

My name's Foyle.

He can reach me anytime on this number.

And what's this about?

It's just that he doesn't

get that many visitors, Herr Van Haaren.

Likes to keep himself to himself.

Know what I mean?

You'll find he's expecting me.

Right.

How many people live here?

Three tenants. Three rooms.

If you're looking for somewhere, I'm afraid you're out of luck.

No, no. Just wondering.

Just nosy.

I don't mean to be rude,

but we're not very sociable here.

It's just the way we are.

Do tell him I called.

If I see him, I'll let him know.

Professor Van Haaren?

I bet that's not his real name.

Why do you say that?

I don't know.

I suppose I don't trust anyone anymore.