He was awoken by the ticking of the indicator, and saw the bonnet of the Bentley heading towards a metal gate and entering the drive of a little Victorian-style villa.
A gale swept the landscape, raging against the doors of the car and tearing at the hat that Cary was tempted to let it have, feigning an accident just to get rid of it. He turned up the collar of his coat and followed the chauffeur to the back of the building. The front door was locked.
They passed through several rooms that not a single ray of light penetrated, before the chauffeur threw open a door and, standing in the doorway, stiffly announced the guest.
‘Mr Kaplan has arrived, Sir Charles.’
Cary took a few steps forwards. The room was tastefully furnished and filled with a pleasant smell of wood and tobacco. The man who must have been Sir Charles Tilston Bright came towards him, extending his hand. Cary looked at him and had to admit that the man had a certain style. A relaxed gait, a sincere smile, clear, deep eyes, wearing classic weekend-in-the-country clothes, down to a neckerchief that puffed elegantly from his pullover.
‘Welcome to Wilford, Mr Grant. And welcome back to England. Have you been away for long?’
‘Since the last time I visited my mother,’ Cary broke in. He wasn’t in the mood for nostalgic observations about the old country. He could leave that to retired colonels.
As they made themselves comfortable on their little sofas, Sir Charles gave a slight cough: ‘Forgive me, but we haven’t told the chauffeur your identity. Apart from me and my closest collaborators, everyone else thinks they are dealing with George Kaplan, an agent returning from the United States with important information to pass on to us.’
‘A sensible precaution,’ replied Cary, ‘and my compliments on your house, Sir Charles, it really is enchanting. Although, to be honest, after ten hours on that infernal aeroplane, I would have been just as comfortable in a garage.’
Sir Charles laughed loudly, perhaps out of embarrassment, or perhaps because the humorous approach was one with which he was unfamiliar.
‘Thank you, Mr Grant, the cottage has been in my family for over a hundred years, and I try to keep it cosy. Now I’ll leave the choice up to you: I imagine you must be very tired from your journey. If you wish to go up to your room, you need only ask, otherwise we can discuss the matter at hand right away, and relax later on.’
Cary took another close look at the man sitting opposite him. He ran a hand over his rough chin, and slackened the knot of his tie. Better to find out straight away what death he was going to die
‘Since we’re here, Sir Charles, I’d prefer to find out more about how I’ll be travelling. Once I know that, I’ll find it easier to sleep.’
Sir Charles poured three fingers of Scotch into two elegant glasses and handed one to the actor.
‘Well, Mr Grant,’ he said finally, sniffing the whisky, ‘I know you want to go and see your mother in Bristol, but I imagine that there might be some other requirements of which I have not been informed. I would proceed as follows: first I will explain your itinerary as it currently stands, and then we will set about satisfying any requests you might have.’
Cary nodded to him to continue.
‘As regards the visit to your mother, it is important that you should be extremely careful. You are well known in Bristol, and so is your mother, and the journalists in the provinces are always chasing after news.’
‘I can’, Cary interrupted him, ‘reassure you on that count. To avoid being mobbed, I have stipulated a pact with the local press. They leave me in peace and in return, before I go back to America, I will undertake to see the journalists who wish to interview me. Of course I have no intention of doing any such thing on this occasion, but at least my mother’s house will not be besieged by photographers.’
‘That makes everything easier, Mr Grant. We had thought about organising the meeting in a hotel, but as I understand it that will not be necessary.’
‘For pity’s sake! My mother couldn’t bear to meet me in a strange place, it would make her impossibly nervous.’
Sir Charles relit his pipe, taking long puffs, and offered Cary a cigar. He suddenly felt that Betsy was very far away. Having smoked three packs of cigarettes a day before his wife helped him to stop, he suddenly yielded to temptation. The pungent taste of cigar combined on his tongue with the aroma of the Scotch.
‘Sadly you will have to travel by car to Bristol, there’s no way round it. We can’t allow you to use the civilian airport, and the military airport is not near enough to the city. Do you think you might ask your mother to be careful not to give too many details away if she mentions your visit to anyone?’
‘I don’t think that will be a problem. If I started talking about Marshal Tito and Anglo-American interests in Yugoslavia she’d stop me after the first three words. I’ll find a way to satisfy her curiosity without revealing anything about the mission.’
‘Good,’ Sir Charles smiled enthusiastically, ‘very good. Then let’s deal with everything else. The important thing, Mr Grant, is that you should reach Trieste by the end of the month. As long as we stick to that, you will be able to organise your time as you see fit, with the one reservation that you should stay abreast of your schedules, and avoid public places and public transport. Over the next few days you will have to acquaint yourself with the details of the mission. You will leave for Trieste from the airport at which you landed this morning. Once you have arrived there, you will be driven to the border, where one of our functionaries will be waiting for you. He will accompany you as far as Dubrovnik. From there, the Yugoslavians will bring you to Tito’s secret residence, about which I know little: it is a pleasant place, in all likelihood an island, in the south of the country. Obviously one of our agents will be with you at all times, our best man, you will meet him tomorrow. And that is all.’
‘All right, Sir Charles,’ replied Cary. ‘If it isn’t a problem for you, I’d like to set off for Bristol tomorrow. I would spend the night there and come back here the following day.’
Perhaps it was Archie who had spoken. Perhaps it was the approach of an adventure, of the unknown. Archie Leach, so close to home, was trying to escape.
‘And now,’ Cary continued, rising to his feet, ‘if there’s nothing else, I would very much like to get some rest.’
He held his hand out to Sir Charles, who shook it firmly. The chauffeur, reappearing in the doorway, asked Cary which suitcases he wished to unload.
Outside, the wind had subsided, but the usual fog was coming down. Cary had taken out an overnight bag, just enough for a change of clothes. Then he reached towards the front seat, where he had left the leather folder containing Hitch’s screenplay.
As he did so, he noticed a strange book on the dashboard. Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. He picked up the book and closed the door.
‘Is this yours?’ he asked the chauffeur.
‘Yes, are you interested in it? Take it, I finished it while I was waiting for you at the airport.’
‘Thanks, I haven’t brought anything to read apart from work. Is it any good?’
The driver shrugged. ‘It made me angry. If only our lives really were like that: beautiful women, gadgets and fist-fights. And to think that the author is one of us. A commander in the Naval Intelligence Department, it says there. But to pass the time. ’
Cary smiled. A novel by a former secret agent. The most appropriate reading matter he could have found.