Yardman searched among the clutter on the bench and produced a length of chain and two padlocks, one large, one small. Billy had shut the door and was standing with his back to it, the gun pointing steadily in my direction. Alf, Rous-Wheeler and Giuseppe had prudently removed themselves from his line of fire.
Yardman said, ‘Go over to that first girder, my dear boy, and sit down on the floor.’
To say I was reluctant to be tied again is to put it mildly. It wasn’t only that it was the end of any hope of escape, but I had a strong physical repugnance to being attached to things, the result of having been roped to a fir in a Scottish forest one late afternoon in a childhood game by some cousins I was staying with: they had run away to frighten me and got lost themselves, and it had been morning before the subsequent search had found me.
When I didn’t obey at once, Yardman, Giuseppe and Billy all took a step forward as if moved by the same mind. There was no percentage in having them jump on me: I was sore enough already. I walked over to the girder and sat down facing them, leaning back idly against the flat metal surface.
‘That’s better,’ Yardman said. He came round and knelt down on the ground at my back. ‘Hands behind, my dear boy.’
He twined the chain round my wrists and clicked on both padlocks. Tossing the keys on his palm he stood up and came round in front of me. All five of them stared down with varying degrees of ill-feeling and I stared glassily back.
‘Right,’ said Yardman after a pause. ‘We’d better get out and finish the painting. But this time we must leave someone with him, just in case.’ He reviewed his available troops, and alighted on Rous-Wheeler. ‘You sit here,’ he said to him, picking up a chair and taking it over beside the switches, ‘and if he does anything you aren’t sure about, switch on the runway lights and we’ll come at once. Clear?’
Rous-Wheeler was delighted to avoid any more painting and accepted his new task with enthusiasm.
‘Good.’ Yardman looked at his watch. ‘Go on then, Billy.’ Billy, Alf and Giuseppe filed out and Yardman stopped as he followed them to say to Rous-Wheeler, ‘The cargo will be arriving soon. Don’t be alarmed.’
‘Cargo?’ said Rous-Wheeler in surprise.
‘That’s right,’ Yardman said. ‘Cargo. The reason for this... um... operation.’
‘But I thought I...’ began Rous-Wheeler.
‘My dear Rous-Wheeler, no,’ said Yardman. ‘Had it been just you, I could have sent you down the usual discreet pipeline from Milan. Your journey would have been just as secret as it is now. No, we needed the plane for a rather special cargo, and as you know, my dear boy,’ he swung round to speak directly to me with a small ironic smile, ‘I do hate wasting space on flights. I always try to make up a full load, so as not to neglect an opportunity.’
‘What is this cargo, then?’ asked Rous-Wheeler with a damaged sense of self-importance.
‘Mm?’ said Yardman, putting the padlock keys down on the bench. ‘Well now, it’s the brain child of a brilliant little research establishment near Brescia. A sort of machine. An interesting little development, one might say. Broadly speaking, it’s a device for emitting ultrasonic rays on the natural frequency of any chosen mineral substance.’
‘Ultrasonics have been extensively researched,’ Rous-Wheeler said testily.
Yardman smiled tightly. ‘Take it from me, dear fellow, this particular development has great possibilities. Our friends have been trying to arrange photographs of the drawings and specifications, but these have been too well guarded. It proved easier in the end to... er... remove some vital parts of the device itself. But that of course presented a transport problem, a difficult transport problem, requiring my own personal supervision.’ He was talking for my benefit as much as Rous-Wheeler’s: letting me know how expert he was at his job. ‘Once we were committed to the plane, of course it was the easiest way to take you too.’
No opportunity wasted. But he hadn’t originally intended to take me as welclass="underline" to give him his due.
Yardman went out of the hangar. Rous-Wheeler sat on his hard chair and I on the hard concrete and again my presence and/or predicament embarrassed him.
‘Played any good wall games lately?’ I said at length.
A hit, a palpable hit. He hadn’t expected any needling school chums on his little trip. He looked offended.
‘Have you been to... er... wherever you’re going... before?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said shortly. He wouldn’t look at me.
‘And do you speak the language?’
He said stiffly, ‘I am learning.’
‘What are they offering you?’
Some heavy smugness crept into his manner. ‘I am to have a flat and a car, and a better salary. I will of course be in an important advisory position.’
‘Of course,’ I said dryly.
He flicked me his first glance. Disapproving.
‘I am to be a consultant interpreter of the British way of life... I pride myself that in my own small way I shall be promoting better understanding between two great peoples and making a positive contribution to the establishment of fruitful relations.’
He spoke as if he really meant it; and if he were as self-satisfied as that, he wouldn’t consider turning round and going back. But Yardman had left the padlock keys on the bench...
‘Your actions may be misunderstood, back home,’ I said.
‘At first. That has been explained to me. But in time...’
‘You’re wrong,’ I said roughly. ‘They’ll call you a traitor. A plain stinking common or garden traitor.’
‘No,’ he said uneasily.
‘What you need is someone to put your views forward, to explain what you are doing, so that your former colleagues admire you, and wish they had made more use of your undoubted abilities while they had the chance...’ I thought I’d laid it on too thick, but not so. He was looking seriously pensive.
‘You mean... you? You would represent me?’ He pursed his lips.
‘I don’t always look so dirty,’ I said earnestly. ‘I could pull a certain amount of weight with my father’s friends, and... er... I have an uncle who more or less lives in the Reform Club.’
He was nodding, taking it all in.
‘A word in the right ear,’ he said judiciously.
‘Recognition,’ I put in gently.
He looked modest. ‘That’s too much to hope for.’
‘In time,’ I insinuated.
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Well, of course.’ I paused. ‘I would be happy to clear up any... er... bad feelings which your... move... may have left.’
‘Uncommonly kind of you,’ he said pompously.
‘At the moment, however, I don’t look like being able to.’
He looked disappointed. ‘I suppose not.’ He frowned. ‘You could have done me an excellent... as I see it now, an essential... service.’
I said casually, ‘A great pity, yes. Of course... the keys are just beside you... if you felt like it.’
He looked at the keys and at me. He stood up. He took the keys into his hand. I could feel my heart thudding as I tried to look unconcerned. He took a step in my direction. Then, looking uneasily round, his glance fell on the runway lights switch. He stared at it, transfixed.
‘Yardman said to put the lights on, if you tried anything.’ There was consternation in his voice. He turned and put the keys back on the bench as if they were suddenly hot. ‘Yardman considers it essential for you to remain here. It would not be an auspicious start for me with my new friends if the first thing I did was so exactly contrary to their wishes.’
‘Yardman’s wishes.’
He used a modicum of brain. ‘If I let you go back to England, Yardman wouldn’t be able to. His invaluable transport service would have come to an end...’ He looked horrified at the abyss he had almost stepped into. ‘I would have been most unpopular.’