This was something for which Robbie had not bargained. To be convicted was one thing, to confess was quite another. If he denied the charge, quite a lot of people might believe that the Czechs had used the fact that a young Englishman had taken a job with them to fake a charge against him, so that they could make anti-British propaganda out of the case. But to confess would give people no option about what to think. It would never be believed that he had gone into this on his own. They would take it as certain that his uncle had been behind the whole business, and lay the blame at his door for whatever happened to his nephew. Sir Finsterhorn had inspired no great devotion in Robbie but, all the same, he was not quite so simple as to fail to see the implications in this choice. Steeped as he was in the traditions of chivalry, since he had got himself into this mess nothing would have induced him to allow blame for it to be attributed to anyone else.
Stepping out of the cupboard, he slowly shook his head. 'No, Pan Krajcir, I'm afraid I couldn't do that.'
With set mouth, the other man stared at him, then spoke. Whereas Krajcir's voice had been imbued with anger and impatience, this one's held quiet authority. Till now, he had remained concealed behind the cupboard door. On stepping past it, Robbie got his first sight of him. Instantly, he recognized the square, bald-headed figure that he had last seen with Barak at Toyrcolimano. It was the First Secretary, Nejedly. He said:
'You will do as you are told, or take the consequences.'
Robbie's mouth twisted into a nervous, unhappy smile. 'You mean, you will send for the police?'
'Yes. Were you in my country, I could have you shot for what you have done. Here matters are different, but at least punishment can be secured for law-breakers who have been caught red-handed, as you have. Still, I am not a hard man; so I give you a choice. If you sit down, write a confession that I shall dictate, and sign it, I will let you go. If you refuse, you will spend tomorrow in a cell, and on Monday find yourself sentenced to a term of imprisonment.'
It was an offer that might have tempted many people, but not a young dreamer of dreams who thought of Bayard, that chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, as a man of only yesterday.
'No, thanks,' Robbie replied. 'You want me to implicate my uncle, don't you? But he had nothing to do with this, and I'm not playing.' As an afterthought he added: 'I don't mean to let you have it all your own way, either. After all, I'm one of the staff here. I shall say that I left something and came back—er— came back hoping to find Pan Krajcir still working in his office. Then . . . well, then, he wasn't here but I found a window open and so got in to get it. Yes, and I'll say that Mr. Krajcir asked me to make a copy of those notes for him before I left.'
The bald-headed Nejedly gave him a smile of contempt. 'You poor fool. Is it likely that, in a N.A.T.O. country, we would charge you with espionage? Even if convicted, with the sympathy of the West in your favour you would get off with only a token sentence. No. If you elect to go to court, it will be on a charge of having broken into the place and burgled it.'
'But I have stolen nothing!'
'Oh yes, you have.' Nejedly produced his notecase. From it, he took a thousand drachma note and two five hundreds. Holding them up, he went on: 'Comrade Krajcir will mark these. He will say that for some time he has had reason to believe that you have been stealing small sums of money from the till. This afternoon he laid a trap for you, by letting you see him put these away inside his bank paying-in book, then leaving you alone for a few minutes in this room. After the office was closed, he asked me to come back with him to see if you had taken the bait. Evidently you had feared to do so before the office closed. But you had left a window unlatched, and come back for it. Thus we were lucky enough to catch you red-handed.
Robbie's tanned face paled slightly. There seemed no way in which he could counter this tissue of lies or prove them false. He was learning fast that he was no match for men like Nejedly. Meanwhile, the First Secretary was going on:
'We shall add that you resisted us. Comrade Krajcir is a patriot. He will willingly give a little of his blood for his country. I, too, will sacrifice my shirt. I will tear it open, then give Pan Krajcir a tap on the nose. Just enough to make it bleed. Then we shall be able to charge you with robbery with violence, and ensure that you receive a good stiff sentence. Come now, is it to be like that, or will you sit down and write a confession?'
The word 'violence' begot an idea in Robbie's mind. He had never struck anyone in his life, but why should he not start now? The odds were two to one against him but, if he was going to be charged anyway with assaulting them, he might as well have the fun of doing it. Besides—sudden happy thought—if he hit them hard enough, there was just a chance that he might manage to escape before their shouts brought help.
Nejedly, bald, moonfaced, and with slit eyes that suggested he might have a dash of Tartar blood, was stockily built with powerful shoulders and long arms. He was standing about six feet from Robbie and between him and the door to the outer office. Krajcir, his gold tooth showing in a servile but none-too-happy grin at his superior's announcement that he should submit to having his nose punched in the service of his country, was standing on Robbie's right, and nearer to him. He was the elder and, Robbie decided, the less dangerous of the two, so the best plan seemed to be to try to put him out of action first. Drawing back his right fist, he swung it hard at the side of Krajcir's face.
Had Robbie ever been taught to box, his superior height and strength would have enabled him to make short work of the two Czechs, but he had never even had to put up his fists to defend himself in a school playground. Instead of the blow taking Krajcir under the side of the jaw and knocking him out, it landed on his cheek, merely jerking his head round and causing him to stagger back against the wall.
When Robbie struck out, Nejedly was holding a brief-case. Swiftly he set it down on Krajcir's desk and sailed in, not with his fists but with his feet. As he ran forward, his right foot shot out. It caught Robbie a frightful crack on the shin. He let out a yelp and lifted the injured leg in the air. With surprising agility for one with his figure, Nejedly jumped back a pace then kicked out with his left foot at Robbie's other leg.
Had that second savage kick landed, it would have brought Robbie down. But Krajcir, his cheek bright red from the blow he had been struck, had now rounded on his aggressor. As he lurched forward to strike Robbie, he cannoned into Nejedly. Both the kick and the blow failed to find their mark. That gave Robbie a moment's breathing space. With no plan, and only brute strength to aid him, he came lumbering forward, flailing his big fists indiscriminately at the two Czechs.
One blow caught Krajcir on the forehead. Momentarily dazed, he again fell back against the wall. Another blow landed on Nejedly's shoulder. It had such force behind it that it knocked him sideways, and he almost fell. For a moment, there was a clear space of several feet between them. Seizing his chance, Robbie made a dash for the door. He was half-way there when Nejedly recovered sufficiently to grab his wrist. At that instant, Robbie had one foot raised for his next stride. The sudden jerk on his wrist threw him off balance. His head thrown back and, clutching vainly at the air with his free hand, he heeled over sideways. Before he could recover, he cannoned into Nejedly and they both crashed to the ground. Robbie came down on top. As he fell his bent elbow, with all his weight behind it, came down on Nejedly's stomach, temporarily driving the breath out of his body.
1 With an agonizing groan, the Czech doubled up and, for the space of a few heartbeats, Robbie had him at his mercy. A Commando-trained agent would have put him out of the game for good by giving him one hard sock under the jaw. But Robbie had imbibed the tradition that one never hits a man when he is down. Slightly horrified by the sight of the bulging eyes and gasping mouth in the moon-like face beneath him, he stared at it for those few vital heartbeats, then struggled to his knees.