Yakimov, sinking into his seat, said: ‘First I must have a drink, dear boy.’ His glass full, he sipped at it in better humour. ‘If I told you I was a war correspondent,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t believe me.’
Freddi looked surprised. ‘A war correspondent! In which zone?’
‘Why, in Bucharest, dear boy.’
‘But Rumania is not at war.’
Yakimov thought this a quibble. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I was a newspaper man.’
‘Indeed!’ Von Flügel smiled encouragement.
Sitting with hands folded in his lap, he looked, thought Yakimov, like a benign old auntie, and his heart warmed to his friend. He giggled: ‘You and Dollie used to think that Yaki wasn’t too bright. Well, I reported that Calinescu business for an important paper.’
Von Flügel lifted a hand in astonished admiration. ‘And you come here to report the return of the Hungarians to their territory?’
Yakimov smiled. Delighted by the impression he was making, he felt a need to improve on it. He said: ‘I might as well tell you, this assignment is just a cover. My real reason for being here is … Well, it’s pretty hush-hush.’
Von Flügel watched him intently and, when he did not add to this revelation, said: ‘You are evidently a person of consequence these days. But tell me, mein Lieber, what exactly do you do?’
Not knowing the answer to this question, Yakimov backed down an old retreat route: ‘Not at liberty to say, dear boy.’
‘May I hazard a guess?’ von Flügel archly inquired. ‘Then I would say you are attached to the British Legation.’
Yakimov raised his eyes in astonishment at the accuracy of von Flügel’s guess. ‘Between ourselves,’ he said, ‘speaking as one old friend to another, I’m on the inside. I know a thing or two. As a matter of fact, there’s very little I don’t know.’
Von Flügel nodded slowly. ‘You work, no doubt, with this Mr Leverett?’
‘Old Foxy!’ Yakimov immediately regretted his exclamation, which was, he realised, a betrayal of his ignorance. Von Flügel smiled and said nothing. Yakimov, discomforted by a sense of lost advantage, stared into his empty glass for some moments before it occurred to him that he had in his possession the means of re-establishing interest in himself. He drew from his hip pocket the plan he had found in Guy’s desk. ‘Got something here,’ he said. ‘Give you an idea … not supposed to flash it about, but between old friends …’
He handed the paper to Freddi, who took it smiling, looked at it and ceased to smile. He stared at it on both sides, then held it up to the light. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.
Disturbed by the change in Freddi’s tone, Yakimov put out his hand for the paper. ‘Not at liberty to say.’
‘I’d like to keep this.’
‘Can’t let you do that, dear boy. Not mine really. Have to give it back …’
‘To whom?’
This question was put abruptly, in a hectoring tone that pained and bewildered Yakimov. If he had forgotten Freddi could be a silly, he had never known that Freddi could be a beast. He said with hurt dignity: ‘This is all very hush-hush, dear boy. ’Fraid I can’t tell you anything more. Really must have the paper back.’
Von Flügel rose. Without answering Yakimov, he crossed over to one of his cabinets, put the plan into it and locked the door.
Uncertain whether or not this was a joke, Yakimov protested: ‘But you can’t, dear boy. I must have it back.’
‘You may get it before you leave.’ Von Flügel put the key into his pocket. ‘Meanwhile, we shall find out if it is genuine.’
‘Of course it’s genuine.’
‘We shall see.’
During this exchange von Flügel’s manner had been stern and unamused, now it changed again. Advancing on Yakimov, he clasped his hands under his chin and his gait became a caricature of himself. Yakimov, watching him, was embarrassed by behaviour that he could only describe as odd. His embarrassment changed to fear when von Flügel, reaching him, stood over him with the malign stare of an old crocodile.
‘Whatever is the matter, dear boy?’ Yakimov tremulously asked.
‘What is this game? You take me for a simpleton, perhaps?’
‘However could you think that?’
‘Does one enter a lion’s den and say: “Eat me. I am a juicy steak”?’
Von Flügel’s whole attitude expressed menace, but to Yakimov it seemed such a deplorable performance that he imagined at any moment the whole thing would collapse into laughter. Instead von Flügel went on with increasing grimness: ‘Does one come to a Nazi official and say: “I am an enemy agent. Here is my sabotage plan. Hand me, please, to the Gestapo.”’
‘Really, dear boy, the Gestapo!’
‘Yes, the Gestapo!’ Von Flügel savagely imitated Yakimov’s outraged tone. ‘What else do I do with a British spy.’
Yakimov, for the first time, felt genuine alarm. There seemed to be nothing left of his old friend Freddi. What he saw beside him was indeed a Nazi official who might hand him over to the Gestapo. At the thought he almost collapsed with fear. ‘Dear boy!’ he pleaded on a sob.
Freddi, a stranger and a dangerous stranger, had become the interrogator. ‘What little trick do you come here to play? What do you call it? The double bluff? We can soon discover. I have in this house a number of strong young men with fists.’
‘Oh, Freddi,’ Yakimov whimpered, ‘don’t be unkind. It was only a joke between friends.’
‘That plan wasn’t a joke.’
‘I told you it didn’t belong to me. I pinched it. Just to amuse you, dear boy.’
‘You said you belonged to British Intelligence.’
‘No, dear boy, not in so many words. Can you see poor Yaki as a secret agent? I ask you!’ Crouching in the sofa corner, watching with the perception of terror, Yakimov saw uncertainty on von Flügel’s face, but not conviction. If he, von Flügel, could change into a Nazi official, then what might Yakimov not become in these strange times? Gradually von Flügel’s face softened with contempt. He sat down. Speaking in the tone of one who will brook no further nonsense, he asked: ‘Where did you get that plan?’
Yakimov in his relief was not only willing to answer, but to answer more than he was asked. He was, he explained, a lodger in the flat of Guy Pringle, an Englishman who lectured at the University. He had found the plan in the flat and had borrowed it, just for fun. ‘Meant no harm,’ he said: ‘Didn’t really know what it was, but I had m’suspicions. Queer comings and goings in that flat, I must say …’ As he went on for some time about his suspicions and the ‘queer types’ whom the Pringles entertained, he reminded himself of how he had worked to make Guy’s production, but when it was over Guy had abandoned him. He said: ‘If you ask me, Pringle’s a Bolshie.’
Von Flügel nodded calmly and asked: ‘What sort of “queer types”?’
‘There’s that fellow David Boyd. Now he works with Leverett and no one knows what he does. And there’s a very strange chap hangs around the kitchen. He pretends he’s related to the servant but he speaks English like a gent. The Pringles have kept him under cover. He was in a blue funk when I walked in on him.’
Von Flügel set his teeth on his lower lip and appeared to reflect on this. He asked at last: ‘What are you doing in the apartment of such people?’
‘Went there in all innocence, dear boy. Thought them very nice at first.’
Von Flügel nodded and spoke portentously: ‘Charm is the stock-in-trade of such persons. It is intended to put you off your guard.’