He had run two hundred yards down-river before making his crossing, and now he found himself in the perimeter of the wood that curved east and south to the bisecting road where the two trucks were parked. Here, in the shadow of the trees, he could not be seen and the frozen snow on the ground beneath their laden branches was so thin that his stealthy progress could have been heard barely ten feet away. He had slung his automatic carbine now, and the weighted handkerchief in his hand swung gently to and fro as he picked his wary way from tree to tree.
But for all his soft-footed caution, he had covered the ground swiftly, and was alongside the parked trucks within three minutes, peering out from the shelter of a tree. There was no sign of life from either truck, their rear doors were closed, there was no sign of life at all. Reynolds straightened, preparing to glide across the snow to Hidas’ truck, then froze into immobility, rigid against the bole of his tree. A man had moved out from behind the shelter of Hidas’ truck, and was coming directly towards him.
For a moment Reynolds was certain that the man had seen him, then almost at once relaxed. AVO soldiers didn’t go hunting for armed enemies in a dark wood with their gun carried under the crook of one arm and a lighted cigarette in the other hand. The sentry obviously had no suspicions, was just walking around to keep his blood moving in that bitter cold. He passed by within six feet of Reynolds and as he began to move away, Reynolds waited no longer. He took one long step out from the concealing shelter of the tree, his right arm swinging, and just as the man started to whirl round, his mouth open to cry out, the weighted cloth caught him with vicious force at the nape of the neck. Reynolds had time to spare and to catch both the man and his gun and lower them silently to the ground.
He had the carbine in his hand now, and half a dozen steps took him to the front of the brown truck — a truck, Reynolds could see, with its engine hood blown off and motor damaged by the explosion of the Count’s grenade — then he was moving silently across to Hidas’ caravan, his eyes so intently watching the back door that he all but tripped over the crumpled shape lying at his feet on the ground. Reynolds stooped low, and although he knew, even as he stooped, who it was that was lying there, nevertheless the shock of confirmation made him grasp the barrel of his carbine as if he would crush it in his bare hands.
The Count was lying face upwards in the snow, his AVO cap still framing the lean aristocratic face, the chiselled aquiline features even more aloof and remote in death than they had been in life. It was not hard to see how he had died — that burst of machine-gun fire must have torn half his chest away. Like a dog they had shot him down, like a dog they had left him lying there in the darkness of that bitter night, and the gently falling snow was beginning to lie on the cold, dead face. Moved by some strange impulse, Reynolds removed the hated AVO cap, sent it spinning away into the darkness, pulled a handkerchief — a handkerchief stained with the Count’s own blood — from the dead man’s breast pocket and spread it gently across his face. Then he rose and walked to the door of Hidas’ caravan.
Four wooden steps led to the door and Reynolds walked up these as softly as a cat, kneeling at the top to peer through the keyhole. In the space of a second he could see what he wanted to see — a chair on the left-hand side, a made-up bunk on the right hand and, at the far end, a table with what looked like a wireless transmitter bolted to the top of it. Hidas, back to the door, was just seating himself in front of the table, and as he cranked a handle with his right hand and picked up a telephone with his left, Reynolds realized that it was no transmitter but a radio telephone. They should have thought of it. Hidas was not a man to move about the country without means of instant communication available to him, and now, with the skies clearing, he would almost certainly be calling in the air force, in a last, desperate gamble to stop them, but it didn’t matter any more. It was too late, it made no difference now, none to those whom Hidas was pursuing, and certainly none to Hidas himself.
Reynolds’ groping hand found the knob and he passed through the well-oiled door like a shadow, not quite closing it behind him: Hidas, his ear filled with the sound of the ratchety whirl of the call-up handle, heard nothing. Reynolds took three steps forward, the barrel of his carbine gripped in both hands and the stock raised high above his shoulders, and, as Hidas began to speak, brought it swinging down over Hidas’ shoulder and smashed the delicate mechanism to pieces.
Hidas sat for a moment in petrified astonishment, then whirled round in his chair, but he had lost the only moment he would ever need, Reynolds was already two paces away, the carbine again reversed in his hands, the muzzle trained on Hidas’ heart. Hidas’ face was a stone mask carved in shock, only his lips moved but no sound came from them as Reynolds slowly retreated, picked up the key he had seen lying on the bunk, felt for the keyhole and locked the door, his eyes never once leaving Hidas’. Then he moved forward and halted, with the mouth of the carbine, rocklike in its steadiness, just thirty inches short of the man in the chair.
‘You look surprised to see me, Colonel Hidas,’ Reynolds murmured. ‘You should not be surprised, you of all men. Those who live by the sword, as you have lived by the sword, must know better than any man that this moment comes to all of us. It comes to you to-night.’
‘You have come to murder me.’ It was a statement and not a question. Hidas had looked on death too often from the sidelines not to recognize it when its face turned towards himself. The shock was slowly draining out of his face, but no fear had yet come to replace it.
‘Murder you? No. I have come to execute you. Murder is what you did to Major Howarth. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t shoot you down in cold blood as you shot him? He hadn’t even a gun on him.’
‘He was an enemy of the State, an enemy of the people.’
‘My God! You try to justify your actions?’
‘They need no justification, Captain Reynolds. Duty never does.’
Reynolds stared at him. ‘Are you trying to excuse yourself — or just begging for your life?’
‘I never beg.’ There was no pride, no arrogance in the Jew’s voice, just a simple dignity.
‘Imre — the boy in Budapest. He died — slowly.’
‘He withheld important information. It was essential that we got it quickly.’
‘Major-General Illyurin’s wife.’ Reynolds spoke quickly to fight off a growing feeling of unreality. ‘Why did you murder her?’
For the first time a flicker of emotion showed in the thin, intelligent face, then vanished as quickly as it had come.
‘I did not know that.’ He inclined his head. ‘It is no part of my duty to wage war on women. I genuinely regret her death — even though she was dying as it was.’
‘You are responsible for the actions of your AVO thugs?’
‘My men?’ He nodded. ‘They take their orders from me.’
‘They killed her — but you are responsible for their actions. Therefore you are responsible for her death.’
‘If you put it that way, I am.’
‘If it were not for you, these three people would be alive now.’
‘I cannot speak for the General’s wife. The other two — yes.’
‘Is there then — I ask you for the last time — any reason why I shouldn’t kill you — now?’
Colonel Hidas looked at him for a long moment, in silence, then he smiled faintly, and Reynolds could have sworn that the smile was tinged with sadness.