The owl’s cry had an impatient note now; once when it came he had to alter his direction a little. But it was only some ten minutes after he had entered the forest that the resistance of pliant branch and twig and the hard rigidity of the tree-trunks seemed suddenly to break and he realized that he was on the edge of a clearing.
A moment later a blinding light shone full into his face. His body jerked with the sheer suddenness of it and he shut his eyes. It didn’t check with Prakesh’s warning…
Then a rough voice hissed in English, “Still, you. Quite still. I have a gun.”
Shaw kept perfectly still and said nothing. He heard crunching footsteps then and heavy breathing and then he smelt the strong acid of a man’s body-sweat as the torch came nearer. Foul breath swept his face. The torch was lowered from his eyes then and he was able to make out a big, coarse man with a black beard. This man was glaring at him surlily and in his hands he carried an old-fashioned Sten gun lined up on Shaw’s chest. That Sten might be old-fashioned, but it looked well-kept and highly dangerous.
The man asked softly, “Alison?”
“Right. You’re Istvan Gorsak?”
“Your papers first.”
“I think not. I want—”
“Your papers. Come.” The muzzle of the Sten dug into his ribs. “I take no chances. I will shoot.”
Shaw breathed hard; he couldn’t argue with that Sten. He reached into his windcheater and handed over his forged passport. In the light of the torch the man flicked over the pages, glanced keenly at Shaw’s face, and handed the passport back. Then he said, “So. I am Istvan Gorsak, yes. It is good that you’ve got here.”
“Then we agree on something. Well — now you know who I am, you can put that gun away, can’t you?”
The man shook his head stubbornly, looked angry. “No. You have a gun.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Shaw said, “Of course I have. What did you expect me to carry — a parasol?”
“Give it to me.”
“Look here, Gorsak—”
“Give it to me.” The Sten was pushed into him again and he saw the finger tightening on the trigger. “At once, friend. If I am to help, you must obey. I give all the orders.”
Shaw’s mouth hardened for a moment and then he shrugged and let out his breath in irritation. He would have preferred some other guide than this suspicious, heavy-handed peasant. He said, “As you wish.” He reached into the windcheater and brought out the Webley .38 and handed it over. Gorsak took it without a word and thrust it into his belt. Then he lowered the Sten and swung the sling across his thick shoulders.
He said shortly, “Now come.”
The light snapped off and the darkness was blacker than ever. Shaw sensed the man turning and then heard his command, “Your hand on my shoulder.”
Shaw reached out, felt the hard muscles beneath his hand. This man was built like a gorilla; Shaw hoped he wasn’t on the same level of intelligence. Gorsak moved across the clearing, Shaw holding on to his gigantic body. In a few moments they were back in thick forest again, but Gorsak found his way unerringly, making away from the Indsbach road along which Shaw had come.
Half an hour later Gorsak stopped. Over his shoulder he said curtly, “Wait here. Do not move.”
He went forward, slowly and cautiously, almost soundlessly. Then Shaw heard him calling softly in his own language, and then a woman’s voice came back in answer. Shaw hadn’t expected a second person, let alone a woman. He heard Gorsak mutter something and soon after that the Hungarian was back beside him. The man seemed to have cat’s eyes, for he hadn’t used the torch. He hissed, “Come. My woman Gelda tells me the road is quite clear. Keep silent. We shall see no one, I believe, but if we do, I talk — not you talk.” He jerked the Sten and when he spoke again he sounded as if he was grinning. “Or maybe this talk, yes?”
Gorsak went forward again then and within half a minute they were out of the trees. The road was still clear and in the fitful moonlight as the clouds moved Shaw could make out the woman, Gelda — a wide-mouthed, husky young gipsy woman with swelling breasts, going towards an ancient vehicle which once had been a bus, drawn up out of sight from the road. As they came nearer Shaw looked at its gaudy sides covered with peeling paint and at the windows, bare of glass mostly and filled in with what looked like plywood or even cardboard. Ancient, decayed posters flapped from its bodywork. It looked as though it was used as a caravan — very likely Gorsak was also a gipsy, like the woman. Gorsak gestured Shaw to get into the front. Gelda climbed in beside him on the wide seat and then Gorsak heaved himself up, grunting, behind the wheel. The decayed old bus started up with a roar and a rattle which sounded to Shaw as though it must be heard in Indsbach itself, but Gorsak was quite unperturbed. He drove out into the road, his biceps bulging hard against Shaw’s body as he swung the wheel hard over, the vehicle lurching heavily over the bumps. He headed then, so far as Shaw could judge, away from the direction of Indsbach, making southward. A light rain began to fall, spotting the windscreen.
Shaw looked sideways at the Hungarian. In the faint light from the dash he appeared ugly and brutal, with an almost brigandish air. Despite the chill of the night he wore only a dirty check shirt with rolled-up sleeves, below which his arms were like tree-trunks — hard, dark brown, knotted, thickly covered with hair, as were the backs of his enormous, stubby-fingered hands, hands that looked as though they could strangle a man with ease, break his neck in seconds. Black hair sprouted through the open neck of the shirt and from his ears and nostrils. On the other side of Shaw, the woman was dark and voluptuous, with promiscuous lips and high cheekbones and an arrogant nose. There was an animal smell about her body, earthy and crude. Her hair was jet black, in daylight might have a bluish sheen, and it was half concealed beneath a gaudy headcloth. Small golden ear-rings pierced her lobes. Shaw didn’t much care for the look of either of these two, but he would have to make the best of them. Wolfgang Prakesh must know what he was about.
After a while Shaw asked, “Where are we going to cross the frontier, Gorsak?”
“You will see.” The tone was surly and unhelpful but Shaw persisted.
He asked, “Surely if we go much farther south, we won’t be on the Czech border at all?”
The glances of the man and woman seemed to meet across him and Gorsak laughed. He said, “We do not go into Czechoslovakia. You have been told that I come from Hungary?”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“Do not think from now on. I think. Only Gorsak think. You are nothing. Do only as Gorsak say. Indsbach…” He shrugged massively. “Was only a false trail, Indsbach — just in case of accidents. Is better so. Gorsak prefer to cross into Russia through ’is own country.”
Shaw nodded. It made sense right enough, though he had decidedly understood from Prakesh that they were to go by way of Czechoslovakia. He said, “All right, I get you. You know best.”
Again Gorsak laughed. “Good. You are wise, friend.”
“How are we going to cross?” Shaw asked.
“The usual route. The frontier post at Carovác.”
Shaw came bolt upright. “Over my dead body!” he snapped. “We can’t possibly do that. I’ve no papers — at least, none that I can use at any frontier post, and I only know a word or two of the language—”
Gorsak broke in savagely as he swung the bus round a bend. “Who knows best his own country? Who knows best what can be done in Hungary and what cannot? You — or Gorsak?” He seethed for a while, muttering and grumbling to himself, then calmed down. “Do not be foolish, friend. You will not need to worry. We shall get through… eh. Gelda?”