“Why are you working for them?” said Methuen at last when the first of her few questions had been asked and answered. “Ah,” she said, “the only choice left was to become the mistress of someone. My ration card was taken away because I refused. One has to eat. But luckily, luckily … I found I could be of use.” She lowered her voice to a whisper again and said: “They are afraid of us, Methuen. They know we are getting strong. They know that everyone is on our side and that the country would rise to-morrow if it could hear the voice of a leader.”
“Tell me about the broadcasts,” said Methuen, drawing a bow at a venture, and was delighted to see the look of surprised recognition in her eyes. “Ah! you know about those,” she said.
“A certain amount. Sophia Marie must be a White Eagle too.”
“How do you find out things that even the OZNA does not know?”
“How is the message passed?”
“Some are repeated.”
“I know.”
“The message starts at the tenth line.”
Methuen could have kicked himself with annoyance. He should really have thought of something as simple as that. With a sudden impulse he took out of his pocket the little collection of folk-songs which Anson had carried with him on his journey. He hunted out the passage marked in pencil and was delighted to find that it started at the tenth line of the poem.
“What is that?” said Vida. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m an ass,” said Methuen, “I should have known.”
“I should not tell you this,” she said, squeezing his arm through the sleeve of his mackintosh. “I am sworn to secrecy. The eagles would kill me. I told you that they hate England now, nearly as much as they hate Tito. They do not understand you like I do. Methuen, help us.”
“How?” he said helplessly. “Just how?”
She turned her dark magnificent eyes on him and said: “At this very moment our movement needs help. We need access to the highest quarters in England. Can you reach perhaps the Prime Minister with a message if you wish?”
“I doubt it.”
“It is important for England too. Something very big is happening in the mountains of south Serbia. We have the means in our hands to overturn the Tito régime. Surely England would be interested in that? I remember when I worked for you you could always reach the Secretary of State’s office. Our people are savage, they don’t trust England. They think that if you knew what we had discovered you would help Tito to suppress our movement. Oh, Methuen, do you see?”
“What is it?” Tears came into her eyes and she shook her head. “I cannot tell you without authority. I must not. I dare not.”
There came the tramp of feet on the turret stairs and she broke off. A large family party, surrounded by children, rambled up to the terrace with much puffing and blowing, and admired the view with considerable expenditure of oaths and grunts. Gravely the father pointed out the sights to his children: “There is Smederavo — or should be if you could see it,” and “There is Zemun — only it is hidden in smoke.…” Methuen could feel the girl trembling, and glancing at her out of the corner of his eye he saw that she was crying noiselessly. She recovered herself and blew her nose. The Serbian family rambled off and silence fell once more.
“I’m going to-morrow,” he said.
“To London?”
“Yes.”
“How I wish I could come with you. But I feel I must see this thing through to the end. In spite of being brought up abroad I feel so terribly Serbian here,” and she pressed her hand to her heart with an old familiar gesture that gave Methuen a pang of sympathy. “You too loved our country, before, Methuen. Have you seen what they are doing to it?”
Silence fell for a moment during which they stood gazing out across the magnificent sweep of the two rivers. Then she said: “Methuen, I have decided one thing. To-night we have a secret meeting and I shall ask permission to tell you what we are doing. Just one phrase will make it clear to you. Believe me, it is nothing small. But I only do this if you promise to go to the Foreign Secretary yourself and tell him that England must help us. Will you? Will you?”
“I promise you with all my heart”, said Methuen, using the lovely Serbian phrase with an emotion that surprised him, “that I will try. I promise you.” She took his hand and kissed it. “To-night,” she said, “after twelve, you may telephone the number I am giving you. Ask for Sophia Marie. Ask her if Vida is there and if I have the permission of my people I will say one phrase to you which will contain the whole meaning. You will understand then.”
She produced a diminutive powder-puff and restored her complexion, saying as she did so: “I must go now. I cannot tell you what a pleasure it was to see you; like a visit to honest old England, Methuen. I know you will not fail us. But I must ask permission from my people.”
She turned and was gone from sight before Methuen could struggle out of the grip of his emotions and face the inadequacy of language to express how deeply moved he was. Walking back across the green lawns, and through the shabby streets of the town to the Embassy he repeated to himself again and again: “What the devil can it be?”
Nor was the goggle-eyed Porson much help when he heard the story. “I bet you it’s uranium,” he said after many perplexed guesses. “But what use would that be?”
“Uranium?” said Methuen with resignation. “What use would that be to Vida and her crowd?”
Porson made a vague sweeping gesture with his arm. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “everybody seems to want the stuff.”
“Young man,” said Methuen severely, “don’t waste my time with nonsense guesses. Leave me to work on the messages a bit. If we are starting to-morrow we haven’t much time. And besides Vida may put the secret into our hands to-night.”
He retired once more to Mr. Judson’s little den and impatiently sweeping aside the account books took out some paper and pencils from the drawer. He had already marked the repeat-poems which, according to Vida, carried the message, and it was the work of a moment to arrange them in chronological order and underline each tenth line. Apart from the fragment already quoted, he assembled the following quotations:
O King beset by shapes innumerable
As the dead, you must not leave
Unless your birthright goes with you,
And that is ours.
The King’s secret touchstone
We have discovered, but many
Are the whispers and grave
The dangers, speed alone will help him.
Help for the King will come
By four-footed friends,
Caravans to carry his tokens,
And turn his shame to victory.
In the month of the magpie
He must set forth in a hedge of muskets
Seeking the sea where
Help will await him.
These fragments he typed out in several copies, giving one to Porson and one to Carter so that each might work independently on them. Porson became tremendously solemn and stared at them through his eyeglass. “My dear fellow,” he said hopelessly, “I was never any good at riddles. But this mass of highly metaphorical Slav guff simply defeats me.” Methuen said: “Try. Think about it a little. Let us all have dinner tonight and see if we can make anything of it.”