“Go to bed and get some sleep,” he said, standing up and putting his arm on the elder man’s shoulder. “You have a hell of a day ahead of you.”
He locked Methuen’s draft in the little wall-safe and turned out the light. From the window-sill he retrieved the bowl of flowers in which the thoughtful OZNA had placed a microphone a little larger than a bee. It was gagged. “Shall we pass them a message before we turn in?” he said, but Methuen was in no mood for humour. “I should disconnect it,” he said. “Ah, but then they’ll stick another one somewhere. At least I know where this one is,” said Carter, fondling the bowl lovingly.
Methuen grunted and said good night. As he undressed he said to himself under his breath: “Vida is dead.” Yet somehow he could not believe it; yet who could doubt that it was true?
He slept.
CHAPTER EIGHT. Journey Into the Hills
It was still dark when the little green alarm-clock beside the bed set up its discreet purring and woke Methuen from a sleep which had been relatively calm and dreamless. Sitting up in bed at the brink of day he felt like a diver poised above a pool. Soon he must dive into the unknown waters of adventure. Where they would carry him he did not know; but action was a relief from too much meditation. It brought into play a different side of his character, the part where experience and will took over from doubt and conjecture; where the buccaneer took over from the comparatively timid and law-abiding person he was.
Carter came into his room with a cup of tea and found him shaving with methodical care, whistling softly under his breath as he did so. The young major noticed a new spareness, a new litheness in his movements as he walked to the window and drew the curtains on the darkness which would soon be lifting.
“What time is it light?”
In June the light comes relatively early and as they walked across the dew-drenched grass of the garden the first streaks of yellow began to touch the eastern sky. Carter started up the engine of his car with a harsh clatter that woke the sentry in the makeshift sentry-box at the end of the road. He let in the clutch and they went swaying carefully down the pot-holed road towards the Sava, crossed the tram-lines and turning right, gathered speed along the tree-lined avenue which led them to the Embassy. The morning air was deliciously damp and fresh with the moisture of the river flowing out of sight among the trees to their left, scoring out its path in the rich alluvial mud of the Serbian plain.
There were no cars on the road, but they encountered a long procession of sleepy drays bringing their wretched freight into the markets of the capitaclass="underline" for the most part consignments of maize cobs for bread. Their drivers sat like comatose owls on the seats wrapped in their torn clothes against the early morning chill; while in many carts lay a sprawl of women and children, frowsily sleeping. Carter drove expertly but in silence, for which Methuen was grateful as it gave him time to collect and marshal his inner resources for the adventure which lay ahead.
In the foreground of his thoughts too rose the figure of Vida — the dark beseeching eyes which silently implored his belief in a cause which everyone deemed dead — freedom. Thinking of those candid and ingenuous eyes, and of that rich friendly personality Methuen almost forgot how wretched the cause she advocated was; it was certainly better than what existed at present here — but would it prove any less of a disappointment if once it should triumph? He could not tell. He could only say that the present was unjust, cruel and dedicated to death.
Porson and Carter arrived simultaneously at the Embassy and raced round the drive together before leaving their cars in the car park. Then the three of them made their way to the side entrance and pressed the brass bell-push. A sleepy night-guard peered at them through a brass socket for a second and let them in; he was in his shirt and trousers, and had been sleeping in an arm-chair in the hall.
“Now then,” said Porson, “to business. Hubbard, will you make us a cup of coffee and bring it to my office?”
“Yessir.”
Porson adjusted his monocle and sat down in a leather armchair, throwing one lanky leg over the other, and placing the tips of his fingers together. “Mark me well,” he said with the air of a celebrated K.C. summing up for a suburban jury, “the duty car we use is in the garage at the back of the Embassy. There is a back entrance which I’ll show you. You’ll lie down in the back and cover up. Presently I’ll appear at the front entrance, whistling nonchalantly, and drive the car round to the Chancery entrance to pick up Blair, the clerk who is coming with us. Then we are away. At the last check-point beyond Avala we shall slow down and flourish our travel-permit, there will be a rapid counting of heads (keep yours down) and then we’ll be waved through. A hundred yards after that a large black Buick, packed to the gunwales with gibbering analphabetic policemen, will slide out from behind a bush and follow us. You can then emerge and do your toilet at leisure, transform yourself into whatever sort of creature you wish, before propelling yourself into the bog as per schedule.”
“Where is my gear?”
“Already in the car.”
“My trout-rod?”
“Yes. Yes,” said Porson testily and raising his eyes to heaven moved his lips in soundless prayer for a moment; then, apparently addressing his Creator, he said: “I ask you. All he bothers about is his trout-rod. What has SOq done to deserve such single-minded egoists?”
There was still a little time to spare while Blair and the clerks made up the bag for the Skoplje Consulate. They drank their coffee to the accompaniment of a running battery of waggish remarks by Porson who seemed a trifle light-headed — perhaps it was due to the early hour at which he had been forced to rise.
“Well,” he said at last.
“I’m ready,” said Methuen, and there was music in his step as he followed the lanky secretary down the corridor into the Residence, and down the stone stairs to the cellar; here they branched left and traversed the large handsome billiard-room and ballroom combined until they reached the kitchen. From a corner a small green door opened directly into the dark garage. “Here,” said Porson. The huge Mercedes lay like a noble old ship at anchor in the darkness. Methuen cast a quick appraising eye over her. Old she certainly was, but her powerful engine and heavy springing made her a most suitable transport for the sort of roads one encountered in Serbia and Macedonia.
He shed his coat and waistcoat and shoes and handing them to Porson he climbed into the back and lay down on the floor. A rug was spread over him and Porson said: “Now not a word.” The green door closed with a bang and Methuen lay in the darkness smelling the odour of polish and petrol which had impregnated the air. He had not long to wait, however, for presently he heard steps approach on the asphalt drive and the main doors of the garage rumbled back on their grooves. Whistling (though just how nonchalantly he could not see), Porson climbed aboard and started up the engine. Its deep satisfying murmur blotted out everything. The car rolled smoothly out into the drive and drew up at the Chancery office entrance where Blair was waiting with the white sack over his arm.
“All aboard!” cried Porson, and they were soon booming along the streets of the capital, slithering in tram-lines and bouncing among the pot-holes of the main road. Porson drove with an erratic swiftness, and to the accompaniment of much cursing and swearing as he grazed the backs of buses or drove pedestrians in flocks out of the path by the power of the old-fashioned klaxon with which the car was equipped.
“Don’t hit anything, Mr. Porson,” said Blair nervously. “We should have had it then.” He was a pale freckled north countryman. Porson tossed back his head and said: “Psaw! Me hit anything? I’ve got a clean licence, Blair. Fear nothing.”