They were racing along the winding roads which lead south through the pleasant rolling pastures and woodlands where the dark bulk of Avala Hill rears itself from the flat plain. The old Mercedes got into her stride and the powerful six-cylinder engine settled down to a smooth continuous purring note which bespoke power. Dawn was coming up fast now and Methuen wished he could watch the remembered landscape of his student days unroll once more on either side of him. It was hot under the rug. They swept through a number of small sleepy villages and up to the foot of the fir-crowned hill before Porson said, over his shoulder: “Now for the counting of heads, Methuen, and we are through.”
A blue-clad militiaman appeared in the road holding a white wooden signal in his hand. Porson slowed down to give him time to see the diplomatic number-plates of the car, while Blair leaned from the window holding out his documents. The policeman nodded and stepped back. They were through. The Mercedes gathered power again and they raced round the crown of the hill where the road drops steeply to the plain. “Now for the escort,” said Porson, and as they flashed past a side-turning a long sleek Buick edged itself into the road and started out in pursuit of them. “Why there should always be four people in it,” said Blair, “I can’t see.” Porson grunted. “They can’t come for the ride,” he said and once more turning his head back added: “Methuen, you can get up now. We are all set.”
Methuen rose stiffly from the floor and sank on to the cushions of the back seat with a sigh. The back of the car was closed and the side-screens were up, making it impossible for the following car to see into the interior of the Mercedes. They still had several hours to go before they reached the Ibar valley, and he set himself methodically to sort his kit and to dress. They had started much earlier than usual so that he should have as much daylight as possible ahead of him when once the jump into the unknown had been made.
As he pulled on the heavy riding-boots he gazed out at the early morning landscape, the green rolling country that swept away southward towards the dark mountains which as yet were simple mauve smudges upon the skyline. They were able to make good time along the excellent metalled highway which leads out in a series of graceful curves and loops towards Topola, rising like a swallow through cuttings and dipping in and out among the richly-cultivated hills. Vineyards stretched away on either side of them and Methuen could not resist giving Porson a short lecture on the Serbian wines he had once studied with affectionate care. This was a celebrated part of the wine country. “Out of bounds alas!” said Porson, “or I should by now have collected enough material for a monograph. We get inferior stuff in town!”
The black Buick held on to them, staying always about three hundred yards behind. Methuen took a peep at it through the curtained window. “They are awfully close,” he said, and Porson smiled a knowing smile as he answered: “Wait till the dust begins. They have to eat our dust all the way into Macedonia. You should see them when we arrive at Skoplje — as if they were all wearing powdered wigs and false moustaches. Don’t worry, Methuen. We’ll have plenty of time.”
Methuen smoked and pondered as the great car whistled onwards. His fishing-rod and the bulkier part of his equipment he had wrapped in the light bed-roll. Into the various pockets and slings of his magnificent coat he had placed his pistol and compass, some solid fuel, a half-pint Thermos, and his beloved Walden. “By God,” said Porson, “anyone would think you were going to stay for months.” “I am,” said Methuen grimly. The sun was quite hot by now and Porson said approvingly: “There’s going to be a hell of a lot of dust. Good show!”
They swayed and scrambled through the cobbled streets of Mladenovac and whistled out into the countryside beyond. The Buick came smoothly on behind. Blair produced some biscuits and an excellent bottle of white wine which they shared. Their spirits rose, but behind the fooling of Porson, Methuen sensed a tension and a reserve which had been absent before. For his part, though he looked out at that smiling landscape with familiar pleasure recaptured in memory, he felt the dark wings of danger spreading themselves above them — and out of it all the thought of Vida’s death rose up to afflict him, leaving him with a slow-burning resentment and determination.
“You won’t forget to ring up Belgrade,” he said, “and drop any messages there are for me in the ditch as per arrangement.” Porson nodded. “On my way back. We’ll start at midnight and be with you just before light.”
Half-way between Mladenovac and Kralevo the road began to deteriorate into patches of pitted cobbles, and then as they swept round a wooded curve Porson said: “Now watch this.” The asphalt abruptly ceased and the car wallowed on to the pitted country road of dust and loose stones. A cloud arose round them which powdered the lower branches of the trees. “Look behind,” said Porson gleefully. Methuen did so. They were throwing up a smoke-screen of bilious yellow dust — impenetrable in volume. “God,” he said, with genuine pity for the Buick-load of police which followed them. “From here on they drop about a quarter of a mile behind,” said Porson gleefully. “Sometimes we annoy them by slowing up too.”
Kralevo passed in a cloud and the note of the car changed as they headed across the plain for the mountain-range which now loomed up at them from the south; the river sprawled to the left of them gleaming green and yellow in the flat plain. The road and river converged slowly upon the looming shadowy gorge which marked the entrance to the Ibar valley. “Pretty soon now,” said Porson in a voice which betrayed an ill-controlled excitement. Methuen puffed quietly at his cigarette before tossing it out of the window.
At the entrance of the sullen gorge, where the mountains rise to right and left, the road, railway and river, having conducted a seemingly endless flirtation, are suddenly squeezed together and pass through the narrow rock entrance side by side. Here the Ebar becomes swift, brown and turbid; giant poplars and willows, their roots gripping the shaly banks like knuckles, shade the whole length of the road. The air becomes dense with the smell of water, for several smaller rivers have cut their way through the mountain to empty themselves into the Ibar, and the crumbling rocky walls which flank the gorge are bursting with freshwater springs. The valley for all its gloom is alive with the ripple of bird-song which mingles with the thunder of the Ibar’s waters as they roar down towards Rashka.
The railway looked like a toy. It had been cut in the side of the mountain and the tracks passed through a series of rock-tunnels each of which was closely guarded by pickets. Methuen saw the diminished figures of these guards walking along the stone parapet, stopping to gaze down curiously at the car as it passed. Each section of tunnel had its own patrol, and the soldiers lounged in the sun on the stone balconies, idly smoking or tossing pebbles into the swift waters of the Ibar below.
“What about them?” said Methuen, and Porson said quickly: “The part where you jump is completely enclosed with greenery. They can’t see. Only when you climb the hill you’ll have to keep out of sight. Look, a train!”
They heard a series of muffled shrieks and a heavy rumbling across the river. The guards came to life and took up position. The rumbling increased in volume and finally an absurdly toy-like train emerged from the rock-tunnel with a puff of grey smoke — as if it had been fired from the mouth of a gun. It rolled slowly across the balcony-like parapet, trailing a long banner of sooty dust and smoke, and with a catarrhal whistle plunged once more into the rock, its wheels making a hard resonant noise, as of a billiard ball being rolled across a stone floor. Sixty yards later, before the tail of the train had come into view on the first parapet, the engine emerged once more with another cough. “In and out of the rock,” said Porson, “like a needle in cloth.”