The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac (18 page)

‘Where is our friend?' she asked.

‘All right. I saw him the night before last. Still nothing to implicate him so far as I know. But if they get you or the night rider the game's up.'

‘And you?'

‘The City can always find urgent business in South America.'

‘Can you get me an interview with the man Georges saw in Lower Belgrave Street?'

‘No. But Herbert Spring wants to know where you are. He has found another firm which may be interested.'

‘Then now! At once!'

‘Where can you be found?'

‘Here. I'll wait and wait. It's a place called Kew Bridge station.'

‘Cross the bridge, go into Kew Gardens, feed the ducks on the lake! OK?'

Zia had much-needed breakfast at a nearby café, collected some extra rolls and followed instructions. Few people were in the gardens on a Monday morning, and the ducks, mysterious over the telephone, became real and demanding. By midday, rolls were finished and the ducks had deserted her for mothers with delighted tiny children and an occasional old person scattering crumbs from a bench as a bribe for momentary society. One other visitor caught her eye—tall, thin, loping along like an intent carnivore though intent, one would say, on past rather than future meals. A soldier, perhaps, occupied by a recent and disappointing love affair rather than military business; a plant collector, perhaps, accustomed to stride studiously from one Himalayan valley to another.

A bold duck approached him, stopping near his feet with head on one side. He began to throw scraps of biscuit ahead of her so that she appeared to be leading him slowly along the lake. When they came past he was talking to her as if she was an old friend.

‘Nothing else for you this morning, Zia,' he said. ‘I'm off to the tropical house now.'

It was so naturally done that for a moment she thought the use of her name must be coincidence. Then she followed him, keeping well behind until he entered the tropical forest under its immensity of glass. He caught her up among the bananas and appeared to be continuing a conversation exactly as if she were some young student of botany whom he was showing round.

‘And this, my dear, is a most interesting hybrid of the Cavendish and the Bread Fruit, supplied to us for further experimentation by my friend Lukash of the Prague Botanical Gardens.'

‘Oh, thank God!'

‘We will now go through to the next hot-house where there is nobody at the moment and we can sit down.'

Side by side, pupil and professor, they walked through into more steaming greenery where was a bench.

‘My name is Colonel Mannering, attached rather loosely to the Ministry of Defence and a little more closely to NATO,' he said. ‘You must think we are quite mad, Miss Fodor. How long have you been in England?'

‘Twelve days.'

‘The only comfort is that if we can hide ourselves so well from the other cats we must be pretty good at hiding from the rats. Now, Lukash. We were expecting a most important message from him when he went off the air. Do you know what happened?'

‘No—except that he was arrested. But his employers were sure he knew nothing of what he was sending.'

‘And the message?'

‘I don't know what it was. But it is in an Intertatry brochure describing their miniature four-stroke engine, specially printed to look like the real thing.'

‘Where is it?'

‘Georges Rivac hid it in an old drainpipe behind a cottage in Alderton.'

‘And Rivac himself?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Nor does anybody. The only idea these damned security people came up with was to use him as bait.'

‘I think it has worked. They are watching Alderton.'

Zia brought him up to date with the happenings of the last twenty-four hours.

‘Can the security lot act quickly?' she asked.

‘Yes, when it isn't a case of passing vital information to the right department. They think it's unprofessional to ask too many questions.'

‘I believe Appinger's men will dig in Alderton Wood today.'

‘So simple?'

‘From their point of view it makes sense.'

‘For only a handbook describing an engine?'

‘Karel Kren killed himself rather than be questioned—and they would be interrogating Georges Rivac now if he hadn't escaped.'

‘Thanks to you I hear.'

‘But can you protect us from the police?'

‘Easily—by giving everything away.'

‘I see.'

‘Good girl! I thought you would. Do you believe in ghosts?'

‘Well—er—'

‘Then you'd better because you are one. So is Rivac. The police can't see you. This fellow who calls himself Appinger can't see you. But they know damn well you're tapping and haunting. The first job is to get you safely out of here.'

‘I don't think I have been followed.'

‘Perhaps not. But a girl with a pack on her back, dark hair, right dimensions, complexion like a young lioness married to a peach—colonels are often poets at heart, Zia—might be reported hanging about at Kew Bridge station. Such people are inclined to pass the time before arrest in public parks. Routine is to watch the exits. What other clothes have you in your pack?'

‘The coat of a suit.'

‘Splendid! I will show you a patch of lilacs. Go in, put on the coat, drop the pack! I will pick it up. Peculiar—but among us botanists anything goes. Ah, yes, glasses! Take my reading glasses and keep them on while you pass out. In twenty minutes leave by the gate near the Pagoda over there, cross the road, go straight on and you will see me waiting in a green car. Jump in at once!'

Zia put on her coat in the lilacs and walked away. She watched him pick up her pack, draping it over his arm as if he had been using the sleeping bag for an early siesta or as a protection against damp ground while watching microscopic life among exotic roots. She wondered if he was at all typical of Military Intelligence in this unpredictable country. He preferred to be noticeable rather than inconspicuous and yet whatever he chose to do was unquestioned. The eccentricities of Hungarian noblemen in old days might have had some similarity, effectively disguising active intellect.

Outside the gate she did notice a man hanging about with no obvious occupation. Might be, might not. At any rate he showed no interest in her after one keen glance. The green car was in position and shot off as soon as she shut the door. God alone knew for what disclosure Karel Kren had given his life but now at last it would be welcomed.

‘Where are we going?' she asked.

‘First of all we shall meet a gentleman called Gerald. He is responsible, lord help us, for the security of this little nation. It is his pleasure to be known as just Gerald though everyone knows his full name. He has already talked to your friend from Lille. When you have told him about pink Honesty, I rather think he will want to make a dash for Alderton Wood. He likes a day in the country.'

Whether in Budapest or London conversations which should not be overheard always seemed to gravitate to public parks. This one, she noticed, was called Barnes Common, and it seemed to her that the colonel had twisted unnecessarily through a number of side streets before coming out on a road which ran directly across an expanse of worn but serviceable grass. He pulled in behind a very ordinary, mud-splashed car. A middle-aged man got out and joined the colonel. He looked an office-bound government servant and as if a day in the country would do him good.

‘Good afternoon, Zia. Excuse me using your Christian name. I have no official knowledge of any other, you see.'

‘Thank you, Gerald.'

The face was lit up by a grey smile, appreciating the irony of her reply.

‘And now what have you to tell me that is so urgent?'

She gave him quickly her adventures of the previous day and night. He turned to the colonel.

‘Is it possible? You know the importance of this document, and I do not.'

‘They believe that Rivac has never had a chance to recover it. Their movements show that. It's quite credible that he would get this Mrs Taylor to do it for him.'

‘Shall we be too late to catch them digging, Zia?'

‘You might not be. They must have daylight to find the place and the flower and they might have done it this morning. But wouldn't they need time to consult with Appinger? Where is he likely to be?'

‘In London. He might be anything—trade delegate, chauffeur to an embassy, courier—but he's sure to be in London where he can get in touch with his bosses. Have you a map with you, Colonel?'

‘No, but Zia has.'

She gave him a flash of offended eyes.

‘Had to take a look in the pack, my dear. It would be most unseemly to be blown to bits in Kew Gardens. Think of the lilacs!'

Gerald, with the map open on his knees, ignored the exchange.

‘Well then, we may not be too late. They will recognise that they are at the right place which sounds unmistakeable from your description, but they'll be puzzled that there is no pink Honesty. So they are bound to spend an hour or two looking for it and probing the ground. Now what I want from you, Zia, is to accompany my team and help them to choose a place where they cannot be seen and will have a clear view of these fellows when they pass. They are bound to go in and out by the route you explained to them because they don't know any other.'

‘You're going to run them in?'

‘Zia, you and your friend have a thing about running people in. We are going to photograph them—including I hope your ice-cream man—from two or more angles.'

‘You know about him?'

‘No, but we soon shall. I think from your description that he must be one of the firm's inspectors, not a salesman. That leaves him free to choose what route he will inspect. Now, it will take me half an hour to get the show on the road and it's about an hour and a half's drive. You should be able to hand her over to my men at five fifteen, Colonel.'

‘Seventeen fifteen. Can do.'

‘In the Home Office, still five fifteen. You will then be here.' He made a cross on the map. ‘It looks like a quiet lane, and you will find a grey Rover with two men and a driver. Pass over Zia to them.'

‘And then I must get in touch with Georges Rivac,' Zia said.

‘Never you mind about young Rivac! He's all right. He doesn't exist.'

‘But I do worry about young Rivac.'

‘You leave it to me,' Mannering assured her. ‘Once Gerald has taken his pictures, we can get on with more important business.'

At that Gerald asserted himself.

‘It is in my interest to cooperate with you, Colonel, but I am bound to ask you for more information. You have, I take it, some connection with Bridge Holdings?'

‘Don't know a thing about them!' the colonel replied cheerfully. ‘I am a simple soldier from MI (S).'

‘And what are the duties of that department? MI Secrets?' Gerald asked ironically.

‘Nothing so romantic, my dear fellow. MI Supplies. It supplies NATO with whatever is required.'

‘Hardware?'

‘Mostly software.'

Gerald let it go at that, returned to his own car and shot off towards the centre of London. The colonel remarked that they had plenty of time for a late lunch and that she must be hungry. Zia hesitated.

‘My dear girl, the police can't be everywhere,' he said. ‘Not the real ones and certainly not the phoney fuzz you so cleverly spotted last night. Just enjoy yourself and remember you are—now what? I have it! A charming Hungarian cabaret girl whom I am entertaining with the worst of motives. Hungary used to export beauties to all Europe.'

‘Well, we don't any longer. That's one good thing,' Zia replied proudly.

‘There are many good things, my dear. That's why we want you back in Europe more than ever.'

Colonel Mannering's confidence was infectious. At the restaurant table Zia had no difficulty in playing up to him, especially since she had not enjoyed a proper meal for the last two days. When, however, she was back again in his car and heading west she was uneasy at returning to the district where police had investigated Mrs Fanshawe's every move. The only comforting thought was that they knew she had left it. But she had no illusions. Gerald and this genial colonel would sacrifice her discreetly and without hesitation if she became an embarrassment.

Dark Alderton Wood broke up the flat horizon—a miniature of European forest, but lower and more scrubby. A roadside warning showed a picture of deer—another example of the exaggerated care of the English, either for the benefit of the deer or the passing traffic. Probably it was for the deer, she thought, since there was hardly any traffic. Gerald had chosen the rendezvous very well.

The grey Rover was waiting, with a driver and two men in the back surrounded by cameras, some of unfamiliar shape and one marked ‘infra red'. The colonel handed her over and asked them to drop her at the same spot when they had finished. They treated her with marked respect. In their eyes she was, she supposed, the valuable inside agent, the legendary beautiful spy.

The car drove slowly along a side of the wood which was continuous and unfamiliar to her. She picked up her bearings when she saw the brook sliding under the road unromantically confined in a culvert. A little further on she recognised the overgrown footpath which she had twice followed and had described to the bogus plain-clothes detective.

‘Would they have left their car near here or in Alderton Abbas?' the driver asked.

‘I should think near here. They might not want to be seen walking with spades.'

Driving a little way on they came to a timber track disappearing into the hazels on the left of the road. Very evident in the mud was the recent impression of car wheels. Whatever vehicle had gone in had not yet come out. One of her companions silently vanished into the thicket and returned in five minutes to report that a black van was parked out of sight of the road with no driver in it. Zia went back with him to see if she could identify it. It was the same van in which she had travelled to Oxford the previous night.