Hockaway gave a rasping, rather sardonic laugh. “Just forget about our friend. Maybe he’s been rumbled and is heading for Siberia — or the firing squad.” He turned his back and walked away into the hotel building. Hedge felt angry; he’d gleaned nothing and he was sure Hockaway was laughing at him. Also, it was rubbish to suggest that Kolotechin might have been bowled out. Had that been the case, the Foreign Office would have known and he would have been informed. Security police chiefs didn’t get arrested without word leaking very fast indeed. On the other hand, of course — there was always, inevitably, another hand in diplomacy’s wheelings and dealings — on the other hand Russia was as ever Russia, the land of fear and mystery and bleak, intense silences. One never knew. Damn Hockaway, for instilling doubts. Hedge, angrily watching the American’s retreating back, saw him approach the reception desk and have a word with the girl behind the counter, quite a quick word, then he was out of sight. Hedge shifted into a little more shade and sat on; there was nothing else at present to fill his day. He sat and glowered morosely and a quarter of an hour later he saw Hockaway, once again at the reception desk and this time accompanied by his grip as the Americans called it, a dreadful word. Hockaway spent longer than before at the desk and Hedge saw him pass something to the girl and then, after an interval, receive something back in exchange. Then he vanished again and soon after this Hedge heard a car moving away.
Hockaway was checking out. Well, thank God for that. Then Hedge suddenly sat upright. Appendix, change of mind, arrest and Siberia. One could take one’s choice. Hockaway had evidently not wished to be precise; but he seemed to have made up his mind notwithstanding. And Americans did have good sources.
Hedge got to his feet, his mind seething.
He went inside and made confirmatory enquiries at reception. “My friend Mr Hockaway. I — er — has he left the hotel by any chance?”
Yes, the girl told him, Mr Hockaway had checked out. She believed he was taking the plane to London and then the United States. Hedge mopped at his face. What now? Damn Malta and damn Kolotechin too. Obviously he wasn’t coming in. It was an intense disappointment but he would be thankful to be home again.
He rang through to the High Commission. Sir Humphrey was out, but would be back in two hours. Hedge went into the bar for another whisky.
10
The ‘safe house’ at Kormend was reached without incident in the early evening of the second day out from Moscow: it was the home of a middle-aged married couple, Aczel by name. Shard and Hughes-Jones were made very welcome; the name of Kolotechin seemed to hold magic. Both the Aczels were convinced Communists and there was no apparent doubt in their minds that Kolotechin was too: they were going to be very astonished and no doubt bitter when the Russian’s defection became known. Hughes-Jones made some tentative remarks about the 1956 rising; they didn’t like it.
“We do not discuss,” Aczel said in good English — which was a fortunate attribute since neither Shard nor Hughes-Jones had any Hungarian.
“I’m sorry,” Hughes-Jones said, and cast about for another subject. Shard, half expecting that it would be God, was relieved when the Welshman chose singing; it was a happy choice for the Aczels sang themselves — Hungarian folk songs mostly. The evening, after the meal and some wine, turned musical. The Aczels sang their folk songs; Hughes-Jones sang some hymns and the Aczels pursed their lips a little at religion, but thoroughly enjoyed ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’. It was a merry evening and Hughes-Jones drank rather a lot of wine; they were all in good spirits when they went to bed. Once again Shard and Hughes-Jones shared a room; and once again Hughes-Jones snored, this time slightly boozily. He seemed to be having nightmares and now and again talked in his sleep. Then he woke up and lit a candle on a table by the bed.
“What’s the matter?” Shard asked, waking himself.
“I don’t know. I can’t sleep, that is what it is. My mind is busy, you see.”
“Too much wine.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” Hughes-Jones was sitting up now, his knees drawn to his chin and his head in his hands. “I am thinking of Megan. What will she be doing now?”
Shard said. “Try not to think about it.”
“That is easier said than done. I keep seeing Evan Evans with her, you see.” He seemed to go off at a tangent. “Evan Evans has a motor-bicycle. Or he had anyway. Very keen he was … in Pentreteg he was known as Evans the Rev.” There was a pause. “Megan will be on the pillion as like as not, from time to time.”
“Just don’t think about it,” Shard said once again. “We both need some sleep. We’re not in the clear yet. Not far … but could be far enough for trouble.”
“Yes. We have the last frontier to cross and must be alert, I realise. You are quite right.” There was a silence for a few moments then Hughes-Jones said, “St Gotthard … it was there that the Turks overthrew the Christians, under General Motecuculo. In 1664 it was.”
“So what?”
“Just a passing thought, see.”
Shard grunted. “I could wish you hadn’t had it.”
“I am sorry.” Hughes-Jones reached out and snuffed the candle. Shard heard the Welsh body thump back into a horizontal position, but the snores didn’t start again. Soon Shard had drifted back to sleep. They were up early next morning to take breakfast and then their leave of the Aczels. As they drove, with Shard once again at the wheel, for the frontier post at St Gotthard, whence they would cross to Heiligenkreuz in Austria, the day was bright and sunny but held a small cloud for Shard: Kolotechin’s fiat would not run quite so strongly and automatically in Hungary as in Russia. Hungary was, after all, a sovereign state — more or less. Perhaps in some aspects rather less than more, but it still was not Kolotechin’s own domestic stamping-ground. Shard was not too worried, for Kolotechin could presumably be relied upon to have covered everything, but the small shadow was there.
Not without foundation.
As the Lada began to approach the vicinity of the frontier post Shard saw the tail of a long queue, stretching ahead to the strongly patrolled and barbed-wired exit to freedom: it looked like some seventy or eighty vehicles and the queue was scarcely moving. They were mostly private cars, several of them black Ladas as it happened, but in a separate and much shorter queue there were some vans and lorries, the latter going through a check of their own. It was a surprisingly large number of vehicles in Shard’s view and Hughes-Jones, too, seemed uneasy as they joined the tail which, owing to a bend in the road, had now extended past some sleazy buildings and was out of sight of the frontier itself.
“Quite a crowd, isn’t it?” Hughes-Jones said.
Shard nodded. “They’re taking their time. The guards, I mean. I doubt if there’s normally a tail-back this long.”
“I told you, didn’t I, there are set times for going through. Perhaps the traffic piles up a bit.”
“A bit, maybe. Not this much.”
“Then what is the reason, do you think?”
“Could be us. I may be over-reacting, but I don’t like it.”
“What will you do, then?” Hughes-Jones was shaking a little, but he’d been doing that ever since he had got up and it could have been due to a hangover; Hungarian wine was fierce on British stomachs.
Shard said briefly, “Turn round. We’ve not been noticed yet.”
“Back the way we came, is it?”
“For a while, yes.”
“And then what?”
“Play it by ear.”
“This is terrible,” Hughes-Jones said, beginning to panic. “Right at the end like this! I do not —” He broke off. “Look,” he said. “A man, do you see him? Looking into the cars as he passes. The black ones.”
Shard was already turning. He glanced briefly in the direction indicated by Hughes-Jones: there was a man, all right, a small one, bird-like, and with an anxious, hurried sort of look. Not KGB material at all, anyway on the surface. The little man, reaching the end of the queue now, spotted the Lada on the
turn. He put on a shade more speed, his brow creasing in more anxiety. He didn’t stop as he came up alongside the Lada, which was moving dead slow as Shard brought it round in a fairly constricted space. He didn’t look aside either: just kept on moving. But he spoke from the comer of his mouth, in English. He said, “Kolotechin.”
“Yes?”
“You are Calland and Rowlands?”
“Right,” Shard said. He fancied the accent around the English was Russian but couldn’t be sure. “And you?”
“I assist. Do not go in. Go instead to Number Thirteen Bela Bisku, in Kormend.” The little man fell behind and crossed the road, then vanished behind the buildings.
“Close shave,” Shard said, and let out a long breath.
“Do you trust him, then?”
“No option. On balance, yes, I do. If he wanted to nab us on the Kremlin’s behalf, all he had to do was to let us enter the check-point.”
“It was a risk, wasn’t it, a big one, to talk to him at all?”
“No. He knew us anyway. Obviously had a description.”
Hughes-Jones nodded, his face white, the shake worse than ever in hands and body. “What is this place, Bela Bisku wasn’t it?”
“An address we have to get to, that’s all I know. It may take some finding. And I don’t want to ask the way too often — if there’s anything in the air, which there must be, we could stand out. So when we get back to Kormend I’ll drive around while you keep your eyes open for the street names. All right?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Hold tight, then.” Shard, once clear of the frontier zone, put his foot down. There might be a shortage of time now; and God alone knew what might have happened to Kolotechin — or who the little man might be, the little man they were putting in command of their lives most likely. Reaching Kormend within the next twenty minutes, Shard drove slowly around while Hughes-Jones peered this way and that. In the event their destination didn’t take too much finding, and no directions asked: it was a street running off what seemed to be Kormend’s main square and there were a number of shops in it, plus some warehouses. Number Thirteen was one of the warehouses: more precisely, it was a meat store. They were met by a pong of blood and flesh, also a cloud of flies, as Shard took the Lada into the yard and stopped. As he got out, a man approached, fat, jovial and bloody from his trade. He said something in his own language but it failed to register. So did Shard’s English. It was an impasse until the little man from the frontier chugged up on a motor-bicycle.
“I am sorry,” he said, trying to smile. He was somewhat out of breath and very dusty; he must have had a punishingly fast and bumpy ride on poor surfaces. Shard let him simmer down. When the panting stopped he said, “All will be well if you do as I say. I —”
“What’s gone wrong?”
“One of you — which is Calland? — is being looked for in Moscow. There is trouble. I have been informed by friendly sources. You are watched for at the frontier. This is a precaution, since the Moscow authorities do not know your route.”
“Everywhere’s being watched?”
“Everywhere, yes. Hungary, Romania, Czechoslovakia, Poland. Even, I think, the Baltic ports.”
Shard nodded; hope lay in the fact that the whole heat was not on the St Gotthard exit, but clearly they couldn’t use the Lada — nor, in fact, could they walk through with their passports proffered. He asked, “So now?”
The little man smiled happily. “I am to assist very willingly. On me you may rely. You will leave Hungary as cargo, as a meat carcase. There will be much smell and also coldness, but also there will be safety.”
Shard raised an eyebrow towards Hughes-Jones. “Two meat carcases, I presume?”
“Yes. In a refrigerated van, very safe and uncomfortable.” For the first time he turned to the fat, jovial man. “This is my brother, Lajos Papp. I am Miklos. The business we run alone. There is no one else to know, so it is safe.”
“It’s still a risk for you. Why do you do it?”
Miklos Papp shrugged. “In 1956, Comrade Kolotechin spared our lives. He was here in Hungary after the rising, and he was a good man. Now we help when he asks. Come.”
The little Hungarian turned away towards his warehouse. Shard and Hughes-Jones followed. Inside the warehouse stood a van, an elderly one. Miklos Papp went round to its rear and swung the door open. Shard looked in. The van was laden already with its cargo of carcases — pigs, Shard noted. Space had been left for the human addition. Papp said that when the two Britons were in, more carcases would be loaded to conceal them. Whilst in transit, except of course when going through the check-point, Papp would keep the door slightly ajar so that air could enter and possibly the temperature might lift a little. He was not worried about his carcases; they would survive.
Shard asked, “Is this a regular run for you, into Austria?”
“Yes. I am well-known to the guards for many, many years. There will be no trouble. I have the proper export licences from the Ministry of Foreign Trade —”
“You’re part of a collective, I suppose?”
“Yes. But that is not for worry. Here my brother and I work alone, as I have said. I go regularly, twice a week, to Graz. Graz is where I shall drop you. From there, there is the railway line to Vienna and your Embassy. All will be well.”
Shard nodded. “And the Lada?”
“The Lada will be disposed of in total safety and you need not worry.”
“Right. Now, if you don’t mind, I propose to take two Russian guns with me from the Lada. If anything should happen to go wrong, you and your brother will be for the high jump in any case. It won’t make matters any worse if we try to shoot our way through, and it might save your lives.”
“Yes. There is no objection. I realise that bad luck can happen, and because of this my brother comes with me and we will lose only our business if we fight through. Now, please, we will hide the Lada and then we will go. With so many vehicles waiting, the frontier will be open still.”
The Russian car was driven into the warehouse and roughly concealed beneath a bloodstained tarpaulin: more positive measures would be taken after the return of the Papp brothers. Then Shard and Hughes-Jones climbed into the van and squeezed between the hanging carcases. Behind them more were lifted to the hooks on the runners until there was no room to move hand or foot. Even breathing became a difficulty: Shard hoped they wouldn’t be in there for too long. Hughes-Jones, pressed tightly against his body, wasn’t happy. He was taking gulping, painful-sounding breaths. The stench of dead meat was strong despite the refrigeration; the refrigeration was not too efficient. The carcases had a clammy feel. When the extra cargo was in, the door was closed upon them but, as promised, left a little ajar on a hook with the securing batten dangling. Moments later, with no time being lost now, Shard felt the movement as the van was driven out of the warehouse, bumped across the yard, halted as one of the brothers got down to secure the warehouse doors, then started up again and swung hard to the right onto the public street. The Papps took the journey fast; and after a sick-making period of sway and swing, the van stopped and the rear door was clamped shut. It was probably psychological, but at once the atmosphere became much more claustrophobic. Not long afterwards the van slowed, then stopped, and after an interval crept forward again; they were now in the queue for the check-point out. Time seemed to drag, the stops and starts seemed interminable. Hughes-Jones was having more and more difficulty with his breathing.
“Not long now,” Shard whispered.
“I pray to God not,” Hughes-Jones said. Then, suddenly, he sneezed.
“I pray to God you don’t do that again,” Shard said.
“Never mind. It is better now.”
“What is?”
“The breathing. The sneeze shifted something.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Just bear in mind, dead pigs don’t sneeze. If it comes on again, muffle it … shove your face into the meat. And let’s hope nobody heard the last one.”
/> Evidently nobody had; more forward movements took place — they were not yet at the check-point. Then after a lot more stopping and starting they appeared to reach it: the rear door was opened up and Shard heard Miklos Papp’s voice, exchanging friendly gossip with one of the frontier guards. All seemed to be well. A few carcases were poked at, there was more conversation of a general nature, then the door was slammed shut and the bar set in place across it. The van moved forward, slowed and stopped again at the Austrian end; again the door was opened up and there was another desultory inspection. Then the door was shut finally; the van rolled on through into Heiligenkreuz and safety. As the vehicle gathered speed Shard sent up a very heartfelt prayer of thanks.
*
Later that day Moriarty was facing a very blank-faced official from the Procurator-General’s office in Moscow. Moriarty’s own face was desperate rather than blank, though he had been doing his best not to let his desperation show. One of his troubles was that he was speaking not to his visitor alone but to certain other invisible but interested persons as well: he knew, of course, that the conversation was being fed back live to the Counsellor whom he had asked for advice earlier; and it was a hundred pounds to a penny that Comrade Litovsky was bugged for simultaneous live transmission to his own boss. The result was that Moriarty scarcely dared speak at all for fear of putting his foot right in it. Nevertheless, the very circumstances dictated that he couldn’t remain dumb.
His words, however, were nicely circumspect though not wholly non-committal. He said, “I’m awfully sorry. I’ve no knowledge of this person’s whereabouts at all.” That could be tricky; lies always were. Yet there was an element of truth: Moriarty positively did not know Hughes-Jones’s actual current whereabouts. In any case, the half he was inevitable.
Litovsky scowled. “No knowledge of Hughes-Jones?”
“As to his whereabouts, none.”
“Or of Richard Meldon, of Protocol and Conference?”
“Ah. Yes. One of the Foreign Secretary’s party, I believe.”
Shard Calls the Tune Page 11