White Eagles Over Serbia

by Lawrence Durrell

  They skirted the dark line of villas and descended the hill. The tram stop was well lit, though at this time of night there were few passengers about. A long line of horse-drawn carts clattered along on the main road which lay between them and the river. Somewhere in the fastnesses of the goods yards an engine shrieked twice and was silent. A light wind sprang up sending little eddies of dust swirling along the cobbled reaches of the road, and ruffling the dense foliage of the trees. They walked from shadow to shadow, and from shadow to shadow the man in the leather coat followed them. “There it is,” said Porson, and after covertly glancing at his watch Methuen left them and walked smartly towards the telephone booth. The light was broken and it smelt foully of sunflower-oil. He had to grope with his finger and count the numbers carefully. Excitement gripped him as he heard in the dimness the slight noise of a connection slipping into place and the slow blurred scraping which indicated that somewhere a bell was ringing.

  The seconds lengthened themselves eternally in the stillness. Perhaps he had the wrong number? Perhaps he had memorized it wrongly. A thousand and one possibilities sprang into his mind, yet he quietly ignored them and held oa to the chipped receiver waiting for the ringing to stop and for a voice to answer. His stillness communicated itself to the other two who stood outside the box, quietly smoking. The man in the leather coat retired discreetly to a pool of shadow and was swallowed up in it.

  There was a faint click and then a voice spoke: “Hullo.” Methuen spoke hoarsely. “Please, Madam, may I speak to Miss Sophia Marie?” There was a moment of hesitation as if the person at the other end was gathering her forces together. Then she said: “This is Comrade Marie speaking.”

  “Then be so kind as to let me speak to Vida if she is there.”

  The answer came like a blow in the face.

  “Vida is dead.”

  There was the faint dry click of the receiver as it was put down—like the snapping of a stalk of celery—and Methuen was left holding the black receiver in his trembling fingers. A thousand suppositions flooded into his mind as he stood there. Then in a fury he dialled the number again and again stood listening to the faint purring note of a distant bell ringing. “Vida is dead.” The words kept echoing in his mind with monotonous iteration. “She can’t be,” he said to himself, furiously. The bell rang on and on.

  Then at last there came a click and a man’s voice answered, as if drugged with sleep. “Hullo,” Methuen said, “I want to speak to Sophia Marie please. It is urgent.”

  The answering voice sank into a deeper register as it said: “There is no one of that name here. You have the wrong number.”

  Methuen walked slowly out into the street, feeling dazed and numb. He joined his two companions in their stroll back to the house, and to their eager whispered questions he could only repeat helplessly: “They say Vida is dead.”

  They returned to the house in silence and sank into the cretonne-covered arm-chairs of the drawing-room in attitudes of despondency. Carter mixed them a whisky and soda with a solicitude which showed that he knew how deep a shock Methuen had sustained. “And yet it’s not possible,” Porson burst out. “Who would kill her? Why?”

  Methuen sighed: “You see the nature of the thing we are up against. Obviously there is something big brewing and the suggestion that she should let the British Government in on it has alarmed the White Eagles. So they’ve.…” He had difficulty in getting the word out: “Murdered her. Or locked her up. God knows.”

  “Alternatively,” said Carter, “the OZNA might have tumbled to her. They are morbidly suspicious of their own employees. Everyone is double checked. She may have given herself away.”

  “Yes,” said Methuen. “Yes.” A savage fury was rising in him. “Poor Vida.”

  It was lucky that there was still much to do to prepare for to-morrow’s journey. It would take his mind off the subject.

  He got up and went to his room where he wrapped his clothes and equipment in a parcel and gave them to Porson who would be driving the car. Then he sat down and composed a long despatch for Dombey, setting out the new material with which he had been faced and asking him to have the problem followed up from the London end as quickly as possible. Carter was still in the living-room reading when he returned. “Can I count on you”, he said, “to send this signal to Dombey about to-night’s little affair? It is quite up to date, I told him about the ’phone call.” Carter nodded.

  “And Carter—”

  “Yes.”

  “If you lose track of me for goodness’ sake promise not to raise any hue and cry with the Government until a full ten days has gone by without a message from me. If I am on to something good it may take time, and a sudden hunt for me by the OZNA might spoil everything.”

  Carter hesitated. “Very well,” he said at last, “though it won’t be easy to restrain H.E. He flaps terribly.”

  “You must try. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this business if I have to take out residence papers and stay for the rest of my life.”

  “All right old man,” said Carter gently. He was thinking of Anson: of the body he had helped to carry feet first through the Chancery door: a huddled figure covered in an old army ground-sheet. His friend had spent one night upon the map-laden table of the office before the local mortuary would take him in. And then all the trouble and fuss to find a carpenter to make a coffin.

  “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 capital: for the most part consignments of mai
ze 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.”

  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 wer
e 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.