“I get the point,” Carstairs told him harshly, and then, more gently, “I wonder …”
“Wonder what?”
“I’m curious about that mountain fortress.” He got up, excusing himself, and went out to confer with Bishop. He returned a few minutes later. “I had an idea,” he explained. “I’ve asked for a private seaplane to get lost over the Albanian Alps. They should have it there in an hour.”
“Reconnaissance?”
Carstairs nodded. “Strictly unofficial, of course—we’ll share any information we get with you people, but if Perdido’s going to go on snatching Americans we’d jolly well better find out if he’s tucking them in there for the night.”
Peattie stood up. “You’ll keep me posted then. Good.”
Carstairs also stood. “And thank you for stopping in. Let’s get together for a drink one of these days.”
“Yes, let’s,” said Peattie with his wry smile. “One of these days or years …”
When he had gone Carstairs went back to his paper work, made a few telephone calls, went to lunch and conferred for an hour with his chief upstairs. It was after two o’clock when he returned to his office to be handed a radiogram by Bishop. It was a report from the pilot of the seaplane that had made a sortie over the Albanian Alps. No building of Carstairs’ description had been seen with the naked eye but the reconnaissance photographs would be dispatched as soon as they were developed. What had intrigued the pilot, however, was the activity going on in the area bounded by the Alps in the east, Shkoder in the south and Lake Scutari in the west. He had seen a large number of men scouring the area on foot, a stream of very black smoke rising from a wood—obviously something containing oil or gasoline had been set afire—and an unusual concentration of police launches patrolling Lake Scutari.
Carstairs frowned, wondering what the devil this would mean, if anything. He wished he knew more about Albania, he wondered if Peattie would have knowledge of whether this type of activity was normal or irregular for that country and he was about to pick up the phone when Peattie himself was ushered in again.
“This just came through,” Peattie said without preamble. “Something’s up all right in the north of Albania. One of our agents broke silence to send it—damned risky of him. Here, read it yourself, it’s fresh from the decoding room.”
Carstairs picked up the sheet and scanned it. It read:
GENERAL PERDIDO ARRIVED ALBANIA YESTERDAY, MYSTERIOUSLY SHOT AND WOUNDED DURING NIGHT, TODAY DIRECTING LARGE SEARCH PARTY FOR ENEMIES OF STATE ESCAPED MOUNTAIN HIDEAWAY IN CAR, NUMBER IN PARTY UNCERTAIN STOP TWO GUARDS DEAD, ONE ESCAPEE RUMORED AMERICAN, GROUP ASSUMED STILL ALIVE AND HEADING WEST OR NORTHWEST TO COAST STOP
Carstairs leaped to his feet to look at the map. “Whoever these people are we’ve got to give them every possible help,” he sputtered. “If one of them’s rumored to be American there’s always a chance it could be Farrell, but even if it isn’t these people can give us valuable information. Look at this map, see how damn close they are to Yugoslavia, that’s where they’ll head, it’s their only chance. Bishop,” he bellowed into the intercom, “get me Fiersted in the State Department.” To Peattie he said, “If Fiersted will clear the way for us with the Yugoslavian Government we can scatter a few of our men along their border to watch for them. We can have men there by midnight—by midnight at the very latest,” he vowed.
By midnight Mrs. Pollifax, Farrell and the Genie were no longer adrift upon the waters of Lake Scutari. They were not in Yugoslavia, either. They had been blown by an ill wind in the opposite direction—south, and deeper into Albania—and at the stroke of midnight they were huddled behind a stone wall in the city of Shkoder at the southern tip of Lake Scutari. High above their heads stood the walls of a grim-looking, medieval castle. A fuzzy, heat-stricken pink moon shed a faint light on the scraps of wet paper that had once been their map, and by this light Mrs. Pollifax was trying to make some sense of the lines that had not been obliterated.
“The damn thing looks like a river,” the Genie was saying, regarding the water in front of them angrily. “It can’t belong to Lake Scutari. There’s a current, we felt it, and anything but a real river would have dried up in this heat a month ago.”
It had felt like a real river, too; in fact if the moon had not emerged from wisps of cloud their log would have sailed right out of Lake Scutari, past the castle on the hill and down this unidentifiable body of water. They had barely managed to propel the log toward land, and they were now hiding in the shadows of an ancient, cobbled alley while they desperately tried to think what to do. Their log had been lost in the darkness and they were back in the city where they had first met Albania. It was difficult to decide whether they had made progress or not.
“There is a line,” said Mrs. Pollifax, peering nearsightedly at the map. “The line goes from Shkoder to the Adriatic Sea but it has no label, nothing says it’s a river.”
“I copied every single word there was,” Farrell informed her stiffly.
“Of course you did, it’s just such a small map. But there is a line, see?” She passed the scrap of paper around, and the two men took turns squinting at the line and pondering its significance. Mrs. Pollifax added hopefully, “The only other lines like that on the map are rivers. It even says they’re rivers.”
“And this does appear to be a river,” the Genie said, nodding. “Even if we didn’t expect a river here.”
“A very good river, too,” put in Farrell.
“But nameless, unknown and confusing,” said the Genie.
Mrs. Pollifax took back the wet piece of paper to study again. “There’s this to be considered,” she told them softly. “To go by land from Lake Scutari to the coast looks quite a distance, between ten and twenty miles, I’d say, and all of it to be done on foot, This funny line meanders a bit, but this line, if it really is a river, ends at the Adriatic. If one had a boat—”
“If one had a boat, and if this truly is a river, and if it should empty into the Adriatic—”
The Genie broke off without finishing his sentence and they were all silent, contemplating the succession of hazards. “So many ifs,” sighed Mrs. Pollifax at last. “A gamble in the most terrifying sense of the word.”
The Genie said soberly, “But that is precisely what life is, wouldn’t you agree? Everything is a matter of choice, and when we choose are we not gambling on the unknown and its being a wise choice? And isn’t it free choice that makes individuals of us? We are eternally free to choose ourselves and our futures. I believe myself that life is quite comparable to a map like this, a constant choice of direction and route.” He was silent a moment. “Stay here,” he added, standing up. “I will try to find a boat for us.”
Mrs. Pollifax nodded, feeling a very deep relief that someone had told her to remain sitting. It was bliss not to move, and even greater bliss to be ordered not to move since this immediately eliminated all sense of guilt and responsibility. She closed her eyes, then opened them to see that Farrell was already asleep and with a sigh she forced her eyelids to remain open, knowing that someone had to remain on guard or all their previous efforts would come to nothing. To occupy herself she began figuring how many hours ago they had escaped.
They had left their prison around nine o’clock Thursday night, hadn’t they? It had been roughly dusk, or nine of this day, when they had set their log afloat on Lake Scutari. This meant they had escaped only a little more than twenty-four hours ago, which was incredible because it already seemed a lifetime of nightmares. She then began figuring when they or she had last slept and when they had last eaten, but this was even more arduous and numbers kept slipping from her mind and her lids were just closing, her will power diminishing, when she heard the quiet drip-drip of an oar or paddle in the water nearby. She put out a hand to waken Farrell and when his eyes jerked open she placed a warning finger across her lips. They both turned to watch the silhouette of a long boat move across the path of weak moonlight. The boat looked a
little like a Venetian gondola, its prow and stern sharp-pointed and high out of the water. A man stood in the center facing the bow, an oar in each hand, but Mrs. Pollifax couldn’t be sure it was the Genie until the boat drew in to the shore. She and Farrell went to meet it.
“Come aboard,” said the Genie, bowing as had been his custom, and Mrs. Pollifax could even see his old twinkle in the moonlight. The Genie was feeling pleased with himself, and quite rightly, she thought, wondering how he had found the londra and hoping he hadn’t been forced to kill for it. She moved to help Farrell—it was necessary for him to sit on the side of the boat and tumble in backward because of his bad leg. She, too, half fell into the boat and lay on the floor too exhausted to move or speak. It was the Genie who was taking over now, it had become his turn, and she lay on her back and stared up at the clouded moon and hoped her turn would never come. The Genie was at work with the oars again, giving the water quick, short jabs. Mrs. Pollifax said in a low, dreamy voice, “You found a boat.”
“Tied up, not far away,” the Genie whispered over his shoulder. “Sleep a little, the current helps. With this moon I’ll keep close to the shore.”
Mrs. Pollifax’s gaze traveled from him to the shape of Shkoder’s castle set high above them, its sides almost perpendicular, the lines of its buildings outlined black against the deep-blue night sky. There was a solitary star, and with her eyes upon it Mrs. Pollifax fell softly asleep. When she awoke both the castle and the star had disappeared and she thought the sky looked a shade lighter. Then she realized that what had awakened her was the sharp crack of a pistol shot from somewhere along the shore. She sat up at once.
“Down,” whispered the Genie violently.
Farrell too, fell back, his eyes alarmed. “But what was it, who is it?”
“Someone on the shore. I think he wants us to stop.”
“Are we going to?” asked Mrs. Pollifax weakly.
“I haven’t seen him, it’s too dark,” the Genie said, speaking without moving his lips. “I heard something and glanced toward the shore. I could dimly make out a man waving his arms but I looked away. I am still looking away, I see nothing.”
“He may fire again and hit you the next time,” Farrell pointed out.
The Genie said pleasantly, “Yes, I know. But we are moving faster now, can you feel it? You mustn’t look but the river has been growing wider in the last ten minutes, and the earth flatter. These are rice paddies we are passing now. There is a definite change in the air, too—smell it?”
Both Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax sniffed. “Salt,” said Farrell wonderingly. “Salt? Am I right?”
“Yes.”
The pistol was fired again and something plunked against the sides of the boat. “Above water line, I hope,” said Farrell. “He’s a damn good shot in this light.”
“He’s running away now,” the Genie said casually. “He has begun thinking.”
“Thinking?”
“That he can’t question a man going toward the sea in a boat if the man in the boat refuses to stop. He will either find a boat himself or find a telephone and talk to people on the coast who will stop us.”
“May I sit up now?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.
“Yes, he’s gone.”
She sat up and looked around her. The darkness was rolling back to uncover a very charming scene of springlike tender green, flat to the eye and stretching as far as the horizon. Ahead—Mrs. Pollifax wondered what lay ahead and beyond. From the boat she could see only a floor of water, a huge ceiling of brightening sky, and a number of birds. “But those are sea gulls!” cried Mrs. Pollifax.
“We’ve got to know what to do,” Farrell said in a brooding, nearly desperate voice. “Where we’re going, what we’re going to do. My God, to keep playing it by ear—”
“Yugoslavia is north,” Mrs. Pollifax reminded him. “We know that.”
“But we don’t even have a gun that’s dry!”
The Genie said, “Yes, we have.” The two turned to stare at him and he said, “The guard Stefan, do you remember my taking his pistol? His holster was the waterproof type. Remove it from my pocket and check it. There may be time, too, to clean the others. Know how?”
“No, damn it,” said Farrell. “You?”
The Genie shook his head. “Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid. Got the gun?”
Farrell was holding it and breaking it open. “Five cartridges.”
The Genie nodded. “And you?” he asked of Mrs. Pollifax.
She began emptying the various pockets in her petticoats. Out came the playing cards and Farrell exclaimed, “Not those! My God, Duchess, I won’t be able to see a deck of cards for the rest of my life—if I have a life—without thinking of you.”
“Well that’s one form of immortality,” she retorted, and drew out the pistol, the magazine clip, the dried shreds of map, the compass. “And if I’m captured again perhaps they’ll spare me a few minutes for a game of solitaire instead of the usual last meal or cigarette. That’s all I have,” she added, gesturing toward the small pile. “No food. Not a crumb.”
“That damn lake,” sighed Farrell.
“Actually I’ve stopped feeling weak,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “Rather like catching one’s second wind, I suppose, except of course we’ve had drinking water to sustain us.”
“The kind that will bring on dysentery in a week,” contributed Farrell gloomily. “It’s getting lighter.”
“Too light,” said the Genie.
Mrs. Pollifax roused herself again. She said to the Genie, “You’ve been standing there all night, would you like me to take a turn? The current’s so strong now there’s really no need to row, is there?”
“There’s still need for steering,” he pointed out dryly. “And I think we’re very near the Adriatic, near enough to walk to it if this river decides to turn and go elsewhere.”
Farrell said thoughtfully, “If they should know by now there’s a boat on this river, and be waiting to stop it, perhaps we should walk to the Adriatic.”
The Genie shrugged. “Maybe.”
Mrs. Pollifax said gently, “No, Farrell. I mean, your leg. I mean—”
“Then let me take my chances with the boat and you walk,” he said, and Mrs. Pollifax knew by the suppressed fury in his voice that his pride was quivering. On the other hand her amateur work in hospitals had taught her when a patient was on the verge of collapse, and Farrell’s nerves had reached a breaking point, gone beyond and returned. He had more stamina than most men, but even a Hercules would have had to admit that the past thirty-six hours were enervating.
Suddenly the gaudy, blood-red sun cleared the high cliffs behind them and the misty landscape lost its oriental quality and Mrs. Pollifax thought, “Why, this is the dawn I was sure I’d never see!” For a moment she was caught by the magic of life, its brevity and unpredictability, and she stared at this world as if just born into it. The distant mountains were snow-capped, the nearer cliffs tawny with deep-purple shadows. Around her the ground mist that only a few minutes ago had been gray and tattered was transformed by light into silky clouds of pearl-white and palest pink. The air was cool, and smelled of damp earth and wet grass, and the river flowing around and past them contained in it mosaic patterns of sky and sun and shore. Mrs. Pollifax felt a stirring in her that was almost mystical; an exhilarating sense of freedom that she had never known before, as if in this moment all the rules and habits of a lifetime fell from her and she stood at the very core of life and felt its heartbeat. It came of experiencing dawn in this strange country a continent away from her own; it came of being still alive when she ought to have been dead; it was compounded of surprise, appreciation, exhaustion, hunger, the effects of danger and an unquenchability of the human spirit.
She heard Farrell say, “You all right, Duchess?”
She started. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
At that moment ahead of them the ground mist rolled away and they saw the sun shining on the clear, sparkling water
of the Adriatic. Almost simultaneously Farrell cried, “Oh, God—look!” and Mrs. Pollifax glanced to the shore of the river on their right and saw a police boat setting out to intercept them, flags flying from its bow and stern, the spray rising majestically in an arc behind it.
CHAPTER 22
There were two men in the boat, each of them faceless silhouettes from this distance, but it could be assumed they were well armed—police usually were—and each man was leaning forward with an intensity that suggested fixity of purpose. Their boat was too old and too broad in the beam to move with speed, but it took the waves like a sedate and experienced old dowager, and even a motor that kept missing and cutting out would make progress against a londra with one man at its oars. Mrs. Pollifax said anxiously, “They can’t possibly know who we are, they know only that we came down the river.”
“They’ll find out who we are soon enough,” pointed out Farrell dryly, and he began to swear quietly and thoroughly at their impotence while the Genie frantically churned the water with the oars, his face grim.
Mrs. Pollifax glanced around, hoping for some wild improvisation or concealment to present itself but behind them the river was empty, and ahead of them the sea was open and boundless, furnished only with buoys noting the river’s entrance. Buoys … no, nothing could be done with buoys … Mrs. Pollifax’s gaze swerved to the left bank of the river and she gave an exclamation. “Look! There’s a wharf and a boat—a sailboat!”
“So?” growled Farrell, snapping the safety on the gun.
“But sailboats go fast!” Mrs. Pollifax leaned forward and clutched the Genie’s arm. “Do look,” she begged. “The man’s getting ready to take the boat out, the sail’s already up, we have that gun and we can make him sail us out to sea, it’s our only chance!” She found herself standing and helping the Genie push and pull at the oars. “Faster,” she whispered. “Faster, faster, faster.” The Genie had backed one oar to change their direction but they were rowing against the current now and the police launch, coughing and sputtering, was nevertheless gaining on them with shocking speed. The wharf was a small one, a float, really, with a narrow catwalk leading over the water to it. The boat moored beside it looked heavy but certainly seaworthy; it was roughly twenty-five feet in length, with a sunlit white sail flapping gently in the wind as the man secured the halyards. Behind them the asthmatic whine of the motor launch grew louder, and now Mrs. Pollifax could see the two men clearly, one thin and dark-faced, the other fleshy and bald. Mrs. Pollifax began to tremble.
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