Hambledon encouraged Britz with a few kind remarks and went into the house to cook himself some supper. The telephone rang: a message from Police Headquarters to say that a packet had reached an address in London. Good. He finished his supper and went upstairs to hunt through Ludwig Kirsch’s wardrobe for a suit which would approximately fit him; there was one which would serve reasonably well. Continental suits do not fit as do those of English cut and Kirsch was notoriously not a dressy man.
Hambledon ran over in his mind the various arrangements he had made. The only thing left to do tomorrow was to get some glasses which would not blind him as Kirsch’s did. The passes for the car had not arrived but there was all tomorrow.
He poured himself a glass of wine and looked through Kirsch’s bookcase for something to read and at this point it occurred to him that as an expert on trigonometry he should at least know something about its field of operations, if only in order to dodge the subject if it looked like coming up. He selected a book from the shelf and sat down to study it.
Trigonometry is a means of working out, in figures, calculations which, in geometry, are expressed in diagrams drawn accurately to scale.
Trigonometry is particularly useful in gunnery for calculating the range on targets.
“I shall avoid gunners,” said Hambledon aloud.
Trigonometry is indispensable in the work of surveyors. The Smirnov Plan was largely the work of surveyors. He was to take the Smirnov Plan to those who, of all men, were most interested in it. Probably they worked out trigonometrical problems in their heads over breakfast. Plane trigonometry. Spherical trigonometry.
“Curse Kirsch!” said Hambledon violently. “This is much more dangerous than all their cockeyed photographs. Why the hell couldn’t the fool take up Chinese hieroglyphics if he wanted a hobby? Nobody knows about Chinese hieroglyphics.”
He hurled the book across the room and went to bed.
17: Smoke Screen
When Hambledon came down to get his breakfast on the following morning he found inside the front door an envelope which had been dropped through the letter slot; it had not come through the post. It contained a frontier pass for the grey coupé valid for Helmstedt and an open pass to authorise the driver, Ludwig Kirsch, to travel freely upon the roads of the Soviet-occupied zone of Germany.
Evidently Britz and his friends were not the only people who communicated through The Wire. Well, nobody supposed that they were.
Hambledon went into the town to buy a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with plain glass instead of lenses, to the mild surprise of the optician, to whom Hambledon explained that they were for use in private theatricals. He added a pair of sunglasses of the type which clip on over the lenses and walked out wearing spectacles for the first time in his life. It fidgeted him to wear them but he was reassured when he saw himself in a mirror and wondered momentarily who was the man staring at him.
Britz had finished work on the car by lunch time and Hambledon took her out for a trial run. She steered a little front-heavy but presumably one would get used to that. The day seemed rather long but, like all other days, came to an end at last.
On Friday morning Hambledon picked up the Smirnov Plan and the passport from the police station and drove away in the direction of Helmstedt. He admired the passport, which was a thoroughly artistic production, at least as regards the photograph; the personal description had had to stand but at least the eyes were the right colour and there was nothing outstanding about Kirsch’s appearance. It is very difficult to tamper with the personal description page because it is printed upon a special kind of paper which reacts violently to any attempt to alter the written word.
Hambledon drove some five miles out from Goslar and pulled the car in to the side of the road. He lifted up one of the floor boards in the boot, took it inside the car with him, and tucked the Smirnov Plan away in an ingenious cavity in the board. Britz had found it because this board was a little thicker than the others. Hambledon put in the two little screws which kept the thin lid in place, put the board back where it belonged, and screwed that down also.
He drove on towards Helmstedt and found that the car, though noisy, went extremely well considering its age. He stopped for lunch at a roadside inn and considered various possibilities; before he drove on he went to a garage and bought a litre can of lubricating oil, which he took into the car with him.
He had arranged to meet Lorenz Grober at the Soviet frontier post at Helmstedt between two and three o'clock that afternoon and he did not wish to get there too early. It was nearly half-past two before he came in sight of the red and white barrier which marked the West German post and was pleased to see that there did not appear to be much traffic passing at that time. This is the main road to Berlin, the only road through the Soviet Zone, there might have been a long queue of lorries; in point of fact there were only six or eight and they were not being long delayed. Probably the process would take longer on the Russian side. He drove to the tail of the queue and stopped, got out and emptied the can of oil into the sump which Britz had filled the day before.
Hambledon turned to the carburettor. He had watched Britz delicately adjusting the carburettor setting the day before; it had appeared to be a case of “the little more and how much it is.” After all, most carburettors are like that.
When it came to his turn he drove up to the officer on duty and it was clear at once that the Goslar Chief of Police had been as good as his word, for no difficulties were made, inspection of the car was perfunctory, and his papers were stamped without any delay. He drove on the short distance to the East German post and noticed in his driving mirror that the smoke from his exhaust was a public offence.
He drew up behind the last lorry in the line and kept his engine running. A blue malodorous haze spread across the road and an official shouted to him to stop the engine. Hambledon took no notice and merely lit a cigar while he was waiting. Drivers alighted to look back at him and other drivers emerging from the office with their papers called official attention to him, pointing. Two lorries behind him stopped a respectful distance away.
A frontier official came, running, and said that he was making a nuisance of himself with all that smoke. Hambledon smiled amiably and said ah, he had been told before that his mixture was too rich, “if I have the phrase correctly. I am not, myself, an automobile mechanic.”
The official said that that was reasonably evident and called him on out of turn to get rid of him. Hambledon drew up at the office door with a flourish and went in with his papers. The moment he was inside, someone switched off his engine for him.
“Dear me,” said Hambledon in a pained voice, “someone has stopped my engine. I only hope that it will start again. I have had trouble already this morning.”
“If it won’t, it will be towed away,” said the official briefly. “Papers, please.”
Almost at once an argument started because the space on the car’s papers headed “Make of Car” had been filled in “Composite.” What was meant by “composite”?
Hambledon tapped irritably with his fingers on the counter and said composite meant composite, that he had understood that this office was a Frontier Control & Customs Post and not an elementary school, though, as a retired schoolmaster, he would be happy to give instruction upon the meaning of such ordinary words as might puzzle the class as and when required. In the meantime, why not go out and look at the vehicle?
The official said sharply that impudence would not help him and information had to be supplied to the office. The staff were not supposed to fill up travellers’ forms for them. Hambledon agreed that filling up forms did indeed demand a certain minimum standard of education and intelligence and a deadlock was rapidly forming when there was a swirl in the interested group in the doorway and Grober rushed in to the rescue.
“Ah,” said Hambledon, relaxing, “here is my courier at last. He will deal with the matter.”
There was a hurried consultation in low tones during
which Hambledon absent-mindedly strolled out of the door and had to be brought back to have his passport stamped.
He returned to the driver’s seat; Grober, nervously asking permission which was graciously accorded, sat beside him. Rather to Hambledon’s surprise—for he was beginning to think that he had overdone the oil—the engine started at once and the car moved off under the lifted barrier into what starry-eyed optimists call the German Democratic Republic and tactless realists the Soviet Zone.
“I have been instructed to guide you,” said Grober, “direct to Magdeburg, where the Army High Command are waiting to receive the Smirnov Plan from your own hands.”
“Excellent,” said Hambledon. “I shall be interested——”
His voice was drowned in the roar of six powerful motorcycles which formed up round the car as it went, two in front and four behind. They were ridden by six highly polished soldiers smartly dressed in glossy black leather uniforms. Their faces were pink with cleanliness and their expressions conveyed that earnest devotion to duty seen only in official escorts under the eye of authority.
Hambledon slowed down to a walking pace.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Grober.
“I am only waiting till that noisy cluster of mechanised blackbirds has passed on,” yelled Hambledon, above the din. “I cannot hear myself speak. Why are they stopping?”
“They are your escort, mein Herr. No further risks are to be taken with the Smirnov Plan, by order of the High Command.”
“What? Am I expected to tolerate this nuisance all the way to Magdeburg?”
“It is only about fifty kilometres,” shouted Grober, so apologetically that his voice went up into a squeak. “By express order of the High Command.”
Hambledon said something about the High Command which Grober thought it tactful not to hear, changed into second gear, and stamped on the accelerator pedal. The result was a loud bang in the exhaust which spattered the two front men of the rear guard with a mixture of oil and carbon and filled their eyes with smoke while the car leapt forward so briskly that the vanguard, paddling along with their toes on the road to keep upright, had the nearest possible escapes from being run down. They roared off ahead while those behind, cursing aloud, mopped their blackened faces and followed after some distance behind.
“That,” said Hambledon with what he hoped was a fiendish grin, “will teach the escort to keep its distance. I cannot endure to be crowded on the road.”
Grober said nothing and some miles passed before the car showed signs of resenting its condition. One and sometimes two of the six cylinders began missing and there was that sickening intermittent hesitation which all drivers have experienced at some sad time. The vanguard looked back over its shoulders and slowed down and the rear guard closed up. A little later a third cylinder also gave up the struggle, the engine stopped and Hambledon coasted in to the side of the road.
He leaned back in his seat and lit a cigar and the sergeant in charge of the escort came up to the driver’s window.
“There appears to be something the matter,” said Hambledon, waving him towards the bonnet. “Tell me,” he added, turning amiably to Grober, “something about the organisation of agriculture in these parts. These large agricultural machines which I see at work in the fields, are they the property of individual farmers?”
Grober had been born and brought up in Magdeburg and worked in an office ever since he left school. He knew nothing whatever about the country and regarded it as a muddy place inhabited by rude people who kept pigs, but he did know something about Soviet organisation in general.
“Oh, no, I think not. They would be the property of some sort of farmers' association. Collectivisation, you know. There would be a certain number of the—the necessary machines allotted to each area and they would be taken from place to place as required.”
“I see. So many haymaking machines to so many square miles, I suppose.”
“Exactly. Precisely.”
“And what happens if all the hay in an area wants cutting at once? As it probably would, you know. They would all have the same weather, presumably.”
Grober was spared answering by the sergeant, who came to the window with a plug in his hand, showed it to Hambledon, and said it was oiled up.
“Well, you know what to do, I am sure. I have the utmost confidence in you,” said Hambledon blandly. The sergeant looked pained and went away. Hambledon leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Ten minutes later the sergeant came back to the window and said that if the Herr would try her now——
Hambledon woke up with a start and said that he supposed they ought to be getting on to Magdeburg before long. He then switched on, started the engine and drove off rapidly, leaving the escort hastily gathering up tools in the road and transferring streaks of black grease from their dirty hands to their overheated faces. The sergeant looked from one to another of what had been an impeccably smart patrol.
“You look like greasers off a tug,” he said bitterly. “You look like chimney sweeps who’ve lost their top hats. You look like charcoal burners. Get cracking.”
“Did someone say, Sergeant, that we are to escort that—that—that——”
“All right. I know what you mean.”
“—wherever he goes for a fortnight?”
“Not if I can get out of it,” said the sergeant desperately. “Ready? Mount!”
Hambledon was out of sight by this time, but the escort had no difficulty in following the smoke trail which he laid behind him.
He drove on until Magdeburg lay before them; as they entered the outskirts of the city, the escort formed up once more round the car. The cortège attracted a certain amount of public notice; people looked first at the odd-looking car and then, more interestedly, at the embarrassed motorcycle escort, who, with one accord, bent their heads and fiddled with some unnecessary adjustment.
“Look,” said Hambledon to Grober, “we attract attention, it seems to me. They take me for the Emperor of Senegal in a homemade car with an imperial Negro escort.” He sounded a cheerful fanfare upon the horn.
Grober said something Hambledon did not catch and then: “Slow here, if you please. We turn off before entering the city. If the Herr will kindly follow the leading escort, here, on the right.”
There, on the right, was the imposing entrance to what had once been a large country house outside the city boundaries but was now an Army headquarters standing in a few acres of severely disciplined grounds. There were sentries stiffly on duty at the entrance, but even discipline could not entirely suppress amusement as the motorcycle patrol swept past. Hambledon followed up the drive and came to a stop at a pillared porch. The escort rested like black statues in perfect formation, Grober leapt out to open Hambledon’s door for him and a young officer appeared in the porch, took one look at the tableau before him, and came to an abrupt stop.
Hambledon got out, took off his driving gloves, extracted a shabby brief case from behind his seat, and stalked into the hall, taking no notice of the young officer.
“In this room,” said Grober, revolving round him, “in here, if the Herr will be pleased to sit down for a moment, only a moment, while I inform the General, who will wish to gather his staff together to receive the Herr in proper form.”
“Naturally,” said Hambledon. He entered the room and the door closed behind him. It was a small room beside the front door, the window looked out upon the drive and was slightly open. He was thus enabled to enjoy the remarks being addressed by the officer to the sergeant in charge of the escort and what little they were allowed to say in reply, for discipline is extremely strict in the Russian Army. However, the sergeant was permitted to explain what he thought was wrong with the car and the officer said that it had better be taken to a garage at once. “Tell them that the job is of the highest priority and the work had better be good,” added the officer. “You will take the car yourself, Sergeant, at once. Now.”
“I thought
I’d forgotten all my Russian,” said Hambledon contentedly to himself, “but it comes back, it comes back. I wonder if dear Ludwig could speak Russian? Probably not. Nothing Russian among his papers.”
The car moved away on five cylinders from before the windows and a blue haze followed it down the drive. The escort disappeared, the young officer turned on his heel and passed from sight into the porch, and peace settled upon the scene. When the door opened the Herr Ludwig Kirsch was sitting at the table so deeply absorbed in some mathematical formulae he was scribbling into a small pocketbook that he did not even look up.
“Mein Herr,” said the young officer, smartly at attention, “General Ambromovitch has the honour to await the Herr Kirsch.”
The Herr returned slowly from the depths of his absorption.
“What? Oh, the General. Yes, yes, of course.” He put his notebook away and picked up the brief case. “What is the General’s name again?”
“Ambromovitch, mein Herr.”
“Lead me to him at once.”
18: Magdeburg
Hambledon was shown into a large room with windows looking out upon the garden. There were six or eight men standing about a long table and at their head a big bullet-headed man with the oddly hairless look which afflicts so many of the Russian leaders. It almost seems as though there must be something about Marxism which affects the eyebrows.
He came forward and said: “Herr Kirsch? General Ambromovitch,” and held out his hand, which Hambledon shook enthusiastically.
“Ludwig Kirsch,” he said. “Delighted, General.”
The General introduced his officers one by one and there were stiff bows and the inescapable handshaking all round.
No Entry Page 16