‘No, no!’ he interrupted again. ‘What I was going to say was, I don’t know your name, and you don’t know mine. I would prefer to keep it that way.’
‘I see. Well, thanks anyway for what you’re doing,’ said Dingle.
‘I’m well paid for it,’ replied the driver shortly. ‘You understand that you must keep out of sight? There will be police checks, and I shall have to stop every two hundred miles or so for fuel. At such times I must close this hatch — and whenever we are stopped you must stay absolutely quiet.’
‘I understand,’ said Dingle.
‘I am not allowed to deviate from the route shown on my documents, and I am not allowed to drive at night. I shall sleep in my usual lodgings, but you must stay in the van, I’m afraid.’
‘I know. Andrei explained it all to me. I shan’t make any noise.’
‘Good. I shall stop in some quiet places that I know about to let you stretch your legs and attend to the calls of nature.’
Dingle laughed.
‘That’s a relief anyway. How far is it to Yalta?’
‘It’s one thousand four hundred and ninety kilometres from Moscow.’ The driver shot an anxious glance towards the hatch. ‘But you do realise that I’m not going all the way to Yalta? I’m only going as far as Simferopol, just this side of Yalta. I’ve been told where to set you down.’
Dingle nodded absently. He was doing some mental arithmetic, trying to convert kilometres into miles. Mathematics wasn’t his strong point, but he worked it out as roughly eight hundred miles.
‘Yes, I know all about that. I’m being met at my dropping off point,’ he said. ‘It’s going to take us about two days to get there then?’
‘Two and a half.’
‘Quite a journey. I see these crates back here are marked “Kompressor”. Is that who you work for?’
‘Yes.’
‘They make refrigeration plant, don’t they?’
‘That’s right. I take a lot of it down to the Black Sea resorts … for the new hotels. It’s quite a pleasant job. I see some nice places.’
The two men chatted on for a while, and then Dingle moved back to his makeshift bed.
His thoughts drifted back over the events of the past week, and black hatred welled up inside him when he remembered Jones. He couldn’t understand why the Welshman had betrayed him.
‘Damn him,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Damn him to hell and back. I’m glad I killed him.’
But he also felt that he had killed a part of himself. They had been very close friends. That was what hurt.
Presently Dingle dozed.
The big van rolled on, southwards, towards the Crimea.
*
The journey was uneventful. The van was stopped four times for police checks; each time the driver’s papers were examined and the canvas flap was pulled aside while an officer took a brief look inside the back of the van. But that was all. It was routine; they weren’t looking for Dingle.
The Englishman, bruised and battered now, stretched out uncomfortably on the sacking, reflected that Sergov had been right.
‘Once you get outside Moscow you’ll be O.K.,’ he had said. ‘They’ll have this city sewn up tighter than a duck’s ass, with a close watch on all the railway stations and airports. They’ll be keeping an eye on the border with Finland, too, and the northern ports of Leningrad and Riga — just in case you slip through. But I doubt if they’ll think to look in a lorry making an official journey from a State factory. And I don’t think they’ll expect you to turn up in a Black Sea holiday resort.’
Dingle smiled to himself. It wasn’t a bad plan.
He heard the driver banging on the back of the cab.
‘Are you awake, Comrade?’
Dingle climbed stiffly to his feet and peered through the hatch.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll be dropping you in about an hour. You’d better get ready.’
‘Right. Will it be safe for me to climb over to the back of the van now?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’ve never been stopped along this stretch. Make sure you clear everything out of your hiding space. Don’t leave anything; not even a piece of paper or a bread crumb. It might make the men who do the unloading suspicious.’
‘I’ll be careful. What about the sacking?’
‘Leave that. We always carry it. Are you going to change when you get to the back?’
‘Yes. I might get my clean clothes dirty climbing over the crates if I change here.’
‘All right. Put the clothes you’re wearing into the bag when you’ve finished. They belong to me, you know. If I am stopped later, and if anyone questions me about them, I’ll just say it’s a spare set of clothing. I usually carry them anyway. Sometimes, when it’s raining, if you get a puncture or have to do a minor repair, you can get soaking wet. A change of clothing is handy then.’
Dingle nodded.
‘I’ll start climbing back now.’
‘Don’t forget, you’ll have to take all your old sandwich wrappings with you. I don’t want any trace of you left in this van.’
‘Don’t worry. Leave the hatch open for a while will you? It’ll give me enough light to climb over and save using the torch.’
The driver untied the rope fastenings and lifted the canvas.
‘You can come out now. There’s nobody about. Pass the bag down first though. I’ll keep it in the cab with me.’
Dingle handed the bag out, cocked a leg over the tailboard and jumped to the ground, blinking in the strong sunlight.
He was dressed in a summer raincoat, a grey, lightweight suit, pale blue checked shirt and a navy blue knitted tie. Grey socks and brown suede shoes completed the outfit. Every item of clothing bore British trade marks.
‘You look different.’
The driver grinned as he refastened the canvas backdrop.
Dingle smiled back, and then glanced all around. The lorry had been pulled off the main highway into a horse-shoe lay-by. The whole area was surrounded by trees which made an effective screen from the road. It was a very pretty picnic spot.
‘I always stop for my lunch here, when I’m on this run,’ said the driver. ‘But I don’t think I’ll hang about today. I’d rather get away.’
Dingle held out his hand.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Thanks for everything.’
The driver shook hands, looking strangely shy; he picked up the bag, walked round to the front of the van, and heaved it up into the cab. Quickly, he climbed into the driving seat, slammed the door, and leaned forward to start the engine.
As the van began to crawl forward, he thrust his head out of the window.
‘Good luck,’ he called.
Dingle smiled and waved. Then the lorry was off in a noisy, smelly cloud of dust, completing the horseshoe to regain the road. The whine of the engine faded, and then it was gone, leaving only the whisper of the breeze in the trees — and a sad sense of loneliness — to take its place.
Despite the sunshine, Dingle shivered. The breeze was decidedly cool. Winter hadn’t caught up with this part of Russia yet; but it was getting close.
He glanced at his wrist and cursed; he still didn’t have a watch. Slowly, he moved off into the trees, out of sight, to watch and wait.
*
A car pulled into the horse-shoe, its four doors opened simultaneously and a jabbering, excited French family poured out. They gathered round the smallest member of a sizable brood — a white-faced boy whose name, Dingle gathered was pauvre Marcel — and ushered him to the edge of the track.
There, they took it in turn to hold his head while he was sick. And all the time the chatter never ceased. They were baffled, it seemed, by what had caused this catastrophe.
Was it the ice-cream Marcel had eaten? Was it the chocolate? The sweets? Perhaps it was that sticky cake? Finally they all agreed that maybe Russian food didn’t agree with the poor little chap’s
stomach.
But Marcel was made of stern stuff. His powers of recovery were remarkable. Ten minutes later he was making quite sure that he received his fair share of the family’s picnic lunch.
Before Marcel’s arrival, Dingle, still hidden in the trees, had been feeling quite peckish; now all his hunger pangs had disappeared.
Another car arrived, and the British agent watched carefully. There was only one man inside. He parked some distance behind the French family, ignoring them completely while he ate his sandwiches.
About twenty minutes later the French family moved off. When they had gone the man climbed out of his car and gazed slowly about him. Apparently satisfied that he was alone, he began to do running-on-the-spot and knees bend, arms stretch exercises.
Dingle broke cover.
‘What about doing a few press-ups while you’re at it,’ he said in English.
‘This is the country for training Olympic gold medallists,’ replied the other.
The two men smiled and shook hands.
‘I wonder who thinks up these identification code phrases; ridiculous aren’t they? My name’s Williams, by the way. Dick Williams.’
‘I’m very glad to see you,’ said Dingle. ‘Have you had any trouble?’
‘No. But thank goodness you’ve arrived. This is the third day running I’ve been here at this time — and my holiday is due to end tomorrow. If you hadn’t turned up today I’d have had to try to book up for another few days, and it might have made things awkward.’
‘You’re due to leave tomorrow then?’
‘Yes. Early morning flight. And I’ve got to return this hire car tonight.’
‘Let’s go then.’
The two men climbed into the car and headed for Yalta.
Chapter Sixteen
The Chambermaid sang softly to herself as she used her pass key to open the door of the room.
It was a pity the Englishman had left, she thought. He had been very pleasant, given her some nice little presents during his stay at the hotel. Perhaps he might come back to Yalta next year.
The lock clicked back, she stooped to pick up her cleaning materials, butted the door open with her bottom and walked into the room.
The song died on her lips. The scream that was meant to replace the song wouldn’t come; it seemed to be frozen in her throat. She just stood and stared with frightened eyes at the bed.
Because the Englishman was still there, and he was no longer the handsome sight that she remembered. The room was a shambles, and he was lying on the bed, bound and gagged, with blood all over his face. The sheets were stained a dark red, too. The girl was sure he was dead.
The man rolled up one eyelid. The eye it revealed looked straight at her; the body twitched and a muffled moan escaped through the gag.
The scream came then.
The cleaning materials clattered to the floor from the girl’s nerveless fingers, and she ran from the room.
*
‘Well, you see, I met this chap in a bar a couple of days ago …’
‘Which chap?’
Dick Williams, looking quite handsome again now that he had been cleaned up, sighed wearily.
‘I’ve already told you. He said his name was Johnson.’
‘Go on,’ said the police officer.
‘We got talking, and I told him I was going home today. He said he had another week’s holiday here and suggested we should have a drink together before I left. So I met him last night … the waiter in the bar will probably remember us.
‘When it got late, I said I was going back to my hotel because I had to be up early. He produced a bottle of vodka and said he’d come back with me and we’d have a final nightcap in my room. Since he’d already bought the drink, I couldn’t very well refuse.
‘As soon as we got in the room, all hell broke loose. He attacked me like a madman. I remember seeing blood on his hands — I suppose that’s when he hit my nose — but after that …’ Williams shrugged. ‘The next thing I knew, the maid was looking at me, screaming her head off.’
‘Describe this man.’
Williams gave quite a good description of Dingle.
‘You realise,’ the policeman said coldly, ‘that you almost fit that description — except that your hair is fair.’
Williams looked vaguely surprised.
‘Now that you mention it, yes, I suppose it does. But why should he want to attack me?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘I’m not a policeman.’
‘We found a bottle of hair dye in your bathroom. He obviously bleached his hair.’
‘But why?’
‘Because he wanted to look like you, of course.’
Williams rubbed his forehead.
‘I’m sorry if I seem dim, but I still don’t see …’
The policeman interrupted, exasperation in his voice.
‘Are you trying to tell me, Mr Williams, that you are honestly unaware that a man calling himself Richard Williams left this hotel this morning. He collected your passport and travel documents from the service bureau. The staff thought it was you …’
Williams was on his feet, staring at the policeman.
‘Do you mean he’s pinched my passport?’ he shouted. ‘For God’s sake! You’ve got to find him.’
‘Sit down, Mr Williams,’ the policeman said curtly. ‘By the time the maid found you, the plane you should have been on had already landed at Rome. And your ticket had been used.’
Williams sat down.
‘How am I going to get home without my passport?’ he asked weakly. ‘I want to see the British Consul.’
*
Colonel Razina flew from Moscow to interrogate Williams. But he couldn’t shake the Englishman’s story.
The night duty floor captain confirmed that another man had gone with Williams to his room on the night in question. She had not seen him leave. She had been dozing on her couch — that was permitted in the regulations, she hastily assured the KGB man — and she assumed that the visitor had crept past her quietly to avoid disturbing her.
But she did see Williams leave early in the morning — about four-thirty — to catch his plane. At least, she thought it was Williams. She could be forgiven for that, surely, she said defensively. After all, the staff in the service bureau thought the man was Williams, too.
Razina knew he couldn’t hold Williams. He knew the British Consulate would provide the Englishman with duplicate papers. He knew Dingle had fooled him. And he knew Williams was part of the escape plot.
But he couldn’t prove it.
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Peach smiled.
‘It’s nice to see you back, James. I was worried about you.’
Dingle sat on the corner of her desk.
‘It’s nice to know someone cares. Is the boss in?’
‘Yes he’s expecting you. Nick Forbes rang from the upstairs office to say you were in the building. You look tired. Have you come straight from the airport?’
‘That’s right. I left Yalta early this morning, changed planes at Rome — together with my identity — and I landed in London just over an hour ago.’
‘You found your contact in Rome all right then?’
‘Yes. Did you have a hand in the travel arrangements?’
‘I just passed on the Director’s orders. He wanted to get you home fast, and he thought it would be too risky to let you travel beyond Rome on Mr Williams’s passport. So he arranged for a courier to meet you with a fresh passport, matching your current description, and a plane ticket in your new name.’
She looked up at him critically.
‘I don’t think I like you with fair hair.’
‘I’ve changed my name and hair colour so frequently lately that I’ve almost forgotten who I am and what I look like,’ he said.
He looked in the mirror on the wall behind Miss Peach’s desk.
‘
I don’t know though,’ he said. ‘I think it makes me look younger.’
‘That’s what I mean; it widens the gulf between us even …’
The intercom burped, and she leaned forward to flick the switch down.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I thought you said Mr Dingle had arrived in the building. Where the devil is he?’
‘He’s here now, sir.’
‘Well send him in then.’
The set went dead before Miss Peach could reply. She pulled a face.
‘You’d better get in there.’
Dingle drew a deep breath.
‘Stand by for blast off,’ he said. ‘I reckon he’ll go into orbit when he hears what I have to say.’
*
‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ snapped the Director. ‘Shut the door and come over here and sit down.’
Dingle’s tired, pale face was hard; his red-rimmed eyes were bleak. He didn’t look at the Director.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘will you get on to the intercom and order two guards in here straight away to arrest this man. The charge is treason.
‘I thought I’d killed you, you bastard,’ he added, staring hard at Jones.
The Welshman, sitting in a chair in front of the Director’s desk, grinned.
‘So did I, boyo. Gave me quite a turn, it did, when you fired that bloody gun at me.’
Dingle’s eyes didn’t leave the Welshman’s face.
‘Did you hear what I said, sir? This man’s a traitor.’
He became aware of a rattling, wheezing sound, faintly reminiscent of a traction engine starting up. Dingle recognised the noise. Reluctantly, disbelievingly, he tore his gaze away from Jones and looked at the Director.
The SS(O)S chief was laughing.
Gradually, the traction engine ran out of steam, the huge shoulders stopped shaking.
‘Come and sit down, my boy,’ said the director, wiping his eyes. ‘I’ll explain everything. You see it was all part of the plan that Glyn should betray you.’
Dingle sat down.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said harshly. ‘Why wasn’t I …’
The big man held up a hand to silence him.
Traitor's Gait Page 11
