‘Who will get you?’ I asked.
‘Who? The Communists, of course. The Czech Communists.’
‘But for heaven’s sake!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re a refugee. You’ve been given political asylum. You were perfectly safe in England.’
‘Safe?’ He laughed. ‘You say that because you are English, because you have never been a refugee! Listen. When I fled to England in 1949, everything was all right. But then, after the Fuchs business, there was a new screening and it was discovered I had been a Communist.’
‘But if you were a Communist — ‘
‘I was not a Communist,’ he declared violently. ‘I have never been a Communist - not in the sense of the word as it is used now. But I joined the Party in 1938, after Munich. A great many of us joined then. It seemed our only hope. And afterwards, when the war was over, I forgot all about it. I didn’t think it mattered after I had fled from Czechoslovakia. I had left my wife to escape the Communists. I thought that was sufficient.’
‘I still don’t see what you’re frightened of,’ I said. ‘Are you trying to tell me that our .people were going to send you back to Czechoslovakia?’
‘No, no, of course not. Oh, God! I knew you wouldn’t understand. The British refused to let me leave the country. That’s why I had to come with Wade in a boat. It isn’t the British I am afraid of. But if I go back there … Listen, please. When I ignored the offers from Prague, they began sending me Party literature as though I were a member, they stopped me in the street, phoned me at the office, sent anonymous letters to the authorities denouncing me as a paid Communist agent. They even sent me letters in code from Prague. Finally they began to threaten. They were going to arrest Karen and my father. They would have been sent to the uranium mines or, worse still, into Russia, to Siberia.’
‘But your wife’s here now,’ I said.
‘I know, I know. But how do I know she is here of her own free will?’ He caught hold of my arm, shaking it excitedly. ‘Please, please, try to understand. If I am sent back to England, it will start all over again. I couldn’t stand it. No man’s nerves could stand it. But here … Wade will disappear and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to connect an obscure doctor at a Mission in the Atlas Mountains with the scientist who is missing in England.’ He was sweating and his face was all puckered up with the urgency of what he was trying to convey. ‘Please. You must help me. There must be some way out of Tangier. There must be some way.’
The taxi was just turning into the rue d’Angleterre. I could see the arched entrance to the Consulate. ‘Maybe there is,’ I said and leaned forward and slid back the glass partition. ‘Drive down to the Zocco Grande,’ I told the driver. I couldn’t very well do anything else. Half of his fears were probably imaginary, but they were real enough to him. The taxi turned the corner by the entrance to the Consulate and drove on down the hill, and he was suddenly crying. Tears of relief were welling out of his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he breathed. ‘Thank you.’
Poor devil! I leaned back in my seat, thinking back over the events of the past twenty-four hours. If I hadn’t pulled him out of the sea … But I had and now he was my responsibility. Somehow I’d got to get him out of the International Zone and into Morocco. It was a problem - the sort of problem that required inside knowledge of the working of Tangier. There had been a time …
I glanced at my watch. It was ten past three. Unless they had altered the flight schedules, we could still be at the airport in time to meet the Paris-Casablanca plane. I hesitated, wondering whether Vareau was still a clerk at the airport. Once, a long time back, I had got a man out that way, and his papers had lacked the necessary entry stamp. It was worth trying. ‘We’ll get another taxi in the Zocco Grande,’ I said, more to myself than to him. ‘And we’ll have to hurry. We’ve got to buy you a new suit and be out at the airport before four.’
He gripped my hand. ‘I shall never be able to thank you,’ he said.
‘You haven’t thanked me yet for saving your life,’ I said harshly. ‘Better leave thanksgiving until we’re both of us safely out of Tangier.’
CHAPTER THREE
We left Tangier by the rue de Fez, along a dirt-edged road where strings of asses trotted through the dust kicked up by battered French trucks driven fast. Out on the outskirts of the Mountain it was all rickety, new-grown development - an ugly pattern of telegraph poles and tin shacks and brand-new concrete factories. And the old ran side-by-side with the new; the overburdened asses, the bare-legged, turbaned men driving wooden ploughs through hard, dry ground, and the women, shrouded and veiled so that they looked like perambulating bundles of old clothes.
Beyond the development area, a ridge of grey-brown hills covered with stones and scrub ran out to Cap Spartel and the Atlantic. We passed a gang of convicts picking desultorily at the road and there were herds of black goats and drifts of white that were flocks of the stork-like birds that the French call pique-boeuf. It was all just as I remembered it, even to the nervous void in my stomach and Kavan sitting tense and rigid beside me as that other man had done.
It was not quite four when we reached the airport. The field was empty. The Paris flight had not yet landed. I told Kavan to wait in the taxi and slipped over the white-painted fence and round to the back of the airport buildings where the buffet was. I was in luck. Vareau was there. ‘Monsieur Latham!’ He came waddling over to me, a fat, slightly shabby man with a face like a bloodhound. ”Comment ca va, eh, eh? You wish me to arrange a seat for you on the plane, yes?’
‘Not for me,’ I said. ‘For a friend.’ And I drew him aside and explained the situation to him. But he shook his head. ‘You know, mon ami, I would do anything to help you. But it is too dangerous. The regulations are most strict now. I must put his name on the Paris list and then what happens when the office in Casablanca see that, eh? Non, non, it is impossible.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘It’s not impossible. The Casablanca office wouldn’t even notice. And if they did, then you made a mistake, that’s all. You’ve got to help me, Vareau.’ There was no other way of getting Kavan out, not with his papers correct. And they had to be correct if he were to work with me at Enfida. I pleaded, threatened, cajoled, and in the end he agreed to do it for twice the sum I originally offered him. Even then he wouldn’t have done it but for one thing - for personal reasons the air hostesses were being changed at Tangier. It was this factor that made the thing possible.
We went through the details carefully and then I returned to Kavan. He was sitting exactly as I had left him, his body rigid, his face tense. He looked dazed and desperately tired, oddly unfamiliar in his new suit. ‘Is it all right?’ he asked urgently as I climbed in beside him. ‘Did you fix it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I fixed it.’ But all the same I was wondering whether he could carry it through. His nerves were on edge and beneath the stubble of his beard I saw that the corner of his mouth was twitching.
‘What do I have to do?’ he asked. Tell me what I’m to do._’
I hesitated. I was wondering just how much I needed a doctor, for this business involved me deeper than I cared to go. But it was no good getting cold feet now. The man would just have to pull himself together. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Now listen. This is the drill. As soon as the Paris plane is sighted, Vareau, the French clerk, will come for you. He’ll take you to the lavatory and there you’ll shave off that beard, so that your appearance coincides with the photograph on your papers. By the way, I suppose your visa for entry into French Morocco is okay?’
‘Yes, yes.’ He nodded. ‘That was all arranged at the French Consulate in London.’
‘And you have a labour permit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good/ You’ll stay in the lavatory until Vareau collects you. By then the passengers who are going through to Casablanca will be congregated in the buffet. You will join them. Have a drink or something to occupy yourself. Talk to nobody. If anybody speaks to you, reply in Czech. Vareau will bring you your
ticket and anything else you need to get on to the plane. When the Paris passengers are instructed to return to the plane, you will go with them. There will be a different air hostess and your name will be on the list of passengers travelling direct from Paris to Casablanca. If the air hostess or the immigration official asks you anything, you don’t understand - you speak nothing but Czech. Is all that clear?’
He nodded and I had him repeat the instructions word for word.
‘When Vareau takes you to the lavatory, he will give you an immigration form to fill in. You will complete it in the lavatory and return it to him when he comes to collect you. Only one question on that form is not straightforward. Against Where have you come from? you will put Heathrow, London, via Paris. For destination and purpose of visit you state the exact truth -that you are going to work as a doctor in Morocco and that your address will be the English Mission at Enfida. Any questions about that?’
‘No. No, I don’t think so.’ He was frowning. ‘But I don’t understand how it helps. The authorities at Casablanca will want to know why my papers are not stamped as having come from Paris. When they find they are not stamped, they will know — ‘
‘There’s no difficulty there,’ I said, and I pulled out my own passport. ‘Look!’ I had come out to Morocco by air from England in July 1949, yet the only indication was the entry stamp of the immigration authorities at Casablanca. Though I had stopped off two days in Paris no entry had been made in my passport. ‘You see. All you have to say is that you’ve come from England. You left London by the night flight yesterday. All right?’ He nodded uneasily. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about once you’re on that plane,’ I assured him.
‘But you’re not coming with me?’
‘No. I shall go by train. We’ll meet in Casablanca.’
He gripped my arm. ‘Come with me on the plane. You could get a ticket here. There’s nothing to stop you. Why must you go by train?’ He was like a child afraid of being left.
‘Because I reserved two berths in the wagon-lit. It would look odd if neither of us turned up.’
He nodded unhappily and stared out across the airfield, his fingers drumming nervously on his knee. ‘Isn’t there some way we could both go together?’
‘No. This is the only way that gets you into Morocco with your papers in order. I should warn you there’s a French Civil Control office at Enfida.’
‘I don’t like it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s dangerous. And if I’m caught — ‘
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I said, and took hold of him and swung him round so that he faced me. ‘Now just listen. I’m in this as deep as you are. If you’re caught, then I’ll be in trouble, too. If you don’t like this arrangement, then I’m through with you. Understand?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ He half shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, if it’s the only way…’ He nodded slowly. ‘Very well. I’ll do what you say.’
‘Fine. You’ve nothing to worry about. Just convince yourself that you really have come direct from England.’
‘I’ll try.’ He nodded and then asked me where he should meet me in Casablanca.
‘At the railway station,’ I said. ‘The train for Marrakech leaves at 8.45 a.m. tomorrow.’
‘And your train arrives when?’
‘At seven twenty.’
‘I shall be at the station in time to meet your train then.’
‘All right. But if we do happen to miss each other, we’ll rendezvous in the foyer of the Hotel Metropole.’
‘If I’m not there to meet your train,’ he said, ‘you’d better look for me in the prison.’ He said it unsmilingly.
The taxi driver, who had been standing talking to one of the baggage checkers, called out to us and pointed. The silver glint of wings showed above the hills behind us. I pulled open my case and handed Kavan my shaving things. As we got out of the taxi, Vareau appeared round the corner of the airport building and signalled to us. I gripped Kavan’s hand. ‘Good luck!’ I said. ‘You’re clear on what you have to do?’
‘Quite clear.’ He nodded and then said urgently, ‘You’ll contact Karen, won’t you? You’ll let her know where I am?’
‘I’ll get in touch with her somehow,’ I assured him.
‘Promise you won’t leave Tangier without — ‘
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Now hurry. Vareau’s waiting.’
I watched him climb the fence and disappear round the front of the building with the clerk and then I got back into the taxi and sat there, watching the airfield, whilst the Constellation landed and taxied over. It was about ten minutes before the passengers emerged from the plane and came across the brown, burnt-up grass to the airport building.
I was nervous and the minutes dragged by. Cars came and went and my eyes remained on the corner of the building, my mind trying to visualise the scene inside. It was a modern brick building and on the side facing the airfield was a buffet with tall windows looking out to the runway. The baggage counter was between the buffet and the entrance hall, enclosed by doors. The officials would be fully occupied with the papers and baggage of the passengers stopping at Tangier. Kavan should have finished shaving by now. He should be sitting in the buffet with the rest of the passengers bound for Casablanca. The air hostess had gone into the building with the air crew several minutes ago. Vareau should have added Kavan’s name to the list by now. He should have got Kavan’s immigration form, too.
I got out of the taxi and began pacing up and down. If I could only have been in the buffet to keep an eye on things, to keep Kavan’s mind occupied … I was afraid his nervousness would give him away, sitting there alone. I tried not to think what would happen if they started questioning him.
I kept glancing at my watch, but it seemed ages before the hands pointed to four forty-five. The air crew strolled out to the plane, their flat hats and dark blue uniforms looking oddly naval. A mechanic was clambering along one wing. Then he jumped down and the air crew disappeared inside the fuselage. It was ten to five. What were they waiting for? Had something happened? Were they interrogating Kavan now? I went to the rail, craning my head forward to see farther round the corner of the building.
And then the air hostess came out, the board with her list of passengers swinging in her hand. The passengers followed in a long, straggling line. I didn’t recognise Kavan at first. He was near the end of the line, walking close to a French family. He looked quite different without his beard. He was walking jerkily, a little nervously, his head thrust forward, his eyes on the ground. Once he half-turned and glanced in my direction. His face looked stronger, more positive without the beard. He had a strong jaw and somehow the sight of him looking like that made me feel it would be all right.
The passengers were bunching up now, queueing at the foot of the steps into the fuselage. Gradually the little crowd thinned. I could see the immigration official. He was talking to the hostess, only half his attention on the passengers. And then he was looking at Kavan and my muscles tensed and my mouth felt dry. The air hostess glanced down at her list and I breathed a sigh of relief. Kavan was climbing the steps. I watched him disappear into the fuselage and then I turned and walked rather shakily back to the taxi.
Five minutes later the plane taxied out to the end of the runway. It stood there for a moment, revving its engines, and then it took off, the undercarriage retracting and the starboard wing dipping as it swung south and disappeared in the direction of Morocco.
I told the driver to take me back to Tangier and I lay back in my seat and closed my eyes. In little more than an hour Kavan would be through the airfield immigration check and on his way into Casablanca in the Air France bus - so long as nothing went wrong. But I couldn’t do anything about it now. I would mail Vareau his money from Marrakech and that, I hoped, would be the end of the whole business.
For the first time since I had pulled Kavan out of the sea I felt relaxed. Lying back, watching the dusty road stream by, my mind turned to Enfida.
Now at last I was able to think and plan again for the future.
The next thing I knew we were back in Tangier and a horn was blaring at us. We had stopped at some traffic lights and somebody was gesticulating and shouting to me from a car drawn up alongside. It was Kostos, and he leaned across the Arab he had with him and wound down the window. ‘Lat’am!’ he called across to me. ‘I like to talk to you. Tell your driver to stop opposite the British Post Office, eh?’
‘And I’d like a word with you,’ I shouted at him. The sight of him had suddenly made me angry. If it hadn’t been for that nonsense about the passport, I shouldn’t have had to run the risk of getting Kavan out of the Zone illegally. He could have travelled with me on the train. I leaned forward and told the driver to stop opposite the BPO. The lights changed and we moved forward. Through the rear window I saw Kostos nose his car in behind us. I sat back again, thinking how dangerous it could be to take another man’s name when you knew nothing about him - especially when the destination was Tangier. I was consumed with sudden curiosity to discover what it was all about. What were these documents that Kostos was so anxious to get hold of? And this place Kasbah Foum - it had an oddly sinister sound.
The taxi stopped and I paid the driver off. Kostos and the Arab were waiting for me on the curb. ‘Where have you been?’ Kostos demanded. ‘You don’t go to the British Consulate. I check that. An’ you don’t go to the Pension de la Montagne. I just come from there. Where do you go?’
The Strange Land Page 8
