Eagles

by Lewis Orde

  ‘At this moment you are standing on Argentinian ground. You have no liberties or rights here!’

  Sally calmly regarded her fellow journalists. She understood why they were mad at her; she had the scoop that they did not. Still, there was a kinship between them; if one was injured, they would all suffer. ‘I’m not prepared to reveal my source.’

  At that the mood in the room changed abruptly – they had all been reminded how vulnerable they were. ‘That’s right, Sally!’ yelled the same man who, moments earlier, had demanded that she share her information. ‘You tell him.’

  Menendez sensed the change and was wise enough not to fight it. ‘We shall see,’ he said before he turned and left.

  The group of journalists left the embassy satisfied. Even though they hadn’t been able to interview Catarina and were subsequently forced to rehash the Mercury’s story, Menendez’s fury was excellent copy. Every newspaper in town was cashing in on the public interest aroused by Catarina’s rebellion against her family. It was a classic battle between the young and the old, and overnight Roland and Catarina had been unwittingly transformed into the leaders of a new generation, two young people from different backgrounds determined to bridge the gap, come what may, for love.

  Sally left knowing that her exclusive connection to the story was in danger. She had little doubt that her fellow journalists – those same people who had just supported her – wouldn’t think twice about tailing her every move, just as Menendez would. They all wanted to know her secret. Roland had already told her that he suspected the ambassador was having him followed; it wouldn’t take much for Menendez to extend the action to Sally as well.

  No, she couldn’t risk visiting Catarina again, but that wouldn’t put an end to her exclusive connection – there was more than one way to skin a cat.

  *

  When Roland read the interview with Menendez in the next day’s papers he ripped them up in disgust. How dare he suggest that he was only interested in Catarina for her family’s money? What galled him even more was Menendez’s threat to disinherit his daughter. Not from the family wealth – he knew he could always provide for her – but from the family itself. Roland understood too well what that meant, and no matter what Catarina had said in her interview with Sally, the reality of it, he knew, would destroy her. Roland’s own father had been cut off from his family for precisely the same reason, and it had turned one corner of his personality into a breeding ground of hatred. He couldn’t bear to see that happen to Catarina as well.

  Roland called a press conference of his own in retaliation to Menendez’s accusations. ‘Ambassador Menendez believes I want to marry his daughter for his money. He is one hundred percent wrong. I wouldn’t touch a single penny of his money, even if he got down on his hands and knees and begged me to take it. Like all Argentinian money it is stained with blood, and I have no desire to soil my hands with it. All I ask of the ambassador is that he think of his daughter, to relent for her sake. He is entitled to think whatever he likes of me, but if his attitude harms Catarina he will have to carry that on his conscience for the rest of his life.’

  After the reporters rushed away to file their reports of this latest round Roland once again went over his plans for their escape. Regardless of what the ambassador said or thought, soon they would be together.

  Chapter Seven

  Long before dawn on New Year’s day, Roland sat in the living room of his apartment. Beside his chair was a picnic hamper and two suitcases; one suitcase was packed full, the other empty.

  At four-thirty he heard a surreptitious rapping on the front door. He went downstairs and quickly let Lawrence Chivers in. The sales manager looked as if he’d come straight from a party: his eyes were red-rimmed, beneath his heavy coat Roland could see that his tie was askew, his shirt collar undone. Going up the stairs he noticed that Chivers was limping, as if he couldn’t bend his right leg.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ Roland greeted him. ‘Sorry to drag you out so early.’

  ‘My pleasure. Elopements don’t happen that often to people I know. Even my wife didn’t complain when I started roaming around the house at three-thirty.’ He unbuttoned his coat, opened the top of his trousers and drew out a twenty-two caliber air rifle which he set down on the floor. ‘That’s better, now I can walk.’

  ‘Where did you leave your car?’

  ‘Two streets away, like you told me to. I had it serviced last week – oil changed, plugs, points, the works. Should get you to Scotland with no trouble. Pity you’re going up there a day too late for New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘I’ll make my own celebrations,’ Roland answered, glancing down at the air rifle; he just hoped that Chivers was as good a shot as he claimed to be. He picked up the hamper and full suitcase and passed them over to Chivers. ‘Stick these in your car, then come back up.’

  ‘Where’s the fellow who’s watching you?’

  Roland turned out the light and led Chivers to the window. He pulled back the drape and pointed down the street. The Jaguar was parked twenty yards away; fifty yards further was the familiar shape of the black Vauxhall. Even as they watched, a tiny glow flickered inside the Vauxhall, as if its driver were lighting a cigarette to keep himself awake.

  ‘Just the one lamp?’ Chivers asked, looking at the gas streetlight near the Jaguar.

  ‘Just the one. Figure you can hit it?’

  ‘It’s harder to miss.’ Carrying the hamper and suitcase he went downstairs. Roland watched through the window as Chivers left through the delivery entrance on the side of the building and walked toward his car, opposite in direction to the Jaguar and the man in the Vauxhall. Five minutes later he was back, stumbling around in the darkened living room.

  ‘Now you’re sure you know how to get to Jack Johnston’s place in Peebles?’ Chivers asked as he raised the window and slid the air rifle out.

  ‘I’ve got the directions you gave me.’

  ‘Jack’s a good lad,’ Chivers said, sighting in on the solitary gas light. He pulled the rifle back in, broke the barrel to compress the powerful spring, inserted a waisted lead pellet and took aim again. ‘Old Jack’ll see you all right. Slip him a little something and he’ll keep his mouth shut tight.’

  ‘He’d better,’ Roland said. Jack Johnston lived in the town of Peebles, near Edinburgh, where he rented rooms above his pub to traveling salesmen. Chivers knew Johnston from his days as a vacuum cleaner salesman, and vouched that – for a price – the publican would keep secret the fact that Roland and Catarina would be establishing residency there. Roland felt it was a risk, but Chivers had convinced him of the publican’s integrity.

  ‘I hope city council forgives me for this,’ Chivers muttered as he concentrated on his aim. ‘Some smart aleck teenager will probably get blamed for it.’

  ‘Get on with it, for Christ’s sake,’ Roland said. The man was making him nervous.

  Chivers squeezed the trigger, the report barely audible. At the same time there was the faintest sound of splintering glass as the lead pellet passed through the light, throwing the street into darkness. Chivers opened his trousers, jammed the rifle down his right leg and picked up the second, empty case.

  ‘Keys,’ Roland said.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Chivers fished the keys to his Austin from his coat pocket, exchanged them for the Jaguar’s keys. ‘Good luck,’ he said, shaking Roland’s hand. ‘Next time I hear from you, it had better be Mr and Mrs Eagles.’

  ‘It will be.’ Roland returned to the window and watched Chivers walk slowly along the street. Even at twenty yards it was impossible to identify him, and he knew the problem would be even more difficult for the man sitting in the Vauxhall. Chivers went to the trunk of the Jaguar and threw in the case. Then he opened the driver’s door, fiddled with his clothing for a minute – Roland assumed he was removing the air rifle – and climbed in. Moments later the Jaguar’s engine roared into life. Chivers turned the headlights on, lighting up the entire street, then tore the sports car
away from the curb with a squeal of tires, accelerating hard toward the end of the street. Roland knew none of his neighbors would appreciate the noise, but he couldn’t be concerned about that; he was too busy watching as the Vauxhall’s lights came on, its engine started and the driver prepared for pursuit.

  Laughing to himself, Roland closed the window. He waited for ten minutes, long enough to be certain that Chivers was giving the Vauxhall’s driver a good run-around, then locked up the flat and walked quickly to Chivers’ Austin.

  While most of London slept off celebrations of the previous night, Roland sped through the dark streets toward the northwestern edge of the city. By a deserted stretch of road close to the highway leading north, he pulled over and waited. Fifteen minutes dragged by before the familiar square shape of a taxi cruised to a halt behind the Austin. Alf Goldstein clambered out and held open the passenger door for Catarina. It was the first time Roland had seen her since their escape at the airport. They kissed and clung to each other until Goldstein coughed pointedly into his hand.

  ‘It’ll be getting light before long. You two are like a pair of sitting ducks out here. Better be on your way.’

  Roland helped Catarina into the Austin and turned to Goldstein. ‘Thanks for everything. If I can ever repay you, just let me know how.’

  ‘Get to Scotland and get married before her old man catches up with you, that’s all you have to do.’ As Roland moved away, Goldstein caught him by the arm. He removed a flat, oblong package from his coat. ‘I know you never read this, so take it along with you. A little gift, in case you want to do any bedtime reading.’ He winked broadly and walked back to his cab, made a U-turn and headed back toward the center of London.

  ‘What’s that?’ Catarina asked as Roland got into the Austin.

  ‘Alf gave it to me. A wedding present.’ He tore open the package to find a signed copy of Goldstein’s book on Bergen-Belsen. Turning to the index he found his own name and looked up the page. ‘You read it,’ he told Catarina as he started the car.

  ‘He thinks a lot of you,’ she said after reading aloud Goldstein’s account of Roland’s work in the camp. ‘He’s a very kind man.’

  ‘What does he say about Heinrich Kassler?’ Roland asked, spelling the German’s name for her.

  Catarina checked the index. Goldstein had written a few lines about the German, relating how he was captured and how the camp survivors corroborated his testimony. Roland nodded, satisfied that Goldstein thought Kassler’s efforts worth mentioning.

  ‘Did Alf and his wife give you everything you needed?’

  ‘Everything except clothes.’

  Roland glanced at her and saw that she was wearing the same outfit she’d worn when he’d snatched her from Juan at the airport – a brown wool coat, with a beige dress.

  ‘I washed out my . . . my . . .’ She smiled coyly, embarrassed. ‘You know what I mean, Rollie. I washed them out every night and left them to dry in front of the electric heater.’

  ‘Don’t worry about clothes, that’s all been taken care of. Sally went out and picked some things out for you. They’re in my case. Not exactly a trousseau, but . . .’

  ‘God bless Sally.’

  ‘Oh, He undoubtedly will,’ Roland chuckled. ‘She’ll probably find a way to use it in her story somewhere.’

  They drove throughout the day, a young couple attracting no attention in a nondescript family car, stopping to eat from the hamper Roland had brought. As night fell, they crossed the Scottish border into Gretna. Roland stopped the car and gazed around curiously. He had taken a slightly circuitous route, going too far west, but he had wanted to visit Gretna first, a well-known spot for runaway lovers.

  ‘We’re here a few years too late,’ he explained to Catarina. ‘There was a time when you could get married here by the village blacksmith or the tollgate keeper or whoever. All you had to do was declare your vows.’

  ‘That was all?’ Catarina opened the door and swung her feet out. ‘I declare—!’

  She got no further. Roland pulled her back in and slammed the door shut. ‘For Christ’s sake – that’s the last thing we need right now! Your father will know soon enough where we are once we give notice of our intention to marry. Don’t make it any easier for him.’

  ‘I’m following a tradition, that’s all.’

  ‘Let’s save it for the wedding ceremony. I want to make sure we have one.’ Roland drove in silence for a while, then he asked. ‘Did the things I told the newspapers about your father upset you?’

  ‘They should have, but somehow they didn’t. I told Sally things that were just as bad. I hope my father can forgive me for them.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll ever come around?’

  ‘If he does it will only be because of my mother.’

  ‘Then I hope she’s working damned hard on him.’

  ‘So do I, Rollie.’ She clutched his hand as it gripped the wheel. ‘I want you more than anything in the entire world, but I also want my family – even my brother.’

  ‘Believe me, Catarina,’ Roland said, the pain of his own memories flooding to the surface, ‘I want you to have them too.’

  When they reached Peebles, they found that Jack Johnston’s place, the Bonnie Prince, was located in the center of town. Roland left Catarina in the car and went inside to ask for him. The barmaid called out his name, and moments later a robust, red-faced man in his sixties came up from the cellar, dusting himself off.

  ‘Mr Johnston? I’m—’

  ‘Ssh . . .’ Johnston admonished him, nodding toward the few customers in the bar. ‘I know who you are. You’re the friend Lawrence Chivers called me about. Where’s your lass?’

  ‘Outside in the car. I didn’t want to bring her in.’

  ‘Good thinking. Her face is a bit too well-known. So is yours, for that matter, but how many men remember another man’s face?’ He followed Roland outside to the car. ‘So you’re the young lass who’s got the country looking for her. Never fear, you’ll be safe in the Bonnie Prince.’

  ‘Lawrence said you’ve given us both your bedrooms,’ Roland mentioned as he grabbed the case with one hand and took Catarina’s with the other. They followed Jack Johnston through a back entrance into the public house, up a winding flight of stairs.

  ‘Aye, they’re yours until you’re ready to leave. I’ve put off all my regular reservations. Bit of trouble that . . .’

  ‘I’ll pay you for your trouble.’ Best to get the financial matters out of the way first, Roland decided. ‘How much?’

  ‘I normally get ten shillings a night for each room.’

  ‘That’s twenty-one pounds for the three weeks then.” Roland handed the publican fifty. ‘Will that ensure your confidence?’

  ‘Aye.’ Johnston opened the door to the first bedroom. It was sparsely furnished and cold, but the sheets were clean and the double bed was covered by a huge, puffy comforter. ‘The lass can sleep in here. Yours is next door.’

  Roland left the suitcase with Catarina and followed Johnston to an exact replica of the room they’d just left. ‘Toilet’s down the hall, but if you want to take a bath you’ve got to turn the heater on first. Takes a wee bit of time to warm up and it might run a bit rusty to begin with, but it works.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Johnston. You’ve been very helpful.’ Roland waited until the man went downstairs, then joined Catarina in her room. He found her sitting on the bed, looking lost and forlorn. When he told her about the bathing arrangements, she burst out laughing.

  ‘Does that mean we shall be married smelling?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he answered, sitting beside her. ‘If everyone else smells, I’m sure no one will notice.’

  *

  For the next two weeks, Roland and Catarina’s lives followed a set pattern. Jack Johnston’s wife brought them breakfast in their rooms, then they left by the back way to spend the day touring the locale in the Austin, lunching at small inns where they felt they were safe. Catarina never we
nt anywhere without dark glasses and a wide hat that shadowed her face, and Roland allowed himself the luxury of growing a beard. In the evening they kept to their rooms, reading, listening to a radio Johnston gave them, or playing cards. Any other time it would have been a tedious existence, but because it was part of a conspiracy, the couple found it easier to endure.

  One evening Roland received a phone call from Simon who told him that Ambassador Menendez had hired an entire regiment of private detectives to canvas hotels and guest houses throughout the country with photographs of Catarina; he was leaving no stone unturned in his search for his daughter.

  The story of the two lovers continued to dominate the front pages of the newspapers. Although a number of sightings in places as far apart as Aberdeen and Plymouth had proven false, the press refused to lose interest. Their readers wanted to know the latest, and the papers were milking it for all it was worth; one was even offering a prize to the reader who located Roland and Catarina. The two read all the stories and laughed. As long as they stayed at the little-known public house they felt they were safe; from newspaper accounts, it didn’t seem the detectives were anywhere near picking up their trail.

  Only once did their pattern change. After ten days in the house Catarina complained of a migraine and blurred vision. More concerned about her health than continuing the secrecy, Roland asked Johnston for the name of a doctor. Johnston arranged for one to come to the house, explaining that one of his guests had taken ill. The doctor prescribed medication and suggested Catarina have her eyes checked as the headaches were obviously linked to a vision problem. He left not knowing that he had just examined the most sought-after woman in the country. Roland gave Johnston another twenty pounds for his help.