`But for how long?’
Bond gazed up into the beautiful, worried eyes. He cleared the sleep out of his mind. It was impossible to see beyond the next three days on the train, beyond their arrival in London. One had to face the fact that this girl was an enemy agent. His feelings would be of no interest to the interrogators from his Service and from the Ministries. Other intelligence services would also want to know what this girl had to tell them about the machine she had worked for. Probably at Dover she would be taken away to `The Cage’, that well-sentried private house near Guildford, where she would be put in a comfortable, but oh so well-wired room. And the efficient men in plain clothes would come one by one and sit and talk with her, and the recorder would spin in the room below and the records would be transcribed and sifted for their grains of new fact–and, of course, for the contradictions they would trap her into. Perhaps they would introduce a stool-pigeon–a nice Russian girl who would commiserate with Tatiana over her treatment and suggest ways of escape, of turning double, of getting `harmless’ information back to her parents. This might go on for weeks or months. Meanwhile Bond would be tactfully kept away from her, unless the interrogators thought he could extract further secrets by using their feelings for each other. Then what? The changed name, the offer of a new life in Canada, the thousand pounds a year she would be given from the secret funds? And where would he be when she came out of it all? Perhaps the other side of the world. Or, if he was still in London, how much of her feeling for him would have survived the grinding of the interrogation machine? How much would she hate or despise the English after going through all this? And, for the matter of that, how much would have survived of his own hot flame?
`Duschka,’ repeated Tatiana impatiently. `How long?’
`As long as possible. It will depend on us. Many people will interfere. We shall be separated. It will not always be like this in a little room. In a few days we shall have to step out into the world. It will not be easy. It would be foolish to tell you anything else.’
Tatiana’s face cleared. She smiled down at him. `You are right. I will not ask any more foolish questions. But we must waste no more of these days.’ She shifted his head and got up and lay down beside him.
An hour later, when Bond was standing in the corridor, Darko Kerim was suddenly beside him. He examined Bond’s face. He said slyly, `You should not sleep so long. You have been missing the historic landscape of northern Greece. And it is time for the premier service.’
`All you think about is food,’ said Bond. He gestured back with his head. `What about our friend?’
`He has not stirred. The conductor has been watching for me. That man will end up the richest conductor in the wagon-lit company. Five hundred dollars for Goldfarb’s papers, and now a hundred dollars a day retainer until the end of the journey.’ Kerim chuckled. `I have told him he may even get a medal for his services to Turkey. He believes we are after a smuggling gang. They’re always using this train for running Turkish opium to Paris. He is not surprised, only pleased that he is being paid so well. And now, have you found out anything more from this Russian princess you have in there? I still feel disquiet. Everything is too peaceful. Those two men we left behind may have been quite innocently bound for Berlin as the girl says. This Benz may be keeping to his room because he is frightened of us. All is going well with our journey. And yet, and yet … Kerim shook his head. `These Russians are great chess players. When they wish to execute a plot, they execute it brilliantly. The game is planned minutely, the gambits of the enemy are provided for. They are foreseen and countered. At the back of my mind,’ Kerim’s face in the window was gloomy, `I have a feeling that you and I and this girl are pawns on a very big board–that we are being allowed our moves because they do not interfere with the Russian game.’