‘Suppose you begin by telling us how you entered the country,’ Hidas suggested. ‘Were the canals frozen, Mr. Reynolds?’
‘Entered t)he country? Canals?’ Reynolds’ voice came thick and blurred through his swollen lips, and he shook his head slowly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know — ‘
He broke off, jumped sideways and twisted round in one convulsive movement, a movement that sliced fresh agony through his side and back: even in the relative gloom where Hidas was sitting, he had caught the sudden shift of eyes, the tiny nod to Coco, and it was not until afterwards that Reynolds realised that he had probably been meant to catch both. Coco’s downward clubbing fist missed him almost completely, the burred edge of a signet ring burning a thin line from temple to jaw, but Reynolds, with the giant guard completely off balance, made no mistake.
Hidas was on his feet now, his pistol showing. His eyes over the tableau: the other two guards moving in with carbines ready, Reynolds leaning heavily on one foot — the other felt as if it were broken — and Coco rolling about the floor, writhing in a silent -agony; then he smiled, thinly.
‘You condemn yourself, Captain Reynolds. A harmless citizen of Budapest would have been where the unfortunate Coco now lies: the savate is not taught in the schools hereabouts.’ Reynolds realised, with a chill wonder, that Hidas had deliberately provoked the incident, indifferent to the consequences to his subordinate. ‘I know all I want — and I do you the compliment of realising that breaking your bones is just a waste of time. Stalin Street for us, Captain Reynolds, and some gentler forms of persuasion.’
Three minutes later they were all inside the; lorry that had just drawn up outside the garage. The giant Coco, grey-faced and still breathing stertorously, was stretched his length on one fore-and-aft bench seat, while Colonel Hidas and two of the guards sat on the opposite bench, with Reynolds sitting on the floor between with his back to the cab: the fourth AVO man was in the cab with the driver.
The smash, the grinding crash that flung all the men in the back of the lorry off their seats and catapulted one of the guards on top of Reynolds, came within twenty seconds of starting off, just as they were rounding the first corner. There was no warning, not even a split second in which to prepare themselves, just a squealing of brakes and tearing of metal as the truck’s tyres slithered across the hard-packed snow of the street and bumped softly into the opposite kerb.
They were still sprawled anyhow across the floor of the truck, still recovering their wits to make the first move, when the doors at the back of the truck were flung open, the light switched off and the suddenly darkened interior illuminated a moment afterwards by the white, blinding light from a pair of powerful torches. The long, slender snouts of two gun-barrels, gleaming evilly, slid forward into the narrow arcs of the torch beams, and a deep, hoarse-sounding voice ordered them to clasp their hands above their heads. Then, at some low murmur from the road outside, the two torches and guns moved farther apart and a man — Reynolds recognised him as the fourth AVO man — came stumbling into the pool of light, followed almost at once by an unconscious form that was bundled unceremoniously on the floor. Then the doors slammed shut, the truck engine revved furiously in reverse, there came a thin, screeching sound as if the truck were freeing itself from some metal obstruction and a moment later they were on their way again. The whole operation hadn’t taken twenty seconds from first to last, and Reynolds mentally saluted the high-speed, smoothly functioning efficiency of a group of experts.
The identity of the experts he did not for a moment doubt, but even so it was not until he had caught a momentary glimpse of the hand that held one of the guns — a gnarled, scarred hand with a curious bluish-purple mark in the middle, a hand that no sooner appeared than it was snatched back again- — that the relief of certainty swept over him like a warm and releasing wave: only then, and not till then, could he appreciate how tense and how keyed-up he had been, how steeled his every nerve and thought against the nameless horrors that awaited all the luckless beings Who were ever interrogated in the cellars of Stalin Street.
The agony of his side and mouth was back again, redoubled in its acuteness now that the dread of the future was removed and he could think again of the present. Waves of nausea swept over him, he could feel the blood pounding in his dizzily swimming head, and he knew that it required only the slightest deliberate relaxation of his will for the grateful oblivion of unconsciousness to sweep over him. But there would come a time for that, later.
Grey-faced with the pain, setting his teeth against the groan that came to his mouth, he pushed away the guard who was leaning against and on top of him, bent over and took his carbine away: this he placed on the bench by his left and sent sliding down to the rear where an unseen hand drew it into the darkness. Another two carbines went the same way, followed by Hidas’ pistol: his own gun Reynolds retrieved from Hidas’ tunic, thrust under his coat, and sat up on the bench opposite Coco.
After a few minutes they heard the truck engine changing down and felt the truck itself braking to a stop. The guns at the back of the truck poked forward a few suggestive inches, and a hoarse voice warned them to keep absolute silence. Reynolds took out his automatic, screwed on the silencer and pressed the barrel none too softly into the base of Hidas’ neck: the faint, appreciative murmur from the rear reached him just as the truck ground to a halt.
The halt was brief. A question from some unknown person, a quick, harsh authoritative reply — tones, only, could be distinguished inside the back of the lorry, the words were quite undistinguishable — an acknowledgment, the hiss of releasing air brakes, and they were on their way once more, Reynolds leaning back in his seat with a long, soundless sigh and pocketing his gun again. The mark gouged out on Hidas’ neck by his silencer was deep and red and angry: it had been a tense, nerve-racking moment.
Once again they came to a halt, and once again Reynolds’ automatic found the self-same spot in the AVO officer’s neck, but the halt was this time, if anything, even briefer. After that there were no more stops, and from the gently undulating and curving nature of the road together with the lack of exhaust echo beating back from encompassing walls and buildings, Reynolds realised that they were clear of Budapest’s suburbs and running into the country. He forced himself to stay awake, to cling grimly to the thread of consciousness, and he did so by constantly shifting his gaze round the interior of the truck. His eyes were now accustomed to the gloom in the rear and in the faint backwash of light he could just make out two figures, with hats pulled low over their eyes, sitting hunched and motionless over guns and torches that never wavered: there was something almost inhuman in the intensity of that vigilance, in its unflagging concentration, and Reynolds began to have his first inkling of how Jansci and his friends had come to survive so long. Now and again Reynolds’ eyes would come back to the men at his feet, and he could see the uncomprehending, fearful play of expression on their faces, the trembling of their arms as their shoulder muscles ached from the long strain of holding their arms clasped above their heads: only Hidas remained immobile throughout, his features composed and empty of all expression, For all the man’s cold-blooded indifference to the suffering of others, Reynolds had to admit to himself that there was something admirable about him: with no hint of either fear or self-pity ho accepted defeat with the same detached remoteness that characterised him in the moment of victory.
One of the men at the back of the truck flashed a light at his wrist — a watch probably, though Reynolds couldn’t see it at that distance — then spoke. A deep gruff voice, muffled by the swathes of a handkerchief, it could have belonged to anyone.
‘Boots and shoes off, all of you, but one at a time. Place them on the right hand bench.’ For a moment it seemed that Colonel Hidas was going to refuse — and there was no doubt that the man had sufficient courage to do just that — but the urgent jab from Reynolds’ gun made all too apparent the uselessness of any resistance. Even Coco, now sufficiently recovered to lean on an elbow and bc-1] himself, had his boots off within thirty seconds.