‘About three kilometres north of this house — the General’s daughter will show you the way here if you cannot find it easily — a side road branches off to the left. Follow this road — it ends about eight kilometres farther on at a small ferry across a tributary of the Raab. Remain there. About three kilometres to the north there is a wooden bridge over the same stream. We are going to cross that, destroy it so that you will not be tempted to follow it, and make our way south to the ferryman’s house opposite which you will arrive. There is a small, rope-operated boat there which we will use to effect the transfer of prisoners. All this is clear to you?’
There was a long pause, the faintly metallic, indistinguishable murmur of Hidas’ voice was the only sound in the silence of the room, then the Count said, ‘Wait a moment,’ covered the mouthpiece with his hand and turned to the others.
‘He says he must have an hour’s delay — they must have government permission. It’s quite likely. It’s also more than likely that, in normal circumstances, our dear friend would use that hour to call up the army to surround us or the air force to drop a few well-chosen bombs down the chimney.’
‘Impossible.’ Jansci shook his head. ‘The nearest army units are at Kaposvar, south of Balaton, and we know from the radio that they must be completely bogged down.’
‘And the nearest air force bases are up at the Czech border.’ The Count glanced through the window at the grey world of driving snow. ‘Even if they aren’t unserviceable or closed in, no aircraft could ever find us in this weather. We take a chance?’
‘We take a chance,’ Jansci echoed.
‘You have your hour, Colonel Hidas.’ The Count had removed his hand from the mouthpiece. ‘Call us a minute late, and you’ll find us gone. One other thing. You will come by way of the village of Vylok, and by no other way — we do not wish to have our escape route cut off, and you know the size of our organisation — we will have every other road north of Szombathely covered, and if a car or truck as much as stirs along these roads, you will arrive here to find us gone. Until we meet then, my dear Colonel. … In about three hours, you would say? Au revoir.’
He replaced the phone and turned to the others.
‘You see how it is, gentlemen — I get all the kudos and reputation for chivalry and self-sacrificing gallantry, without any of the distressing risks customarily associated with these things. Missiles mean more than revenge, and they want the professor. We have three hours.’
Three hours, and now one of them was almost gone. It was an hour that should have been spent in sleep, they were all exhausted and desperately in need of sleep, but the thought of sleep occurred to none. It could not occur to Jansci, dazed though he was with joy at the thought of seeing Catherine again, because he was at the same time unhappy, consumed with anxiety and remorse, and still in his heart blindly determined that the professor should not go: it could not occur to the professor, for he had no wish to spend his last few hours of freedom in sleep, and it did not occur to the Cossack, because he was again at his interminable practice with his whip, readying himself for glorious battle against the accursed AVO. Sandor never thought of it, he had just walked up and down in the bitter cold outside by Jansci’s shoulder, because he would not leave him at this hour. And the Count was drinking, heavily, steadily, as if he would never see a bottle of brandy again. Reynolds watched him in silent wonder as he opened a third bottle of brandy — and the Count had already consumed more than half of the others. He might have been drinking water, for all the apparent effects.
‘You think I drink too much, my friend?’ He smiled at Reynolds. ‘You do not conceal your thoughts.’
‘Wrong. Why shouldn’t you?’
‘Why not indeed? I like the stuff.’
‘But — ‘
‘But what, my friend?’
Reynolds shrugged. ‘That’s not why you drink.’
‘No?’ The Count raised an eyebrow. ‘To drown my many sorrows, perhaps?’
‘To drown Jansci’s sorrows, I think,’ Reynolds said slowly. Then he had a moment of acute, unusual perception. ‘No, I think I know. You know, how you can be sure I do not know, but you are sure that Jansci will see his Catherine and Julia again. His sorrow is gone, but yours remains; and yours was the same as his, but now you have to bear yours alone, so you feel it with redoubled effect.’
‘Jansci has been talking to you?’
‘He has said nothing to me.’
‘I believe you.’- The Count regarded ‘him thoughtfully. ‘You know, you have aged ten years in a few days, my friend. You will never be the same again. You are, of course, leaving your intelligence service?’
‘This is my last mission. No more.’
‘And going to marry the fair Julia?’
‘Good God!’ Reynolds stared at him. ‘Is it — is it as obvious as that?’
‘You were the last to see it. It was obvious to everyone else.’
‘Well, then, yes. Of course.’ He frowned in surprise. ‘I haven’t asked her yet.’
‘No need. I know women.’ The Count waved a lackadaisical hand. ‘She probably has faint hopes of making something of you.’
‘I hope she has.’ Reynolds paused, hesitated, then looked directly at the Count. ‘You put me off beautifully, there, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did. It was unfair — I was personal, and you had the grace not to rebuff me. Sometimes I think pride is a damnable thing.’ The Count poured a half-tumbler full of brandy, drank from it, chain-lit another Russian cigarette, then went on abruptly, ‘Jansci was looking for his wife, I for my little boy. Little boy! He would be twenty next month — maybe he is twenty. I don’t know, I don’t know. I hope he lived.’
‘He was not your only child?’
‘I had five children, and the children had a mother and grandfather and uncles, but I do not worry about them, they are all safe.’
Reynolds said nothing, there was no need to say anything. He knew from what Jansci had said that the Count had lost everything and everybody in the world — except his little boy.
‘They took me away when he was only three years old,’ the Count went on softly. T can still see him standing there in the snow, wondering, not understanding. I have thought of him since, every night, every day of my life. Did he survive? Who looked after him? Had he clothes to keep the cold out, has he still clothes to keep the cold out? Does he get enough to eat, or is he thin and wasted? Perhaps no one wanted him, but surely to God — he was such a little boy, Mr. Reynolds. I wonder what he looks like, I always wondered what he looked like. I wondered how he smiled and laughed and played and ran, I wanted all the time to be by his side, to see him every day of my life, to see all the wonderful things you see when your child is growing up, but I have missed it all, all the wonderful years are gone, and it is ‘too late now. Yesterday, all our yesterdays, can never come again. He was all that I have lived for, but to every man there comes a moment of truth, and mine came this morning. I shall never see him again. May God look after my little boy.’
‘I’m sorry I asked,’ murmured Reynolds. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ He paused then he said: ‘That’s not true, I don’t know why I said that. I’m glad I asked.’
‘It’s strange, but I’m glad I told you.’ The Count drained his glass, refilled it, glanced at his watch and when he spoke again he was the old Count, his voice brisk and assertive and ironic. ‘Barack brings self-pity, but it also dispels it. Time we were moving, my friend. The hour is almost up. We cannot stay here — only a madman would trust Hidas.’
‘So Jennings must go?’
‘Jennings must go. If they don’t get him, then Catherine and Julia . . .’
‘Finish. Is that it?’
‘I’m sorry.’
Hidas must want him badly.’
‘He wants him desperately. The Communists are mortally afraid that if he escapes to the west and talks — and that would be a blow from which they would not recover for a long time — the damage would be irreparable. That is why I phoned and offered myself. I knew how badly they wanted me, I wanted to find out how badly they wanted Jennings. As I said, they want him desperately.’