Leclerc had said it was big, and Taylor believed him. They had got him a passport with another name. Malherbe. Pronounced Mallaby, they said. Christ alone knew who’d chosen it. Taylor couldn’t even spell it; made a botch of the hotel register when he signed in that morning. The subsistence was fantastic, of course: fifteen quid a day operational expenses, no vouchers asked for. He’d heard the Circus gave seventeen. He could make a good bit on that, buy something for Joanie. She’d probably rather have the money.
He’d told her, of course: he wasn’t supposed to, but Leclerc didn’t know Joanie. He lit a cigarette, drew from it and held it in the palm of his hand like a sentry smoking on duty. How the hell was he supposed to push off to Scandinavia without telling his wife?
He wondered what those kids were doing, glued to the window all this time. Amazing the way they managed the foreign language. He looked at his watch again, scarcely noticing the time, touched the envelope in his pocket. Better not have another drink; he must keep a clear head. He tried to guess what Joanie was doing now. Probably having a sit-down with a gin or something. A pity she had to work all day.
He suddenly realized that everything had gone silent. The barman was standing still, listening. The old people at the table were listening too, their silly faces turned toward the observation window. Then he heard it quite distinctly, the sound of an aircraft, still far away but approaching the airfield. He made quickly for the window, was halfway there when the loudspeaker began; after the first few words of German the children, like a flock of pigeons, fluttered away to the reception lounge. The party at the table had stood up; the women were reaching for their gloves, the men for their coats and briefcases. At last the announcer gave the English. Lansen was coming in to land.
Taylor stared into the night. There was no sign of the plane. He waited, his anxiety mounting. It’s like the end of the world, he thought, the end of the bloody world out there. Supposing Lansen crashed? Supposing they found the cameras? He wished someone else were handling it: Woodford, why hadn’t Woodford taken it over, or sent that clever college boy Avery? The wind was stronger; he could swear it was far stronger; he could tell from the way it stirred the snow, flinging it over the runway; the way it tore at the flares; the way it made white columns on the horizon, dashing them vehemently away like a hated creation. A gust struck suddenly at the windows in front of him, making him recoil, and there followed the rattle of ice grains and the short grunt of the wooden frame. Again he looked at his watch; it had become a habit with Taylor. It seemed to help, knowing the time.
Lansen will never make it in this, never.
His heart stood still. Softly at first, then rising swiftly to a wail, he heard the klaxons, all four together, moaning out over that godforsaken airfield like the howl of starving animals. Fire . . . the plane must be on fire. He’s on fire and he’s going to try and land … He turned frantically, looking for someone who could tell him.
The barman was standing beside him, polishing a glass, looking through the window.
“What’s going on?” Taylor shouted. “Why are the sirens going?”
“They always make the sirens in bad weather,” he replied. “It is the law.”
“Why are they letting him land?” Taylor insisted. “Why don’t they route him further south? It’s too small, this place; why don’t they send him somewhere bigger?”
The barman shook his head indifferently. “It’s not so bad,” he said indicating the airfield. “Besides, he is very late. Maybe he has no petrol.”
They saw the plane low over the airfield, her lights alternating above the flares; her spotlight scanned the runway. She was down, safely down, and they heard the roar of her throttle as she began the long taxi to the reception point.
The bar had emptied. Taylor was alone. He ordered a drink. He knew his drill: stay put in the bar, Leclerc had said, Lansen will meet you in the bar. He’ll take a bit of time: got to cope with his flight documents, clear his cameras. Taylor heard the children singing downstairs, and a woman leading them. Why the hell did he have to be surrounded by kids and women? He was doing a man’s job, wasn’t he, with five thousand dollars in his pocket and a phony passport.