“There are no more flights today,” the barman said. “They have forbidden all flying now.”
Taylor nodded. “I know. It’s bloody shocking out there, shocking.”
The barman was putting away bottles. “There was no danger,” he added soothingly. “Captain Lansen is a very good pilot.” He hesitated, not knowing whether to put away the Steinhager.
“Of course there wasn’t any danger,” Taylor snapped. “Who said anything about danger?”
“Another drink?” the barman said.
“No, but you have one. Go on, have one yourself.”
The barman reluctantly gave himself a drink, locked the bottle away.
“All the same, how do they do it?” Taylor asked. His voice was conciliatory, putting it right with the barman. “They can’t see a thing in weather like this, not a damn thing.” He smiled knowingly. “You sit there in the nose and you might just as well have your eyes shut for all the good they do. I’ve seen it,” Taylor added, his hands loosely cupped in front of him as though he were at the controls. “I know what I’m talking about. . . and they’re the first to catch it, those boys, if something does go wrong.” He shook his head. “They can keep it,” he declared. “They’re entitled to every penny they earn. Specially in a kite that size. They’re held together with string, those things; string.”
The barman nodded distantly, finished his drink, washed up the empty glass, dried it and put it on the shelf under the counter. He unbuttoned his white jacket.
Taylor made no move.
“Well,” said the barman with a mirthless smile, “we have to go home now.”
“What do you mean, we?” Taylor asked, opening his eyes wide and tilting back his head. “What do you mean?” He’d take on anyone now; Lansen had landed.
“I have to close the bar.”
“Go home indeed. Give us another drink, come on. You can go home if you like. I happen to live in London.” His tone was challenging, half playful, half resentful, gathering volume. “And since your aircraft companies are unable to get me to London, or any other damn place until tomorrow morning, it’s a bit silly of you to tell me to go there, isn’t it, old boy?” He was still smiling, but it was the short, angry smile of a nervous man losing his temper. “And next time you accept a drink from me, chum, I’ll trouble you to have the courtesy—”
The door opened and Lansen came in.
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen; this wasn’t the way they’d described it at all. Stay in the bar, Leclerc had said, sit at the corner table, have a drink, put your hat and coat on the other chair as if you’re waiting for someone. Lansen always has a beer when he clocks in. He likes the public lounge, it’s Lansen’s style. There’ll be people milling about, Leclerc said. It’s a small place but there’s always something going on at these airports. He’ll look around for somewhere to sit—quite open and aboveboard—then he’ll come over and ask you if anyone’s using the chair. You’ll say you kept it free for a friend but the friend hadn’t turned up; Lansen will ask if he can sit there. He’ll order a beer, then say, “Boy friend or girl friend?” You’ll tell him not to be indelicate, and you’ll both laugh a bit and get talking. Ask the two questions: height and airspeed. Research Section must know the height and airspeed. Leave the money in your overcoat pocket. He’ll pick up your coat, hang his own beside it and help himself quietly, without any fuss, taking the envelope and dropping the film into your coat pocket. You finish your drinks, shake hands, and Bob’s your uncle. In the morning you fly home. Leclerc had made it sound so simple.
Lansen strode across the empty room toward them, a tall, strong figure in a blue mackintosh and cap. He looked briefly at Taylor and spoke past him to the barman: “Jens, give me a beer.” Turning to Taylor he said, “What’s yours?”
Taylor smiled thinly. “Some of your local stuff.”
“Give him whatever he wants. A double.”