Eye of the Needle(45)

Godliman decided they were at least as entitled as he…they were going into the field, after all. “All I know is that it’s probably a matter of weeks.”

Parkin was thinking. “It’ll be June, then.”

The phone rang and Godliman picked it up. After a moment he looked up. “Your car’s here.”

Bloggs and Parkin stood up.

Godliman said, “Wait a minute.”

They stood by the door, looking at the professor. He was saying, “Yes, sir. Certainly. I will. Good-bye, sir.”

Bloggs could not think of anyone Godliman called Sir. He said: “Who was that?”

Godliman said, “Churchill.”

“What did he have to say?” Parkin asked, awestruck.

Godliman said, “He wishes you both good luck and Godspeed.”





15




THE CARRIAGE WAS PITCH DARK. FABER THOUGHT OF the jokes people made, “Take your hand off my knee. No, not you, you.” The British would make jokes out of anything. Their railways were now worse than ever, but nobody complained any more because it was in a good cause. Faber preferred the dark; it was anonymous.

There had been singing, earlier on. Three soldiers in the corridor had started it, and the whole carriage had joined in. They had been through “Be Like the Kettle and Sing,” “There’ll Always Be an England” (followed by “Glasgow Belongs to Me” and “Land of My Fathers” for ethnic balance), and, appropriately, “Don’t Get Around Much Any More.”

There had been an air raid warning, and the train slowed to thirty miles an hour. They were all supposed to lie on the floor, but of course there was no room. An anonymous female voice had said, “Oh, God, I’m frightened,” and a male voice, equally anonymous except that it was cockney, had said: “You’re in the safest place, girl—they can’t ’it a movin’ target.” Then everyone laughed and nobody was scared any more. Someone opened a suitcase and passed around a packet of dried-egg sandwiches.

One of the sailors wanted to play cards.

“How can we play cards in the dark?”

“Feel the edges. All Harry’s cards are marked.”

The train stopped unaccountably at about 4 A.M. A cultured voice—the dried-egg-sandwich supplier, Faber thought—said, “My guess is we’re outside Crewe.”

“Knowing the railways, we could be anywhere from Bolton to Bournemouth,” said the cockney.

The train jerked and moved off, and everyone cheered. Where, Faber wondered, was the caricature Englishman with his icy reserve and his stiff upper lip? Not here.

A few minutes later a voice in the corridor said: “Tickets, please.” Faber noted the Yorkshire accent; they were in the north now. He fumbled in his pockets for his ticket.

He had the corner seat, near the door, so he could see into the corridor. The inspector was shining a flashlight onto the tickets. Faber saw the man’s silhouette in the reflected light. It looked vaguely familiar.

He settled back in his seat to wait. He remembered the nightmare: “This is an Abwehr ticket”—and smiled in the dark.

Then he frowned. The train stopped unaccountably; shortly afterward a ticket inspector began; the inspector’s face was vaguely familiar…. It might be nothing, but Faber stayed alive by worrying about things that might be nothing. He looked into the corridor again, but the man had entered a compartment.

The train stopped briefly—the station was Crewe, according to informed opinion in Faber’s compartment—and moved off again.

Faber got another look at the inspector’s face, and now he remembered. The boarding house in High-gate! The boy from Yorkshire who wanted to get into the Army!

Faber watched him carefully. His flashlight moved across the face of every passenger. He was not just looking at the tickets.

No, Faber told himself, don’t jump to conclusions. How could they possibly have got on to him? They could not have found out which train he was on, got hold of one of the few people in the world who knew what he looked like, and got the man on the train dressed as a ticket inspector in so short a time….

Parkin, that was his name. Billy Parkin. Somehow he looked much older now. He was coming closer.

It must be a look-alike—perhaps an elder brother. This had to be a coincidence.

Parkin entered the compartment next to Faber’s. There was no time left.

Faber assumed the worst, and prepared to deal with it.

He got up, left the compartment, and went along the corridor, picking his way over suitcases and kitbags and bodies, to the lavatory. It was vacant. He went in and locked the door.

He was only buying time—even ticket inspectors did not fail to check the toilets. He sat on the seat and wondered how to get out of this. The train had speeded up and was traveling too fast for him to jump off. Besides, someone would see him go, and if they were really searching for him they would stop the train.

“All tickets, please.”

Parkin was getting close again.

Faber had an idea. The coupling between the carriages was a tiny space like an air-lock, enclosed by a bellowslike cover between the cars of the train, shut off at both ends by doors because of the noise and drafts. He left the lavatory, fought his way to the end of the carriage, opened the door, and stepped into the connecting passage. He closed the door behind him.