Eye of the Needle(55)

It crossed Faber’s mind that this might be an elaborate MI5 trap, but he dismissed the thought; in the unlikely event they knew where he was, why should they tread softly? They could as easily send twenty policemen and a couple of armored cars to pick him up.

He got in.

The driver pulled away and moved rapidly up through the gears until the car was traveling at a good speed. Faber made himself comfortable. The driver said, “By the way, I’m Richard Porter.”

Faber thought quickly of the identity card in his wallet. “James Baker.”

“How do you do. I must have passed you on the road back there—didn’t see you.”

Faber realized the man was apologizing for not picking him up—everyone picked up hitchhikers since the petrol shortage. “It’s okay,” Faber said. “I was probably off the road, behind a bush, answering a call of nature. I did hear a car.”

“Have you come far?” Porter offered a cigar.

“It’s good of you, but I don’t smoke,” Faber said. “Yes, I’ve come from London.”

“Hitchhiked all the way?”

“No. My car broke down in Edinburgh. Apparently it requires a spare part which isn’t in stock, so I had to leave it at the garage.”

“Hard luck. Well, I’m going to Aberdeen, so I can drop you anywhere along the way.”

This was indeed a piece of good fortune. He closed his eyes and pictured the map of Scotland. “That’s marvelous,” he said. “I’m going to Banff, so Aberdeen would be a great help. Except I was planning to take the high road…I didn’t get myself a pass. Is Aberdeen a restricted area?”

“Only the harbor,” Porter said. “Anyway, you needn’t worry about that sort of thing while you’re in my car—I’m a J.P. and a member of the Watch Committee. How’s that?”

Faber smiled in the darkness. “Thank you. Is that a full-time job? Being a magistrate, I mean?”

Porter put a match to his cigar and puffed smoke. “Not really. I’m semiretired, y’know. Used to be a solicitor, until they discovered my weak heart.”

“Ah.” Faber tried to put some sympathy into his voice.

“Hope you don’t mind the smoke?” Porter waved the fat cigar.

“Not a bit.”

“What takes you to Banff?”

“I’m an engineer. There’s a problem in a factory…actually, the job is sort of classified.”

Porter held up his hand. “Don’t say another word. I understand.”

There was a silence for a while. The car flashed through several towns. Porter obviously knew the road very well to drive so fast in the blackout. The big car gobbled up the miles. Its smooth progress was soporific. Faber smothered a yawn.

“Damn, you must be tired,” Porter said. “Silly of me. Don’t be too polite to have a nap.”

“Thank you,” said Faber. “I will.” He closed his eyes.

The motion of the car was like the rocking of a train, and Faber had his arrival nightmare again, only this time it was slightly different. Instead of dining on the train and talking politics with the fellow-passenger, he was obliged for some unknown reason to travel in the coal tender, sitting on his suitcase radio with his back against the hard iron side of the truck. When the train arrived at Waterloo, everyone—including the disembarking passengers—was carrying a little duplicated photograph of Faber in the running team; and they were all looking at each other and comparing the faces they saw with the face in the picture. At the ticket barrier the collector took his shoulder and said: “You’re the man in the photo, aren’t you?” Faber found himself speechless. All he could do was stare at the photograph and remember the way he had run to win that cup. God, he had run; he had peaked a shade too early, started his final burst a quarter of a mile sooner than he had planned, and for the last 500 meters he’d wanted to die—and now perhaps he would die, because of that photograph in the ticket collector’s hand…The collector was saying, “Wake up! Wake up!” and suddenly Faber was back in Richard Porter’s Vauxhall Ten, and it was Porter who was telling him to wake up.

His right hand was half way to his left sleeve, where the stiletto was sheathed, in the split-second before he remembered that as far as Porter was concerned James Baker was an innocent hitchhiker. His hand dropped, and he relaxed.

“You wake up like a soldier,” Porter said with amusement. “This is Aberdeen.”

Faber noted that “soldier” had been pronounced “soljuh,” and recalled that Porter was a magistrate and a member of the police authority. Faber looked at the man in the dull light of early day; Porter had a red face and a waxed moustache; his camel-colored overcoat looked expensive. He was wealthy and powerful in his town, Faber guessed. If he were to disappear he would be missed almost immediately. Faber decided not to kill him.

Faber said, “Good morning.”

He looked out of the window at the granite city. They were moving slowly along a main street with shops on either side. There were several workers about, all moving purposefully in the same direction—fishermen, Faber reckoned. It seemed a cold, windy place.

Porter said, “Would you like to have a shave and a bit of breakfast before you continue your journey? You’re welcome to come to my place.”