Eye of the Needle(67)
“Well, good-bye.”
Godliman jiggled the receiver and the War Office operator came back on the line.
Godliman said: “Get Mr. Bloggs for me, would you? He’s in Carlisle.”
“He’s holding on for you right now, sir.”
“Good!”
“Hello, Percy. What news?”
“We’re on his trail again, Fred. He was identified in a garage in Carlisle, and he abandoned the Morris just outside Stirling and hitched a lift to Aberdeen.”
“Aberdeen!”
“He must be trying to get out through the east door.”
“When did he reach Aberdeen?”
“Probably early yesterday morning.”
“In that case he won’t have had time to get out, unless he was very quick indeed. They’re having the worst storm in living memory up here. It started last night and it’s still going on. No ships are going out and it’s certainly too rough to land a plane.”
“Good. Get up there as fast as you can. I’ll start the local police moving in the meantime. Call me when you reach Aberdeen.”
“I’m on my way.”
21
WHEN FABER WOKE UP IT WAS ALMOST DARK. THROUGH the bedroom window he could see the last streaks of grey being inked out of the sky by the encroaching night. The storm had not eased; rain drummed on the roof and overflowed from a gutter, and the wind howled and gusted tirelessly.
He switched on the little lamp beside the bed. The effort tired him, and he slumped back onto the pillow. It frightened him to be this weak. Those who believe that might is right must always be mighty, and Faber was sufficiently self-aware to know the implications of his own ethics. Fear was never far from the surface of his emotions; perhaps that was why he had survived so long. He was chronically incapable of feeling safe. He understood, in that vague way in which one sometimes understands the most fundamental things about oneself, that his very insecurity was the reason he chose the profession of spy; it was the only way of life which could permit him instantly to kill anyone who posed him the slightest threat. The fear of being weak was part of the syndrome that included his obsessive independence, his insecurity, and his contempt for his military superiors.
He lay on the child’s bed in the pink-walled bedroom and inventoried his body. He seemed to be bruised just about everywhere, but apparently nothing was broken. He did not feel feverish; his constitution had withstood bronchial infection despite the night on the boat. There was just the weakness. He suspected it was more than exhaustion. He remembered a moment, as he had reached the top of the ramp, when he had thought he was going to die; and he wondered whether he had inflicted on himself some permanent damage with the last mind-bending uphill dash.
He checked his possessions too. The can of photographic negatives was still taped to his chest, the stiletto was strapped to his left arm, and his papers and money were in the jacket pocket of his borrowed pajamas.
He pushed the blankets aside and swung himself into a sitting position with his feet on the floor. A moment of dizziness came and went. He stood up. It was important not to permit himself the psychological attitudes of an invalid. He put on the dressing gown and went into the bathroom.
When he returned his own clothes were at the foot of the bed, clean and pressed: underwear, overalls and shirt. Suddenly he remembered getting up sometime during the morning and seeing the woman naked in the bathroom; it had been an odd scene and he was not sure what it meant. She was very beautiful, he recalled. He was sure of that.
He dressed slowly. He would have liked a shave, but he decided to ask his host’s permission before borrowing the blade on the bathroom shelf; some men were as possessive of their razors as they were of their wives. However, he did take the liberty of using the child’s bakelite comb he found in the top drawer of the chest.
He looked into the mirror without pride. He had no conceit. He knew that some women found him attractive, and others did not; and he assumed this was so for most men. Of course, he had had more women than most men, but he attributed this to his appetite, not to his looks. His reflection told him he was presentable, which was all he needed to know.
He left the bedroom and went slowly down the stairs. Again he felt a wave of weakness; and again he willed himself to overcome it, gripping the banister rail and placing one foot deliberately before the other until he reached the ground floor.
He paused outside the living room door and, hearing no noise, went on to the kitchen. He knocked and went in. The young couple were at the table, finishing supper.
The woman stood up when he entered. “You got up!” she said. “Are you sure you should?”
Faber permitted himself to be led to a chair. “Thank you,” he said. “You really mustn’t encourage me to pretend to be ill.”
“I don’t think you realize what a terrible experience you’ve been through,” she said. “Do you feel like food?”
“I’m imposing on you—”
“Not at all. Don’t be silly. I kept some soup hot for you.”
Faber said, “You’re so kind, and I don’t even know your names.”
“David and Lucy Rose.” She ladled soup into a bowl and placed it on the table in front of him. “Cut some bread, David, would you?”
“I’m Henry Baker.” Faber did not know why he had said that; he had no papers in that name. Henry Faber was the man the police were hunting, so he was right to have used his James Baker identity; but somehow he wanted his woman to call him Henry, the nearest English equivalent of his real name, Heinrich.