The Angry Mountain (2 page)

In the end I stuffed my papers into a suitcase and went down to the lounge. It's an odd thing, being alone in a foreign country. Impressions are heightened, everything makes a much more vivid impact. And the sense of loneliness is strong. In Prague I had had contacts. But here in Pilsen my only personal contact was Tu
č
ek and, sitting alone there in the heavy, over-ornate furniture of the hotel lounge, I had the feeling of being hemmed in—the same sort of feeling I'd had during those interminable months of captivity. The place was perfectly ordinary, the people who came in and out or sat around smoking and talking were perfectly ordinary. Yet behind the ordinariness of it all I sensed the power of something alien. I thought of Mazaryk's suicide and set it alongside Tu
č
ek's manner. And then I began to think about Maxwell.

It's a queer thing, trying to escape from the past. I'd broken with flying, with all my old contacts. I'd voluntarily taken a job that would keep me wandering round Europe like a nomad. And here, behind the Iron Curtain, I had been given a message to one of the three men who knew my story. I remembered how kind Maxwell had been when I'd reported back to him at Foggia—his damnable kindness had taught me to hate myself. And now…. My mouth felt dry and harsh. The clink of glasses at the bar drew me like a magnet. For months I'd kept clear of the stuff. But now I needed a drink. I just had to have a drink. I went through into the bar and ordered a
slivovice
, which is a plum brandy and not the sort of drink to make one want to go on.

Nevertheless, I missed out dinner that night and took a bottle of
ko
ň
ak
up to my room. And there I sat with the bottle and my glass in front of me, staring out at the lights in the houses opposite, smoking cigarette after cigarette, waiting for Maxwell to come. I don't know why I thought he would come, but I did, and I was determined to be drunk when he came. I tried to analyse my state of mind. But I couldn't. It was beyond analysis, something deep down inside of me that hated myself for the weakness that had once overwhelmed me. I stuck my leg out in front of me, the one that didn't belong to me, and stared at it. I hated that leg. It would be with me till I died, always there to remind me of the heat and flies and the screams that were torn out of my own throat in that hospital overlooking Lake Gomo. And when I died, they'd pull it off me and give it to some other poor bastard who'd lost his flesh-and-blood leg.

It was nearly eleven and the bottle was half-empty when I heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside my room. The footsteps were heavy and solid and decisive. I knew they were Maxwell's before he opened the door. God! Hadn't I heard those footsteps night after night at the mess at Biggin Hill, night after night in our billet at Foggia? And I'd known he'd come—known it ever since Tu
č
ek had given me that message. I'd been sitting there, waiting for him, trying to get drunk enough to face him. Well, I didn't care now. Let them all come and stare at me now I was drunk. I didn't care a bloody damn for the whole lot of 'em. They hadn't fought through the Battle of Britain, flown over sixty bomber sorties in less than two years and then … God damn them! They didn't know what it was like to feel your nerves….

Maxwell shut the door and stood there looking at me. He hadn't changed much. Maybe his face was a little thinner, the eyes a little more crinkled at the corners, but there was the same quick vitality, the same thrust forward of head and chin. “Drink, Max?” I asked. He didn't say anything but came across and pulled up a chair. “Well, do you
want a drink, or don't you?” My voice sounded taut and harsh.

“Of course,” he answered and stretched over to the wash-basin for the tooth glass. He looked at me as he picked up the bottle and poured himself the drink. “So you've become a commercial traveller?” I didn't say anything and he added, “Why didn't you stick to aviation? A man with your experience—”

“You know very well why,” I answered angrily.

He sighed and said, “You can't run away from yourself, you know, Dick.”

“How do you mean?”

“You're your own worst enemy. Damn it, man, nobody but yourself—”

“Can't you leave the past alone?” I shouted at him.

He caught hold of my arm. “For God's sake keep your voice down. Nobody knows I'm here. I came up by the fire-escape.”

“By the fire-escape?” I stared at him. “What are you doing in Pilsen?”

He didn't say anything for a moment. He sat there, staring at me and toying with his glass, his eyes searching my face as though looking for something inside me that he wasn't sure existed. At length he said, “You remember Alec Reece?”

I jumped to my feet, knocking over my drink. Reece! Why the hell did he have to talk about Reece? Reece was dead anyway. He'd died trying to escape. So had Shirer. They were both dead. I didn't want to think about Reece. I'd introduced him to Maxwell—got him the job. He'd been so desperately keen to succeed on that first mission to the
partigiani
. He was the part of me I wanted to forget—Reece and his sister Alice. Sentences from that last letter of hers ran in a confused jumble through my head.
I wanted to be proud of you
….
I have forgiven you, but you must see that it is impossible
…. I fumbled on the carpet for my glass, picked it up and reached for the bottle. But Maxwell took it from
my hand and placed it on the other side of the table. “Sit down, Dick,” he said. “I didn't realise—”

“What didn't you realise?” I cut in. “Didn't you know I was engaged to Alice Reece, that she broke it off when she knew? Why do you think I cracked up like that? A man's mind doesn't go—” I stopped then. The room was beginning to spin and I sat down quickly. “She thought I killed him,” I heard myself saying slowly. “And the hell of it is, she was right. To all intents and purposes—”

“Alec Reece is alive,” he said.

I stared at him. “Alive?”

He nodded.

“I don't believe it.”

“It's true.”

“And—and Shirer?” I asked.

“He's alive too. Didn't you know?”

I shook my head.

“He stayed on in Italy and bought a vineyard. He's living …”

I didn't hear the rest. A great load seemed to have been lifted from me. I put my head in my hands and let that feeling of relief flood through me. When I became conscious that he was shaking me, I realised that I was crying. I felt the rim of a glass against my mouth. The drink seemed to steady me. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

“I didn't know you were engaged to Alice Reece,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I didn't tell you because I wanted Reece to get that job on his merits. I was afraid you'd think—” I stopped and shrugged my shoulder. “It doesn't matter now. But I thought they were dead—both of them. That's what they told me at H.Q. I thought I'd killed—” He shook me then and I pulled myself together. “Why did you ask me about Reece?” I asked him.

He paused uncertainly. Then he said quietly, “He and I are both in Intelligence still. He's waiting in Milan now for me to—”

“In Milan?” I had a sudden, awful vision of our meeting face to face. I'd have to miss out Milan. Somehow I'd have to persuade my firm…. But Maxwell had caught hold of my arm. “Pull yourself together, Dick. I'm trying to tell you something. I need your help. Listen. You represent B. & H. Evans, machine tool manufacturers of Manchester. That gives you an excuse to visit any of the big industrialists in this town. Jan Tu
č
ek is here in Pilsen. Remember Jan Tu
č
ek, who commanded the Czech squadron at Biggin Hill in 1940?”

“Yes,” I said. “I saw him this afternoon.”

“You saw him this afternoon?” He cursed softly. “Then you'll have to see him again. I daren't go there. And I daren't go to his home either. He's too closely watched. My contacts are with Czech air force men. But I've got to get a message to him. As soon as I heard you were—”

“Funny,” I said. “He gave me a message for you,”

Maxwell was suddenly tense. “What was the message?” he asked quickly.

“I was to tell you—
Saturday night
,” I answered.

He nodded. “The trouble is that that isn't soon enough. It's got to be to-morrow night. You've got to see him and tell him that. To-morrow night—understand? Thursday night.” He was leaning forward, drumming it into me as though he thought I was too drunk to understand what he was saying. “Can you see him first thing to-morrow morning? It's urgent, Dick—very, very, urgent. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Can you see him to-morrow morning?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Mari
č
, the head of their tool section, is ringing me to-morrow morning. I should be able to make an appointment with him for the afternoon.”

“All right then. The afternoon. But you've got to see Tu
č
ek. Tell him Saturday may be too late. It must be to-morrow night—Thursday. Understand? You know the bookshop just opposite here, on the corner?” I nodded.
“I'll be there at five. Don't talk to me openly. Just tell me whether it's okay or not as you pass. Got that?”

I nodded.

“Don't fail me, Dick.” He knocked back the rest of his drink and got to his feet. “Good luck!” he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “See you to-morrow at five.”

As he turned to go, I said, “Wait a minute, Max. What is all this? Is Jan Tu
č
ek in trouble?”

“Ask no questions,” he murmured.

“Are you getting him out of the country—is that it?” I demanded.

He swung round on me angrily. “Keep your voice down, for God's sake.”

“Is that's what's happening?” I persisted in a lower voice.

“I'm telling you nothing, Dick. It's best if—”

“You mean you don't trust me,” I accused him angrily.

He looked at me. “If you like to take it that way, but—” He shrugged his shoulders and then added, “Would you mind having a look out in the corridor to see if it's all clear?”

I opened the door and peered out. The corridor was empty. I nodded to him. He went quickly down to the end and turned right. I went back to my room, closed the door and emptied the remains of the bottle into my glass.

By the time I went to bed I was very drunk—drunk and happy. Reece was alive. Shirer was alive. I hadn't killed them, after all. I managed to unstrap my leg and get most of my clothes off. Then when I'd fallen into bed, I suddenly had a feeling that I had made a mistake in the report I'd been working on earlier in the evening. I rolled out of bed, switched on the light and got the report out of my suitcase. The last thing I remember was trying to decipher the blur of writing through eyelids that kept on shutting out my vision.

I awoke to a blinding light on my eyes. I remembered that I had fallen asleep with the light on and put out my hand to switch it off. It was then that I discovered that the light was off and that it was the sun shining on my face. I sat up,
trying to separate the roar of traffic outside the window from the noises in my head and wondering when during the night I had switched off the light. I looked at my watch. It was only seven-thirty and no servant would have been in the room yet. At some time during the night I must have wakened and switched it off. I lay in the bright sunlight thinking about Maxwell. His visit seemed unreal, like a dream.

I was called at eight-thirty. As soon as I was dressed I went down to breakfast. In the entrance hall I stopped to buy a paper. “Good morning,
pane
” It was the night porter. He was just putting on his outdoor things and his face had a confidential smirk. I paid for my paper and turned away. But before I was halfway across the room, the man was at my side. He was still struggling into his overcoat. “I hope you did not mind my letting a visitor up to your room so late,” he said.

I stopped and glanced down at him. He was a little, rat-faced man with bulging blue eyes and a thin, greedy mouth. “Nobody came to my room last night,” I said.

He shrugged the padded shoulders of his overcoat. “Just as
pana
says.” He stood there and it was perfectly clear what he was waiting for. I cursed Maxwell for having been so careless. He must have mistaken my hesitation, for he added, “One o'clock is very late for an Englishman to receive visitors in a hotel in Czechoslovakia.”

“One o'clock!” I stared at him. Maxwell had left shortly after eleven.

He cocked his head on one side. “And
pan
Tu
č
ek is a well-known figure here in Pilsen.” He shrugged his shoulders again. “But of course if
pana
says no one visit him, then I believe him and I also say no one visit him.”

I remembered how the light had been off when I woke and how Jan Tu
č
ek had said he'd come to see me at the hotel. But if he had come, why the devil hadn't he wakened me? I could have given him Maxwell's message then. The porter was peering up at me uncertainly. “
Pana
must understand
that I have to report everything of an unusual nature to the Party, particularly if it concerns an Englishman or an American.” His lips tightened into a smile. “But life is difficult here in Czechoslovakia. I have a wife and family to think of,
pane
. Sometimes economics are more important than Party loyalties. You understand,
pane
?”

“Perfectly,” I said. He was like a small sparrow searching determinedly after scraps in a cold spell. I pulled out my wallet and slipped him fifty kronen.

“
D
ě
kuji
ú
ctiv
é
. D
ě
kuji
.” The notes disappeared into his trouser pocket. “I remember now. It is just as
pana
says. There was no visitor at one o'clock this morning.”