The Alien (20 page)

But at that moment the lock gates opened and a crowd of boats emerged, power launches revving up to travel-speed, rowing boats, punts, canoes, all filled with laughing, shouting, singing crowds. More radios, guitars thrumming, accordions bleating. Margrethe's thin cries went unheard until too late.

It was a small inquisitive boy at the lock, eager to understand its mechanism, who walked across the bridge where the sluice gates were operated and happening to look away to the weir saw the punt and heard the cries. He ran to the lock keeper and persuaded him to look. They saw the punt drive head-on at the chain, turn sideways, slew round, tipping out its passengers, and then, after another turn, slip under and shoot down the weir.

The boy stood transfixed. He saw the punt, its greater weight driving it faster than the woman, catch her up, ram her unconscious and slither on into the tossing froth below, from which it presently emerged upside-down, floating peacefully forward.

The lock keeper shouted orders, snatched up a life-buoy and ran for the lower river bank. He leaped into the nearest rowing boat, seized the sculls from an astonished young man and pulled out into the river.

The man with Margrethe had snatched at the chain as once more he was thrown into the water. He clung to it as he had clung to the side of the punt, until his arms would no longer hold his face above water. The lock keeper shouted, “Let go!'' The cry was taken up by the horror-struck crowd, themselves working to keep their craft in safety while at the same time preserving their ringside view of the event.

But the man held on while he drowned. Only when his life was fading did his grip relax and his limp body shoot down into the turmoil below the weir.

Boris watched, sitting motionless under the concealing branches of the tree in the deep shade of the willows. When the crowd of boats above the lock moved slowly away, the radios switched off, the guitars silent, he slipped back into the sunshine, spread his soaked blazer on the grass, took off his dripping shirt and spread that too. He had not intended to bathe and had no trunks with him. It would be dangerous in this puritan country, he thought, to be seen naked. At all costs he must avoid publicity. So he had to lower himself into the water again to wash the mud from his flannels. Afterwards he went back to the sun and lay down.

He was shivering now, from cold, delayed shock and present fear. He had seen the boat capsize and the pair go over. He did not know what had happened to them. But he knew that this was the fate they had intended for him. He knew that Margrethe, as he had begun to suspect, was yet another enemy, whatever she might once have been. He saw now the point of the Russian move to secure Press publicity for him. It was to prepare the way for his death, an apparent suicide. Kidnapping had failed – twice. British security had been alerted. Only assassination was left and secret assassination at that.

He looked at his watch. It was waterproof and was still ticking. Only just after one. The whole dreadful sequence had taken no more than twenty minutes. He groped in the pocket of his blazer. The gun would be useless but the flask promised relief.

When he had taken a long pull he lay down again, turning his back now to the sun, his head on his arms, his eyes commanding all views of the narrow field, its hedge, the stile, the telegraph poles along the lane beyond. There was only one way out of this place, the way he had come in. Except along the edge of the river, either towards the hidden boathouse, which might, for all he knew, be no boathouse at all, or else towards the weir and again he realized he was ignorant of what he would find there.

But one thing was certain. Whatever kind of rescue was going on, and whether those two were alive or not, there would be police cars and an ambulance and a search for witnesses who had seen Margrethe and her companion and perhaps himself. It was very clear that he must leave this place. It was clear, too, that he could go neither to one side nor the other, nor cross the river at this point. Therefore he must leave the field by a different route and strike due north.

He cursed himself for not bringing a map with him. But then he had not suspected Margrethe of such melodramatic conduct. Some double crossing, some double talk, but not this. She was so palpably unsuited for it. A sick wave passed through him as he considered the enormous greed that must have driven her into such conduct.

When his shirt was dry he put it on. It was a modern summer shirt, open-necked, straight, to be worn inside or outside the trousers. He left it outside. In this way it would hide the dark wetness round the waist of his flannels, the legs of which were nearly dry. He picked up his blazer. It no longer dripped but was very damp. With a shudder he hung it round his shoulders and began to move along the bank towards the corner of the field.

The hedge came down almost to the river edge but not quite. Another field seemed to turn into the orchard of a small house. Both field and orchard were empty. No doubt the inhabitants, if any, were down at the river watching the accident.

Crossing the orchard, boldly, Boris moved deliberately, with slow steps, to a gate, passed through and found himself in another lane, evidently exclusive to this house and running roughly parallel with the one he had avoided.

Before long he reached the road. Down it to the west was the place where he and Margrethe had left the bus. He turned to the east and finding another lane before long, that led north towards the hills, quite visible a few miles away, he went across to it and began to climb.

He walked for three hours, judging his direction by the sun and working towards the west, away from Marlow. Then, remembering that he could reach the railway at Henley and finding that name persistent on signposts, he went down from the hills, tired, hungry and sick at heart.

There was no food at the station. He found some ancient chocolate in a machine on the platform, but threw it away after one nauseating mouthful. He had to wait fifty minutes for his train. But at Paddington the buffets were open, so he gathered a meal of sorts on to a tray and ate hungrily, but without relish.

Afterwards he took a taxi to the end of the road where he lived and after a careful inspection, walked the rest of the way to his flat.

He remembered then that Stephen had gone back to Portsmouth. He would have to write to him to arrange a meeting. Though it was now desperately urgent to develop his plan, everything would depend upon Stephen's willingness to help him. No, not willingness. The will was always there. Ability. Freedom. Why did that word come up so often? Freedom.

He dragged his mind back from the edge of despair, where it was now swaying wearily. He began to count his friends and consider what they could do. Louise, charming Louise, a small part perhaps, but she was really a solace only, not to be relied upon. Margaret, poor Margaret, necessary, but perhaps dangerous. Ann, no real place for Ann. Sørensen, a well-wisher, but entirely helpless. His own secret fellow workers, utterly unreliable. Who else? He went to his telephone and spoke to Scziliekowicz, the old man, his father's friend.

At ten o'clock he listened to the B.B.C. news. There had been a boating accident on the Thames near Marlow. In spite of the danger notices in mid-stream, the calm, reasonable voice said, a punt had gone to the wrong side of the river and over the weir. A young woman and a man, both said to be foreigners, had been thrown into the water and though the lock keeper and others had picked them up almost at once and applied artificial respiration, both were found to be dead when they arrived at hospital.

The unknown man, the heavy body that had failed to push him in and the greedy bitch who had tried also to kill him. Margrethe, the gay, quick-witted lunch companion. Margrethe, the pale-gold ice-maiden.

The newspaper account of the accident on Monday morning made the whole plot very clear to Boris. The spot had been carefully chosen, a part of the river-bank where no other boats would be found because danger notices set up on posts in the water guided craft to the opposite bank. He had been directed into the field for two reasons; so that he would not see the notices, hidden by the bend in the stream and so that no one would see him at the boathouse.

But it was clear from the account that the drowned man, whose name and nationality were still withheld, had hired the punt much further upstream and had embarked Margrethe at a chosen spot near those houses she had pointed out as the boathouse, but where no boathouse existed. Here the man must have gone ashore to creep up behind Boris while Margrethe engaged him in discussion about their lunch. He had been lucky to see the look in her eyes and to have the branch handy. Or had he really been prepared for something of the sort. Certainly he had been more alert than usual, if that were possible. Certainly Sørensen's clear warning and wish to transfer him had given him his doubts of Margrethe's sincerity.

Boris did not go out that morning until lunch-time, when he bought an early edition of an evening paper. The reporters had been to work on the drowning with much enthusiasm, he found, assisted by the disclosure of Margrethe's identity. They had discovered that she had met a man at Marlow railway station and had travelled with him on a bus. They assumed that this man was the other victim. So far so good. Two station employees and the bus conductor remembered Margrethe; no one could describe the man. The punt belonged to a boathouse a mile above the fatal weir and had been hired quite early that morning.

This was fortunate. In planning carefully, the would-be assassins had made his own presence unnecessary. The man could have left the punt tied up somewhere along the river and gone on to Marlow to pick up Margrethe. There was nothing to prove it was not she who had travelled from London that morning. On the contrary. She had left Paddington by an earlier train than his own. Since she had dictated the time for their meeting he had taken the appropriate train. As she knew he would. Clever girl. Cold-blooded, scheming harpy.

They had forgotten only one thing, the two of them and that the most important; his constant, conditioned, unfailing appreciation of danger. He was like an animal in his awareness, he thought, with weary disgust. An animal on the run. Would it never end?

In Scziliekowicz's room that evening he allowed himself to slip back into the well-preserved civilization of the old man's surroundings. There was no doubt that he was welcome. Scziliekowicz was alone and did not even mention the general except in passing.

“We hoped you were not offended that evening at the curious little club – international students' club – isn't that what they call it?''

“Something of the sort.''

“You see we had a certain knowledge of your – contact.''

“Which?'' asked Boris, bluntly.

The old man smiled.

“The girl,'' he said. “It was the other we wished to identify. And to make up our minds that you were aware of what you were doing.''

“At that time,'' said Boris, carefully, “I was not fully aware.''

“But you are now?''

“Yes.''

“And so?''

“I am grateful to you for interrupting that meeting, but it has meant certain additional difficulties for me.''

“I was your father's friend,'' said Scziliekowicz. “Can you not be more frank with me?''

Boris's whole inclination at any time was to withhold facts, to give nothing away. But his present need was very great. Also his inward urge to find some solid ground under his feet in the present swamp where he moved. He plunged.

“I was sent here to work for the Russians,'' he said, speaking quickly in a low voice. “I did nothing and so now they want to eliminate me to prevent me disclosing what I know of their methods and organization in this country.''

“All that is negative,'' said Scziliekowicz, gently. “You have, on the contrary, been very active.''

“For others, I have, for several years, making money where and how I could. Never anything of importance for Russia. Only what was needed to continue at sea.''

“This seems to be generally known.''

“I'm afraid so. And that means it will come to an end, one way or another.''

“What d'you mean?'' For the first time that evening, the old man's voice expressed anxiety. He went on, “Have you done something irrevocable? Something outrageous? Had you anything to do with the death of Margrethe Olsen?''

Boris, thankful to be cut short in a confession he knew to be dangerous, smiled.

“Margrethe? Oh no, I was not responsible. She died because she changed her allegiance, as you yourself had discovered.''

“That isn't an answer,'' Scziliekowicz growled. “But I suppose I'll have to take it as one. But if you haven't come here tonight as a consequence of this accident, why the devil are you here?''

“Because you were my father's friend,'' said Boris, very seriously, “and as such I want to ask you to be the executor of my will.''

“Your
will
?''

The old man was astounded.

“Are you ill? You don't look like a man in his last illness. Have you any property to leave? Anyone to leave it to? A refugee – arriving from the sea – with nothing but his seaman's clothes—''

“My life is in danger. I have a certain sum of money to dispose of. If you agree I will give you the particulars. Or you can get them from my solicitor. I will give you his name. The will was drawn up earlier this afternoon. I shall sign it before the end of the week.''

Scziliekowicz sighed. Other exiles had approached him on a similar errand. Men chiefly, an occasional woman, cut off from the channels of a law of customs they knew and understood. Boris was different. A life apart, in spite of his brief confession; a life unknown, fearful, secret, lived without regard for the past, where he himself found his own solace, or for the future, where the young hoped to achieve some goal. Boris was no longer young, but he was the son of the murdered Alexei.