The space between the tree-line and the house was dotted with bushes and shrubs, and Mr. Calder reckoned that if he went on his stomach, commando fashion, it would be an easy matter to keep out of sight until he reached the house. If he could find a window open, he had a mind to explore further. As he started to move forward, Rasselas gave out a very soft rumbling growl. Mr. Calder paused. When nothing happened, he moved again. Rasselas caught his ankle in his teeth.
At that moment the ground under Mr. Calder’s hands gave way. At one moment he had his palms on solid earth. The next, his fingers were slithering over the lip of a cavity which had opened in front of him. If he had been moving forward, nothing could have stopped him falling into it.
It was a deep trench, with sheer walls cut into the chalk soil. It had been masked by a thin net of Hessian, on which sand and leaves had been sprinkled.
Mr. Calder extracted the pencil torch from his pocket, and directed its pinhead of light downward. Set into balks of timber at the bottom of the trench was a treble row of steel spikes, needle-thin, needle-sharp and fully twelve inches long.
He thought about an intruder, animal or human, falling on to them. The weight of his fall would drive the spikes through an arm or a leg.
He drew back slowly from the lip of the trench. It extended, so far as he could see, right along the front edge of the tree belt. As he was looking, the single light in the Gasthaus went out.
“There might have been some way round,” he said to Mr. Behrens next morning. “But quite frankly, I didn’t try. I could
feel
those spikes, all the way home.”
“They were expecting you?”
“I think they must have been,” said Mr. Calder. “It would take some time to uncover that trench. They daren’t leave it open. I could feel a sort of ledge cut inside the lip, so I imagine it’s boarded over by day and covered with loose sand. It’s the sort of job that’d take a couple of hours to do properly. And whatever the size of the staff, I don’t see that they could afford to keep two men patrolling all night, and every night.”
Mr. Behrens considered the matter.
“The girl might have been suspicious,” he said, “when I practically bumped into her at the camp site. But surely – after a full day’s drive – with no glimpse of a pursuer—”
“What about the trouble you had near Altkirch? It must have been a pretty definite tip-off to get the French police moving so quickly.”
“I had the impression it was my car they were looking for,” agreed Mr. Behrens. “The first thing the man spotted was the wireless. But it was only when he saw the number plate that he started to get excited. But if they were tipped off, who do you suggest did it? That man at the camp? Or the girl?”
“Or Nichol,” said Mr. Calder.
Mr. Behrens did not sound surprised or horrified at the suggestion. He said, “It’s a possibility that has to be borne in mind, of course. I hope it’s not true. It suggests one precaution to me, however. The only car they know about is mine. The sensible thing now will be for me to keep close behind him. You keep right out on the wing.”
Mr. Calder thought about this for a bit, and then grunted. “Yes,” he said. “That seems right.”
It was half-past six that morning when Shura slipped quietly out of bed. She put a raincoat over her pyjamas, and tiptoed from the room.
Herr Bauer was in the control room talking to two men. He looked up as she came in. He said, “We had a visitor last night.”
“What have you done with him?”
“We have done nothing with him. He came, looked at us and went away.” Herr Bauer glanced sourly at the two men, who shuffled and look at their feet.
“There are traces, too, of a car having driven in. It might all be nothing. It might be something.”
Shura said, “If the car was a dark blue Saab, then we have been followed across Europe. And I have not the least idea how.”
Herr Bauer said, “There are not more than four ways out of the Odenwald. I can have them watched. When you stop for your midday meal, telephone back to me here. I shall be able to tell you then . . .”
Nichol woke up at eight o’clock. He stretched out an arm, found the bed empty and sat up.
Shura was outside, on the balcony.
“I overslept,” he said. “Are we late?”
“No hurry this morning. We need not start before eleven. Breakfast is being brought up to us here.”
They took the morning’s run at a much slower pace. Nichol had the impression that the clock had become more important than the map. They skirted Wurzburg and Bamberg to the south and stopped for their lunch in a tiny village called Plankenfels, ten miles short of Bayreuth.
Shura slipped away while the food was being cooked. When she came back Nichol thought he detected a change in her manner. It was very slight, and if he had not got to know her so well in the three days he had been with her, he might not have noticed it. Something seemed to have put her on her mettle.
During the afternoon Shura did the driving, while Nichol kept his eye on the map. They avoided Bayreuth, making a detour to the south, and climbed into the Fichtelgebirge. Gradually the country became more desolate, the farms fewer, the houses farther apart. Ahead of them, on the map, right across their track and slowly drawing nearer, sprawled the irregular green line which marked the farthest advance of the Russian Army in 1945 and now formed the boundary between the Eastern and Western worlds.
At this particular point the line joined the national boundary of Czechoslovakia, and ran almost due west, forming a right angle with it. It was into the neck of this sack that they were driving. They had been avoiding main roads for some time and Nichol was hard put to it to map their twisting progress, but in the fading light he glimpsed a board with the name quellenreuth, and knew they were not more than ten kilometres from the frontier.
In the next village they turned left. A moment later, right again. They were now heading straight up into the angle itself, an area where his map was blank. He soon saw the reason. It was thick woodland. As they dived in among the trees, they switched on their headlights.
They were running north, and climbing. After about three miles, Shura seemed to hesitate for the first time. She slowed to a crawl, her eyes on the roadside. She saw what she was looking for, swung the wheel and put the car down a sandy track.
The track seemed to go on interminably, diving into the very heart of the forest, a tunnel of darkness among the trees. Then they were in a clearing. Nichol caught a glimpse of a log hut as Shura swung the car round, brought it to a halt and switched off all the lights.
Nichol stirred, but the girl put a hand on his arm. They sat in the darkness and waited. Then the car door was opened from outside, and a man gestured them out. They stumbled across the clearing to the hut; the door was opened and they went into darkness.
A torch came on. By its reflected light Nichol saw the face of its holder. He had never met him, but he recognised him at once from many photographs carefully studied. Colonel Tyschenko had been military attaché in Ottawa and Washington and in neither case had his hosts been under any illusions as to his real interests.
“I am sorry,” he said, speaking in Russian, “to receive you in this melodramatic way. But we are waiting for the man who has been following you.”
“The man in the Saab?” said the girl.
“Yes. He should be here any moment now. We will keep silent, if you please.”
It seemed to Nichol like an hour, but was in fact only twelve minutes by the illuminated hand on his watch before there were footsteps outside. The door opened, and three men came in. As soon as the door was shut, Colonel Tyschenko snapped on the light, and the six occupants of the hut blinked at each other.
Two of the newcomers were Russian Security men, soldiers in plain clothes. They both carried machine pistols. The third was Mr. Behrens, his hands in his pockets, and a look of distaste on his leathery face.
“He parked his car a quarter of a mile down the track,” said one of the men, “and was walking toward the hut when we stopped him. He had a gun. We have taken it.”
Colonel Tyschenko had been staring in some surprise at the scholarly figure in the raincoat. Then his face broke into a smile.
“Why,” he said, “it is Mr. Behrens. This
is
an unexpected pleasure. Where is your friend – the fat little man – Calder?”
“He’ll be here in a moment,” said Mr. Behrens. “And he’s got six men with him.”
The colonel chuckled.
“No doubt,” he said. “No doubt. The six invisible men. It would be a good title for a film. I should be interested to know how you followed our car.”
“It’s Nichol’s suit,” said Mr. Behrens. “It has been impregnated with a particularly potent smell. When in doubt as to which way he had gone, I had only to get out of the car and sniff.”
“Remarkable,” said the colonel. “Particularly since he will have changed his clothes at least three times since leaving London.”
“We found a wireless set in the car,” said one of the men.
“I see,” said the colonel. “That opens up an interesting field of speculation.”
He turned to Nichol. “What
are you carrying that you had on you,
when you left London?
”
Nichol said slowly, “Fountain pen, silver pencil, notecase, wristwatch, and signet ring.”
He hoped that the cigarette lighter, which he dropped as they got out of the car, had fallen into an inconspicuous place.
“The details are not important,” said the colonel. “We shall be able to work them all out when we get you and Mr. Behrens, and the contents of his car, safely into our own territory.”
He turned to the security men and said, “One stays here. One to go and check the arrangements for the crossing. We are using the normal route. Hurry.”
The man nearest the door turned and went out.
Shura spoke for the first time, “I hope, Colonel, that you do not blame me for this. I should, perhaps, have thought that some electrical device might be used.”
There was a pleading note in her voice that Nichol had never heard before; he had not imagined that such a girl could ever be humble.
The colonel said, “No, Shura. I don’t think anyone could blame you too much. Indeed, you did well to take notice of the Saab and call Herr Bauer’s attention to it.”
The girl actually blushed.
“Thank you,” she said . . .
Mr. Behrens, standing against the far wall of the hut where the guard had left him, considered the position. Even now that one of the guards had departed it was almost entirely unsatisfactory. Colonel Tyschenko was carrying a Vostok mu-2 pistol in a shoulder holster. He could see the light wooden butt as the colonel leaned forward to speak to Shura. The guard had a German-type Schmeisser machine pistol across his shoulders, carried in such a way that he could swing it round to the front and fire without unslinging it. The girl had a gun, but it was probably in her shoulder satchel on the table. He and Nichol were unarmed.
The door handle turned very gently, round, and back again.
Mr. Behrens took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He was not fond of violence.
He said, “If you don’t mind, I have to go outside for a moment.”
Colonel Tyschenko looked at him, then said, “Of course. But I should warn you that this man can put a burst of six shots into a moving target at fifty yards.”
“I wasn’t thinking of making a dash for it,” said Mr. Behrens, sourly. He started toward the door. The colonel signalled to the guard, who slipped back the bolt of the door and swung his gun round to the ready.
Mr. Behrens did not hurry. He wanted to be in one particular spot, next to the girl. The guard put a hand on the handle of the door and turned it. The door came open fast, as if kicked, and Rasselas came through in a smooth golden curve, his teeth bared, making straight for Colonel Tyschenko’s throat.
Behind the dog waddled the squat figure of Mr. Calder. He shot the guard twice, at close quarters, through the chest, before he could get his hand to the trigger of his machine pistol.
The colonel twisted as Rasselas struck him, and the dog catapulted over his shoulder, onto the floor. In the same moment, the colonel pulled out his Vostok and shot Nichol, who was jumping at him, through the right side of the body.
Rasselas buried his teeth in the colonel’s leg.
Mr. Behrens had wrapped his arms round Shura from behind. It was a temporary advantage only. She was twice as strong as he, and better trained. She pried apart his fingers, grabbed his forearm and threw him across her outstretched leg. Then she stooped to grab her satchel, which Mr. Behrens had managed to knock onto the floor.
Mr. Calder crouched, steadied himself and shot Colonel Tyschenko. The bullet went through the colonel’s mouth and out at the back of his head. As he fell, his Vostok dropped within a few inches of Nichol’s hand. He rolled over and picked it up.
Shura’s hand was already inside her satchel, when Nichol shot her. He was lying on the ground, and the bullet went upward, through her chest and into the top of her spine. The impact lifted her onto her toes. For a moment she looked as though she were poised for a dive. Then her knees buckled. As she fell, she struck the edge of the table, and slid off it. She was dead before she hit the floor beside Nichol.
After the last shot, there was a moment of complete silence.
Rasselas crouched over the colonel’s body, motionless except for the angry twitching of his tail. The smell of the blood had excited him. His ancestors had hunted wolves and had fed on their entrails.
Mr. Behrens was the first to move. He groped for his glasses, put them on and climbed to his feet. He said, “We’ve got precious little time. That other guard will be here any moment.”
“He won’t be coming back,” said Mr. Calder. He was breathing heavily, as though the death he had dealt out had been a physical exertion. “I can promise you that.”
“In that case—” said Mr. Behrens.
“In that case,” said Mr. Calder, “we’ve still got a hell of a lot to do. And the fact that we’ve now got all night to do it in doesn’t make it any easier. I think the bodies will have to be buried.”