Judgment on Deltchev (25 page)

‘I think you are pretending to be more stupid than you really are, Mr Foster. How on reflection do you explain those men? If they weren’t robbers, what were they?’

For an instant I thought that I had failed after all. It was the phrase ‘on reflection’ that did it. If he was thinking ahead to a moment when, with Vukashin assassinated, I was beginning to put two and two together, I was really done for. If he thought that there was the remotest chance of my getting at the truth, he would decide against me. I made a last attempt.

I stared at him with sudden horrified comprehension. ‘You mean that they were Brotherhood men?’

For about ten long seconds he did not answer. Then, slowly, he nodded. ‘You see, Mr Foster, this prohibition of Valmo’s that you so irresponsibly ignored was not without reason. Naturally, Valmo did not tell you all the facts, but there was reason to believe that the Brotherhood was interested in reaching Madame Deltchev. You were mistaken tonight for one of Valmo’s men. You are lucky to be still alive.’

He had swallowed the suggestion whole. And he had given himself away. I sat back with a sigh which would have meant anything but which came actually from a feeling of relief that was almost painful. Fortunately, I still had my wits about me. There was one thing he had not mentioned. If he did not bring it up I would have to and I did not know how. I took another risk.

I frowned suddenly. ‘There’s only one thing I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Your office issued a statement this evening saying that Pazar had been found shot. The details sounded as if he was the man
I
found. Why didn’t Valmo tell me who he was? Why the secrecy?’

‘Would you have respected the confidence, Mr Foster?’

‘Of course.’

‘As you did your undertaking to Herr Valmo?’ He was quite sure of me now.

I tried to look embarrassed.

He smiled unpleasantly. ‘I will speak plainly, Mr Foster. I think your behaviour here has been, to say the least of it, unethical. If you were a professional newspaperman I should make a very strong complaint both to your employers and to the British Legation here. As it is, I shall recommend to the police that you are released in the morning. However, I shall withdraw from you all facilities for attending the Deltchev trial. I also advise you unofficially to leave the country immediately – let us say by tonight’s train at the latest. In case you decide to ignore that advice, I propose to have your visa and
permis de séjour
cancelled forthwith. Do I make myself clear?’

I protested as convincingly as I could, demanded that an official expulsion order be issued, became angry, and finally pleaded. He was obviously and satisfactorily bored with me. It has occurred to me since that he must have been nearly as relieved as I was that the problem I represented had been disposed of. He may even have disliked the idea of having to have me killed. It is possible. The last thing he said to me could be taken that way. To stop me talking he rapped on the door to summon the escort.

When they came in he gave them an instruction and turned to go. Then he paused and looked back.

‘Mr Foster,’ he said, ‘I once saw a performance of a play of yours and I enjoyed it. Why not stay in the theatre? I think, for you, it would be much safer.’

I was taken out of the building by the way I had come in. It must have been a wing of the Propaganda Ministry. There was another ride in the van, another oppressive wait, then a cell in a police station. The cell had a bug-infested plank bed, but I was too exhausted and shaken to care much about bugs. As the patch of sky I could see got lighter, I fell into a headache-ridden doze. I even slept a little. At nine o’clock the cell door opened and I was taken to a sort of waiting room near the entrance.

There, dirty and unshaven, in his seersucker suit with the three fountain pens in the pocket and his briefcase resting on his knees, sat Pashik.

He rose to his feet as he saw me, and nodded.

‘Good morning, Mr Foster.’

‘How did you get here?’ I said.

His eyes flickered warningly in the direction of my escort. He spoke in German. ‘I have just been informed that you were arrested by mistake and were here. I understand that an apology has already been given and accepted.’

‘Yes. Am I free to go?’

‘I am told so.’

I shook hands with the escort and followed Pashik down the steps into his car. He drove off and turned a corner before he spoke. His tone was bleak and noncommittal.

‘What happened, Mr Foster?’

‘I was interrogated by Brankovitch.’

‘Yes?’

‘He wanted to find out how much I knew and how much I suspected.’

He turned to look at me. The car wandered in the direction of an obelisk.

‘If we’re going to talk hadn’t you better stop?’ I added quickly.

He straightened up but did not stop. ‘And what did you know and suspect, Mr Foster?’

‘That the Brotherhood plot to assassinate Vukashin has been taken over by the anti-Vukashin movement in the People’s Party. That Aleko has been brought in to organize the job efficiently. That Philip Deltchev was involved in the original plot and is still involved. That when Vukashin is assassinated at the Anniversary Parade today, Philip Deltchev will be executed for the crime. That the story will be that when his father was arrested Philip took over the conspiracy and with the knowledge and approval of the Agrarian Socialist Executive carried it through. That the Agrarian Socialist Party will be made illegal and liquidated. That Brankovitch will take over the government.’

He kept his eyes on the road. ‘And what did you tell him you knew?’

‘Only what he must have been already told by Aleko – that I found the body of Pazar and believed Herr Valmo’s explanations.’

‘And you convinced him?’

‘Do you think I’d still be alive if I hadn’t?’

‘No, Mr Foster, I don’t. May I say that I have always had the greatest respect for your intelligence?’

‘Thank you.’

‘You must have talked with Mr Sibley, of course.’

‘Yes.’

‘I was sure he had recognized me and that someone had been indiscreet. How much does he know, do you think?’

‘He’s got the general idea. And he’s very frightened.’

‘I see. We have much to tell each other, Mr Foster.’

‘Yes. By the way, my permit for the trial has been withdrawn and I’ve got to be out of the country tonight.’

He nodded. ‘That was to be expected. There is a train for Athens at five, which I strongly recommend.’

‘Athens? Why Athens?’

‘Because that is where Philip Deltchev is.’

I stared at him. He had a curious smirk on his face. He even began a wheezy kind of chuckle.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I demanded.

He swung exuberantly into the street that had the Hotel Boris in it. Already crowds were beginning to line the roads in preparation for the parade. He looked at his watch and nearly mowed down a family group in national costume.

‘It is now twenty of nine,’ he said. ‘In an hour Philip Deltchev will be at the Hotel Splendid Palace in Athens. Apart from Madame Deltchev and myself, you are the only person who knows this. You can be the first newspaperman to interview him, the first to expose the People’s Party’s political murder conspiracy.’

‘But how did you know?’

‘I think you could have guessed, Mr Foster. I saw him across the frontier myself last night.’

When Pashik was secretly rewarded for his services to the Provisional Government with shares in and management of the Pan-Eurasian Press Service he was not unduly grateful. He had risked his life to serve a political ideal; but it was an ideal that in his mind belonged exclusively to the United States of America; elsewhere it was not valid. He had performed his service somewhat in the spirit of the prosperous immigrant to that country who endows a public library or a childbirth clinic in his native land. The act is charitable, but it is also a reparation, a propitiatory rite that makes the separation final and complete. For Pashik there was little satisfaction in the knowledge that his contribution had been so frankly and practically recognized. His pleasure in the gift resided in the fact that the agency’s clients were nearly all American and that he could feel, not preposterously, that as their representative he was in a sense an outpost of the American way of life. One day, perhaps, he would go on a visitor’s visa to America; and, perhaps one day, before he was old, he would get an immigration quota number. Meanwhile he was in touch. For Pashik, who had learned not to expect too much of life, that was a singular blessing and he enjoyed it. After a while he could almost forget that the Brotherhood had existed.

The reminder that it had indeed existed and the news
that in an attenuated way it still did exist came as a blow. The messenger was Pazar. He told of cautious overtures being made, of small, tentative meetings, of wary soundings, and of half-formed plans. It was as if the Brotherhood had been decimated by a plague and as if the survivors had now begun to raise their heads and look about them, uncertain whether or not the infection still persisted. Gradually, in an atmosphere of intense suspicion and extravagant fears, contacts were being re-established. The security precautions were formidable. All surviving members were invited to reapply for membership and submit to the most searching investigation. Refusal to reapply when asked was to be deemed evidence of guilt. There had been no refusals so far, Pazar told Pashik grimly. The Brothers awaited him.

Pashik nodded and went to see his principal shareholder, Madame Deltchev. This was just about the election time and Madame Deltchev advised Pashik to reapply. Apart from the fact that it would be dangerous for him not to do so – Pashik did not think that this alone would have weighed heavily with Madame Deltchev – she felt that it would be advisable to be informed of the new Brotherhood’s activities. She had always had in mind the possibility of the People’s Party’s manipulating the Brotherhood for its own ends. This resurgence might not be merely what it appeared.

So began again a double life for Pashik. He was reinitiated into the Brotherhood and sat in judgment on the applications of others. The purges had proved fatal for nearly all the senior members and soon he found himself being admitted into the higher councils of the organization. Some two months before the arrest of Yordan Deltchev
he heard of the membership of Philip and of the plot against Vukashin.

For once Madame Deltchev was at a loss. She had already planned the football-match incident and was manoeuvring as best she could to bring about an Agrarian-Socialist
coup
before the People’s Party was quite secure. Her son’s activities imperilled everything. Whether he succeeded or failed, it made no difference. As far as the people were concerned, Philip Deltchev was an extension of Papa Deltchev. The murder of Vukashin by Brother Philip would serve to unite the People’s Party as never before and shatter the Agrarian Socialists irretrievably. She could not betray the boy, for to do so would bring the same evil consequences. It was useless, she knew, to attempt to persuade him, for he was too deeply committed. She could not even discuss it with him lest he should identify Pashik as her informant. Not that she would have minded sacrificing Pashik; it was simply that she saw no point in sacrificing him to no purpose. All she could do was to instruct Pashik to work within the Brotherhood to keep in touch with Philip and perhaps undermine his belief in the project. It was a feeble plan, but for the moment she could think of nothing better. Then events began in the most curious way to play into her hands.

In the days before the purges Pazar had been a comparatively unimportant member of the Brotherhood whose weaknesses had been clearly perceived and carefully reckoned with. He would certainly not have been allowed so much as to know about a plan as important as that he now administered. That he should tell someone of it was inevitable. That it should be the petty crook Rila whom he told was very nearly lucky. If Rila had not happened at
that time to get into the hands of the police, things might have turned out very differently.

The casualties in the assassination group put the Brotherhood in a panic. The survivors had raised their heads only to find that the plague was still with them. It was another betrayal, another purge. Within a few hours the great majority of the readmitted Brothers were dispersed and in hiding. The rest – those who had no means of hiding – sat in their rooms rehearsing denials. Only Pashik was in a position to know that the plague had not returned and that there must be a more banal explanation of this disaster. He made his report to Madame Deltchev and waited.

A week later, things began to move. One night Philip Deltchev came to see him. He brought news. He and Pazar had escaped and were for the moment safe. Meanwhile the Brotherhood had reorganized. Pazar had been superseded as administrator – his nerves were bad – and a new man had taken over. His name was Aleko and he was a dynamo of a man with great determination and drive. But others were needed. Several Brothers had refused, cravenly. Would he, Pashik, come in with them? The plan would now go on to success, in which all would share.

Pashik accepted and reported to Madame Deltchev. She agreed with him that the whole affair felt peculiar. Their suspicions were aroused in the first place because of the failure of the police to arrest Pazar and Philip. Pashik knew that there was documentary evidence against them and that in such a dangerous case – a Brotherhood plot against Vukashin – the price of concealment was beyond the fugitives’ capacity to pay. And there was Philip’s name. Why was the People’s Party not publicizing the affair? By
way of reply to this question Madame Deltchev produced her theory that the People’s Party would ultimately take over the Brotherhood. Pashik listened respectfully. But he had an unworthy thought: that Madame Deltchev’s preoccupation with the idea was dictated by her annoyance at having failed to take over the Brotherhood herself. She was, to Pashik’s way of thinking, a remarkable woman, but inclined to underrate the cleverness of others.