Алистер Маклин - Circus

This was the town that Bruno knew better than any in the world and he could have shaken off any shadower without even half thinking about it: it took him less than five minutes to know that he was not being followed. He turned down a side street, then into an even meaner street, little more than a lane, and entered the shop of a haberdasher for whom Savile Row must have lain on the far side of Paradise: even the best clothes it had for sale could not have qualified for the description of second-hand. The proprietor, an elderly stooped man, whose watery eyes swam behind thickly pebbled glasses – although it seemed an extremely remote possibility that the oldster would ever be called upon to identify him Bruno doubted whether he could have identified members of his own family, if any – had a unique but eminently practical way of displaying the wares he had for sale. The articles of clothing were piled in untidy heaps on the floor, jackets in one pile, trousers in another, coats in another, shirts in another, and so on. Ties were conspicuous by their absence.

When Bruno emerged it was with a bulky and exceedingly grimy brown paper parcel roughly tied with some frayed twine. He made his way to the nearest public conveniences and when he emerged his transformation was complete. He was clad in ill-fitting, patched and ancient clothes, wholly disreputable, not the sort of person the average citizen would approach within yards of, far less associate with: the grimy crumpled beret was two sizes too large and fell over his ears: the dark raincoat was irreparably stained, the trousers baggy beyond belief, the creased, once-navy shirt tieless and the heels of the scuffed shoes so worn down at the back that they lent him a peculiar rolling gait. To complete matters he was surrounded by a powerful aura that afflicted people at a distance of several yards: to keep lice, fleas and other forms of wild life at bay the haberdasher was a great believer in drenching every article of apparel with a disinfectant that was as vile-smelling as it was powerful.

Clutching his brown parcel under his arm, Bruno made his leisurely way across town. Dusk was beginning to fall. He took a short cut through a large park, a section of which was given over for use as one of the city’s cemeteries. Passing by an opened iron gate in the high wall that surrounded the cemetery, he was intrigued to see two men busily digging by the light of a pair of storm lanterns. Intrigued, he approached the spot and as he did two men, standing in an as yet shallow grave, straightened up and rubbed clearly aching backs.

‘You work late, comrades,’ Bruno said sympathetically.

‘The dead wait for no man,’ the elder grave-digger said in a sepulchral voice, then peering more closely, added: ‘Some of us have to work for a living. Do you mind standing to the other side of the grave?’

The light wind, Bruno realized, was wafting his presence across the grave. He moved round and said: ‘And whose last resting place is this?’

‘A famous American, though he was born and brought up in this town. I knew his grandfather well. A Wildermann, he is. He was with a circus – the circus – in the Winter Palace. Killed in an accident. It’ll be a big day here on Monday, with Johann and myself in our best suits.’

‘An accident?’ Bruno shook his head. ‘One of those damnable buses, I’ll be bound. Many’s the time–’

The younger man said: ‘No, you old fool. He fell off a wire in the circus and broke his neck.’ He jammed his shovel into the sandy soil. ‘Do you mind? We have work to do.’

Bruno mumbled his apologies and shambled away. Five minutes later he was in the Hunter’s Horn, where he had to show his money to a nose-wrinkling waiter before being served coffee. After about fifteen minutes Maria appeared in the doorway, looked around, clearly failed to recognize anybody, hesitated and moved off again. Bruno rose leisurely and rolled his way towards the door. Once in the street he lengthened his stride without increasing his pace and within a minute he was only a few feet behind her.

He said: ‘Where’s the car?’

She wheeled round. ‘Where on earth – you weren’t – yes, you were!’

‘You’ll feel better shortly. Where’s the car?’

‘Round the next corner.’

‘Any car follow you?’

‘No.’

The car was a nondescript battered old Volkswagen, one of hundreds similar in the town: it was parked under a street lamp. Bruno got in behind the wheel, Maria in the passenger seat. She sniffed in disgust.

‘What on earth is that dreadful smell?’

‘Me.’

‘I appreciate that. But–’

‘Just disinfectant. A very powerful one, but still a disinfectant. You’ll get used to it. Quite bracing really.’

‘It’s awful! Why on earth–’

‘Disguise,’ Bruno said patiently. ‘You don’t actually think this is my preferred mode of dress? I think that Dr Harper underestimates Colonel Sergius. I may be Jon Neuhaus, a citizen in good standing from a friendly satellite country, but I’m still an East German. I’m an outsider – and you can bet Sergius has every outsider tabbed from the moment he’s within twenty miles of Crau. He will know – if he wishes – within ten minutes of any stranger checking in to any hotel in Crau. He’ll have a complete description of me. I have the documentation so he won’t give me a second thought. But he’ll give a second thought if a respectable sales representative for a major firm is found in a sleazy dump like the Hunter’s Horn or parked indefinitely in the shadow of the Lubylan. Don’t you think?’

‘Agreed. In that case there is only one thing to do.’ She opened her handbag, extracted a small eau-de-cologne aerosol, sprayed herself liberally, then squirted the contents over Bruno. When she had finished Bruno sniffed.

‘The disinfectant wins,’ he announced and, indeed, instead of the cologne having a neutralizing effect it had a compounding effect. Bruno lowered the windows and hastily moved off, his eye as much on the rear-view mirror as on the road. He twisted and turned through the darkened streets and alleyways until any tail car there might have been must have been irretrievably lost. As they drove, they briefly rehearsed the plans for the Lubylan break-in on the Tuesday night. Then Bruno said: ‘Got the stuff I asked for?’

‘In the boot. Not what you asked for – Dr Harper’s contact couldn’t get that. He says you’re to be very careful with this stuff – it seems you’ve only to look at it and it will explode.’

‘Good God! Don’t tell me he’s got me nitroglycerine?’

‘No. It’s called amatol.’

‘That’s all right, then. It’s the detonator he’ll be worried about. Fulminate of mercury, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, he said that.’

‘Seventy-seven grains. Very temperamental stuff. It will have a length of RDX fuse and a chemical igniter.’

‘Yes. He did say that.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘How come you’re an expert on explosives?’

‘I’m not. I read about it some years ago and just sort of filed the information away.’

‘Must be quite a filing cabinet you’ve got in there. This instant and total recall bit – how’s it done?’

‘If I knew that I’d be making a fortune out of it instead of fooling my life away on a trapeze. Now, there’s something else I want. First a large, eight by eight – preferably – sheet of rubber matting or hide leather.’

She took his hand and said: ‘What do you want that for?’ Her eyes told him that she knew.

‘What do you think? To throw over that damned electrified fence, of course. A tumbler’s mat would do fine. Also I require a rope with a padded hook. I want to see them both as soon as possible. Ask Dr Harper to arrange for those things and have them put in the boot of the car. Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?’