Eric Ambler - Journey Into Fear

She went on talking about them. Most of them were women (Lucette, Dolly, Sonia, Claudette, Berthe) but there were one or two men (Jojo, Ventura) who were foreigners and had not been mobilised. She spoke of them vaguely but with an enthusiasm half defensive, half real. They might not be rich as Americans understood being rich, but they were people of the world. Each was remarkable in some particular. One was “very intelligent,” another had a friend in the Ministry of the Interior, another was going to buy a villa at San Tropez and invite all his friends there for the summer. All were “amusing” and very useful if one wanted “anything special.” She did not say what she meant by “anything special” and Graham did not ask her. He did not object to the picture she was painting. The prospect of sitting in the Café Graf buying drinks for bizness men and women from the places up the hill seemed to him at that moment infinitely attractive. He would be safe and free; himself again; able to think his own thoughts, to smile without stretching his nerves to breaking point when he did so. It must happen. It was absurd that he should be killed. Moeller was right about one thing at least. He would be more use to his country alive than dead.

Considerably more! Even if the Turkish contract were delayed for six weeks it would still have to be fulfilled. If he were alive at the end of the six weeks he would be able to go on with it; perhaps he might even make up for some of the lost time. He was, after all, the company’s chief designer and it would be difficult to replace him in war time. He had been truthful enough when he had told Haki that there were dozens of other men with his qualifications; but he had not thought it necessary to bolster up Haki’s argument by explaining that those dozens were made up of Americans, Frenchmen, Germans, Japanese and Czechs as well as Englishmen. Surely the sensible course would be the safe one. He was an engineer, not a professional secret agent. Presumably, a secret agent would have been equal to dealing with men like Moeller and Banat. He, Graham, was not. It was not for him to decide whether or not Moeller was bluffing. His business was to stay alive. Six weeks on the Ligurian Riviera could not do him any harm. It meant lying, of course: lying to Stephanie and to their friends, to his managing director and to the representatives of the Turkish Government. He couldn’t tell them the truth. They would think that he ought to have risked his life. It was the sort of thing people did think when they were safe and snug in their arm-chairs. But if he lied, would they believe him? The people at home would; but what about Haki? Haki would smell a rat and ask questions. And Kuvetli? Moeller would have to do something about putting him off. It would be a tricky business; but Moeller would arrange things. Moeller was used to that sort of thing. Moeller.…

He stopped with a jerk. For God’s sake, what was he thinking? He must be out of his senses! Moeller was an enemy agent. What he, Graham, had been turning over in his mind was nothing less than treason. And yet.… And yet what? He knew suddenly that something had snapped in his mind. The idea of doing a deal with an enemy agent was no longer unthinkable. He could consider Moeller’s suggestion on its merits, coolly and calmly. He was becoming demoralised. He could no longer trust himself.

Josette was shaking his arm. “What is it, chéri? What is the matter?”

“I’ve just remembered something,” he muttered.

“Ah!” she said angrily, “that is not at all polite. I ask you if you wish to go on walking. You take no notice. I ask you again and you stop as if you were ill. You have not been listening to what I was saying.”

He pulled himself together. “Oh yes, I’ve been listening, but something you said reminded me that if I am to stop in Paris I shall have to write several important business letters so that I can post them immediately I get there.” He added with a fair assumption of jauntiness: “I don’t want to work while I am in Paris.”

“If it is not these salauds who tried to kill you, it is business,” she grumbled. But she was apparently mollified.

“I apologise, Josette. It shan’t happen again. Are you sure you are warm? You wouldn’t like a drink?” He wanted to get away now. He knew what he must do and was impatient to do it before he could begin to think.

But she took his arm again. “No, it is all right. I am not angry and I am not cold. If we go up on the top deck you can kiss me to show that we are friends again. Soon I must go back to José. I said that I would only be a few minutes.”

Half an hour later he went down to his cabin, took off his coat and went to look for the steward. He found him busy with a mop and bucket in the lavatories.

“Signore?”

“I promised to lend Signor Kuvetli a book. What is the number of his cabin?”

“Three, signore.”

Graham walked back to cabin number three and stood for a moment hesitating. Perhaps he should think again before he did anything decisive, anything for which he might be sorry later. Perhaps it would be better if he left it until the morning. Perhaps …

He set his teeth, raised his hand and knocked on the door.

Mr. Kuvetli opened the door.

He was wearing an old red wool dressing gown over a flannel night-shirt and his fringe of grey hair stood out from the sides of his head in ringlets. He had a book in his hand and looked as if he had been lying in his bunk reading. He stared at Graham blankly for a moment, then his smile returned.

“Mr. Graham! Is very good to see you. What can I do, please?”

At the sight of him, Graham’s heart sank. It was to this grubby little man with a stupid smile that he was proposing to commit his safety. But it was too late to turn back now. He said: “I wonder if I could have a talk with you, Mr. Kuvetli.”

Mr. Kuvetli blinked a little shiftily. “Talk? Oh, yes. Come in, please.”

Graham stepped into the cabin. It was as small as his own and very stuffy.

Mr. Kuvetli smoothed out the blankets on his bunk. “Please take seat.”

Graham sat down and opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Kuvetli forestalled him.

“Cigarette, please, Mr. Graham?”

“Thank you.” He took a cigarette. “I had a visit from Herr Professor Haller earlier this evening,” he added; and then, remembering that the bulkheads were thin, glanced at them.

Mr. Kuvetli struck a match and held it out. “Herr Professor Haller is very interesting man, eh?” He lit Graham’s cigarette and his own and blew the match out. “Cabins on both sides empty,” he remarked.

“Then …”

“Please,” interrupted Mr. Kuvetli, “will you allow me to speak French? My English is not very good, eh? Your French is very good. We understand better each.”

“By all means.”

“Now, then, we can talk easily.” Mr. Kuvetli sat down beside him on the bunk. “Monsieur Graham, I was going to introduce myself to you to-morrow. Now, Monsieur Moeller has saved me the trouble, I think. You know that I am not a tobacco merchant, eh?”

“According to Moeller you are a Turkish agent acting under Colonel Haki’s orders. Is that so?”

“Yes, that is so. I will be truthful. I am surprised that you have not discovered me before this. When the Frenchman asked me what firm I belonged to I had to say Pazar and Co., because I had given that name to you. Unfortunately, the firm of Pazar and Co. does not exist. Naturally he was puzzled. I was able to prevent him from asking more questions then, but I expected him to discuss it with you later.” The smile had gone and with it the bright-eyed stupidity which, for Graham, had been the tobacco merchant. In its place was a firm determined mouth, and a pair of steady brown eyes which surveyed him with something very like good-humoured contempt. “He did not discuss it.”