Алистер Маклин - The Last Frontier

‘It is,’ Reynolds admitted. ‘The governments concerned must be at their wits’ end.’

‘The governments!’ The Count laughed. ‘My dear Reynolds, when a nation’s economy booms, governments become afflicted with an irremediable myopia. Some time ago an outraged German citizen, a socialist leader by the name of, I think, Wehner – that’s it, Herbert Wehner – sent to the Bonn Government a list of six hundred firms – six hundred, my dear fellow! – actively engaged in contraband trade.’

‘And the result?’

‘Six hundred informants in six hundred factories sacked,’ the Count said succinctly. ‘Or so Wehner said, and no doubt he knew. Business is business, and profits are profits the world over. The Communists will welcome you with open arms, provided you have what they want. I’ll see to that. You will become a representative, a partner, of some big metal firm in the Ruhr.’

‘An existing firm?’

‘But of course. No chances and what that firm doesn’t know won’t hurt them.’ The Count pulled a stainless steel hip flask from his pocket. ‘You will join me?’

‘Thank you, no.’ To Reynolds’ certain knowledge, the Count had drunk three-quarters of a bottle of brandy that night already, but its effects, outwardly at least, were negligible: the man’s tolerance to alcohol was phenomenal. In fact, Reynolds reflected, a phenomenal character in many ways, an enigma if ever he had known one. Normally a coldly humorous man with a quick, sardonic wit, the Count’s face, in its rare moments of repose, held a withdrawn remoteness, almost a sadness that was in sharp, baffling contrast to his normal self. Or, maybe his remote self was his normal self …

‘Just as well.’ The Count fetched a glass from the bathroom, poured a drink and swallowed it in one gulp. ‘A purely medicinal precaution, you understand, and the less you have the more I have and thus the more adequately is my health safeguarded … As I say, first thing this morning I fix your identiy. Then I’ll go to the Andrassy Ut and find out where the Russian delegates to this conference are staying. The Three Crowns, probably – staffed by our people – but it may be elsewhere.’ He brought out paper and pencil and scribbled on it for a minute. ‘Here are the names and the addresses of seven or eight hotels – it’s bound to be one of these. Listed A-H, you observe. When I call you on the phone, I’ll first of all address you by the wrong name. The first letter of that name will correspond to the hotel. You understand?’

Reynolds nodded.

‘I’ll also try to get you Jennings’ room number. That will be more difficult. I’ll reverse it on the phone – in the form of some financial quotations in connection with your export business.’ The Count put away his brandy flask and stood up. ‘And that, I’m afraid, is about all I can do for you, Mr Reynolds. The rest is up to you. I can’t possibly go near any hotel where Jennings is staying, because our own men will be there watching them, and, besides, I expect to be on duty this coming afternoon and evening until ten o’clock at least. Even if I could approach him, it would be useless. Jennings would know me for a foreigner right away, and be instantly suspicious, and, apart from that, you are the only person who has seen his wife and can bring all the facts and necessary arguments to bear.’

‘You’ve already done more than enough,’ Reynolds assured him. ‘I’m alive, aren’t I? And I won’t leave this room till I hear from you?’

‘Not a step. Well, a little sleep, then on with the uniform and my daily stint of terrorizing all and sundry.’ The Count smiled wryly. ‘You cannot imagine, Mr Reynolds, what it feels like to be universally beloved. Au revoir .’

Reynolds wasted no time after the Count had gone. He felt desperately tired. He locked his room door, securing the key so that it could not be pushed clear from the outside, placed a chair-back under the handle as additional security, locked his room and bathroom windows, placed an assortment of glasses and other breakable articles on the window-sills – a most efficient burglar alarm, he had found from past experience – slipped his automatic under his pillow, undressed and climbed thankfully into bed.

For a minute or two only his thoughts wandered over the past few hours. He thought of the patient and gentle Jansci, a Jansci whose appearance and philosophies were at such wild variance with the almost incredible violence of his past, of the equally enigmatic Count, of Jansci’s daughter, so far only a pair of blue eyes and golden hair without any personality to go with them, of Sandor, as gentle in his own way as his master, and of Imre with the nervous shifting eyes.

He tried, too, to think of tomorrow – today, it was now – of his chances of meeting the old professor, of the best method of handling the interview, but he was far too tired really, his thoughts were no more than a kaleidoscope pattern without either form or coherence, and even that pattern blurred and faded swiftly into nothingness as he sank into the sleep of exhaustion.

The harsh jangling of the alarm clock roused him only four hours later. He woke with that dry, stale feeling of one who has only half-slept, but none the less he woke instantly, cutting off the alarm before it had rung for more than a couple of seconds. He rang down for coffee, put on his dressing-gown, lit a cigarette, collected the coffee pot at the door, locked it again and clamped the radio’s headphones to his ears.

The password announcing Brian’s safe arrival in Sweden was to consist of a planned mistake on the announcer’s part: it had been agreed that he would say, ‘… tonight – I beg your pardon, that should read “tomorrow” night.’ But the BBC’s short-wave European news transmission that morning was innocent of any such deliberate slip, and Reynolds took off the headphones without any feeling of disappointment. He hadn’t really expected it as early as this, but even so remote a chance was not to be neglected. He finished the rest of the coffee and was asleep again within minutes.

When he woke again he did so naturally, feeling completely rested and refreshed. It was just after one o’clock. He washed, shaved, rang down for lunch, dressed and then pulled apart his window curtains. It was so cold outside that his windows were still heavily frosted, and he had to open them to see what the weather was like. The wind was light, but it struck through his thin shirt like a knife, and it had all the makings, he thought grimly, of an ideal night for a secret agent at large – provided, that was, that the secret agent didn’t freeze to death. The snowflakes, big, lazy, feathery snowflakes, were swirling down gently out of a dark and leaden sky. Reynolds shivered and hastily closed the window, just as the knock came on the door.

He unlocked the door and the manager carried in a tray with Reynolds’ lunch under covers. If the manager resented what he must have regarded as menial work, he showed no signs of it: on the contrary, he was obsequiousness itself, and the presence on the tray of a bottle of Imperial Aszu , a mellow and golden Tokay with, Reynolds rightly judged, the scarcity value of gold itself, was proof enough of the manager’s almost fanatical desire to please the AVO in every conceivable way. Reynolds refrained from thanking him – the AVO, he fancied, were not given to such little courtesies – and waved a hand in dismissal. But the manager dug into his pocket and brought out an envelope, blank on both sides. ‘I was told to deliver this to you, Mr Rakosi.’

‘To me?’ Reynolds’ voice was sharp, but not with anxiety. Only the Count and his friends knew his new assumed name. ‘When did it arrive?’