Lawrence Durrell - White Eagles Over Serbia

“And the Royalists?”

“Another question mark. By the way, there were one or two small points which I wanted to mention. They slipped my mind. This girl Vida.”

“Yes?” said Methuen with a sudden fierce constraint.

“She got in touch with Dacic in the town and sent a message through to say that she was still alive and kicking. Apparently the Royalists — the White Eagles — were so alarmed when she asked permission to let you into the secret that they decided to tell you she was dead and, so to speak, slam the door in your face. In the meanwhile there came another interesting development. Her actual employers in the secret police have sent her out to Trieste on a mission of their own. They apparently trust her implicitly, though it’s a foregone conclusion that she’ll defect once she gets there. I’ve asked Dombey to make contact through the consular agent there and get her a safe conduct.”

Methuen sat open-mouthed during this recital, his heart beating so fast that he felt suffocated.

“Goodness,” he said at last, “what a relief.”

“I thought you’d be glad.”

“Glad?” said Methuen. “More than glad.”

That night he dined at ease and when Duncan came to visit him he was delighted to find that his temperature was back to normal and his leg much less painful. The Scotsman stared gloomily at his patient and said sadly: “You’ll be up and about tomorrow. Maybe you won’t even need crutches. It’s a sad world.”

At bedtime there came a congratulatory signal from Dombey, curt and brief as always, followed by orders to return as soon as he felt fit enough. Porson, who had decoded the message, said: “I suppose you’ll be burning to get back home. How would you like to go?”

Methuen thought of the long slow train which dragged its way across Serbia and Croatia and said: “I think I’d like to fly, really.”

“When?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

Porson sighed and closed the file with a snap. “Here endeth the first lesson,” he said. “I’ll see that they book you a seat on a plane.”

Methuen slept soundly that night and woke to a delightful sunny day. Crickets buzzed in the grass on the green lawns of the Embassy. A lawn-mower whirred somewhere out of sight. He found to his delight that his leg, though it was painful, easily bore his weight. Crutches would be unnecessary. He walked up and down his bedroom in order to verify this exciting fact.

As he stepped from the plane and started to hobble across the tarmac he caught sight of a familiar figure — the outsize figure of Dan Purcell, leaning against the black racing-car which was the pride of his life — and Methuen smiled with pleasure. “Ah!” said the young man. “There you are at last.” To an onlooker their handshake might have seemed perfunctory; yet only those who carried out the delicate and dangerous missions of the Awkward Shop knew what one felt on reaching base safely, and Dan’s handshake was eloquent. “Danny,” said Methuen, “it’s good to see you.”

“I’ve brought the car down.”

“So I see.”

Dan helped him load his luggage into the boot of the Mamba before taking the wheel and letting the black creature prowl into the main road like a panther. “You know,” he said, “I was angry that Dombey didn’t let us go together. Every time you go off without a bodyguard you get shot up.”

“If you’d come,” said Methuen drily, “I doubt if we’d either of us have got back. You would have wanted to take on the whole Yugoslav army. My dear chap, Dombey was right. The job was a round one.” In the slang of their dangerous trade missions were either described as “round” or “smooth”; the former stood as a synonym for “difficult”, the latter for “easy”. Methuen went on: “It was so darned round it was practically all circumference. Only a solo could have got away with it. Just to think of you thumping over the hills, leaving footprints everywhere and blowing your nose in leaves, makes me shudder. And as for the Prof.… he would have caught a chill at once.”

Dan grinned and said nothing. “Anyway,” said Methuen, “when we did discover what it was all about it wasn’t all that important.”

“That’s what you think. Dombey has been trotting backwards and forwards to the Foreign Office for the last few days with an air of great self-importance. You had him worried, you know. He seldom bites his nails and shouts at secretaries.”

“He had me worried,” said Methuen. “And this time I am for a long rest; perhaps a permanent rest.”

Dan Purcell whistled an air and executed a brisk manoeuvre which carried them over on to the wrong side of the road round a Green Line bus. The driver expressed his annoyance with some force and Methuen thought how good it was to hear once more those Cockney expletives.

“Where is Dombey?” he said. “I’d better report.”

“He’s waiting for you at your club.”

“Well, that is really handsome of him,” said Methuen. “He is so frightfully thoughtful always.”

“Yes,” said Dan and then laughed wryly. “As a matter of fact he has got a little job for us. Don’t swear so, Methuen.”

Methuen swore loud and long. “It’s not for a month or so yet,” said Dan soothingly. “Plenty of time to get fit at The Feathers. The Professor has gone to Finland to lecture on something, I forget what.”

“Well, this time,” said Methuen with dogged determination, “this time I am not going. I’ve had enough.”

“Sure you’re not going,” said Dan soothingly. “The Professor and I will look after it. “I’ve already told him that. As a matter of fact.…” he paused for a moment and looked sideways at Methuen, “It’s one of the most interesting jobs we’ve had.”

“That,” said Methuen, “I’ve heard before.”

“Well, we’ll see anyway.”

The rest of the journey passed quickly enough. They exchanged the sort of professional talk which to those who knew would have stamped them as members of the most exclusive club in the world. It was mostly about their colleagues of the Awkward Shop. One had gone to China; another had returned from Siam; yet another was finishing a course on explosives which might stand him in good stead in Albania. From all corners of the world the frail network of Dombey’s contriving — what he himself had once called “My Giant Cobweb”—shook and vibrated with their messages. In the immense basement room with its shaded lights the duty clerks worked round the clock gathering in their sheaves of telegrams, sorting, typing and clipping.…

It was already dark by the time they reached the centre of London and drew up with a masterful swish outside Methuen’s club. They left the luggage to the ministrations of the hall porter and Methuen limped inside to collect his mail.

“Wonder is he’s here,” said Dan as he led the way into the smoking-room. He was.

Dombey sat huddled up in his overcoat at a corner table, staring at a glass of sherry. He looked as he always looked, dilapidated, dishevelled, as if he had had a night out. “There he is,” said Methuen.

Dombey stood up to shake hands almost with an air of constraint. “Methuen,” he said, “very good show. Hope you are not too badly hurt.”

They sat down and Methuen gave them his own account of the mission — somehow more real and actual than those cold bare telegrams which had recorded each stage so objectively. “And the fishing was good — what there was of it,” he could not resist adding.

“I told you it would be,” said Dombey without turning a hair.

“Moreover,” said Methuen, “I made a point of getting away with part of the treasure.” In the pockets of his duffle coat he had discovered a couple of gold coins. One of these had already transferred itself to the watch-chain of the Ambassador. The other he now groped for and produced for his chief. “Ah!” said Dombey, “a gold Napoleon. So at least your story was not invented. I sometimes suspect you fellows of making things up as you go along.”