“And he might have made me happy, isn’t that it? Part of it?”
He brooded at her hand-smoke curling from the cigarette in her fingers on the table. Irina said, “Odd that we always seem concerned for other people’s happiness. We want to make one another happy but we don’t seek happiness for ourselves-it’s too illusory. It isn’t what you want, is it? To be happy?”
“I don’t suppose it is. I haven’t thought about it.”
Then it was as if she changed the subject: “Vassily wasn’t cold. But he couldn’t love. His heart was too acquisitive-he had too much ambition. It’s a thing of the self, it doesn’t make room to let other people in. He was the same with both of us, you and me-he wanted our loyalty, our good opinion; he wanted to be admired.”
“I think we all do.”
“To the point of obsession?”
“Vassily was clever-he was shrewd, cunning. But he didn’t have good sense.” He wasn’t sure why he said that.
She said abruptly, “It might be a good idea if you tried to stop thinking of him as if he’d been your father. You’ve put yourself in an impossible position. You thought of him paternally but he thought of you as a dangerous rival. If he were alive he’d never grant you his approval, you know that. He was jealous of you-more afraid of you than you were of him.”
“Why?”
“Because he knew you had adaptability and compassion. I think he always knew you’d overtake him. He tried to keep you down with his thumb. When you broke with him and went to America he wasn’t heartbroken; he was afraid.”
She thrust her chair back. “It’s something for you to think about, Alex. If he’d lived he’d have had to end up subordinating himself to you.”
He held her coat for her. “Button up-it’s a cold night.”
“I’m a Russian woman.” She left the fur collar open against her shoulders.
He seated her in the Austin and went around to take the wheel. Pale ribbons of light from the slitted blackout headlamps threw a meager illumination across the dark wet paving. The engine ran a little rough-perhaps the plugs were burnt; perhaps it was only the chill. He adjusted the choke and made the turns up through Inverness.
There was a car in the mirror: it kept a steady distance. There weren’t many legitimate places for a vehicle to be going at this time of night under blacked-out curfew conditions. His muscles tightened, knuckles going pale on the wheel.
Irina turned around to look back. After a while they were on the open high road and she said, “I think it’s a Daimler coupe.”
It began to close the gap as they left the town behind-easing closer at a steady rate. The road ran up through swinging bends to a plateau inland from the sea; then it would be a reasonably flat run through eight miles of coastal plain to the gate of the base. The trouble was he wasn’t sure enough of the road to have a full-out run at it in the dark; in any case the Daimler was a far more powerful car and if they meant to run him off the road he couldn’t prevent their overtaking him.
He said, “Let me have the revolver,” He’d left it under the passenger seat when they’d gone in to dine; it was nervy enough being a Russian officer here, it wouldn’t do to walk into a public house festooned with weaponry.
He held his left hand out palm up and she fitted the hand gun into it; they were nearly at the top of the bends. “Slide down in the seat.”
“Perhaps I should have the gun while you’re driving.”
“Can you use it?”
“Not very well. I could make noise with it.”
“Let’s make sure who they are first.”
“We can’t race them in this little car.”
“I know,” he said. “We’ll do the opposite. Duck down now, Irina.”
He remembered the Daimler coupe that had stopped outside the fence this afternoon. Too much coincidence. He laid his thumb across the revolver’s hammer and slid forward on the seat until he could only just see over the wheel. The Austin chugged over the top onto the flats in third; he kept it in third and kept the speed down to twenty-five. The slitted lights of the Daimler bobbed over the crest and slid forward in the mirror, sinister and disembodied in the night. Alex crowded over against the left-hand edge of the road; the Austin whined along with a slight list because of the road’s crown. Irina had a graceless posture, far down and sitting on the back of her neck. He was sure she was smiling at the ludicrousness of it. He dropped the stick into second and let the Austin coast with the clutch all the way to the floor; the speedometer needle dropped toward fifteen and the Daimler came along quickly, pulling out to the right to go by. “Keep your head down now.”
It gave the Daimler several options but it was no good anticipating which the Daimler would choose; he was as prepared for any of them as he could be. When the nose of the car drew even with his eye he ducked all the way below the sill and touched the brake gently because this would be the time they’d fire and his braking might throw off their aim.
The bullet caromed off something in front of him and slid away with a sobbing sound; the Daimler roared away ahead.
He straightened to see through the windscreen. There was a silver slash across the painted metal two feet beyond the glass. The Daimler was fishtailing with acceleration but it might be trying to gain a little distance before slewing across the road and blocking him: so Alex simply stopped the car.
Irina began to sit up but he said, “Stay down.” He shifted the revolver to his right hand and put it out the window.
But the Daimler sped right on away, its single red taillight reappearing on a farther incline and then being absorbed into the night.
She sat up and adjusted her coat. “Wasn’t that rather pointless?”
“I don’t know.”
“If they meant us real harm they certainly behaved halfheartedly. To say the least.”
“They may be waiting for us. Up the road.”
But it was the road he had to take. After ten minutes he put the Austin in gear.
Now he went fast because if they’d set up an ambush he didn’t want to give them time for a clear shot. He got the Austin up to fifty and held it there in fourth; he couldn’t go much faster because the narrow road had sudden turns between the stone walls of the Scottish farms. Irina held the revolver and he used both hands on the wheel. He went into the turns fast and came out of them slow because they might have chosen a blind spot to wedge the Daimler across the road.
“Did you see their faces at all?”
“No. But it was only one man-the driver.”
“Strange,” she said. “I wasn’t frightened then. Now look at me, I can’t stop shaking.”
The Daimler was gone. He had to stop at the gate and be recognized by sentries and then he drove straight to the hangar and trotted to the phone inside: he got an outside line and rang through to Coastal Patrol. He had a piece of luck: MacAndrews was still in his office.
“It’s a Daimler coupe, dark green, with a closed rumble seat. I couldn’t make out the plate number but it’s heading southeast-it can’t be more than ten miles from here.”
“I’ll ring up the constabularies down that way. Afraid I can’t promise too much you know-it might have turned off anywhere.”
“I’d like to ask that driver a few questions. But tell them to treat him with care-he’s got a gun. Probably a pistol since he used it one-handed from the car.”
“We’ll stop him if we can. Sorry about this, General-rotten hospitality, isn’t it.”
He cradled it and swiveled in the chair to find Irina in the door with one shoulder tipped against the jamb. She looked oddly young: her face was flushed, her slack pose a bit ungainly, like that of a young girl ready to sprawl. “Take me to bed, darling.”
3
