'Who left his wife and family just like that?'
'Maybe I've done him an injustice. It seems now that I probably did. But I know he didn't give a damn for his wife and family. You can take that for a fact, whatever the old girl says. He'd had babies and nappies right up to the neck–believe me, I know.'
Jones frowned. 'And that business about baling out–I thought a lot about that, and it never quite made sense. He really was a good pilot, you know. I saw the plane he brought back from the Arnhem drop, and if he could fly that he could fly anything. There were any god's amount of airfields he could have put down on in eastern England when we came back from Berlin that last time. But no–as soon as we made a landfall–out we had to go.'
'His second pilot explained all that at the inquiry.'
'His second pilot? What was his name?
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'Tierney.'
'Tierney?' Jones thought for a moment. 'Tierney. A ferrety-looking chap, with a little moustache? He was Steerforth's shadow. If Steerforth was up to something, he'd have been part of it.'
'But you baled out.'
Jones gestured impatiently. 'When the captain says bale out no one argues the toss. And I'm telling you what I thought later, not what I thought at the time. I can remember a bit now–it started to rain like hell. A thunderstorm. Tierney and the wireless operator yelled for me to jump. The Dak was lurching around as if it had been hit. I was bloody scared. I thought I was going to die.'
'I see. He disappeared too conveniently and you needn't have baled out at all. But if you thought this later on why didn't you say so?'
'I only started to think it when everyone began asking us questions.
It wasn't just the inquiry–that was routine. It was later on.
'First there were two chaps who said they were Poles. They wanted to know where the plane had gone, if it had been found and so forth. And then they wanted to know what it was carrying–they said that friends had got some of their stuff out of Poland and Steerforth had agreed to carry it out. At a price, of course.'
'And what did you tell them?'
'There wasn't anything to tell. There were some boxes in the cargo bay, but I thought they were down in the drink with the Dakota–
that was common knowledge. They seemed pretty upset by it all, as though it was my fault, so I told them to shove off.
'Afterwards it dawned on me that they must have thought I was one dummy4
of his crew. Which meant I'd probably have been in on the deal.
And that made me think. The way they hung around our pub, that made me think, too. So when I went down there again I took a Pole who was in the squadron with me–Jan somebody–with me—'
'—Wojek. Jan Wojek.'
That's right. How did you–but, of course, you'd have him in your records like me!' Jones shook his head resignedly. 'All these years, and we're all still in your files, Jan and I. And Tierney and Steerforth, and all the others . . . Once filed, never forgotten.
Though I suppose you've got it all taped in computers now. It's frightening.'
'You took Wojek down with you to the pub.'
'All right. We went down to the pub, and I told Jan to tell these two to bugger off–which he did in no uncertain manner.'
He paused, and then slipped his fist into his palm.
'By God, I remember it now! Because I was surprised at Jan getting so angry with them. He came back to me breathing fire.
'He said they were no more Poles than he was a Scotsman. Bloody Russians, he said they were–and Jan hated Russians as much as Germans. He reckoned his elder brother was at that place–Katyn?–
where they killed all those Polish officers. We hadn't heard about it officially, but there was a grapevine among the Polish aircrew.'
So that was how it had all started, thought Audley. The first report had come from Wojek simply because he hated Russians on principle. It had happened before, often. National hatreds were poor sources of useful infomation, but excellent watchdogs.
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But Jones was almost enjoying his memories now, warming to the task.
'Then there was another foreigner. A little chap, not at all like the other two–one of them was very sharp. In fact I can remember him–
the Russian–quite well now. I only saw him properly twice, maybe three times in the pub. But he was one of those people you can't really forget: he had a broken nose–it gave him a sheep-like look from a distance. Not from close up, though.'
Audley's stomach muscles tightened. Jones had described Nikolai Andrievich Panin with remarkable accuracy.
'Have you got him in your files too?'
Audley started guiltily. Jones was too quick by half. And I, thought Audley, am not very good at this job.
'Of course. But we'll talk about him again some other time. Tell me about the little foreigner.'
