Marshall, the section leader of the resistance group, was a crew-cut, taut man of sharp, abrupt movements. He sat alongside Cox, flexing and shrugging his shoulders, like a boxer Umbering up before a bout. He’s hoping there will be a chase, so he can involve himself in a fight, assessed Charlie.
‘No last-minute snags?’ demanded the Briton.
Marshall grinned sideways at the question, as if the idea were unthinkable.
‘No last-minute snags,’ he echoed. He looked at the heavy Rolex watch that had been part of the elite snobbism of the Green Berets in Vietnam.
‘The team are setting off in fifteen minutes to take out the border post,’ he reported.
‘No one is to be killed,’ said Charlie, immediately. Marshall worried him, he decided. The marine was the sort of man who enjoyed killing.
‘My men know what to do,’ snapped the American, gazing at the unkempt Briton as if he’d trodden in dog droppings.
‘They’d better,’ reminded Charlie, unperturbed. ‘The object is to avoid trouble, not cause it.’
Marshall turned to look at him fully, his face inches away from Charlie’s.
‘You trying to tell me how to do it?’ he demanded.
He would keep his voice very low because he would have read in books that it was how men spoke in such circumstances, thought Charlie. The marine’s breath smelt of mint and he wore a heavy cologne, Charlie detected.
‘No,’ he said, not moving his head away. ‘But if it becomes necessary, I shall. And I’ll pull rank, gun or whatever other crap is necessary to ensure that my instructions are followed. The war in Asia, commander, is over. And your lot made a balls of it.’
The man’s control was remarkable and Charlie was glad of it. There would have been no way he could have physically confronted him, Charlie knew.
The departure of the assault group broke the tension between them. Their faces were cork-blackened and they moved without sound. Complete experts, thought Charlie. And killers.
‘I’ll be in the lead car, fifty yards from the border,’ reported Cox, speaking to Braley.
The fat American nodded.
‘If there’s no chase, I shan’t bother to stop. I’ll leave you to follow automatically,’ Charlie told the marine commander.
Marshall nodded, tightly.
Charlie turned as Braley nudged him. The man was offering the luminous dial of his wristwatch to him.
‘Time to go.’
His breathing was very bad now, Charlie realised.
The Briton let himself quietly out of the car, returned to the Mercedes and sat for several seconds, hands gripping the wheel.
‘You all right?’ asked Braley, worried.
Charlie released a long sigh, then started the car.
‘Yes,’he said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘That was unnecessary, back there,’ said Braley, nodding over his shoulder to the car where Marshall sat.
‘I know,’ conceded Charlie, embarrassed now.
‘Then why do it?’
Charlie shrugged in the darkness.
‘You’ve got to buck everyone, haven’t you, Charlie?’
The Briton said nothing. It
‘You shouldn’t do it, Charlie. There’s no need for you to keep proving yourself.’
‘Forget it,’ said Charlie, irritated.
Braley stopped talking, looking sadly at the Englishman, and they made the two-mile drive enclosed in their separate fears. The road bent immediately before the border and Charlie stopped just short, so that the car was hidden. Braley’s protest in Prague had been right, thought Charlie. Despite the clouds, it was hardly dark.
‘Let’s check on foot,’ he suggested.
They got carefully from the car, easing the doors open so there was no sound. Charlie led, keeping against the bank where the shadows were deepest. He’d moved like this with Snare he recalled, all those months ago in Berlin. And there’d been a trap for him at the border. And now Snare was mad.
The Austrian border post was completely quiet. Through the window of the tiny office, they could see one of Marshall’s assault group. The man sat next to a telephone that kept liaison between the stations. He appeared relaxed and very comfortable.
‘Do you think they’ll have killed the guards?’ asked Charlie.
‘Yes,’ said Braley, immediately. As if it were justification, he offered: ‘It’s the only way they’re trained.’
Charlie looked beyond the post, across the twenty yards of no-man’s-land and into Czechoslovakia. There was no sign of activity from the communist side.
‘We’ll drive up,’ decided Charlie.
He took the car slowly, stopping against the customs office and dowsing the lights.
‘It’s too quiet,’ started Braley, worriedly, staring through the barriers.
‘We’re three minutes ahead of time,’ reminded Charlie.
Inside the customs post the telephone rang and one of Marshall’s commandos answered, the dialect perfectly modulated. Ruttgers and Cuthbertson had considered every detail, conceded Charlie, listening to the exchange. The telephone call was a routine time check and the receiver was replaced within seconds. Beside him, Braley was dragging breath into his lungs, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort.
‘Come on!’ demanded the American, gazing over the border, hands clenched against his knees. ‘Come on!’
Charlie checked his watch.
‘10.35,’ he recorded.
‘Shall I radio the delay?’ enquired Braley, quickly.
‘It will have been done already,’ soothed Charlie. ‘If
‘Where is the bloody man?’ asked Braley, irritably.
‘There,’ responded Charlie, pulling forward in his seat.
Two hundred yards across the border, a set of headlights had flashed, once. It was not possible to discern the outline of a car.
‘What now?’ asked Braley. His voice was uneven, the words jumping from him.
Charlie sat momentarily uncertain. The lights flickered on again, briefly.
‘I go across,’ said the Briton, simply.
He tried to get quietly from the car, but this time the sound of the door opening seemed to echo in the quiet night. From the back seat he hauled the bugged money-bag, hefted it in his right hand and looked briefly back into the vehicle.
‘See you in a few moments,’ predicted Charlie.
The American stared back at him, but didn’t reply.
The men in the border posts were watching him, Charlie knew, as he began to walk towards the barrier; the signal indicating contact would have already been flashed by one of Marshall’s men to the secluded house in Wipplingerstrasse. He wondered what Cuthbertson and Ruttgers were doing.
Around him the sounds of the night chattered and rustled and he started looking into the darkness ahead, trying to detect movement. It was a warm, mellow evening: ideal for walking, reflected Charlie. At the Austrian barrier he paused, then ducked beneath it. He hadn’t realised the money would weigh so heavily. He stopped, transferring it to the other hand. It was the unexpected weight of the bag that had made his hand shake, he decided.
‘Keep cool, Charlie,’ he advised himself. ‘Don’t ruin it all now.’
He could make out the outline of a car, a small, inconspicuous shape hah* hidden by the Czech border installation. Barbed wire stretched from either side of the barrier posts and he could just identify the triangular
