Hawn saw no reason to lie. But it was quite another matter whether he would be believed. He said: ‘A Frenchman — Charles Pol. Do you know him?’
‘Please, I am asking the questions. Why did this man issue you with French passports when you could have travelled on your own?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Very well. I am a patient man. Tell me the story.’
Colonel Kardich interrupted only once, near the beginning of Hawn’s monologue, only to ask if they wanted coffee. They accepted. Kardich had smoked at least ten cigarettes, and drunk almost as many coffees, by the time Hawn was through.
‘So you say you were issued these passports in order to escape a possible murder charge by the Istanbul Police? It seems that this man Pol is exceptionally…’ he snapped his fingers for the word — ‘findig?’
‘Ingenious,’ Hawn suggested.
‘Exactly! And you accepted his friendship without question?’
‘We had no alternative. I don’t know what your prisons are like, but I dare say they’re better than Turkish ones.’
‘I hope so. Though we are not proud of our prisons. They are an unpleasant necessity — as is my job.’
‘Do you accept my story?’
‘Do you ask me if I believe it?’
‘If you put it that way.’
‘At this stage I do not believe it or disbelieve it. First, I have still not asked you the most important question. What are your real names, where do you come from, and what are your professions?’
Hawn told him, and the man wrote the details down on a pad, holding the pen in a pathetic claw of three fingers. He sat back. ‘Well, Mr Hawn, Miss Admiral. So, what to do with you? You cannot expect us to ignore this peccadillo, just because you, Mr Hawn, as a journalist, are interested in finding out the possible criminal activities of one of your leading oil companies.’
‘The leading oil company.’
Kardich nodded. ‘At this stage I am not going to proceed with formal charges against you, until I have made further investigations. However, you will be detained here while these investigations are made. We will make you as comfortable as possible.’
‘Let me ask you a question, Colonel. Who shopped us? Wohl? Or Pol?’
Kardich gave a sterile grin. ‘Even if I knew, Mr Hawn, I would not tell you.’
He must have pressed a bell under the desk, for the door opened and two Vopos — different ones this time — strutted in and saluted. ‘These officers will accompany you to your quarters. I regret that our accommodation does not allow you to share a room. Are you hungry?’
‘I think we’d like a drink.’
‘I’ll have some wine sent to you both. If you need anything, the guards will attend to you, in the day or the night.’ He gave a dismissive gesture. Hawn and Anna stood up, and the two Vopos marched them to the door.
CHAPTER 27
It was a Spartan room: a camp bed with a sheet and two military-style blankets; window of opaque glass high in the wall; lino floor, bare grey-brick walls, a table and chair. At the back, a windowless washroom and lavatory. No bath or shower, just a basin with a single cold tap, and no mirror. The lavatory paper consisted of a wad of Neues Deutschland torn into small squares and skewered on to a nail. Both rooms were lit by naked bulbs in wire cages, which could be turned on and off by separate switches. The door was steel, locked, and fitted with a Judas eye.
Not so much a cell, Hawn thought, as the temporary billet of a military commander on manoeuvres. Nor was he denied the bare essentials of civilized living. Toothbrush and paste, shaving tackle, a cheap deodorant, hairbrush and pocket mirror, a pair of coarse striped pyjamas, even a change of socks and underwear — all supplied by courtesy of the People’s Security Service. The one thing he still hankered after was reading matter. He asked if they had any Western Communist newspapers, and was brought a tabloid called Soviet Newsletter, published in Prague. Apart from that, there was a bottle of tolerable Riesling.
He slept surprisingly well. Breakfast was lentil soup, hot Bockwurst and sauerkraut, together with the local coffee, which tasted of nutmeg.
Boredom set in soon after; and he tried to occupy his mind by running through all possible permutations of plot and counterplot, pondering on the various motives of Pol and Wohl, and why they should have betrayed them both. He went back even further, to Robak and Shanklin and French, even the absurd Hamish Logan, trying to decide whether the riddle lay with one of them. Was it possible that ABCO had so much manipulative power that it could influence the East German police? And what would the East Germans have to gain? A matter of forged passports might, as Colonel Kardich had stated, be a serious crime or a peccadillo: but even the East German Secret Police must be subtle enough to realize that they were not dealing with a pair of ordinary criminals?
Of course, the crux of the problem were those two damned French passports. Hawn had a decent scepticism regarding the powers of the British Foreign Service, and without British passports he saw his and Anna’s difficulties becoming more than just temporary. Or was it possible that Pol had intended all that from the very start? There was at least one small point in their favour. Colonel Kardich had said they were not being charged, while investigations were being continued. What investigations?
At lunch he had another bottle of wine, on which he slept for a couple of hours. He then shaved in cold water, but felt grubby and listless. He was
