By Royal Command (23 page)

When he returned, Roan was at the rail, as they had arranged.

He strolled casually over to the spot next to her and stood watching the wake as it foamed and frothed behind them.

Roan had put on a pair of sunglasses and held her blonde wig in place with a scarf.

‘So far, so good,’ she said without looking at James.

‘It might be harder in France,’ said James.

‘We’ll be all right,’ said Roan. ‘Our luck’s held this far, but let’s not tempt it. After we’ve talked we’d better split up again and meet at the railway station in Calais.’

‘And then what?’ said James.

‘Maybe Paris,’ said Roan. ‘But you don’t need to come with me, James. Once I’m away.’

‘I want to come with you.’

‘What would you do in Paris, darling? That fifty pounds won’t last forever.’

‘What are
you
going to do?’ said James.

‘I haven’t thought much beyond getting away,’ said Roan, ‘but I can find work anywhere.’

‘You mustn’t try and contact your people,’ said James. ‘I don’t want you going back to your old ways. Forget about going to them for help. I’d hate to have to stop you from blowing anyone else up.’

‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ve learnt my lesson,’ said Roan. ‘Besides, my useful days as an agent are over. After what’s happened their only thought will be to get hold of me and keep me quiet, for good. They’ll kill me sooner than have me falling into the hands of your government.’

‘That’s just great,’ said James. ‘We’re on the run not only from the British authorities but also the Soviet secret service. I’d rate our chances of survival at just about zero.’

‘The saints are watching over us, darling, don’t you worry. Now, are you sure there’s nobody in Europe you know who could help us? You don’t have any more useful pals like Perry M-Mandeville tucked away anywhere?’

‘There is someone,’ said James. ‘It’s a long shot, but it’s the best I can come up with.’

‘Who is this someone?’

‘A man I met in Austria. He said that if I ever needed help I could go to him.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘Hannes Oberhauser. He’s a mountain guide. We could stay with him for a while. We’d be well off the beaten track.’

‘The mountains, you say?’

‘Yes, in the Tyrol, about as far away from all this as you can get.’

‘Whereabouts in the Tyrol?’

‘Near a little town called Kitzbühel.’

Roan thought about this for a while, watching a flock of noisy seagulls as they wheeled and dived behind the ferry. Finally she touched his hand on the rail, just for a second.

‘Let’s do it,’ she said, and walked away.

24

The Marseillaise

James spent a tense few minutes at the French passport control where the
douanier
went though an elaborate rigmarole of checking pieces of paper and copying down details from James’s passport, all the while looking from his notes to James with watery eyes. He didn’t spot that the photograph was of someone completely different, though, and at last he stubbed out the cigarette that had been hanging from his lower lip and went into a wild flurry of stamping before passing the passport back to James. James was ahead of Roan and once he had gone through he couldn’t resist waiting for her, even though their arrangement was not to meet until they got to the station. He sat on a bench in a small porch at the end of the customs shed and tried to look like a relaxed young man of the world enjoying a little peace and quiet, rather than an anxious boy waiting to help an enemy spy on the run.

At last, there she was. She walked towards him swinging her handbag and there was a skip in her step. She was smiling broadly, and as she passed James she gave a little wink before slipping on her sunglasses. She was humming a jolly tune, and James realised it was the Marseillaise.

He watched her as she went outside and was swallowed up by the brightness of the sun.

Perry’s voice sounded in the back of his mind with words of warning, but he shut it out. He had chosen this adventure and was going to go through with it whatever happened.

He stood up and carried his suitcase out into the warm French air.

When he arrived at the railway station he saw Roan waiting in a queue at the ticket office. He had given her some of the money and the plan was to separately buy two through tickets to Kitzbühel.

James held back and scanned the station, keeping one eye on Roan. Although they had safely come this far, it was always possible that someone might be watching them.

He had become quite skilful at looking out for suspicious activity in the past few weeks. He was reasonably confident that if anyone
was
hanging around who shouldn’t be there, he would be able to spot them.

He did two or three sweeps of the area, then strolled over to the news-stand and bought a map of Europe and a French newspaper that he pretended to read. Then he moved to the toilets and looked inside. When he came out he walked slowly round the edge of the concourse, and looked carefully at the men and women in the cafe and at the flower stall.

He could see nothing out of the ordinary and was just going to join the queue for tickets when he caught sight of someone he hadn’t noticed before.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something wrong about him. There was an alertness, a watchfulness. He was standing in the gloom beneath the station clock, keeping close to the wall. Like James he had a newspaper, and like James he wasn’t really reading it.

James edged closer, keeping among the other travellers. He was to the man’s side and out of his line of sight unless he turned his head, so he was able to get close enough to properly study his face. He had the tough, confident look of a policeman or a soldier about him. He was definitely on the look-out for something; his eyes were darting around the station concourse.

As James watched, the man nodded. A tiny, almost invisible, jerk of his head. James followed his line of sight and there stood a familiar figure in grey.

Colonel Sedova. Babushka.

She was here. Skulking over by the news-stand.

James was already on the move, back round the way he had come, away from the man under the clock and on the opposite side of the concourse to Sedova. He saw a noisy and excited group of young priests crossing towards the ticket counters and he joined them, keeping his head down.

An old woman in a floppy hat walked away from the queue, clutching her ticket, and Roan stepped up to the counter.

As she opened her mouth to speak, James grabbed her by the elbow.

‘Don’t say anything,’ he hissed and dragged her away. He could feel her tense but she made no sound and didn’t resist. James pulled her quickly towards the platforms.

‘Just keep moving,’ he said, and he glanced across at the destination board. The train waiting on platform three was heading for Paris and was leaving in five minutes.

‘This way,’ he said, pulling Roan towards the platform.

‘I don’t have a ticket,’ she protested. ‘Are you sure that’s our train?’

‘Don’t worry about tickets,’ said James, pulling her faster.

‘What’s going on, James?’

‘There’s someone on our tail.’

‘Who?’ Roan struggled in his grip.

‘Don’t look round,’ he said as they hurried along the platform. The last few passengers were climbing aboard and the train was shrouded in clouds of steam as the engine boiled up, ready to be off. There were shouts from the porters.

‘
En voiture
!’

James wrenched a door open and shoved Roan up the steps.

He glanced back down the platform. Babushka and the man with the newspaper were barging their way past people at the far end. A whistle blew. The train gave a metallic groan, as if straining to be under way.

James hesitated for a moment then swung up on to the train after Roan. He pulled the window down and leant out. Their pursuers were clambering up the steps about four carriages behind them. If they had left it a moment longer they would have missed the train.

Good.

‘James, are you sure this is our train?’ asked Roan, who was looking angry and confused.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said James. ‘Follow me.’

He crossed the compartment to the corridor at the other side. A fat man was struggling along with a bulging suitcase. James opened the window in the door and looked down at the tracks.

‘As soon as the train starts to move we’re getting off,’ he said. ‘Can you do that?’

‘Sure I can,’ said Roan, and she gave him a wry smile. ‘Full of tricks, aren’t you, Mister Bond?’

There was a jolt and the train shunted forward, the carriage shaking, the wheels squealing. James looked at Roan.

‘Ready?’

‘After you?’

James swung the door open, threw down his suitcase and dropped after it on to the tracks. He looked back at the train. It was picking up speed. For one chilly moment he thought Roan might not follow him, but then her suitcase tumbled out and a moment later there she was, jumping lightly down. He ran to her and caught her as she stumbled, then they retrieved their luggage and hurried across the tracks to where a second train stood waiting at the opposite platform. They opened a door and chucked their bags on board before hauling themselves up and scrambling to their feet. They crossed the carriage and got out the other side.

‘Keep walking,’ said James. ‘We’re not going to risk taking a train. Let’s just get well away from here. Once we know we’re safe we’ll plan our next step.’

They walked briskly down the length of the platform and went back through the station and out on to the streets.

‘That was too close,’ said James. ‘We mustn’t forget that we’ll have to be careful every step of the way.’

They made their way to the bus station and hopped on a bus that seemed to be going in roughly the right direction. Once they were clear of Calais and in open countryside they got off at a deserted stop.

They stood there and watched the bus trundle away down the road. Soon they were all alone. Skylarks darted in the blue sky. Flat green fields of potato and turnips spread out all around them.

‘Now what?’ said Roan.

‘We walk,’ said James, and he looped his arm in hers. He glanced at Roan. She looked glum.

‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘We made it. We got away.’

‘But now what?’

‘We’ve the whole of France spread out before us,’ said James, ‘the whole of Europe, the world. We needn’t stop in Kitzbühel; we can just keep on travelling forever if we want. We’re free, Roan. No more school. No more adults telling us what to do. No more report cards or Latin construes, no more Pop, no more Library, no more beatings. Just you and I together on the road.’

Roan laughed. James struck up the Marseillaise that she had been humming earlier and she joined in. Arm in arm they marched down the road, singing at the top of their voices.

They bought some bread and cheese in a village and ate lunch on top of a small hill looking out across the countryside.

‘I could almost be back home,’ said Roan. ‘Reminds me of Ireland.’

‘Where did you grow up?’ James asked.

‘I was born in Holycross, in County Tipperary, in the west. It’s the sort of tiny place that if you sneeze the whole town knows about it the next day. All I ever thought about was getting out of there. My dad was a drayman, delivering beer to all the pubs in the area in his big old horse and cart. There were five brothers and six sisters. Two of me sisters died young and one of me brothers. The rest of us, we never got on that well with one another, if you want to know the truth. We were always fighting for attention. But I did love me eldest brother, Johnnie. He was like a grown man to me. He always seemed so tall and handsome and he sheltered me from being bullied by the other kids. When he was old enough he went off to Limerick to look for work, though. He joined a printer’s, but when the civil war broke out he was caught up in the siege of 1922. The government troops thought he was an anti-treaty IRA man and shot him. He wasn’t fighting for anyone, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. God, I still miss him. I was only six years old. I was so miserable at home after that.’

‘So what happened?’ said James. ‘How did you end up at Eton?’

‘That was all down to Dandy,’ said Roan. ‘My life changed when he turned up in Holycross one day, on the run from the police. He hid out in an old barn and I used to take him food. I was just sixteen and he was twenty-five. Sure and he reminded me powerful of my dead brother, Johnnie.’

‘Why was he on the run?’ James asked.

‘He was a rebel,’ said Roan, ‘and he was wild. He was a red, more of an anarchist than a communist. He’d already blown up a rich man’s house in Belfast. He reckoned the IRA had it all wrong, reckoned they should be fighting for the poor against the rich. That was the real struggle. He filled my head with ideas and my heart with passion. In the end I ran away with him. We ended up in Dublin, and we met all sorts there. Communists, playwrights, criminals, IRA men – what a time we had. We planned to blow up the parliament, but someone ratted on us and we had to leave Ireland in a hurry. We went to Spain, and then to Portugal. Once we were there we fell in completely with a group of reds. We went to secret meetings, we studied books and pamphlets, we learnt how the world really turns. Then one day Amethyst appeared on the scene. He’d heard all about us. He worked for a top-secret communist cell and told us how they were planning something spectacular, something that would really make a difference.’

‘Operation Snow-Blind?’ said James.

‘Yes. It was so hush-hush we weren’t allowed to discuss it with anyone. Amethyst and Ruby trained us and then I was sent over to Eton in January.’

James was silent for a long while. He wondered, not for the first time, what he had got himself into.

‘I presume you changed your names,’ he said at last. ‘You and Dandy.’

‘We might have done.’

‘The SIS knew nothing about you. What was Dandy really called?’

‘Well, it can’t harm him now he’s dead, I suppose. His real name was Sean Cullinan.’

‘And yours?’

‘Ah, now. That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

‘Don’t you think, Roan,’ said James, trying not to lose his temper, ‘that after all I’ve done for you, you owe me a little something in return.’

Roan kissed him.

‘I’m like a character in a fairy story, aren’t I, darling?’ she said. ‘Only when you know my real name will you be able to defeat me.’

‘I don’t want to defeat you,’ James snapped angrily. ‘I only want to know who you really are, Roan… Or whatever you’re called.’

‘Don’t be cross, darling,’ said Roan. ‘I told you I was a witch.’

Before James could say anything else Roan had picked up her bag and was marching down the hill towards the road.