“Which State — Poland or the USSR?”
“Don’t ask me,” Wicks said impatiently. “Ring the Chief of Police! No charges were made and they didn’t commit themselves. I’ve told you all I know, not that it’s any of your business, Mr Cane. Those bastards have got their knives into the two of us — and I just wish I knew why! That’s all.”
Shaw nodded thoughtfully and left it at that. The two men had been lucky — and he fancied they knew it! Indeed, they looked as though their very release had come as something of a shock, as if they had fully expected, as that long interrogation had proceeded, to be held in custody for an indefinite period, incommunicado, and then, one day charged in open court with espionage after their “Confessions’ had been duly obtained in advance.
Yes — they’d been dead lucky.
So what had caused the Polish authorities to change their minds — and whom would they victimize next? Why were they making such a dead set at the coach-party? Shaw believed now that something must have leaked and the Communist world was getting jumpy.
After the two men had washed, changed into fresh clothing, and packed, they had a quick meal. Then Pope shepherded all the passengers into the coach for the run to Minsk across Poland’s frontier with the USSR at Brest.
On arrival at the frontier, there was no trouble, though the check was thorough. Shaw did notice, however, that the Soviet officials spent more time on the papers of Wicks and Fawcett than on the others, and even seemed — unless this was imagination on his part — disappointed when they couldn’t fault them. His own documents passed as easily as before. As soon as the passports had been handed back to Pope, the coach was waved ahead into the Soviet Union and the highway across the grim, lonely marshlands of the Byelorussian SSR, heading out fast now for Minsk on the banks of the Svisloch’ River. Now they were right inside Russia. In some odd way, the atmosphere in the coach was already tenser, their surroundings seeming more threatening. Even the weather had turned against them now; it had been perverse enough to change the moment they crossed the last frontier. It was dull, menacing. As they went deeper and deeper into Soviet territory, eating up the miles towards Minsk, the heavy storm clouds gathered with the dusk; the coach windows were spotted with rain which soon became a downpour. The passengers stared out through streaming glass, blankly, like so many fish in a bowl, until the gathering dark turned the windows into mirrors reflecting back the lit-up interior and their own anxious faces.
Shaw, this time sitting next to another of the single middle-aged women, listened to her bright chatter without attention. He would have preferred Miss Absolom’s knitting-needles. He was sitting three rows back from the front; across the gangway from him were Wicks and Fawcett. They had asked to sit together, understandably not wishing to be pestered with questions about their ordeal by any of the persistent ladies of the party. They didn’t talk much to one another. They kept their gaze fixed ahead and when, occasionally, one or the other of them turned to look sideways, Shaw caught the watchful look in the eyes, the residue of fear, the look that said while they were in Russia they would know no more peace of mind, no security.
Shaw had a strong and insistent notion that more trouble was building up, and the only question was whom it would strike next, and when.
Eight
It happened very much sooner than Shaw had expected, and it happened in a totally unforeseen way when, after a delay due to trouble with the engine, the coach was some sixty miles beyond Ivatsevichi and driving through the Pripet marshes. The rain was teeming down in a blinding torrent and the night was pitch black and ugly. Everyone by this time was tired and nervy; the older people were restless and inclined to be querulous. They had just swung round a bend in the highway when there was a sudden change in the tempo, a slowing of the coach as Tanner saw distant red lights swinging across the road ahead, and behind those lights the dipped headlamps of what was probably a police car illuminating the armed guards forming a spot check.
Pope had been dozing in his front seat. Now he jerked into sudden wakefulness. He asked, “What’s up now?”
Tanner’s eyes were narrowed ahead. “Road block, sir. Spot check. We’ll have to stop.”
“What’s it in aid of, I wonder?” Pope was petulant. It was a rhetorical question, however, and Tanner merely shrugged. He was well accustomed to such checks on the roads of Russia; so was the courier. Pope muttered, “Damn! We’re late enough already, and they may hold us for hours if they’re feeling like being awkward.” He reached out for his microphone and flicked it into life. “Spot check ahead,” he said, the soothing tones of his professional voice filling the coach. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we’ve no option but to stop. There’s no need for anyone to worry.” The microphone clicked off again.
Shaw sat up straight and watched out ahead, wondering, as he looked at the still distant lights signaling them down what this might mean. In all the circumstances, it could be something much more sinister than Pope had suggested. The attention of all aboard was held by those lights as Tanner slowed again to a mere crawl so as to give the men on the checkpoint ample warning that he was obeying their signal; the MVD were inclined to have itchy fingers on these occasions, and there was no point in taking risks. The light from the police car in rear of the road block was glinting on chromium gun-barrels. The troopers of the MVD were carrying Kalashnikovas, sub-machine — guns capable of pumping out lead at the rate of a hundred rounds a minute.
Wicks flicked a sideways look at Fawcett and muttered in the man’s ear. A moment later, he got to his feet, steadying himself on the seat-back ahead of him. Fawcett did the same. Shaw glanced at them in some surprise, but without suspicion or alarm, as the two men lurched up the gangway towards Tanner and the courier.
Wicks, who was in the lead, stopped right behind Tanner and bent to speak to him. Pope glanced around, arching his eyebrows. Just as Shaw caught the sudden glassy stare of fear that came into the courier’s eyes, Fawcett, who was right behind Wicks now, swung his powerfully-built body round. Light glinted on metal in his hand; Fawcett had a Webley .38 pocket revolver lined up on the passengers. He called above the sound of the engine, “Keep still, all of you. Wicks has the driver covered, and the courier, and if there’s any trouble from anyone he’ll shoot Tanner. Then we’ll take our chance with the rest of you. Point is, we’re not risking the road check.” He didn’t take his steady gaze from the body of the coach. “We mean it, don’t make any mistake about that.”
The passengers, stunned into silence, gaped. Shaw had been momentarily surprised by the fact that Fawcett had a gun after the Poznan search — but only momentarily; such things were far from impossible — guns could easily be concealed about hotel premises while a search was in progress and then picked up afterwards. By now, the coach, under Wicks’s orders, had gathered speed again. Fawcett said hoarsely, “We’re going to crash the road block. There’s no need to panic. We’re heavy and we’ll smash straight through like a knife through butter and you’ll never know we hit anything. Just keep to your seats and don’t try to interfere… with special reference to you, Cane.” He jerked the Webley in Shaw’s direction; Shaw had been gauging the distance for a leap that would carry him right on top of Fawcett, and the gunman had seen his intention in his eyes.