The stout woman cleared her throat and said surprisingly, “No, it isn’t. I’ve been twice before. As a matter of fact,” she added, dealing with a dropped stitch, “the first time I came, that was in — let me see — 1960, it was as the guest of Mr Krushchev himself. I was on the secretariat of a United Nations committee, you see… we all had an invitation. Mr Krushchev was very kind, and took us all round the Kremlin personally. I’ve been back for a holiday since, you know. The country interests me a good deal.” She paused and looked out of the window for a moment. “It’s your first visit, I take it, Mr Cane?”
Shaw nodded. Stephen Cane’s passport had never been checked into Russia, had never been anywhere until yesterday except for a couple of trips to naval bases overseas. “I’m very much looking forward to it, I can tell you.”
“A little apprehensive, perhaps?” Shrewd little eyes twinkled sideways at him.
He smiled back. “To some extent, I suppose. Going behind the Curtain’s bound to be something of an adventure, isn’t it?”
“Well, possibly,” Miss Absolom conceded comfortably, “but only for those who don’t understand. So much is built up by the Press I always say. Anyone would think we were going unarmed into the enemy’s camp.” She gave a surprisingly girlish titter.
Shaw said, “D’you know, that’s exactly how it makes me feel.”
Miss Absolom smiled in a superior way. “You’ve never been abroad before, Mr Cane?”
“Oh… just once or twice,” Shaw answered modestly. “On business, you know. Can’t afford holidays abroad for the wife and daughter — or myself, every year.”
“No, I suppose not…” They were moving fast now, Tanner sending them expertly along the broad, straight stretches of the autobahn for the Polish border at Frankfurt-an-der-Oder. Miss Absolom, losing interest in Shaw for the time being, returned to her knitting. The rhythmic click of the busy needles, together with the hot sunshine, almost lulled Shaw to sleep.
Once into Poland, they stopped for lunch at a quiet hotel in Rzepin, on the road to Poznan, and Shaw had an opportunity of mingling again with the passengers and observing them more closely. He had a drink with a man named Postle who worked in the Customs and Excise as a senior clerical officer. It may have been sheer imagination, but he had an idea Postle was glad when he’d finished his drink and left him alone. All the same, Postle didn’t seem to be quite Conroy material… he was probably exhibiting normal Customs’ suspicion. There was a breezy character called Wedderbum who came from Lowestoft and had some connection with the fish trade on the wholesale side. Wedderbum talked golf and politics, as well as fish, and insisted there was a tremendous amount to be said for the Communists but he wasn’t going to say it for them — at any rate, not once he was back in England. Wedderbum would be about the right age; so would Connell, a stocky Irishman from County Galway, with whom Shaw sat at lunch. Connell was entirely uncommunicative, and Shaw couldn’t find out anything about him at all, beyond the fact that his chief interest in the Moscow trip lay in trying to assess how the religious minorities fared under Communism.
Shaw was really none the wiser about anyone by the time Pope had shepherded his flock together and they had started off again, passing through Swiebodzin, Zbaszyn, and Nowy Tomysl. They stopped that night at the Gubin Hotel in Poznan, and before dinner most of the men went into the bar for a drink, standing in a somewhat self-conscious and very British group — the inevitably cold-shouldered coach-party — demanding vodka from the English-speaking barman. Shaw found himself between two Yorkshiremen, friends traveling together — Charles Wicks and Gerald Fawcett. Wicks, Shaw had gathered, was a small farmer from the East Riding; Fawcett was a director of an engineering works producing farm machinery, also in the East Riding. They were not dissimilar in appearance, these two; like Wedderbum and Connell both would be about the right age for Conroy — but then so, in general terms, would most of the men in the party except Williams, so that was a poor enough guide. Neither Wicks nor Fawcett was the type of man Shaw would have expected Conroy to be, in any case. Some refinement should have permeated from the aristocratic Russian mother, whatever the father had been. These two were rough diamonds, and thus unlikely wearers of Conroy’s mantle — yet, at the same time, there was something in their manner that gave Shaw the impression they were no ordinary tourists. It was no more than a vague shadow of shiftiness, of wariness, and it would very likely never have been noticeable to an untrained eye not specifically on the watch for it.
Shaw had asked for a whisky. Wicks, overhearing the order, turned to him and winked, creasing up a bloated red face. He said in a booming, genial voice. “Not risking the local brew, eh?”
Shaw grinned. “I’ve heard funny things about vodka.”
“Such as good old K falling under the table at banquets?” Wicks gave a loud guffaw and winked again, this time at no one in particular.
“Something like that,” Shaw admitted.
The farmer lit a cigar. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s all right if you don’t overdo it, like all things else.”
“You’ve been in these parts before?” Shaw sipped his whisky.
Wicks gave a slight belch and shook his head. “No, not in Poland, nor in Russia either, come to that. But we’ve been around — eh, Jerry?” He nudged his companion. “Done several coach-tours, as a matter of fact. Italy, Swiss Alps, Austrian Tyrol. More fun, I always think, than going on your own without an itinerary… It’s not a question of cash. I can afford the best, y’know, make no mistake about it! Thing is, though I’ve missed out on this trip so far, you never know when you’re going to pick up something worth while, and I don’t mean in the way of business either.” Shaw noticed Wick’s leering look over his shoulder. He turned fractionally to see the American girl coming into the bar, dressed in a tight-fitting white frock which showed off her figure and coloring to full advantage. There was a good-looking, gray-haired man behind her shepherding her along — another of the party, whom Shaw had seen embarking on the coach back in West Berlin, and again at lunch, but whom he hadn’t yet met.
They came up to join Wicks’s group and Virginia MacKinlay smiled at Shaw. “Hullo there, Mr Cane,” she said gaily in a clear voice. “How’s the trip going?”
“Very well, thank you.” Shaw glanced at the gray-haired man enquiringly; he had a thinnish, ascetic face on which shaggy gray eyebrows hung with odd effect. Shaw murmured, “I don’t think we’ve met…”
Miss MacKinlay, it seemed, had appointed herself a kind of unofficial hostess; she was on friendly terms with everyone. She said contritely, “Oh, gee, I’m sorry! This is Mr Hartley Henderson. Mr Henderson, Mr Stephen Cane.” The two men shook hands. Virginia said, “This is Mr Henderson’s first visit to Russia too.”