The train from London was exactly on time, and Pim stood in the aisle and watched the countryside roll by. He passed a planned New Forest of straight poplars bearing the sign British Trees for British Matches. He remembered the first time he had seen the sign, four years ago; he had not been pleased by the posting to Anglia, but with characteristic determination, he had set about making the network at the American bases work.
His posting would soon be up. He had applied for a transfer to the American desk. Perhaps they would send him to New York — or even the embassy intelligence staff in Washington. He had shown a peculiar genius for probing the American psyche, even while keeping an English perspective. That was what it said in one of the periodic Status of Agent reports filed on him; Pim had made a point of reading it.
He got off the main line train at Ely and walked across the platform to the shuttle for the little towns on the spur that included Lakenheath.
“This is Ely,” said the elegant, nondescript British Rail announcer. She spoke the name of the city as though it conferred a special blessing on those who heard her voice. “This is Ely. The train at Platform 4…”
He entered the shuttle and waited a moment. The conductor, in British Rail black-and-red, shuffled up and collected his ticket. Pim sat down heavily in the front seat. He liked to watch the track stretching endlessly ahead of him from the front window. He liked to think he ran the train.
Slowly, reluctantly, darkness began to tinge the growing green fields of the Suffolk countryside. The spring rains had been sufficient, the sun had been generous. Pim felt satisfied and a little tired; the outing in Cambridge had done him some good. He felt he would return to work tomorrow invigorated by the little holiday.
The train slid into the station at Lakenheath just at nightfall. Gates were thrown across the roadway to stop traffic, but none waited; the gatekeeper would be going home now; this was the last train of the day. Pim knew him well enough to wave as he walked down the three steps at the end of the wooden platform and waited for the train to pass.
The train chugged on, and Pim crossed the tracks as the gatekeeper swung back the wooden fences and opened up the road again.
“Good night,” Pim said with a little wave.
“Good night to you, sir,” the gatekeeper returned.
His automobile was parked a little way up the road, near the public house. He walked with his characteristic quick manner, as though he were late but not late enough to require an actual trot. Pim was always conscious of his own dignity, which sometimes made his gestures comic.
He crossed to the black Ford Escort in the car park near the public house door. For a moment he paused, considering the possibility of another pint before returning to his rooms, but he rejected the thought. He fished his key out of his pocket and stuck it in the door lock.
“Why don’t you have a pint instead?”
He turned, bristling, his instincts suddenly revived. In the darkness, he did not see the other man until he stepped from the shadows near the door of the pub.
“Who are you?”
“Pim, I waited for you all afternoon. Where did you go?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Let’s have a pint and talk about it.”
Pim considered for a moment; he looked around him. The public house was open, there would be locals inside. He could bolt now, but what would be the point? The other man knew him and had followed him, and Pim had been careless enough to let it happen.
“All right, mate,” Pim said in a cheery little voice. It was the voice that had disarmed other enemies; it was the manner of the harmless cockney made up to be something he wasn’t. A comic figure, not to be taken seriously. Not to be afraid of.
The other man remained in shadows until Pim opened the public house door. Framed the light, Pim paused. Had he made a mistake? Was there danger?
But the other man pushed behind him, and the two entered the place.
The air was heavy with smoke. A darts game was in progress on the far side of the bar. On the wall was an appeal for the National Heart Fund. On another wall, a small fire added to the smoke of the room. The coals glowed brightly and gave their peculiar warm stench to the place.
Above the bar was a dirty mirror advertising the merits of Greene King ale. It was the favorite local beer in Anglia.
The two men went to the bar, and the publican, his face the face he always turned to strangers, came down to them. Some of the locals also studied the strangers.
“Pint of bitter,” Pim said in his avuncular voice. He felt the knife on the spring pressed against the flesh of his right arm. He was very good with a knife; he had learned the trade as a child within the sound of Bow bells.
“Vodka,” the other man said. The voice was American.
“Vodka,” the publican repeated, as though he had never heard the word before. “Ain’t got no vodka, but we have gin. Gin good enough for you?”
“Good enough,” the American said. His voice was low and flat, as though he had learned never to say more than he meant and never to raise his voice, to give any clue to his emotions.
The American put down two pound notes.
“He pays,” Pim said, again pasting a cheerful mask on his piglike features. He turned to the American and held up his pint. “Cheers.”
The American fished ice from a bucket and dropped the cubes into the gin. He did not respond to Pim. When he looked up, his eyes were gray, his face a winter landscape.
In the trade, Pim thought without panic. He was in the trade; there was no mistaking a man like him.
Pim tasted the bitter and put down the pint.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Yes. I supposed so,” Pim said, still smiling. The mechanism of the knife in the sleeve was simple: There was a safety catch and then the trigger button. Once the safety was off, the trigger could be set off by his merely banging the inside of his arm against his side. The knife would slide down into the palm of his hand. Stiletto, with six cutting edges of the best Wilkinson steel welded to the sides of the blade; from the point, the cutting edges formed a Cross of Lorraine of steel.
Pim touched his sleeve and pushed off the safety.
“About Felker.”
“You wouldn’t want to identify yourself, would you? And tell me why you followed me?”
“Who do you think I am?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
“You’ve run an espionage operation. Against our bases. Felker was part of it.”
“You’ve got that wrong, friend.”
“Pim, I don’t have time for you. There is some urgency to this.”
Urgency. He had used the word the night he had induced Gaunt to bloody his hands dumping Reed’s body. “What do you want?”
“I’m with Central Intelligence.”
“Do you have some identity?”
Devereaux produced a card and flashed it discreetly at the bar. Pim stared: It was the same winter face in the photograph, the same seal of the United States covered in plastic, the same wording. He had seen the card before; yet the card didn’t necessarily mean anything.
Not to someone in the trade.
“What’s going on, then, mate?”